The Blueblood Papers: Royal Blood

by Raleigh

Rating: teen
Tags: Original Character, Royal Guard, Adventure, Prince Blueblood, Violence, Princess Celestia, Sex, Gore, My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic, Death, Drama
Length: 205864

As Equestrian forces march into the Changeling heartlands, Blueblood must rely on his instincts of self-preservation, deception, and sheer blind luck to survive.

Prince Blueblood has escaped the misery of the Changeling War when he is sent to Canterlot to recuperate. He knows this cannot last, for it won't be long before he is called upon once again to risk life and limb for Princess and Country. As Equestrian forces march into the Changeling heartlands, Blueblood must rely on his instincts of self-preservation, deception, and sheer blind luck to survive.

Proofread and edited by Setokaiva

Cover art by jamescorck

Published 2019-11-09 10:20:01 UTC
Last updated 2021-12-22 15:06:45 UTC

Chapter 1

Author's Note

This takes place somewhere around Season 4

Chapter 1

The Blueblood Papers: ROYAL BLOOD

Prince Blueblood and the Battle of Virion Hive

Explanatory note:

When what is now collectively known as the Blueblood Papers, the vast personal and private memoirs of Prince Blueblood, was unearthed when Princess Luna and I went through his personal effects following his death, it was clear that we had discovered historical material of great importance. His official memoirs had been heavily edited to the point where much of it was so divorced from reality that they could be reasonably described as fiction. These newly-discovered secret documents, comprising of thousands of pages of hoof-written and typed notes, present a much more candid description of Blueblood's career in the Royal Commissariat that is more in line with my own recollection of the personality and character of my nephew, with an almost exhaustive focus on his own thoughts and feelings as he took part in events that shaped our world at the turn of the new millennium. That said, it is my belief that he was his own harshest critic, and his tendency to dismiss moments of genuine heroism as self-serving cowardice implies a great deal of mental anguish that I wish I had been cognisant of when he was alive.

In the first four volumes that I have published and made available to a select few ponies, Blueblood described his actions during the first two years of the First Changeling War: the second kidnapping of Princess Mi Amore Cadenza, the Battle of Black Venom Pass, the Battle of Fort E-5150, and the Twisting Ravine Incident. This next instalment (in chronological order of events, as I suspect that these accounts were written as and when he felt like it) focuses on what historians today agree is the turning point of not only the war but also the Equestrian military as a whole - the Battle of Virion Hive. The contents of this next volume, however, are not purely of a military nature, and provide a glimpse into his personal life beyond his service in the Commissariat, which should prove interesting to those scholars seeking illumination on the civilian milieu in which Blueblood lived.

Once again, I have endeavoured to leave as much of the original text intact as possible, barring the correction of the more egregious spelling and grammar errors. Blueblood's singular flaw as a chronicler is a tendency to focus entirely on events that directly impacted him or things that happened to interest him at the time of writing, which leaves his narrative without much in the way of historical context. Therefore, to assist those readers who might not have been alive at the time of these events I have annotated the text to provide necessary clarification. These annotations are in parenthesis, italicised, and in red. For further elucidation, I will continue to use extracts from contemporary and more recent academic work where appropriate. Everything else remains pure Blueblood.

H.R.H. Princess Celestia

***

Virion Hive. A lot has already been said, written, debated, discussed, filmed, and thought about that particular bit of nastiness, and rather too much of it as well, if you ask me. Those who were there and lived through it have already said their piece, vindicating their own actions and making excuses for the mistakes and lapses in judgement that made the whole thing such a horrific waste of life, and I counted myself amongst that number when I paid that damned ghostwriter far too much money (not that I ever have to worry about bits, being a prince of the realm) to hit a typewriter with his forehead and produce that poorly-written waste of paper I call my official memoirs. Writers, journalists, historians, politicians, and other such drains on society have all made their facile views on the matter known, hurling their voices out into the endless cacophony of public debate in a grotesque orgy of hoof-pointing and name-calling without actually accomplishing anything of particular worth.

I don't know what else I can add to all of this, except, perhaps, a description or explanation of what happened from the point of view of a pony who was very much at the centre of it all, despite having done my utmost to have kept myself as far from the proceedings as possible with my usual lack of success. Separated from all of the discourse and noise surrounding the events, perhaps a simple and relatively clear retelling of the whole thing as I remember it, without the necessary arse-covering and empty platitudes that my official memorialisation was cluttered with, would disperse the choking smog that has eclipsed the everypony's perception of this unpleasant event. Either that, or it will merely add to the confusion, if this little project of mine ever sees the light of day, which it won't as long as I'm still alive.

Out of all of my misadventures over the half-century or so I've had gallivanting around the world in a ridiculous outfit that my Auntie Luna had designed, getting stabbed, shot at, tortured, and so forth in the name of Princess and Country, the Battle of Virion Hive still counts as one of the very worst things that I have ever had to go through. That said, I want it to be understood that it was all bad, and that ranking atrocities and equine misery as though it is possible to quantify suffering in some measurable format is at best futile and at worst insulting. It is merely that out of all the horror and pain that I had been through in this miserable life of mine, this one still stands out even amidst the likes of Black Venom Pass, E-5150, and even the infamous Battle of Ponyville. Those at least were over in a matter of days, or even hours in some cases, whereas this dragged out, like an unwanted guest at the end of a party who did not know that everypony else had left and that the host was standing at the door in his pyjamas and making increasingly angry gestures at the clock.

I expect ponies reading this will want me to launch straight into the slaughter, the repeated and failed attempts to take the breach and the massacres that followed, which everypony already knows about. The fact is, the situation was a damned sight more complicated than just a few lunatic officers, whose stupidity was outmatched only by their apparent contempt for the sanctity of equine life, ruining it for all involved. No, like a proper memorialist I ought to start at the beginning and proceed in the proper order.

You see, it all began when Twilight Sparkle - no, Princess Twilight Sparkle now that she had been freshly elevated to the position of a veritable demigod as a reward for her service to Equestria - published her long-awaited report to much fanfare. I had been sent back to a military hospital in Canterlot following my flogging and torture at the hooves of a cuckolded native pony chieftain when all of that happened, and I was rather annoyed that for purposes of publicity that I was not allowed a private room but forced to reside on a bed in an open ward with a dozen other wounded ponies. Nevertheless, it was better than being at the frontline in just about every respect, despite the lack of privacy and the tedious company. My time spent there was not long and after a week or so of being drugged, examined, and lectured by a succession of doctors and nurses on all matters of my personal health I was released back into service and placed on light duties in the Ministry of War until I would be declared fit for active service.

It was around that time that I became aware of some considerable backlash to Princess Twilight Sparkle's suggested reforms, which was to be expected and really should not have come as that much of a shock for somepony so well-read. Normally, I did my best to keep as far away from the cesspit that is politics as a prince possibly could, but even with this exile from the realm of current affairs, much of it seeped through my self-made walls of deliberate ignorance. It turned out that while your average politician might publically say that reforming the Royal Guard was an absolutely topping idea and should be implemented immediately, the moment they realise that doing so might involve raising taxes and spending more public money that could otherwise be spent on useless things like absurd vanity projects and teaching peasants to read, then suddenly the budget's a bit tight and the poor bloody infantry is just going to have to make do with what they've got. I understand that I am hardly the best sort of fellow to complain about the raising of taxes, since being royalty they form a considerable part of my income that goes to the bare necessities like gin and fancy clothes for parties, but even I of all ponies baulked at the short-sightedness of an opposition mobilising to ruin the best chance for achieving victory for short-term electoral gains. And ponies wonder why I have always believed that democracy was a daft idea.

[Blueblood is allowing his prejudices to overshadow his description of the political debates around the Twilight Sparkle Reforms. While a few key figures in the Cabinet and the Ministry of War opposed the reforms on a variety of principles, from the cost of their implementation to a conservative opposition to change in general, it was hardly as overwhelming as he implies here. Public opinion at the time was very much in favour of enacting the reforms in full, and most of the opposition came from the House of Lords and older officers of the Royal Guard.]

I have no intention of explaining in exact detail the sort of devious and under-hoofed things that Twilight Sparkle had to engage in to get her reforms passed by Parliament, being a rather boring and tedious set of affairs anyway that could have been easily resolved if the new Princess had simply circumvented the need for a vote and passed the law by decree instead. If you want to read about that, then put this thing down and go to a library and find an appropriate book. Don't worry, it should still be here when you return. Auntie 'Tia had quietly asked Twilight to refrain from taking that direct option, and, in the long run, I have to concede that she was right about it as usual. Ponies will usually do the right thing, but only after they have exhausted every other option available.

Though I had done my utmost to keep my hooves unsullied by the filth of politics, Twilight Sparkle did call upon me for assistance. I was still convalescing, though having been released from the hospital, I spent most of my time not spent behind a desk pretending to process paperwork for the Commissariat indulging in fine food, fine wine, fine cigars, and fine company at the Imperial Club. The doctors had told me to get plenty of rest, which I had taken as carte blanche to engage in such brazen bacchanalian indolence in spite of conventional medical wisdom advising against drinking oneself into oblivion each night when recovering from a flogging. I had rather lost control, to be frank, but this was the greatest amount of freedom that I had been granted after two years of being at the front, so I can hardly be blamed for wanting to make the most of it before I would once again be thrust back into the war.

It was during one such evening that she called upon me to do my duty for Equestria. A particularly dreary evening it was, too, with a leaden grey sky that unleashed a veritable torrent of rain down upon our poor capital. I was away from all of that, however, and had taken up my usual position in the corner of the club's common room reading The Daily Ponygraph, with a strange Neighponese comic book that I had confiscated from Captain Red Coat titled 'The Erotic Adventures of Twilight Sparkle and her Friends' discreetly tucked between its voluminous pages. My two best friends, a glass of whisky and a smouldering cigar, rested on the table within easy reach, and the staff were always on hoof to make sure that both were readily replenished.

With much of the idle rich of Canterlot having caught the war fever and bought their commissions long ago, the evening was rather quiet with them off to war; a group of older ladies and gentlecolts played whist in the corner, a younger chap performed a rendition of 'Equestria, the Land I Love' on the piano, and a cluster of colts perched around a window and bet absurd amounts of money on which of the ponies walking past in the rain outside would accidentally step in a particularly deep puddle and ruin their clothes. In short, it was a perfect evening in which I could enjoy my naughty, sinful, borderline-treasonous filth without fear of being disturbed.

That is, until she arrived. The heavy oaken doors that connected the common room with the hallway opened with their usual sense of occasion, the old hinges creaking and the wood scraping across the floor. When they closed with a resonant 'thud', I peeked over the top of the newspaper that concealed my illicit literature to see who the newcomer was. Princess Twilight Sparkle herself stood by the door, nervously looking around the large, open common room and clearly looking for somepony in particular. Likewise, everypony, with the exception of the retired ponies too engrossed in their gambling to notice, had stopped what they were doing to stare at her. A few had gathered enough of their wits to remember their etiquette and dipped their heads in reverence of the arrival of royalty.

She looked, for lack of a better term, absolutely stunning. This was the first time I had seen her in the flesh since the Siege of Fort E-5150, and that was before Princess Celestia had made her an alicorn. It's remarkable what the addition of a pair of wings and a few extra inches of height could do for a rather plain mare. Furthermore, it looked as though she had started dressing for her new status in life too, wearing an elegant pink and white dress that complimented her purple fur, which was just as well considering the dress code of this ancient and noble club. The bookish, somewhat awkward filly that I had bullied relentlessly when attending Celestia's School for Gifted Unicorns was still very much present, however, and as she stood there looking around, being momentarily distracted by the sight of the floor-to-ceiling bookcases filled with rare tomes on the far wall, it was obvious that she had yet to become comfortable with ponies showing appropriate deference to her.

Peering over the top of my newspaper like a caricature of a griffon secret police officer looking out for dissidents, I watched as she approached one of the club's staff, who prostrated himself before his Princess with his nose pressed into the floor in the traditional manner. They spoke too quietly for me to hear clearly, but from what I could tell of Twilight's facial expression and the exasperated way she waved her hooves about, she was trying to get him to stand up. Once that had been resolved with the stallion standing but with his head bowed, the two exchanged a few words, and then the servant pointed in my direction.

Of course, thought I, who else would she want to see here? Certainly not Lord Brass over there, having fallen asleep in his favourite chair, snoring loudly with his newspaper sprawled over his lap and his still-lit pipe clenched between his teeth. As she trotted on over towards me through the haze of tobacco smoke, I remembered the rather compromising material still held in my hooves, and with no possible way of disposing of it discreetly, I quickly folded up the newspaper as best as I could and crammed it into the pocket of my lounge suit's jacket with a force that would have greatly upset my tailor if he saw it. Twilight Sparkle smiled as she approached, but it was a forced one at that.

"Hi, Blueblood," she said. I rose from my seat hurriedly and bowed, albeit in a deliberately exaggerated manner by rearing my head up and then swinging it down along with my shoulders, despite the stab of pain in my still-healing back.

Twilight Sparkle's cheeks flushed red with embarrassment. "Oh, um... please, you don't have to do that."

"It is correct protocol when in the presence of a Princess," I said, rising back up to my full height. I still towered over her, back then. "Your Highness."

"You don't have to call me that either. Twilight's fine."

"That would still be improper, ma'am."

Twilight's jaw clenched, and a vein throbbed in her forehead. One might think that I was deliberately teasing her, and one would be very much correct in that assumption. As much as I like to think that I have changed since my teenage years, being less of an officious snob and having gained a new perspective on matters of class since my time at the front, winding up little Twilight Sparkle until she exploded into a fit of impotent rage never ceased to be funny. This time, however, I became acutely aware that along with that pair of wings and a crown came a great deal of power, both political and magical, and if I pushed her too far there may be graver consequences than being beaten up by Shining Armour.

"Ugh, never mind," she said with a growl. "Look, I need to talk to you about something important, and I've already spent all day trying to find you. I could really use your help."

That familiar sensation of my guts turning into ice, which I had been mercifully freed from since I had returned to Canterlot, unfortunately returned. I tried to maintain that expression of aristocratic detachment, more so now that I was surrounded by my fellow nobles and I dreaded to think what the society papers would say if I had disgraced myself, but when a Princess demands an audience about 'something important', it's going to be a damned sight more complicated and life-threatening than helping to pick out flowers for the next Gala, I can tell you. Cadence is the exception, however.

"I'm flattered," I said, "but I'm to relax - doctors' orders, you see."

She glanced over at my half-drunk glass of whisky and half-smoked cigar on the table and pulled a face. "Of course," she said diplomatically, "but this shouldn't be too strenuous. I just need your help with getting my reforms through Parliament."

I snorted, smirked, and shook my head. "Oh, is that all? Why me? And how in blazes am I supposed to do that?"

"Princess Celestia advised me against directly interfering with the democratic process," said Twilight. She then indicated to the folded-up newspaper wedged into my jacket pocket. "Of course, you'd know all about it if you read that."

The offending article and the illicit contents it concealed seemed to burn hotly against my side. I felt a strong desire to get rid of it, especially since the mare it depicted in a number of deeply compromising positions, all rendered in surprisingly exquisite detail that that the poor artist who drew the comic must have done so as a labour of love, was standing right there in front of me and close enough to take it.

"I read it for the cartoons," I said, offering a cheeky grin in imitation of her older brother. She wasn't buying it, judging by her bemused, tired expression.

"Right," she said with a huff. Looking at her furrowed brow and gently pursed lips, I could almost hear her thoughts screaming inside her head - must I spell everything out for this imbecile? The answer, of course, is yes, especially when I'm both mildly drunk and deliberately obstinate for the sake of cheap amusement.

"As I was saying, because Celestia said a princess should guide her ponies gently instead of just forcing them to do what she wants them to do, I now have to let Parliament decide whether or not to endorse my reforms. But, she didn't say anything about getting others to help MPs to vote in Equestria's best interest. That's where you come in, I need you to-"

A servant clearing his throat noisily in a manner to discreetly but deliberately interrupt had stopped Twilight Sparkle mid-tirade, and I was momentarily spared yet another patronising Twilecture. The young fellow seemed to materialise out of thin air, as all good servants are invariably trained to do. They blend into the background, rather like furniture, such that one might be forgiven for not being aware of their presence until they sense that their services are required and just appear as though summoned by magic. This can be quite disconcerting for the common sort of pony who isn't used to servants, as Twilight here demonstrated by flinching and yelping as though the staff had abruptly shocked her with electricity.

"Your Highnesses," said the servant, dipping his head first to Princess Twilight Sparkle and then to me. I would just have to get used to being second in the pecking order, I supposed. "Please forgive my eavesdropping and interruption, but it is incumbent upon me as a member of this establishment's staff to gently remind both honoured members and guests that, in accordance with its ethos and culture, the Imperial Club maintains a prohibition on discussions of a business or political nature within the common room."

The vein in Twilight's temple throbbed just a little harder, and her right eye twitched as she stared down the hapless servant. I was reminded of watching Company Sergeant Major Square Basher staring down a slovenly recruit on parade.

"Are you serious?" she snapped at him, her voice shrill. Everypony else in the room was either staring or doing their best to look as though they weren't secretly listening, which always looks even more conspicuous. "First the pony at the door tells me that there's a dress code and he can't let me in until I put on a dress, then when I go all the way back to the Castle and find a dress it isn't 'formal' enough, so I have to go to the fashion district and buy a dress just to get inside, and now you tell me I can't even talk to the pony I want to talk to about the things I want to talk about in the first place because it violates another one of your crazily restrictive rules?"

Her voice had reached a crescendo, and even the ponies deliberately trying not to look as though they were eavesdropping had given up on the pretext and stared at their newest Princess throwing a small tantrum. The servant, however, remained unfazed, and stood as rigid and formal as a statue throughout the full undignified meltdown. In fact the only acknowledgement he made of the rather un-regal display before him was to retrieve a small white hoofkerchief from his tailcoat's pocket and use it to very carefully wipe a few stray flecks of alicorn-spittle from his silk lapels.

"Our rules, including the dress code, applies equally to all ponies who enter our club, be they royalty, aristocracy, or commoner," he said, now that his lapels were restored to their former luster. "If you continue to disturb our members, then I shall have to ask you to leave this establishment, ma'am."

[The servant is not exaggerating when he means 'all ponies'; I was once barred entry from the Imperial Club on the one day that I decided to visit and had neglected to wear my regalia.]

As hilarious as it would have been to see Princess Twilight Sparkle of all ponies escorted off the premises of the most exclusive gentlecolts' club in all of Equestria, literally tossed into the street outside and into a convenient puddle by the sergeant-at-arms for added comedic effect, I felt it best to cease this light ribbing and save her, and by extension her political aims with which I had some sympathy, from the sort of journalistic evisceration in the tabloid newspapers that I was all too familiar with. Her cheeks had flushed red, though more from embarrassment than anger, and I felt a distinct pang of sympathy that cut through the foalish teasing I had in mind.

"Come now," I said, injecting an element of jocularity into my voice, "she's not one of us, so she didn't know any better. We'll carry on this discussion in a private room, away from everypony else who seeks a sanctuary away from such things."

That satisfied both Princess and servant, and we were led away from the warm comfort of the common room, through the various corridors with portraits of long-dead members staring down at us as if to judge, up a flight of stairs, and into what was probably my least favourite room in the building. We walked in silence at first, broken only by my occasional sip of my drink just to keep me going through the evening, but eventually Twilight must have found it unbearable and broke it:

"Do you have any idea how hard it was to find you?" she said.

"No," I said, "but I imagine you're about to tell me."

Twilight Sparkle made a face, so I made one back. "I tried the hospital first, but then they told me you were discharged and put on light duties, so I tried the Ministry of War but you weren't there. Then I went to your palace but the hoof-pony told me you weren't in, so I tried your apartment, but Drape Cut [Blueblood's butler and valet] told me you were at this club of yours and I could wait there until you turned up, but there's only so much sitting around in your living room drinking endless cups of tea before I got sick of it and went to find you myself. Then when I did get here the pony at the door told me to go and find a dress and, uh, I guess you know the rest."

"Yes, well, forgive me for having a life outside of you, Princess," I said dryly. "The dress does suit you, by the way."

The silence returned, though more awkward than before, such that it seemed to amplify the sounds of our hooves on the polished wooden floor to an almost maddening degree.

"Blueblood," Twilight piped up once her tolerance for awkward silences had run its course. "What did you mean by 'she's not one of us'?"

She knew full well what I meant, that her royal title was just a shallow publicity stunt from Princess Celestia and was thus meaningless. Oh, she might now have a pair of wings, a crown, and a title, but such things are worthless without the dignity, poise, tradition, and history behind them. What was a title worth if such things could be dished out to just anypony regardless of breeding? She was a princess in name only; a commoner from a family of no real social standing thrust into a world where she simply did not belong, and her insistence on disregarding the deference due from those who were now her lessers in favour of some kind of fiction that she was still somehow their equal was proof. History has, of course, judged me entirely wrong on that account, and after a few decades or so I suppose I can say that my stance on the whole matter has softened somewhat, but as rare honesty is the entire purpose of this exercise then I must describe my honest opinion as it was at the time - I was more than a little upset that the little filly I used to pick on at school now outranked me.

"Not a member of the club," I said, keeping my true thoughts to myself. "The gentlecolts' clubs of Canterlot can be quite intimidating places for the uninitiated. I'm surprised they allowed a non-member inside unaccompanied."

"I told him you would vouch for me." Twilight then fluttered her wings, still folded up against the sides of her dress, and added, "I think these might have helped a little."

"I expect being a princess now must have its perks," I said, trying to cloak the resentment in my voice as relatively good-natured sarcasm. "More than a prince, of course."

We stopped at the end of the corridor, and the servant flung the door open to reveal my private room at the club. Well, it was more accurate to say that it was my father's, for it was his grim, haughty visage that stared down at us from the painting that hung on the opposite wall, as if so placed to judge everypony who stepped hoof inside, Yours Truly included. Seeing it always made me feel more than a little uncomfortable, as the master who had painted it had captured all of his arrogance, aloofness, rigidity, bigotry, and severity so perfectly in the medium of oil paint. It was as though he was right there in the room, peering down through his monocle and deeming me entirely unworthy of whatever arbitrary standard he had set.

Since his disappearance in Zebrica, probably eaten by cannibal zebras, the Imperial Club had decided to honour his memory and the generous donations he made to the club by dedicating a suite to his memory and allowing his scions, i.e. me and whatever foals I might one day sire, perennial use of it. As touching as this gesture must seem, the imposing portrait of my father looming over everything had rather put me off staying here, as convenient as a place to sleep in the centre of Canterlot's fanciest districts would be, which had led to me purchasing an apartment for such purposes instead. At least the drinks cabinet was always well-stocked, being one of the few things my father and I ever agreed upon, and I made a bee-line to it to refill my glass while Twilight followed on in after me, staring around at the room.

I imagine it must be rather striking to those who have not seen it before; the main motif was red, as dark and macabre as spilt blood in accordance with my family's ridiculously morbid traditions, with burgundy carpet, maroon walls, crimson curtains, and mahogany furnishings. It hurt one's eyes and gave one a migraine to spend more than a few hours there. The door was shut behind us, leaving me alone in the room with Twilight Sparkle, and I refilled my glass.

"Would you like a drink?" I asked, remembering my manners. Twilight Sparkle shook her head.

"Blueblood," she said softly, "is there something wrong?"

"I’m fine," I said, taking another swig of my drink.

I made my way to an armchair in the corner of the room, next to the large four-poster bed with the red sheets and a small coffee table with a tome of my family's ancient lore resting on it. As I luxuriated in the soft, plush chair, I saw Twilight had been watching me with a look of concern.

Of course I wasn't 'fine', but I couldn't bloody well tell her that. I knew this period of unbridled and self-destructive hedonism would have to come to an end one day, for the war would not stop just to allow me time to drink, gamble, and party my way to an early grave in the ancient traditions of my ancestors. Twilight Sparkle coming along with her damned reforms was merely an unwelcome reminder of the transitory nature of the rare happiness I had acquired, and already, just seeing her there standing before me was an unpleasant reminder of the inevitability of misery.

"Celestia told me about what happened to you," said Twilight as she settled into the seat next to me without asking permission first, but then again she no longer needed it. “You can tell me. I mean, friendship is kinda my thing.”

"I'll manage," I said, settling back in my seat and allowing the soft padding to take my weight and relieve some of the pain of my healing scars. "Now, what's all this about your reforms? You said Princess Celestia has forbidden you from interfering directly, but I don't see how I can help."

"The House of Commons is split right down the middle," she said. "Blowtorch [then Secretary of State for War, having replaced Treble Bass who had been shuffled out of that post] rejected my report, so the Prime Minister had to introduce it as a bill in Parliament to get it through. I have a friend working with me in the Commons to swing the vote my way, among other things, but the House of Lords is so overwhelmingly against the bill that they're sure to block it."

[The House of Lords remained very influential at this point in history, though its power was gradually being eroded by the House of Commons. Its hereditary peers, made up of the heads of the most powerful aristocratic houses in Equestria, senior religious leaders, and delegates from vassal states, scrutinised bills passed by the Commons, and they had the authority to amend, delay, or even outright block legislation passed by the lower house.]

"I see." I didn't, actually, but it was probably what she wanted to hear. "And this is where I come in?"

Twilight nodded. "You're Princess Celestia's nephew, the Duke of Canterlot, head of one of the oldest dynasties in Equestria, and now you're a celebrated war hero. You have a lot of influence, and if the nobleponies see you backing my reforms then maybe they'll support it too."

"You don't sound very certain of that."

"I'm not certain of much anymore," she said, shrugging. "Observing the frontline was supposed to be the hardest part. When I saw the bodies in the courtyard I knew I had to do everything in my power to finish my report and reform the Royal Guard, so their sacrifice wouldn't be in vain. Then I finally published it and now all of this happens; politicians and bureaucrats who know nothing about war telling me it's too expensive, or it violates military tradition, or nopony wants change, or that I shouldn't meddle. I was there, Blueblood, and I saw it. And they didn't."

And I was there, too. I remembered, in the aftermath of that awful battle, Twilight Sparkle, then just a normal unicorn like me, inasmuch as anything about the odd little mare could be considered 'normal', had broken down and wept in my embrace at the sight of the dead. The corpses, pony and Changeling alike, that were strewed across the stinking quagmire, surrounded by the broken walls of the fortress and beneath the light of a dawn Celestia had raised in vengeance, had moved her so far past the coldly rational and scientific approach to her research to the emotional core of her argument - the current state of affairs in the Ministry of War, with all of its bureaucracy, corruption, and incompetence, could not continue. The image was burned into my mind like a brand, as vivid as though I was standing right there up to my fetlocks in mud and blood, the stench of death and burned flesh like a malevolent miasma filling my lungs and choking me. In my mind, I could almost reach out and place my hoof upon the lifeless body of what moments before was a young colt, mutilated beyond all recognition.

"Blueblood?" Twilight's voice snapped me out of my daze, and she had placed her hoof delicately upon mine where it lay upon on the armrest. Her eyes stared into mine with a piercing quality that I had not noticed before; they seemed to strip away my aristocratic masque, layer by silken layer, searching for the damaged, frightened foal that hid behind it all.

She had changed so much over the years, and I wanted nothing more than to just unburden myself of all of the horror and guilt that I had carried within myself ever since I donned that hateful cap. I wanted her to listen to my tortured ravings and then tell me that it's all going to be fine, like an ordinary common pony would, except that my regal position in life would not allow me to indulge in such a luxury. Stiff upper lip and carry on and all that rot, no wonder so many of us lose our minds shortly after the on-set of middle age.

As nice as the gesture felt, I pulled my hoof away from hers. Such a thing was unbecoming of royalty, especially with the portrait of my father staring accusingly down at us. "I'll see what I can do."

"That's all I ask. Thank you." Twilight looked instantly relieved, as though she had spent much of the day fearing that I might refuse. Well, that would not have been beyond the realms of possibility; passing her reforms would mean the war would have to start again with renewed vigour and urgency, which I had wanted to put off for as long as possible, but if her proposals were actually implemented then it could mean competent officers and sufficient bodies for me to hide behind. I have to confess I did not read her report, as I had neither the time nor the inclination to sit down and slog through four hundred pages of dry, tedious academic literature on my least favourite subject [The abridged version available to the general public was four hundred and seventy-two pages long, while the complete edition with appendices was one thousand six hundred and nine pages], but if there was anypony in the world who could be trusted to undertake this grim task it was Twilight Sparkle. For all of my faults, committing what might be considered an act of treason by sabotaging these reforms was beyond the pale even for me, if only because I had seen first-hoof why they were so sorely needed.

"Oh, is that today's Daily Ponygraph?" said Twilight, pointing at the folded-up newspaper wedged into my jacket pocket and poking out of my chest. "Can I borrow it, please? I want to see if they've published my letter."

I was about to float it on over to her, when I remembered what was concealed within its pages, and it was damned lucky I did, too, for I had no desire to be the first pony to be punished for the crime of lèse-majesté with regards to Princess Twilight Sparkle's royal dignity. This folded up wad of paper was part-way out of my jacket pocket, wrapped in my aura, while she held out her hoof hopefully.

"Umm, no," was all that I could come with at such short notice. She looked surprised, as one would when denied a very polite and reasonable request. I had to come up with an excuse, and quickly too before my embarrassment would betray the fact that I was quite clearly hiding something. "It's yesterday's paper," I continued, hurriedly folding up the top so as to conceal the date and cramming it back into the pocket, "and I'm still doing the crossword puzzle."

"You like crosswords?" she asked, scepticism and hope in her voice in equal measure at first, then a wide grin stretched across her face and her eyes sparkled. "I love crosswords! We should do them together some time."

"Yes," I said, resigning myself to a grim fate of having to learn how to do the dreary little puzzles in order to keep up this ridiculous charade. "I picked it up in the hospital as something to do between being poked and prodded by ponies in white coats. Speaking of which, it's getting late and I should be going home now, so please forgive me for cutting this short but I ought to be in bed soon lest I incur the wrath of my physician."

Something about the way Twilight looked at me implied that I was not believed, but that didn't matter - I had to get out of there, and quickly too. With my hasty excuse out of the way I made an even hastier 'goodbye' and darted out of the room as quickly as I could manage, cheeks flushed hotly with embarrassment. I stopped only to grab my hat and coat at the door and bid farewell to the hoof-pony before exiting the club, leaving the bewildered Princess still inside and probably wondering what to do with herself now.

The weather was still atrocious as I made my way back to my apartment, but despite the Canterlot weather team deciding that the jewel of Equestria was overdue a downpour for some obscure reason, I wanted to walk instead of getting a cab. The pouring rain pattering off my umbrella spell made the noises of the street - the conversations of ponies, the mobs of tourists, and the carriages in the roads - somehow distant and muffled, and I became trapped in my own mind as my hooves carried me on that familiar passage home. My thoughts replayed that conversation over and over again, ad nauseum, as if to punish me for being such a damned idiot. That was the first time I had seen Twilight Sparkle in over a year and certainly since her coronation, and while my rational mind railed against the injustice of a common mare being elevated so, there was something inside me that kept me from achieving that state of aristocratic indignation I was sure would come. In my mind's eye I saw her face, so full of genuine worry and concern when she saw me over-indulging in drink.

I couldn't understand it, nor the strange longing that I felt to see her again. More than that, as I came into the lobby of my apartment building and discreetly dispelled the shield, I wondered why, as a pony so accustomed to misdirection, did it feel so difficult and so 'wrong' to lie to Twilight Sparkle over something so relatively trivial?

Chapter 2

Something has gone wrong. We don't seem to have an archived copy of that chapter.

Chapter 3

I had always avoided visiting the areas of the Ministry of War building that are portioned out to the Royal Commissariat unless strictly, totally, completely necessary, partly because I never had much cause to, but mostly because, if given the choice under normal circumstances, I'd much rather visit Tartarus instead. Government ministerial offices are dull, grey, and drab little monuments to white collar mediocrity anyway, with the exception of the more prestigious ministries such as Friendship Affairs and the EEA (the latter having enough surplus budget to afford extravagant robes for all employees and an enormous and oppressively-lit headquarters they pretentiously call the 'Cathedral of Learning'). Until Twilight's reforms made warfare briefly fashionable for a time, War had suffered under a meagre budget and thus its offices reflected its financial problems. The room that I had previously occupied was an exception, of course, as I'll be damned if I ever have to work somewhere without at least one well-stocked liquor cabinet in place of the ubiquitous water cooler. The Commissariat's offices, however, appeared to be bleak and austere by design so as to reflect the sombre and moribund tastes of its founder.

[The Ministry of War was considered to be the least desirable and least prestigious of the governmental ministries to work for, and as such often received the lowest funding in government budgets. At first they occupied a floor of Canterlot Castle, but were then moved out into the small and dilapidated office building Blueblood describes here shortly after the declaration of war. The Twilight Sparkle Reforms dramatically increased their funding, which allowed the ministry to move to a larger and better equipped building. The Royal Commissariat shared offices with the Ministry of War for a time, until tensions between the two organisations necessitated the move to a separate building.]

The walls were bare, cold stone devoid of even the most modest attempts at decoration. Though my innate sense of direction told me that we were a few floors above ground level and I was waiting in a corridor on the outer edge, whosoever designed this place had not seen fit to grace the outside walls with windows. With the only lighting coming from candles along the walls that must have taken some poor servant hours to light each day, this hallway remained in a perpetual state of gloomy twilight. The overall effect was such that anypony wandering around here would be forgiven for thinking the laws of geometry had changed somehow and they've ended up in an underground dungeon.

Thus I sat on my haunches on the floor outside the office of one Rubber Stamp, waiting for my turn to be seen. Cannon Fodder, my commissarial aide, sat next to me and flicked through one of the stallions’ special interest magazines he seemed to have an inexhaustible supply of. His presence was not strictly necessary, and there was plenty of work for him to be getting on with back at the barracks, but here in these oppressive hallways having him close by was quite reassuring. He had, after all, saved my life multiple times before, though some of it was merely an unintentional side-effect of his incredibly rare disability. He was a blank unicorn; incapable of using magic, but sucked it straight out of the horns of others should they summon more than what is necessary for the most basic of spells. History has sadly forgotten him, but his apparent belief that personal hygiene was just optional and unassuming personality meant that he was doomed to slip from the memories of other ponies, except as a malodorous oddity in the great fictionalised versions of my life they believe to be true.

Rubber Stamp was late. I don't know how long we had been waiting there, but it felt like an eternity. The clock on the wall was clearly visible, but I refused to look at it, though its constant ticking counting the seconds shaved off what little life I had left was a morbid reminder of the transitory nature of mortal existence. The two of us sat in silence, though it was the comfortable sort that was born of two stallions who both knew when nothing needed to be said; my companion was hardly a sparkling conversationalist even at the best of times, but we were both quite happy to just sit and just stare at the opposite wall. There wasn't even anything interesting to look at here, no potted plants, posters, or even pamphlets to read.

Every few minutes or so, a pony wearing either a clean, pressed commissar's uniform or a business suit would come trotting through the corridor. Some would disappear through the other doors along the hall, while the others, often carrying stacks of paperwork, would carry on past us. A few gave me some sort of acknowledgement, usually a nod from a civilian or a salute from one of the commissars should they have a hoof free to do so. Besides a curt 'good evening, sir' or some variant thereof, few said anything at all, and nopony lingered around to chat at all. While my colleagues in the Commissariat tended to be rather tedious company, having taken their duties rather too seriously so as to almost eclipse whatever personalities they otherwise possessed, a brief diversion would have at least helped to alleviate some small iota of this endless tedium.

I wore a fresh uniform for the meeting, straight off the rack and back from my tailor with alterations. However, to maintain my image as a no-nonsense veteran quite out of sorts with all of this bureaucracy, more comfortable with a sword in hoof than a pen, I had buried it in my garden for a few days before wearing it here. The idea was to give the impression that this uniform had been worn in combat, to contrast with the neater examples worn by ponies whose careers kept them safely behind desks, but as the set that I wore in the Badlands had been left behind in the Rat Pony Tribe's foetid little dungeon and I was in no desire to return there and meekly ask for it back, this would have to do. However, I neglected to bring my sword, thinking that this key part of the outfit was entirely unnecessary in good old Canterlot.

Only when the door finally swung open did I dare to look up at the clock to see how long I had been waiting. Just over half an hour, apparently, though it felt like much longer. One would have thought that after spending around two years at the frontline I would have gotten used to sitting around and doing very little for hours on end, and one would be right. It was different in a civilian milieu, as time spent doing nothing at the front also meant little to no immediate danger and was therefore cherished, while here in Canterlot it was merely taking away time that I would have otherwise spent doing something fun, interesting, or relaxing.

“Blueblood?” A mare in a parade ground-perfect example of a commissar's uniform, Rubber Stamp's personal aide from what I had heard, leaned through the open doorway and peered over her thin, rectangular reading glasses at me. "Rubber Stamp will see you now."

"Prince Blueblood," I sneered, rising to my hooves. "If you don't mind."

The mare sniffed haughtily, her expression as severe and humourless as a mortician's, which reminded me of the face Princess Luna used to pull when we crossed paths in the Palace before all of this unpleasantness. On a young-ish mare, however, as opposed to an all-powerful alicorn, it was more cute, almost adorable, than threatening.

"Titles count for nothing here," she said. "All are equal in service to the Princesses."

How dare she? I pursed my lips, as though trying to keep the torrent of vitriol from vomiting forth like canister shot from a cannon. My hooves trembled, my eyes narrowed, and a strange heat flushed up my neck. Alas, though every atom of my being desired nothing more than to remind this impertinent, grey-faced peasant of the yawning gulf between our respective positions on society's great hierarchy, I also knew that I needed the help of this Rubber Stamp filly if my plan was to succeed. She was young, I decided, barely out of her teens; her mind was filled with such rebellious ideas that experience had not yet dragged out into the street and beaten to death with a croquet mallet. A hundred years ago, I would have been well within my rights to do just that to her without much fear of repercussion.

The tirade was already fully-formed in my head, the words pounding at the walls of my mind with a desperate need to be freed, but like the misguided alchemists of old, I would have to try to turn lead into gold - indignation into pleasantry. It would not help my case with Rubber Stamp to be seen screaming at her aide in the middle of the Commissariat's headquarters, after all.

"Of course," was all that I could manage to say. I forced a smile to my face, but I fear it resembled a manticore's snarl than anything pleasant. "How silly of me."

I gave Cannon Fodder a pouch of bits and told him to go and get something for himself from the cafeteria while he waited for me. As he trotted off down the corridor, making the same amount of noise in barracks dress uniform as he did in his loose-fitting armour due to the quantity of unspecified 'stuff' packed into his bulging pockets and pouches, I felt quite alone and isolated without my aide by my side. I was completely safe here, in the heart of Canterlot's government district and with the barracks of Guards Division within spitting distance, but a growing sense of disquiet began to creep over me. It was probably the severe decor, I thought to myself, with the blank stone walls, flickering candles, and total lack of what might be considered the 'personal touch' here reminding me too much of the corridors of Fort E-5150. The memories of that horrendous night bubbled up from my subconscious and intruded rudely into my mind.

My hooves started to itch, which they are wont to do when my primitive equine hindbrain picks up on something unsettling and dangerous but my rational pony mind remains blissfully unaware of. There was something about that mare's manner that struck me as odd, and it was not just the egalitarian nonsense she spouted earlier. That sensation only got worse when I stepped through the open door and saw the office. It was divided into two halves each with a desk, one bare and plain and probably belonging to the moody mare who let me in, and the other bright and colourful. The dividing line was split almost directly down the middle, with the half closest to the door being the one devoid of anything approaching sentimentality and the other positively dripping in it.

The desk on the far side overflowed with paperwork and assorted office accoutrements, which all but obscured the mare sitting behind it all. I didn't think it was possible to make the uniform of a commissar, designed to be as intimidating and authoritative as possible with its morbid imagery and black and red colour scheme, appear friendly and welcoming, but somehow this middle-aged pony accomplished it. The jacket appeared to be looser, and was cut in a more relaxed Bitalian fashion rather than the rigid, padded militaristic style the designers and tailors intended. She wore it quite casually too, unbuttoned and supplemented by an assortment of buttons and pins of cheerful designs which all softened its normally-grim countenance.

Rubber Stamp smiled warmly as I entered, and beckoned to the empty seat in front of her desk. Needless to say, this was not what I expected to see given the decor of the rest of the office and the frosty reception given to me by the other mare, who stood by the door and observed me with a curiously disdainful expression. I suppose some in the Commissariat still thought I had only gained my position due to nepotism, which is a charge I can refute with absolute certainty; it is only nepotism when somepony actually wants the job.

"Your Highness!" she said breathlessly. "I am so sorry for the wait. Please, come in and sit down."

I sat on the offered chair, which I found to be suitably hard and angled in such a way to only just more comfortable than sitting on the floor. Whosoever procured these clearly did not want the occupier to linger too long, which, in this case, was fine by me. There was a variety of things I'd rather be doing than being in this damned building.

"Red Tape," said Rubber Stamp. The stroppy filly at the door grunted wordlessly in response. "Be a dear and get Prince Blueblood here some of Dotted Line's birthday cake from the canteen, if there's any still left over."

Leftover birthday cake, likely stale and more icing than sponge, was better than nothing, I thought; I hadn't eaten anything since a few scones for four o'clock tea time. Red Tape gave a curt nod and left the room, shutting the door behind her with a little more force than was strictly necessary. Now alone with Rubber Stamp, I watched as she shuffled the assorted papers and ornaments around on her desk, then triumphantly pulled out the transfer request form that I had mailed a few days ago. Under normal circumstances, it would have taken weeks, if not months, for this intrepid little sheet of paper to wend its way through the bureaucratic pipes of the Commissariat, before finally reaching the pony who could actually do something with it. That it found its way there so quickly was due in no small part to my name scribbled rather prominently on the top, written in the elegant script my foalhood governess forced me to learn.

"I'm very sorry about making you wait, sir," she said, grasping for her pair of thick-rimmed glasses on the desk. "We're still moving everything into the new building, and it's been a bit of a kerfuffle."

So that explained the rather lax security getting in, and the fact that much of the building appeared to be deserted compared to when I had worked here before. Now that the notion had popped up in my mind, I wasn't certain that the security guards at the entrance checkpoint had actually scanned us. It had been a very brief passage through what was an otherwise tense and threatening experience, as usually the gruff stallion wearing sunglasses indoors asked all sorts of invasive questions to the point where even I was no longer certain if I was really Prince Blueblood and not a Changeling infiltrator. My regal title and my dubious reputation for heroics was no reason for me to skip the line, it seemed, and a damned good thing too; it meant that the security ponies were doing their job properly and keeping the enemy from sneaking in and committing all manner of cowardly, under-hoofed things. I was perfectly willing to endure the indignity of such things if it meant getting out of there alive.

Rubber Stamp made a show of reading through one of the very few forms I can say I completed myself. She did her level best to appear professional, apparently attempting to model her behaviour after a certain icy Equestria Games inspector, but her jittery body language and tone of voice betrayed a level of excitement that no amount of pretending could hide.

"I must say," she said, placing the form back down on the table and giving me what she probably thought was a stern gaze, "none of us expected to receive one of these from you, sir."

I gave an easy sort of shrug and leaned back as far as the awkwardly-designed seat would allow, affecting the usual bluff old soldier routine I had almost perfected for dealing with obstructive civilians.

"I've served with the Night Guards for two years now," I said. "They taught me a lot about soldiering, and I hoped that I could pass on that expertise to the new commissars who will watch over Princess Twilight's new army."

Never mind the fact that the last trainee commissar I had been tasked with educating is buried hundreds of miles away to the south, next to the bridge she apparently gave her life to help destroy for an offensive that would be delayed for yet another blasted year. Hopefully, Rubber Stamp didn't know about that, or the fact that Gliding Moth's death was a result of my failure to execute my duties as a commissar properly and kill Scarlet Letter when I had the chance to. The mare sitting in front of me looked at me sharply for a moment, and I wondered perhaps if I had laid it on a little too thick there.

"By serving with division headquarters instead of on the frontline?" she said, somewhat sceptically as she peered over the top of the form at me. Of course, a war hero like me is supposed to be eager to get right in the thick of the fighting, and would therefore be perfectly happy assigned to a regiment whose colonel had a frustratingly suicidal desire to be right where the fighting was thicker than Applejack's accent.

"In this war, everywhere is the frontline," I said, deciding the best way to proceed was to just pile it on and hope. "Everypony in Equestria is doing their bit for the Princesses in the way that suits their unique talents. Where would our commissars be without such dedicated ponies as you supporting them from afar? Paper shuffling isn't my thing, I'll admit, but I can't imagine I'd have been able to perform my duties without everypony in this office doing their bit. I just feel that everything I've learnt over the past two years with the Night Guards could be put to better use supporting my fellow commissars."

That seemed to do the trick. She beamed happily, as all office drones do when they are made to feel that the many hours they spend shackled to a desk, pointlessly shuffling paper after paper around in an endless cycle of bureaucracy, actually amounts to some tangible good happening somewhere in the world. I watched as she reached for her quill, dipped it in ink, and then held it poised to apply her signature to the form to confirm my request. Then the door behind me swung open.

"Oh!" she exclaimed, and placed the quill down.

Red Tape had returned, carrying a plate bearing a single slice of a sad-looking sponge cake with white icing an inch thick around the outside edge on her back. A knife rested atop the slice, and it occurred to me, as she placed the stale confection on the table atop a small pile of paperwork, that this blade looked much sharper than the sort normally found buried within the drawers of a civil servants' office kitchen. About twelve inches long, it glinted in the candlelight of this windowless room as she took the handle in her mouth; if it was possible, it should have made an appropriately sharp sound effect as the light danced across its edge. I felt the absence of the weight of my sword on my hip more acutely.

My paranoia proved to be my salvation as usual. I saw a flash of candlelight reflected on steel as the knife was thrust in the general direction of my jugular vein. On reflex I hurled myself backwards with as much force as I could muster. The blade struck nothing but air as the chair I sat on tipped over, and I struck the ground with a jolt that reverberated up my spine. The impact hurt, but not nearly as much as if my throat had been sliced open.

"Red Tape!" shrieked Rubber Stamp. "What's wrong with you? That's Prince Blueblood!"

"I know," said Red Tape, her voice chillingly flat.

I looked up at a hoof clutching the knife, which turned at the wrist to point the blade straight down at me. Gripped by panic, I yelled incoherently, partially to attract attention from outside but mainly because I was bloody terrified. Without thinking I brought my hooves up to cover my barrel, and then twisted my upper body in a frantic effort to roll away.

I collided with the wall, but it gave me something to steady myself against as I struggled up to my hooves. Too slow, though; the knife came down, and I felt a sharp sting against my shoulder and something warm and wet trickled down my foreleg. There was no time to check, as Red Tape granted me none. She darted forwards, sweeping her knife in a wide arc at my face. A breath of displaced air stroked my muzzle as I scrambled back in a flail of hooves. My rump hit a bookcase, knocking a few of its contents onto the floor.

Rubber Stamp screamed, but was otherwise useless. I saw her, past my advancing foe, cowering behind her desk for all the good it would do.

"Help me!" I shrieked at her, but she only responded with a frightened squeal.

Red Tape leapt forward, knife in hoof to bring it straight to my neck. My fencer's reflexes sent me tumbling away to the right, rolling onto my side. With a burst of magic that stung my horn, I seized the top of the bookcase in my aura and pulled it down. Books, ledgers, folders, and index cards slid from their shelves and rained down on the mare, as the heavy piece of furniture toppled over. A particularly heavy-looking copy of Princesses' Regulations, the 1019 edition by the looks of it, knocked onto her withers and bounced. She darted out of the way, and the bookcase collapsed onto the floor, splintering into large, broken planks of wood and torn books. Twilight would have had a fit if she could see the ripped pages and broken spines.

With her distracted, I tried the door, but the knob refused to turn. Locked, of course, it just had to be. Red Tape must have locked it behind her, or in my panic I had forgotten how to use a door knob properly, the effect was the same. I turned, swivelling on my forelegs and lashing out with my hindlegs to buck the damned thing open. A stab of pain wracked over my back and my muscles seized up. I instead bounced off the door and fell face-first onto the desk that Rubber Stamp wasn't using for cover.

Fumbling around, I grabbed the first sturdy object my hoof came into contact with. It was a typewriter, which I seized with both forehooves. I lifted the heavy object, muscles burning in protest, and then hurled it with as much might as my battered body could manage. Red Tape had recovered from the book assault and was advancing on me, knife raised to plunge it into my neck, when the typewriter struck her straight in the chest with a thud. It should have hurt her badly, broke a rib or two, or even killed her outright, but to my growing horror she appeared to shrug it off. Where I had struck had collapsed inward a little, like an impact against armour.

Or chitin. I realised all too late, even the Commissariat was not safe from infiltration.

"Do something!" I shouted at Rubber Stamp. She was cowering behind her desk, watching us fearfully. Upon hearing my desperate pleas, she picked up a pencil and threw it at 'Red Tape'. The Changeling didn't notice as the missile bounced off the side of her head.

"Something useful!" I barked again. It was too late, she had fainted.

That was just perfect. There was only one thing for it now. I summoned as much energy into my horn as I could muster, the pressure throbbing through my forehead and into my skull. At this range, even I couldn't miss. Except, I was too slow, or she was too fast. Either way, the Changeling was upon me in an instant, her hoof swung and it connected with my lit horn. Whatever lingering pain I felt from my back was drowned out utterly by the complete and total agony that tore straight into my mind. Hot, sharp daggers plunged through my horn and directly into my brain, blinding my vision in flashes of red and white. Some force shoved me back against the wall, and I collapsed in a heap on the ground, clutching my aching horn and bawling like a foal.

My horn was in excruciating pain, but that was a good thing in the main; it meant that it was still there, for one.

I forced my eyes open, and blinked away the tears and the swirling stars that danced across my vision like Princess Luna had painted the night sky while high on laudanum. My face smarted awfully, I could taste blood, and the stink of singed fur and ozone filled my nostrils. From what I could tell, though delirious with pain as I was, being smacked in the horn had caused the energy I had drawn upon to disperse in a violent discharge of raw magic. 'Red Tape' had been knocked backwards to the other side of the room, but she recovered faster than I could. Rising to her hooves, her lips were twisted into a snarl that revealed rows of fangs and a flickering, snake-like tongue. Her hoof had turned black, layered with glistening chitin and marked with holes, presumably where the magical discharge had burned away the illusion.

[Changeling shape-shifting magic has two main types - true shape-shifting and illusory. True shape-shifting transforms the Changeling's body completely, thus taking on all of its physical properties. It requires the most amount of magic, but for the purposes of infiltration it makes for the perfect disguise and in some cases is immune to the detection spell. Illusory magic merely applies an illusion over the body to mask the true form of the Changeling, and while it requires a minimal amount of magic to perform, it is far more prone to detection and can be disrupted by physical damage. Furthermore, illusions are limited to disguises that are the same size and shape as the Changeling.]

The knife was on the floor between us, amidst all the detritus our brawl had caused. Trying to draw upon more magic to grab it only made my horn hurt even more, as though somepony was twisting it out of my skull, so that was out of the question. There was only one thing for it. I pushed myself closer to the knife, but my back screamed in protest. It felt like hooks were caught in my back and tearing my flesh apart. I fell to the ground again.

I was damned if I was going to die like this, in a tacky office buried somewhere deep within the least attractive building in Equestria. Yet it would have been so apt; the culmination of a pointless life wasted on frivolity and decadence in an end that was just as meaningless as everything that came before it. Be that as it may, I had a great deal more fickle luxuries to indulge in and I certainly wasn't going to give up the potential for yet more little expensive things that make life worth living so readily. If this was to be my end I was going to make absolutely sure that I would go down kicking wildly and screaming incoherently at the unfairness of it all, much in the same manner as I entered this world.

Red Tape stalked towards me, her fanged maw open wide and slathering in anticipation of the kill. Apparently having judged me as being beaten and with the only other pony in the room unconscious, she seemed to think that she could afford to take her time toying with me. Then I saw that she was limping, and that the hoof where the illusion had failed was riddled with a spiders' web of cracks, from which wept stinking green ichor to leave streaks over the linoleum floor.

Something pounded on the other side of the door. The heavy thud of two hooves striking its surface made it shudder in its frame. Cracks and splinters emanated from the point of impact. Red Tape was distracted by the sound for a second, looking up and hissing, forked tongue flickering. A second was all it took; I dragged myself closer on my belly, grabbed the knife in my hoof, and then drove it straight into the beast's wounded leg.

She shrieked in pain as I twisted the blade, the flesh squelching hideously and ichor splashing onto my hoof. Red Tape reared up and stamped her hooves down. I frantically tried to push myself away, but got as far as rolling onto my back. Pain erupted in my chest where she had struck, and I heard a loud crack from somewhere disconcertingly inside me.

The door exploded in a hail of broken planks and splinters. Mercifully, I was shielded from the flying shards of wood by Red Tape, who took the brunt of it. I dared to look up, seeing a pair of hindlegs extended through the portal where the door had been. These retracted, and their owner, Cannon Fodder charged in and tackled my would-be assassin. The two rolled across the floor, over the scattered books, paper, and pens. As I pushed myself out of the way, pain shot through my chest and back with every movement.

Their struggle was brief; two writhing bodies and a flurry of hooves and snapping fangs, but my gallant aide had managed to grab the knife still embedded in the Changeling's hoof with his mouth. A sweep of his head brought the blade straight across the neck, and a spray of ichor splashed onto Cannon Fodder's already-stained chest. The beast collapsed, gurgling helplessly and clutching at its throat as it writhed about on the floor. A few more slashes put the creature out of its misery, and a flash of green light, briefly tinting the room in a malignant emerald glow, revealed the enemy in all of its hideous, mutated glory.

The corpse of the Changeling lay sprawled on its back, limbs splayed out in awkward, unnatural angles, twitching as the last vestiges of life left its mortal frame. Cannon Fodder stepped away from it, his face impassive as usual, and he trotted over to me. I managed to pull myself up against a wall, though the pain in my chest had become truly excruciating at this point. Every breath was like a knife straight through my ribs.

"I had some change leftover," he said, "so I got you a muffin, sir." He offered said baked good out on a grubby hoof, which I politely declined.

***

It took a few minutes for the guards to arrive, and a little while longer before I could be seen by anypony with medical expertise. While I made a show of insisting that Rubber Stamp was attended to first, I assumed that a medic who had been through some sort of specialist training would understand that I was clearly the priority case here. I did not expect him to take what I had intended to be the usual sort of casual disregard for one's own well-being expected of officers seriously, and he instead trotted right past me, picking his way carefully around the smashed bookcase and its scattered contents, to tend to the unconscious mare. Anypony with the tiniest modicum of sense should have seen the smudges of dark blues and purples spreading across my white chest like I just spilt Cabernet Franc on myself and that I was visibly in agony, then concluded that I could probably have benefited from at least a good few doses of painkillers. It appeared that I had been spending far too much time around Trottinghamites, and all of that damned understatement in the face of adversity was lost on those more used to treating ponies screaming out for relief.

Rubber Stamp was fine, by the way; a little dizzy and nauseated, with a bump on the head when she collapsed for good measure. I, on the other hoof, was eventually diagnosed with a cracked rib, an assortment of bruises, a cut to the shoulder, and some of the partially healed flogging wounds on my back had reopened. For all of those injuries I was dragged out into the corridor again, given a number of potions to help with the healing process, and left there while everypony else ran around panicking and being useless. Cannon Fodder sat by my side, devouring the muffin he had brought for me, which I had in fact paid for, with all of the grace and manners of a starved Diamond Dog. I felt far too sick to even think about eating it, anyway.

"I just can't believe it!" said Rubber Stamp. She sat at my other side, and tried to make up for her previous ineptitude in that fight by holding an ice pack to my horn to ease the dull ache. "I thought Red Tape was acting a bit strange, but we all thought that was just work stress. We've been ever so busy moving everything to the new building."

So busy that they just let security lapse so badly? I kept that thought to myself, but I think I may have given it away by glaring at her.

The Night Guards had the entire building on lockdown, with nopony entering or leaving, so my plans to have a quiet and relaxing evening to myself after the culmination of this meeting were completely ruined. The appearance of a Changeling in the middle of what was supposed to be one of the safest buildings in all of Equestria had everypony's nerves frayed just a tad, and not least of all me, though the relief of survival seemed to take the edge off a little.

"It's just so much to take in!" she said, pushing on the ice pack against my horn with a little too much force as if to emphasise her point. I didn't say anything, but only because Rubber Stamp carried on before I could even think about forming a coherent sentence. "What I don't get is why would the Changelings want to assassinate me of all ponies?"

It might have been the migraine pounding on the inside of my skull like some trapped creature inside was trying to break free, but it took me a while to articulate a polite enough response to that particularly absurd statement. No one would want to assassinate this harmless little bureaucrat, and for that I envied her; I longed for the kind of anonymity that would allow me to sail through life without so many threats made upon it, all orchestrated by those under the peculiar but apparently contagious misapprehension that bumping me off would somehow cause all of Equestria to just give up.

"Anypony as dedicated to serving the Princesses as you might be a target," I said. Rubber Stamp gave me a queer look, wondering if I was mocking her.

"You did say everywhere is the frontline in this kind of war," she said, deciding to take my comment at face value, it seemed.

"I did say that, didn't I?" Of course I had to. Far be it from me to think that whatever force governs the universe pays any special attention to me when there are far more interesting things going on, but occasions such as this did make me consider the possibility that the world possessed the cruel sense of humour of a sadistic foal. "About my application?"

"Oh, that thing?" she said, glancing over to the open door to her office, where the scene of carnage and wanton destruction of so much clerical work was still visible between guardsponies and commissars wandering between pieces of wrecked furniture. "I don't know if the form survived all of that. But you were amazing in there! You saved my life! A hero like you would be wasted foalsitting some general miles away from the action."

Of course this had to happen. I sat there brooding for a few seconds, wondering if the Changeling whose corpse was being poked and prodded by a medic had some foreknowledge that I would be coming here, or if it had been undercover in the Commissariat for some time and my wandering in had been some happy accident. Well, happy up until the moment Cannon Fodder slashed its throat repeatedly. Let's not forget that it was he, sitting there and stuffing his face with this enormous blueberry muffin in his usual, unassuming manner, who had truly saved her life and mine. She had been unconscious for that, however, but my aide didn't appear to mind me not correcting her on that little detail.

I was about to explain that, on the contrary, a 'hero' like me would be of more use helping other commissars become heroes too, albeit from a nice, safe distance, when who should crest around the corner of the corridor but Princess Luna herself, tailed by Celestia. Well, you don't need me to tell you, dear reader, that the appearance of the founder of the Commissariat, the pony responsible for thrusting me into all of this mess in the first place, was the metaphorical buckball hurled through my greenhouse and straight into the very rare water lilies. As if the attempt on my life wasn't bad enough.

Chapter 4

The two diarchs were accompanied by a dozen or so ponies, some mere office drudges and other soldiers of the Night Guard, who all swarmed around the legs of the two towering alicorns. Each of the ponies in suits asked questions, requested orders, or made asinine comments about how they were off the clock and it was unfair for them to be kept behind for so long, all shouting above one another to be heard amidst the din, to which the Princesses responded with their usual grace and patience. The soldiers did their best to keep the bureaucrats from getting underhoof, literally, in Celestia's case, but it looked as though even the hardened veterans of Black Venom Pass and Fort E-5150 were about to be overwhelmed by a force greater than the Changeling hordes - disgruntled white collar workers who just wanted to go home after eight hours trapped behind a desk.

Then Luna saw me. She was haranguing some bureaucrat who had dared to question the need for the lockdown when the danger had obviously passed, but the moment her dark eyes locked onto mine she immediately stopped mid-sentence. Ignoring the stallion's pleas for answers to his question, she shoved him out of the way with a sweep of her hoof and strode through the swarm of ponies around her, never altering her gait to allow for the smaller stallions and mares to scurry out of her path. A few who were too slow were simply shoved out of the way by her long legs. She crossed the distance between us in a few seconds, leaving Celestia to deal with the remaining petitioners demanding attention like a flock of hungry goslings clustered around their mother.

Luna stared down at me like a judge moments before passing sentence upon a convicted criminal. In truth, since my return to Canterlot I had seen precious little of her, merely a few brief and awkward visits she had made when I was in the hospital recuperating from my wounds and delirious with a cocktail of painkillers and actual cocktails. Even then, those short meetings were undercut with the inherent awkwardness that follows the dark mare like the scent of unwashed underpants with Cannon Fodder, though the bouquet of flowers she had brought me was a touching sentiment. I cannot, however, help but feel a degree of guilt about the feelings of apprehension I still held about her, as since I had through no will of my own saved her from capture (after she had thrust herself right into danger in the first place, of course) she had made some effort in softening her approach to me, the pony she once described as the perfect exemplar of all that she found so offensive about modern Equestria. Such things could not be resolved quite so readily and neatly.

"Your Highness!" exclaimed Rubber Stamp, immediately prostrating herself before the Princess and dropping the ice pack in the process. As I picked it up off the floor and applied the soothing, numbing cold once more to my aching horn, the mare babbled incessantly about how I had saved her life. What followed was a veritable torrent of words, panicky, excitable, and tumbling over one another as though each phrase wanted to be the first out of her mouth, like a foal describing a fun day at the beach to a bewildered stranger, albeit with a damn sight more mortal terror involved. She painted a verbal portrait of the heroic Prince Blueblood, standing defiantly amidst the destruction and desolation of her ruined office, striking down the insidious and cowardly Changeling assassin with the swift and righteous fury expected of a commissar. What utter rot; she left out the part where she fell unconscious, too.

Luna listened to this nonsense with the patience that only an immortal alicorn demi-goddess can muster, but even that has its limits. She raised a hoof in the air, the silver sabatons she wore glinting in the candlelight, and Rubber Stamp ceased speaking immediately. I marvelled at this power and wondered how I could learn it, but it would be folly of the highest order for me to presume to match the Princess of the Night's sheer presence of character to silence the talkative with a simple gesture.

"Thank you," she said softly. "Your tale is certainly a heroic one, and I think Captain Red Coat would be interested in hearing it for the official report."

"O-of course!" said Rubber Stamp. She rose to her hooves clumsily, all but tripping herself over on her own legs, and skipped off to where a very tired-looking Captain Red Coat stood off to the side, slightly behind Celestia where he probably hoped nopony could pay him much attention. Nevertheless, I gave him a friendly wave with my free hoof, which he reciprocated with hesitant flapping of his prosthetic foreleg. The two then trotted off down the corridor and disappeared around the corner.

"Blueblood," said Luna. I jerked back to look up at her, a lance of pain struck my neck and twisted into the sinew. Her expression was that curiously unreadable one that she pulls precisely to keep other ponies from determining how she feels; she probably thinks it makes her the perfect image of implacable stoicism, but after having seen it so many times before, it had lost a great deal of its power, and I instead saw it for the masque it was. Perhaps she was the same as me, then, hiding behind a facade we dare not allow to slip.

"Princess," I said, struggling to get to my hooves despite Cannon Fodder's quiet but firm insistence that I should rest. Proper protocol doesn't allow for injuries, you see.

I didn't get very far, though, as Luna swung a foreleg around my upper body and I found my face pressed into her chest, with the raised rim of her cold gorget cutting into my forehead and an ear squashed awkwardly. Somepony, Pinkie Pie most likely, had told her that hugs are something modern ponies like to do to one another, and while it might have worked wonders for the likes of Twilight Sparkle and her friends, I was hardly first on the list to be considered a 'modern pony'. To ponies of my ilk, a hug was something I did in private with a mare rather smaller, plumper, and gigglier than her before, during, or after a certain indulgent activity together. That said, the sensation of being held was not altogether unpleasant; the underlying sense of panic and nausea that accompanies every near-death experience was quelled by the security of her embrace, and the frantic beating of my heart soon slowed to a pace approaching normal. Though the moment was spoilt somewhat by a soft titter from Celestia that brought a hot flush to my cheeks, or that might have been a fever coming.

"I'm so glad you're safe!" she said, planting a chaste and regal kiss on my forehead, just to the left of my still-aching horn. She broke the embrace, and I was left rather bewildered and confused at the sudden and rather public display of affection from the normally cold and distant Princess of the Night, such that I was at a complete loss as to what to say or do. Therefore, I settled for just sitting on my haunches and staring like an idiot.

"I as well, nephew," said Celestia. The other ponies around her had gone, presumably either having received what they wanted from the Princess or told to go away in her usual, polite manner. That is, except one. An officer of the Night Guard, a captain according to the three shiny pips on the epaulettes of his barracks dress uniform, stood to her left. His nervous manner certainly showed that he was at least considering galloping down the corridor to freedom, and for that he was blocked by a huge, outstretched wing behind him like a great, feathery white wall.

When Luna turned on her hooves and glowered at the officer, eyes narrowed and an almost predatory snarl to her lips, I realised Celestia had draped her wing over the officer not to restrain him, but as a comfort. The poor chap, probably no older than twenty years, looked scared out of his wits, and I sympathised; I had been in that same situation rather too many times in the intervening period between Luna's return and my unhappy entry into her good books, and I learned rather too lately that the trick to weathering the tirade that was to follow was to show no fear. That was easier said than done, of course, but what is bravery but merely another form of lying?

"Captain Sterling Silver," said Luna as she approached him, the strike of her gilded horseshoes ringing out even on tacky linoleum. The stallion flinched, all but trying to hide underneath Celestia, though social propriety forbade him from doing so. "Commanding officer of the third company, second battalion of my Night Guard. You are the officer on duty on this shift. Please explain to Commissar Prince Blueblood how your failure to maintain the highest levels of security has led to an attempt on his life."

[In addition to providing reinforcements for the first battalion, the second battalion of each of the Guards regiments also maintained the security of government offices and royal palaces in Canterlot, as well as carrying out their traditional role of protecting Princess Cadence, my sister, and me. Twilight Sparkle continued to refuse a personal guard, despite the Ministry of War raising a full regiment for her.]

The Captain stared at me with wide eyes, silently pleading for me to say something that will get him out of this mess. I was hardly going to volunteer myself for Luna's ire, so I stayed quietly.

"I, uh..." he stammered out. "All essential ponies and records had been moved out to the new building. We didn't think-"

"You didn't think!" Luna interrupted, snarling like a tethered manticore; it was certainly a poor choice of words there, but I scarcely think a more tactful pony could have done better than merely delay the inevitable angry rant that she had clearly been itching to unload on him. "I should have Rarity embroider that on the finest Cathayan silks and frame it to hang in our throne room, or, better yet, Twilight blast those words fifty feet tall into the side of Mount Canter with her magic. It will be a monument to the total incompetence with which this war has been waged from the very start! How could you possibly-"

"Luna," said Celestia, her voice in that level, kind-but-firm tone that she must have spent centuries perfecting. "Please let him say his piece."

Hearing it brought back many memories, and not all of them were pleasant; she had used the exact same voice, quietly admonishing and calculated to inspire the maximum amount of guilt in its intended victim, ten years prior, when my unforgivable behaviour towards her personal student had led her to believe my interests were best served by being thrown out of the castle and her care. It certainly worked just as well on her sister as it did me, silencing the dark alicorn as though she had been suddenly struck dumb.

Celestia nudged Sterling Silver forwards with a delicate sweep of her wing, the feathers fluttering gracefully in the still, stagnant air of the office building. The poor, unfortunate lad stumbled a few steps forwards, and then gazed back at the three ponies staring at him, Luna with disdain, I with indifference, and Celestia with her infinite kindness and patience. "Go on," she said with a practiced smile, "tell my sister and my nephew what you told me."

"Yes," Luna hissed. "Forgive me, we should at least hear his excuses first before passing judgement."

"Y-your Highnesses," said the Captain. Despite the nervous quiver in his voice, he stepped away from Celestia, though remaining close enough to dart back into the protective cover of her wing if need be. He continued speaking, but as he was unable to meet Princess Luna's soul-piercing gaze he appeared to be addressing her horseshoes instead. She sneered at this.

"All of the essential ponies and records are already in the new Ministry of War building," he continued, "and we hadn't intercepted any infiltrators for months now. We deemed the old building to be of low risk - negligible, in fact - there's nothing and nopony here the enemy could possibly find useful, just the non-essentials. We haven't trained enough unicorns who can detect shape-shifting magic to maintain the high level of security needed in both sites, so we had to make a choice about which of the two to prioritise."

It sounded rehearsed, as though he was reading from a script. I concluded he had already explained all of this to Princess Celestia, who must have given him a few tips on how to explain bad news to Princess Luna when she is not in an appropriately receptive mood. He hadn't heeded most of them, it seemed, but the fact that he was still standing there, apparently in one piece and un-murdered, clearly showed that what little he had absorbed and put into practice had some small effect. At the very least, it should have introduced the idea into Luna's head that perhaps she was being just a little bit unrealistic in her expectations of what the Guards were fully capable of halfway through their reformation. That is, until he spoke again.

"If Prince Blueblood had warned us about his visit, we would have organised extra security for him," he said, as if it was my own damned fault for nearly having my throat sliced open with a kitchen knife.

"I don't need a bloody foalsitter," I snapped, and rather harshly too I admit. The three of them turned to look at me; Luna stared inscrutably, Sterling Silver quivered in his boots, and Celestia gave her usual, encouraging smile. I collected the jumbled mess of my thoughts hastily, and added: "I didn't want to cause a fuss and waste everypony's time on just me when there are more important ponies who need protecting. Besides, we made short work of that Changeling, and they'll think twice before trying that again."

It was not my best recovery from a minor faux pas I've ever had to make, and I've made more than my fair share of them, but it did the job. A little bit of self-deprecation and just the right amount of bravado, which could easily be deflected onto Cannon Fodder should somepony think that I'm crowing about myself more than I deserved, was what most ponies expected of me and thus helped to ease over tensions. That said, though Luna had already forgotten I was there, Celestia's gaze lingered on me, and then on Cannon Fodder for a second longer.

"Those are merely excuses for your ineptitude," said Luna, regarding the stallion as one would a worm on the pavement in one's path.

Every pony has a limit as to just how much they can take before all sense, logic, and even the notion of self-preservation is just lost. I like to think that mine is set fairly high; being a coward and all that it entails, it would take rather a lot of abuse and trauma before I could reach the point where the primal need to save my craven self is overridden by the desire to prove myself right (a certain seamstress, a pristine tailored dinner jacket, and a confectionary missile excepted). Princess Luna had made a sport of trying to find that limit in the ponies she deals with, having done so with me when she saw fit to lecture me about the nature of warfare from her outdated, backwards viewpoint on top of all of the other misery she had put me through. Now, Sterling Silver, presumably having had issues of his own that were now compounded by what Treble Bass would euphemistically call a 'security breach' and by Yours Truly as 'the time I almost got killed by a cake knife', had just exceeded this limit.

"I did my best with what I had!" he shouted. Sterling Silver's eyes were as wide as saucers as he came to the unfortunate realisation that he had just yelled at one of the ruling Diarchs of Equestria, the mare he was sworn to revere and obey up to and including at the cost of his own life. Having crossed the point of no return, he decided that he might as well go all-in and damn the consequences.

"I'm sorry, Your Highness, but we don't have the resources to protect every single government building in Canterlot and your castle and everypony in every public event that happens here. And you and Princess Celestia, too. I had to make a judgement call, the same as every single day, about what to prioritise. Maintaining maximum security in one place means taking it away from somewhere else. We just can't stop all of them all the time, and it just so happened one slipped through the gap when Prince Blueblood came here."

That's right, shift the blame back on me for just trying to complete a bit of paperwork. The stallion was babbling; his words tumbling out as though they were all in a race to leave his mouth first. When he had apparently run out of both words and courage he ceased speaking, as though a switch in his brain had flicked, and whatever indignation at having been forced to accept the blame for this was no longer sufficient to propel his rather spirited but misguided defence of his own decisions. All that was left now was a scared little pony again, standing before the irate Princess of the Night and awaiting his fate.

Luna's face was an impassive, blank masque, but her tense body language betrayed her true feelings. Even the stars that swirled about in her ethereal mane and tail appeared to do so with an erratic energy, as though they too were eager to unleash her anger upon a young officer who, let's be clear here, was struggling to do the best he could with meagre resources. That might sound unusually forgiving coming from Yours Truly, whose distant ancestors had all but invented the notion of generations-long grudges and especially after I had barely survived the results of this chap's orders, but as I write this I expect that fifty years of distance has the effect of mellowing out one's feelings about some events. That I was still somewhat dazed from my experience might have had some impact too.

"Well, thank you, Captain Sterling Silver," said Princess Celestia, at length. She retracted her wing and folded it up against her body in the usual manner, thus revealing the corridor beyond. "You may leave to carry out your duties."

Taking an opportunity that might not be granted again soon, the stallion immediately slapped himself on the forehead with a hoof in a vague approximation of a salute, and then backed away slowly, apparently following etiquette rules about not turning one’s back to the Princesses. Once around the corner of the corridor and safely out of sight, I heard him break into a gallop, the rapid tattoo of his hoofsteps echoing off the walls. As I sat there, wondering how much longer until the guards would finish their sweep of the building and I would be allowed to crawl on home and rest, Celestia breathed a heavy, exasperated sigh.

"You're being too hard on them," said Celestia to Luna, using the long-dead tongue of Ancient Equestria.

"And you are not hard enough," said Luna, responding in that same antediluvian language.

"They are doing their best, and that is all we can ask of them."

"But it isn't enough, sister, and you know it."

This was not the first time I had been an inadvertent eavesdropper on their private, personal conversations, but then again, it was Auntie 'Tia herself who recognised my unusual aptitude for languages (me being quite singularly terrible at all other academic, vocational, and magical subjects at school, despite having the best teachers my father's money could buy) and personally taught me the arcane words of Equestria's distant past. Clearly, she did not mind me overhearing her words, or had simply forgotten that I was sitting there, staring dumbly at the two diarchs and watching their little sisterly squabble.

I suppose I should have said something, which would have been the polite thing to do in most cases, but Luna certainly did not look at all as though she would tolerate being interrupted even by me. She was most likely unaware that I could understand them, and would probably not be best pleased if she learnt that their attempts at secrecy had failed.

"What more can we possibly ask of them?" said Celestia. "Too many have already given their lives."

Luna scowled at her sister, and it was that same venomous glare she wore when she caught me in a compromising position in the castle pantry with one of the scullery maids. It was not one of hate or anger, as many who have been subjected to it have mistaken it for, but, after having gotten to know her a damned sight better over the years, I learned it actually signified a deep and hurtful sense of disappointment. It was so quickly turned to anger, though, should it become apparent that one's words or actions justified her feeling that way. Nevertheless, it often seemed to be born out of one's inevitable failure to live up to the impossibly high standards that she had set for others, and for herself, I might add.

"There is always more," said Luna, her voice low and measured. "If we are to achieve final victory in the field, our subjects must face up to the fact that no war can be won by mere half-measures. Sacrifices must be made, and our subjects must accept that. They sought a war without bloodshed, without hardship, without effort, and for that they have paid a terrible price, and the price will be higher still if they cannot accept that. I fear you too have fallen prey to this way of thinking, if you continue to refuse my advice."

"And what advice would that be, sister?" said Celestia, the sarcasm in her voice was sudden and cutting. "You have lectured me so much these past few months some of it just slips out of mind."

"Dissolve the government, take direct rule as you did a thousand years ago, and lead your country to victory. We have been at war for two years now and we have nothing to show for it besides a few miles of captured land and bodies. The frontline has stagnated while politicians and generals drag out Twilight Sparkle's reforms. We need decisive action now, we need to go on the offensive now; to take the Badlands, to hunt down the spies in our midst, and to crush the enemy mercilessly."

The tirade stopped, but only after it had reached a deafening crescendo. The sound of Luna's voice, though devoid of the volume-enhancing qualities of the Royal Canterlot Voice this time, continued to echo down the mostly empty corridors a second or two after she had finished speaking. In the ruined office, a few of the braver ponies did peek their heads out to take a look at the two sisters arguing, but apparently not understanding a word of their ancient tongue, could only stare and exchange a few educated guesses as to what they were arguing about.

Celestia was silent for a few agonising moments, the sound of which, or just its absence rather, soon quietened even the trite chatter of the ponies. Each tick of the clock dragging out until the gap between each percussive marking of a second passed seemed like a minute. I found myself transfixed by her, by the plaintive look on her face, tinged with what I took to be a sense of immense sorrow that seemed to plunge her elegant features into darkness like a storm cloud smothering the summer sun. She did not speak for a full minute, by my estimate at least, while Luna stared at her, panting as though her speech had taken her great physical effort. I imagine it did, or rather she had bottled up those thoughts for a considerable amount of time, months if her choice of words was any indication, and the news of the security flaws that led to the attempt on my life was the sabre slicing the cork off the top that kept it safely stored inside.

"For you," said Celestia, lifting her head and fixing her sister with a solemn stare, "it's offensives, encirclements, sieges, recruitment, drill, logistics and supply, casualty lists, guns, spears, cannons, and all of that. For me, it's my little ponies."

"Your 'little ponies'!" Luna scoffed. "You've infantilised them! How can you expect them to fight when you treat your subjects like they're your foals? A thousand years of your 'Pax Celestia' has made them soft, weak, decadent, spoilt, and timid. The Equestria I know would have destroyed Chrysalis already!"

"Do you remember how..." Celestia paused, bowing her head and closing her eyes as she searched for the right word "...how difficult life was for ponies back then? A third of all earth pony peasants didn't make it to their fifth birthday, and those who did looked forward to fifty years of toil in the fields if plague did not get them first. And the pegasi warriors, those who survived the agoge [The rigorous and often brutal education and training programme of ancient Pegasopolis that aimed to produce strong and capable warriors] could only expect a lifetime of fighting your wars of conquest. And the unicorns? When famine struck and the earth pony harvests failed, their great cities were the first to starve."

"It made them strong," said Luna flatly, as if that was entirely self-evident.

"It made them afraid.” Celestia placed a hoof on Luna’s shoulder, and looking as though she was on the verge of tears, she offered a soft smile. “These were the ponies who feared your beautiful night and rejected you, who lavished praise upon me and forgot everything you did for them. With you gone for a thousand years, how could I not seek to build a kinder, more accepting Equestria, ready to welcome back their Princess of the Night?"

Luna pushed her sister’s hoof away. "And now that war has come they cannot even defend themselves. They-"

She was staring right at me, her blue eyes were scalpels that sliced cleanly, efficiently through my flesh and into my soul. An icy chill that had nothing to do with this building's lack of an effective heating system crawled over my back, like some wet, slimy creature, and I realised that I had been rumbled.

"He understands us?" said Luna, turning back to Celestia and snarling with the sort of indignation that only a pony who has been caught saying something incriminating can muster. "How does he know our language?"

"The benefits of our modern education system," said Celestia, and not without the merest hint of smugness. That was not quite true, however, as while Ancient Equestrian was part of the curriculum in Celestia's School for Gifted Unicorns, I spent most of my time in those classes giggling at the pictures of the naughty ponies on antique vases instead of paying attention to the teacher. My fluency with the language only came about because I spent a month with Auntie 'Tia where she spoke nothing but Ancient Equestrian to me for the entire time until it somehow sunk in. Once one grasps the flow of a language by being immersed in it, the rest follows quite easily enough.

[Blueblood's natural aptitude for languages was truly remarkable, despite his very poor academic performance in school. After I observed him learning Coltcuttan by listening to his servants' conversations when his father served as viceroy there, I discovered that he could pick up grammar and vocabulary very quickly through constant exposure to the language.]

Luna fixed me with her cold stare once more, and I recoiled from it, as if seeking safety against the bare stone wall. Cannon Fodder looked a little alarmed by my reaction, by which I mean the dull expression he always wore shifted a little to include a slight frown, but otherwise seemed to think that I had the situation all in hoof as usual.

"Blueblood," she said, her voice a hushed stage-whisper. "Would you say that you are the only pony here, my sister and I excepted, who heard and understood everything that we had just said?"

"Yes." There was very little point in me trying to pretend otherwise, in light of the overwhelming evidence.

Her eyes narrowed. "Which means that if what my sister and I have just discussed gets out, I'll know that it came from you. Do you understand?"

"Yes." I understood perfectly; there'd be very little left of me for the mortician to reassemble after she had finished with me.

"Good." Princess Luna moved to walk away, but stopped halfway through lifting her left forehoof off the floor. She placed her hoof back with a delicate 'tap', and turned her head to face me. Her aquiline features bore an almost playful smirk that inspired far more icy fear in me than her more usual malignant glare. "Pray, nephew, if you are so keen on eavesdropping on the conversations of your superiors, perhaps you might have some opinion to offer on this dilemma that faces us. Do not feel as though you have to keep them to yourself, 'tis only polite, after all."

Now, under most normal circumstances I would have admitted that I simply don't have an opinion, which, while confirming Auntie Luna's view that I am a dullard all but incapable of independent thought beyond selecting which of my many expensive silk cravats to wear for my midday rest in my palace's south solar, would have still been the safest option. She wouldn't be entirely wrong on that account either, as that's all I ever really wanted out of life. However, still feeling a tad disorientated after having survived the fight and my better judgement likely numbed by those painkillers and potions the medic had given me, my attempts to articulate that entirely pedestrian, inoffensive, and thoroughly unsatisfying opinion that would have disappointed the two of them in equal measure, didn't quite slip from my lips in the way that I had initially intended.

"I think you're both right," I said in halting Ancient Equestrian; my pronunciation was always a little off.

"Explain," said Luna. Her expression of faint amusement turned into her more habitual grimace. Instead of cutting off further debate on the topic, I merely opened up a brand new avenue at my own expense. "Our viewpoints are diametrically opposed."

Damnation, I would have to think of something quickly, unless I could contrive a way to fall unconscious in the next minute or so. I looked to Celestia, who merely gave me a hopeful smile and a gentle nod of her head, as though she was encouraging one of her students to recite a speech on stage in front of hundreds of bored parents. I was on my own then, as she either remained oblivious to my plight or thought that there was some cryptic lesson to learn buried beneath my misery that I had to tease out for myself. Knowing her as I do, it was most likely the latter, but for the life of me I could not work out what it was.

"You were meant to rule together," I blurted out, being the first coherent thought that had coalesced inside my mind that was not just a whole lot of very un-princely swearing.

It must have worked, because both Princesses looked at me as though I had said something profound, or perhaps they were simply humouring me. It was quite hard to tell, really, but from where I sat, Celestia's beaming smile seemed quite genuine on the surface. As for Luna, I was already acquainted with her belief that the practice of concealing one's true feelings to avoid needless conflict was a sign of utmost weakness, so it was an immense relief to see her snarl soften and transform into a more benign frown of puzzlement.

"He's right," said Celestia, and I could finally relax. Inasmuch as I could possibly try to relax after what I had just been through. It was not enough that I had nearly died again, I had to follow up that harrowing experience with some sort of quiz about the philosophical direction of Equestrian society over the past one thousand years.

"Day and Night, Sun and Moon, sister," she continued. "Equestria needs both of us to thrive. We must work together to achieve victory. You are right; in a thousand years of peace, perhaps I did not see that the harmony my little ponies enjoyed could be so vulnerable to an outside threat. In truth, I feared a return to the dark times that turned you into Nightmare Moon."

"I did not mean to diminish your achievements," said Luna, her voice much gentler now. "You have built a nation to be proud of in my absence, and all I ask now is that I be allowed to defend it from those who seek to destroy it."

"Then we must work together to find a way to bring a swift resolution to this war, without compromising the harmony our nation is built upon."

"A path between day and night." Luna tapped her chin thoughtfully, then an enthusiastic smile stretched across her lips, as one would upon coming to a beneficial conclusion to some problem. "I have a few hours before I must patrol the dream realm. Perhaps we should retire to the castle and discuss the matter further."

"Just how we used to, one thousand years ago," said Celestia, beaming happily. She looked to me, and gave a polite nod of her head, sending her incorporeal mane wafting elegantly on whatever cosmic breeze that keeps it aloft. "Thank you, Blueblood, for your insight."

The two then left, chattering to one another about how they might work together for the benefit of Equestria, and I was left sitting there in the corridor, wondering what in the blazes had just happened. Even then I was under no misapprehension that my apparent burst of 'insight', as Celestia had put it, was truly the nice, safe, and conclusive end to their disagreements. Their arguments, reflected in the discussions across Equestria from both chambers of Parliament to the clubs in Canterlot to peasants gathered around mugs of cider in Ponyville, would carry on for far longer than this war lasted. Indeed, it still rages on unresolved, the respective sides taken up by hunched, flat-hoofed, glasses-wearing, pipe-smoking academics who have managed to con the entire country into giving them tax money just to bicker about the past.

[Blueblood's description of the conversation I had with Princess Luna is accurate for the most part, barring a few clumsy translations of Ancient Equestrian words that have no direct comparison to modern Ponish that I have taken the liberty to correct. While it is true that no debate as intense as the ones that I have had with my sister on the Changeling War, and on various other matters pertaining to her difficult adjustment to modern life, could be resolved with two short sentences, my nephew's words did cause the two of us to stop and consider the other's point of view, leading to an effective if volatile working relationship for the duration of the conflict.]

At any rate, it was none of my business now; the affairs of alicorns are not for mortals to meddle with being an old adage from the distant past that still resonates today, but I would often find myself dragged into their problems, schemes, and utterly insane ideas for many years to come, whether I wanted to or not. Shortly after they had left, an officer came to take my version of events, and for once I was largely truthful on the matter. He was not at all interested in hearing what Cannon Fodder had to say, if anything.

Eventually, after another bout of tedious waiting where the pleasant glow of the painkillers and potions began to wear off, the building was declared 'secure', whatever that meant, by Captain Red Coat, who I wagered merely wanted to return to barracks and bed. It was a need I wholly sympathised with, and after brushing off the medic who informed me that I required a few more weeks of light duties and rest to recover from the beating I had just taken, Cannon Fodder half-escorted, half-carried me through to the main entrance of the building where a taxi awaited me. The journey was agonising, with each jolt and bump of the carriage accompanied by a splinter of pain in my chest. Ere long, however, we made it back to my apartment, whereupon Drape Cut guided me to the soft, gentle, comforting embrace of my bed.

As I lay there, still in my wrecked uniform and bound up in bandages, unable to sleep for there was no position which did not result in some measure of pain, whether from my back, cracked rib, or assorted bruises, I heard could hear my valet conversing with Cannon Fodder. Their voices were muffled and indistinct, but were just clear enough for me to discern that Drape Cut's clipped, refined voice dominated much of the conversation. From what I could gather, he had offered my aide the spare room in the apartment should he wish, which was politely declined. The sound of two sets of horseshoes on soft carpet followed, and then the opening of the door.

"Thank you for taking care of His Highness for me," I heard Drape Cut say.

I didn't sleep, or perhaps I did but it was so restless and shallow that I might as well have just stayed awake. Canterlot was no longer safe, and I had been going through these past few months there under the assumption that it was a sacred haven away from the horrors of the war. Whatever counter-measures that we raise will invariably be circumvented by a determined enemy hell-bent on our enslavement. I should have learned after the incident at Fancy Pants' party that the threat of a knife in the back from an enemy so proficient at blending in was everywhere, but I had hoped, somewhat naively I admit, that the problem had been utterly eradicated by the vigilance of our Royal Guard. You see, I wanted to believe in this idea of a sanctuary away from the war so much, and who could possibly blame me after two years at the front?

The next few days were spent in a sort of daze. While I had been excused from duty for a few days to recover and allow the various healing potions I had ingested to work their magic on my cracked rib and bruises, the attempt on my life had left me in a damned funk that was impossible to shake. I merely went through the motions of my daily routine, in some kind of hollow, vacant facsimile of my former wastrel life, albeit without the charm, joy, wit, and bonhomie it once possessed. Perhaps I never truly held those qualities, or recent events had exposed them for the ridiculous distractions that they truly are in the face of the distinct unpleasantness of the knowledge of one's own mortality. It was foolish to think that I could return to the idyllic, carefree life of the narcissistic hedonist I once occupied after all that I had seen on the frontline. It was, however, not for a lack of trying. Even Drape Cut, loathe as he was to suggest it, asked if I required the services of Lady Velvet Tail, which I considered and then dismissed on the grounds that she was probably rather busy of late with all of the soldiers in Canterlot. ['Lady' Velvet Tail was a courtesan of some repute in Canterlot at the time, of whom Blueblood was a frequent customer.]

A few days of this malaise had passed until I received two letters through the post; Drape Cut had left them on the tray when he brought my breakfast in bed, which was just before midday when hunger roused me from the womb-like security of plush pillows and warm blankets. Over a bowl of kedgeree I inspected the first, being a midnight blue envelope speckled with fine silvery pinpricks that glittered when I rotated it around in the light. It could only have come from one pony on Equis, whose tendency towards melodrama extended even to her official royal stationery. I opened it reluctantly, dreading its contents almost as much as I did the pony who wrote it, and read it as my breakfast grew as cold as the chill in my heart.

['Kedgeree' consists of smoked fish, rice, and eggs flavored with curry seasonings. Originating from Griffon colonists in Coltcutta, this dish can prove excruciatingly hard for ponies to digest unless their bodies are acclimated to fish, or they ingest supplemental enzymes beforehoof. Given Blueblood's exotic tastes, I cannot be sure which is true in his case.]

Dearest Commissar-Prince Blueblood,

I write to wish you a swift recovery, so that you may take up your duties once more as commissar to our Night Guard. Rubber Stamp has asked me to convey her gratitude for saving her life and for dispatching the cowardly infiltrator.

It is with regret, however, that I must inform you that your request for a promotion has been denied. The post of commissar for the Guards Division has already been appointed, as have all commissarial posts in the First Army. [Army Group Centre was re-named as part of the restructuring process, and Army Groups East and West became the Second and Third Armies respectively. All three field armies were then placed under the command of Field Marshal Iron Hoof's Army Group. Keeping track of changing military formations in this period remains a logistical nightmare, but can provide hours of entertainment for the pedantic sort of armchair general.] However, let it not be said that I do not reward valour, and therefore I have created an honorary title for you. Henceforth, you have been appointed as Lord Commissar, with a special advisory role to General Solitaire in addition to your normal role as commissar to the Night Guards. You will share your expertise in the field to your fellow commissars assigned to watch over all component formations of the First Army on an ad hoc basis, as and when your duties to Colonel Sunshine Smiles allows. This arrangement will satisfy the desire you had expressed to Rubber Stamp to support your fellow commissars.

I trust that this will be satisfactory to both your needs and those of the Royal Commissariat.

Yours eternally into the night,

H.R.H. Princess Luna

P.S. - See you at Twilight's party!

Fantastic. Not only did my one chance at seizing safety without saving face fail, this damned compromise dreamt up by Princess Luna would simply add yet more work on top of what I already passed onto Cannon Fodder, and I would still have to contend with the bowel-clenching terror of frontline combat. Not to mention, making my list of regal titles even more ungainly by adding the entirely superfluous appellation of 'lord'; His Royal Highness Lord Commissar Prince Blueblood, Duke of Canterlot, Member of Their Divine Highnesses’ Most Honourable Privy Council, Aide-de-Camp to the Royal Pony Sisters, etc., just all sounded ridiculous. I was about to toss this scrap of very pretty paper away when I, by chance, re-read the post-script.

A party? I had no recollection of being invited to one hosted by Twilight Sparkle, let alone accepting such an invitation, unless Equestria's newest princess still required an education in the etiquette around royal social events. That thought was very quickly quashed when I noticed that the second letter resting against the side of the breakfast tray was in fact a card, about the size of one of those vulgar seaside postcards Captain Blitzkrieg collects. Lifting it with my magic, I saw that it was indeed a formal invitation card, of a good texture and with the words engraved rather than cheaply printed. It read:

Princess Twilight Sparkle requests the pleasure of the company of Prince Blueblood at The Castle of Friendship on Friday 13th April to celebrate the founding day of the Prism Guards regiment.

RSVP
Doors open 8pm
Full-dress uniform or white tie

I re-read that invitation over and over, giving it far more attention than I had Luna's letter. I imagined Celestia had a hoof in arranging the invitations, as I doubted the bookish mare would have much time for royal invitation protocol between saving Equestria and reading books on more interesting and obscure topics. She never put much stock in formality, anyway, if her behaviour and those of her friends at the Grand Galloping Gala was any indication. Then again, if she was truly taking this princess business seriously, it would not be beyond her capabilities to consult the various etiquette manuals available, likely having more than a few in her personal library, and followed the rather simple instructions carefully. Still, I had to commend her on the quality of the invitation card, and it had been quite a while since I had attended a truly formal event.

The implication, however, only sunk in for me after I had finished the kedgeree and was halfway through my cup of morning tea. Though I had been pondering what outfit to wear to the party, if everypony expected me to be in the ceremonial full dress of the Commissariat or if I could get away with the rather more dignified civilian tailcoat, the term 'founding day' intruded quite rudely into my mind. We would be celebrating the founding of her new regiment of Royal Guard, which would join the Solar, Night, and Crystal Guards regiments into the Guards Division. This all meant that very soon the army would be mustered once more and hurled into the madness that was the front, carried out with the renewed and misguided vigour of over-confident generals eager to test out their new weapons and strategies on a tenacious and intelligent foe, who probably had full knowledge of our plans anyway.

Well, I can tell you that this realisation had sunk my already floundering spirits to new depths of despair that I had not thought possible. There was only one thing for it, and that was to make sure that my last days in Canterlot, and possibly on this good, green Equis, were as memorable as possible. I was going to get drunk; utterly, royally, completely, and regally trousered. After a short nap and a few hours trying on suits, I would embark upon a trip to the seedier side of Canterlot, to a place that I had tried to put off visiting since my return out of a misguided and half-hearted attempt to direct my life onto some sort of straight and narrow direction. The Tartarus Club awaited.

Chapter 5

The hall was smothered in a dense layer of pipe smoke, like the fog in Trottingham; over by the piano a group of drunk lesser nobles and landed gentry sang a bawdy song about Princess Mi Amore Cadenza and the various things they each wanted to do with my cousin; in a dimly-lit corner, a small group of mares and stallions writhed, moaned, and giggled; and at the bar older gentlecolts nursed glasses of wine and complained about the non-pony races moving in and ruining Equestria. I rested on a soft, plush sofa in a quiet corner of the room, with a bottle of the Dom Ponygnon '07and two glasses on the coffee table within easy reach. A pretty mare rested her head on my lap, and she traced her silk stocking-clad hoof along a scar on my chest. This was the Tartarus Club.

"How about this one?" said the filly, tapping the thin line of raised scar tissue with the tip of her hoof. "What's the story behind this one?"

I took a sip of champagne and a puff of my cigar, affecting myself to look as though I was in deep, contemplative thought as I stared off into the middle distance. "A duel," I said, expelling a cloud of smoke that wafted away in the stagnant air to add to the choking smog. "Some blackguard thought he could insult the honour of the Night Guards, so we fought a duel over it."

Her eyes widened and she smiled. "Did you kill him?"

"No, but he learned his lesson." I left out the part where Captain Blitzkrieg had allowed himself to be goaded by an impertinent Solar Guard officer, resulting in said duel in the first place.

In truth, I had grown rather tired of telling heavily-sanitised stories about the war; it was all anypony wanted to hear when I returned to Canterlot, for every high society event that I had attended had been populated by nobles who demanded that I regale them with tales from the front. They tended to be the ones left behind where others took up their expected military posts and marched off to war, being either too old or too infirm to fight, or even having summoned up a socially acceptable excuse to remain behind where I could not, and were thus living out this war vicariously through me. I performed my duty well, at first, but each time I waxed lyrical about the supposed glory of war over canapés and Beaujolais, my words felt as though they were rotting before they even left my mouth. Had I the courage to do so, I would have told them in their opulent palaces the true horror of what I had witnessed; a stallion's face ripped to shreds by canister shot and left to die choking on his own blood, or the countless Changelings consumed in the flames of an angered goddess, or Captain Red Coat sobbing like a foal when he saw what had happened to him. But I am a coward in more ways than one, so I suppressed that urge and buried it deep down so that the images I am forced to see when I close my eyes and sleep remain with me alone.

This time, however, was different. It was pure drama; part of the game a stallion and mare play together to subtly tease out one another's suitability for more involved activities later. Mares liking scars is a cliché that is at least partially true, provided that they are not too disfiguring and that one has an interesting story to tell about it. About half of the ones I had told to this mare were made up on the spot, and she knew it; truth was not what mattered here in this place of sybaritic pleasure, but merely a bit of play-acting to ease our passage into a night of playful and indulgent sin. Scars never lie, the old mare's saying goes, but I sure as Tartarus can.

The mare hummed appreciatively, and squirmed on my lap as her hungry eyes scanned over my upper body for more interesting scars to ask about. I don't recall her name, only that she was a pegasus, small and slim, with a dusky pink coat and a cutie mark depicting a pair of dice displaying ones. We had met at the bar, where she recognised me instantly, and after a few drinks and some idle chit-chat where I learned that she was some down-on-her-luck noblemare who had blown her inheritance on some unwise bets, we migrated over to one of the many sofas in the club's hall.

"What about this one?" she said, stroking the thin line over my left shoulder where a piece of shrapnel had ripped a small but painful chunk out of me.

"Oh, that one?" I peered over at the scar that marred my otherwise pristine white coat; it was not the biggest or most dramatic I had at the time, and the story that came with it was hardly entertaining anyway. Affecting a far-away look, I said, at length, "I can't talk about that one, my dear, not yet."

The mare giggled and swatted her hoof playfully at my chest. "A few hours and I'll make you tell me everything."

I chuckled, sliding my hoof over the gentle curve of her back. "I look forward to it."

Although the Tartarus Club had pretensions of at least having the appearance of a traditional Canterlot gentlecolts' club, its exclusivity had in fact very little to do with its formal entry requirements. That is to say, there were none officially. One had to find it in the first place, its location being something of a secret passed by word-of-mouth amongst like-minded 'ponies of quality', amidst the maze-like alleyways and dead-ends of Canterlot's Old City district, and once stumbled upon, neophytes who lacked the stomach for the sort of debauched entertainment on offer there rarely felt the desire to remain for much longer. You see, dear reader, for the desperately short time that Earl Sand Wedge had run the club, it dying with him after he had tragically drowned in a swimming pool of whipped cream, this had been the place for the decadent sort of gentlecolt and lady to meet and take part in fun activities that society perceives to be immoral but are in fact harmless to all except its participants.

Granted, much of it was merely foalish attempts to shock the prudish with casual blasphemy (even I thought the statue of Nightmare Moon that constantly lactated a stream of perfectly chilled champagne was in bad taste), but anywhere I can drink, gamble, and whore away my worries without having to stray into areas of our fair realm occupied by the working pony is all but guaranteed to become my home-away-from-home. There was none of that ridiculous, juvenile rebellion against social norms or exposure of aristocratic hypocrisy in what I did there, merely what I thought to be fun, and it just so happened our tastes aligned. That said, the play-acting with the robes and nonsense-Old Ponish chanting in the shadow of that statue of Nightmare Moon did provide a frisson of naughtiness that enhanced the experience, at least until a few started taking it rather too seriously. Unlike my fellow libertines and hedonists of the upper class here, I saw no worth in dressing up my selfish pursuit of pleasure in the transparent robes of faux-intellectualism.

All-in-all, it was shaping up to be a rather pleasant evening. A night of drunken debauchery, though somewhat restrained by the standards set by the more philosophically-minded members and their obscene, mock-Pagan rituals, was precisely what I needed after all that I had been through those past few days, and the perfect fortifier with which to prepare myself for the horror to come.

I held the mare's smaller frame to my chest, stroking over her soft, silky mane while I alternated between sipping a fine vintage that probably cost more than what most ponies earned in a week and puffing away on what was ultimately an expensive and very inefficient form of suicide. By now, the mare had either tired of her little game or had simply run out of scars to ask about, and she settled against my chest, watching the licentiousness on display around us and knocking back her drink with the sort of aloofness that comes from being an experienced disciple of decadence. The griffons have a saying, 'the chase is better than the catch'; for the only moment that was better than the deed itself was the anticipation of it, and I was revelling in it. For a brief moment, all was right with my world.

Then this perfect moment had to be spoilt, because nothing nice could ever happen to me without an unpleasant reminder that all happiness and joy in my life must be transitory. Though my gaze was focused on the mare on my lap, on the way the dim light of the candles in the ornate chandeliers above was reflected in her smouldering dark eyes, like the stars in the cloudless night sky, I became aware of another pony standing over me. Probably another one of the club members, thought I, who most likely wanted to try and join in on our sinful little game here. As much of an unrepentant sybarite as I was back then, and still am if age wasn't so much of a barrier, I remained the rather selfish sort who was not all too keen on sharing either myself or my conquests with another.

"Blueblood!" The newcomer exclaimed, and my good mood was shattered like a fine crystal champagne flute dropped from a great height. There are only two kinds of ponies I can tolerate addressing me by name only, and they are family and close friends; I had no close friends, and I can't stand the company of most of my family for a variety of other, more valid reasons.

I looked up, and saw a unicorn stallion who I had not seen in years. He was rather short, and thin to the point of appearing to be just on the cusp of being undernourished. His charcoal grey fur almost blended into the murky surroundings of the club's hall, but the shock of stark white mane and his piercing sky-blue eyes stood out even in this oppressive gloom. It took me a while to recognise him in this darkness and with my mind already clouded by drink, but after I mentally added great red and yellow smears of pubescent acne to what little of his face I could make out, his name and a veritable flood of shared memories came rushing forth.

"Second Fiddle?" I blurted out. In hindsight, I should have recognised his distinctive cutie mark instantly, being two violins crossed like swords.

"Fancy running into you here!" He grinned broadly, and his white teeth stood out both against his dark coat and the deepening shadows cast by meagre candlelight, which, when combined with his eyes likewise contrasting so much, created the disturbing effect of a disembodied smile floating in mid-air.

Second Fiddle then held out a hoof for me to shake, apparently unaware of the fact that my own hooves were rather pre-occupied at the moment, being in the process of making their gradual journey from toying with the mare's mane to her toned flanks that I had been longing to squeeze all evening. Speaking of my new friend, she snorted in annoyance at this newcomer taking away attention that should have been spent on her, and squirmed a little in my embrace, forcing me to loosen my grip on her as she reached on over to refill her glass from the bottle.

I shook his hoof, somewhat reluctantly. Of all the times I had to run into an old friend, it had be now. "How in blazes have you been?" I asked. "I haven't seen you since... you know, at Celestia's School."

His right eye twitched, and whatever muscle did that also pulled a little on the right corner of his grin. It was over in less than half a second, but I still noticed it, and a twinge of guilt wrapped its bony claws around my heart and squeezed. The two of us had been in school together, and I expect that our teachers might have thought us to be close friends given the amount of time we spent together; the truth is that he was merely a hanger-on, a toady, and a hoof-licking crony who stuck by my side and supported my little reign of terror in the playground. It was a shame, really, as he was a good student with the potential to do well in further education and research in the magical arts. Not a great one, mind you, in the manner of Twilight Sparkle, but at least a profitable but unremarkable career. That is, until he fell in with the wrong crowd, which was me, and he was caught up in that whirlwind of angry adolescent delinquency that resulted in my expulsion from the school, and in turn led to him failing his final exams. Essentially, I ruined his life, and I had scarcely paid that notion much thought at all until he unexpectedly turned up in the Tartarus Club of all places.

"Wonderful!" he said, though his tone of voice hinted that the direction his life had taken since I last saw him was far less than 'wonderful'. "Magic school didn't work out for me in the end, so I ended up in the Royal Guard, back when it was still just the Royal Guard, of course. Anyway, after being stationed on the Foalkland Islands for three years guarding the penguins, an exciting new opportunity came up and I just had to take it."

[The Foalklands are a small collection of islands off the coast of the Griffon Empire, and are entirely unremarkable except for a small, hardy population of penguins who outnumber the pony settlers there. The meagre Royal Guard garrison protecting the islands was considered to be the most tedious and un-adventurous posting available, and was often used as a form of punishment for officers who had offended their superiors in some way.]

"Sounds very exciting," I said, doing my damnedest to suppress that rising urge to yawn. My companion, however, felt no such compunction against such ill-manners and did so in an exaggerated manner that just had to be deliberate, given the noise she made and the accompanied stretching of all four of her limbs. Her annoyance and disdain for having her fun interrupted was obvious to all, being the sort of spoilt mare whose parents, nannies, governesses, and so on never told her 'no'.

Second Fiddle carried on regardless; in fact, he barely acknowledged the mare resting her head on my lap with her rump wagging provocatively up in the air. "It is! When something like this comes around you've got to take it with both hooves!"

He was clearly drunk. Not excessively so by my own standards, mind you, though he was a little unsteady on his hooves, but just enough so as to be on the irritating side of talkative. Without asking for permission, he sat himself down on the armchair next to the sofa my new best friend and I occupied, and continued with his excitable rambling. I watched him in amazement; Second Fiddle was always a little socially inept when I knew him at school, even by the standards of a teenager too, with his peculiar and, looking back now, frankly creepy preoccupation with me, but now that I saw him again I hoped that he would have grown out of that behaviour. Even Cannon Fodder, lacking in social skills as he did, would have at least noticed that I had neither the time nor inclination to drop what I was doing with this very pretty mare and listen to him.

"But enough about me, how about you? Then again, I know all about what you've been up to, Blueblood. All of Canterlot can't stop talking about your adventures down in the Badlands, and then you follow it up by busting that Changeling spy-ring in the government. I hope you've left enough glory for the rest of us, because soon I'll be..."

The mare tugged on my arm insistently, and my attention was drawn away from my old school chum's tipsy rambling. She had lifted herself off my lap and sat on the sofa next to me, though she still clung to my body as though she was drowning and my barrel was an unusually buoyant door. I felt her heat radiate from within, like a fire lit inside her slim frame that threatened to ignite that same passion in me, that would throw aside all social propriety and ravish her right there on this centuries-old antique furniture. It was difficult, but I suppressed that urge, but it was not helped when she raised her head and kissed my cheek. The fur there tingled pleasantly, and it lingered for quite a while.

"If you don't get rid of this idiot soon," she whispered into my ear as Second Fiddle droned on, "I shall find another stallion to play with."

I returned the kiss and gave her shoulder a squeeze. "Soon," I whispered back, Second Fiddle being too engrossed in telling his life story to notice. "We'll get him drunk, then go back to my palace and leave him here."

I waved down one of the club's staff. In contrast to the refined formalwear of the attendants in the Imperial Club, the ponies who worked here all wore black robes emblazoned with the symbol of the mare-in-the-moon and with hoods pulled down low so as to obscure their eyes. One could always spot the recently-inducted by the way they kept bumping into things. I expect all of this nonsense was part of the image of the Tartarus Club, presenting itself as some sort of ancient, pagan, Nightmare cult, but really, their resemblance to the clerks of the EEA had spoilt it somewhat.

"A bottle of absinthe to celebrate my friend's promotion!" I bellowed to the closest be-robed waiter, who dutifully disappeared behind the bar and re-appeared bearing said libation and the assorted paraphernalia required. Now, while the effects of this particular drink have been greatly exaggerated thanks to those same decadent Prench poets I am so fond of, it remains a very potent drink that will ensnare those unused to its strength. In short, I planned to get him drunk to the point of imbecility, and then leave him in the care of the club while I took this mare back to my home to continue our sordid little affair in peace.

Now, you may think me callous for putting my own selfish pleasure above the joy of seeing an old friend again after so many years, and you'd be damned right. By way of justification, however, I would say that I was unlikely to see this mare again after this night, so I had merely one shot at glory, as it were, besides giving up and going to the nearest bordello. But I could always find Second Fiddle again at a later date, and in an environment far more conducive to two old friends catching up than this. Besides, I thought it was rather rude of him to assume I'd just shove the mare off my lap and pay attention to him instead, so, as his good friend, it was best that I correct this behaviour and teach him an etiquette lesson; I'm sure the Princess of Friendship would have approved.

I'll give him credit for matching me drink for drink, and there's not many ponies who can. Thus far, only Aunties 'Tia and Luna have been able to out-drink me, but I scarcely think alicorns should count in that running. Nevertheless, it appeared to do its work, and once both the absinthe and the champagne were finished he was, for lack of a better term, completely hammered. Soon, even his excited rambling died down, and he became rather maudlin and quiet. Not that I was left completely unscathed, of course, being quite well on my way into the depths of inebriation myself, such that I was haunted by the notion that when it came for the time for me to 'perform', I might just curl up and fall asleep instead. I decided we should get a move on. However, when the mare and I tried to make our discreet exit from this chamber of carnal delights and into the streets of Canterlot, he took it upon himself to follow, which irritated my companion to no end.

It was a chilly night, as Canterlot is in early Spring, as I led my mare through the streets in the direction of the Sanguine Palace. Despite his obvious inebriation, Second Fiddle insisted on following us, bouncing between walls, lampposts, fences, parked carriages, and the occasional other nocturnal perambulator. After a few more blocks of this, we stopped off at some hostelry for a round of fortifying brandy to see us through the cold, but he became so insensible that he couldn't even walk and ended up face-first in the pavement as we left, trying and failing to stand up again like a newborn.

Now, a good pony would have helped him along, maybe taken him home where he could sleep it off or even to a hospital to make sure he made it through the night. I am not a good pony by any stretch of the imagination, and neither was the mare I was hoping to bed either, who now thought this was all excellent sport. So, we dragged him to an alleyway just off Princess Street, painted over his cutie marks with some pitch the workponies had left out when they were mending the road, and then hurled a few stones at two patrolling guardsponies passing by. When they shouted and galloped on over to arrest whoever dared to attack Their Highnesses' Finest, the mare and I ran, giggling like idiots, and leaving them to deal with my old school chum with his nose to the ground and pitch-covered flanks in the air. They should take good care of him.

I'm sure whosoever reads this needs no description of what I got up to for the rest of the night, but, apparently by way of the universe getting back at me for being an utter bastard to Second Fiddle, I woke up the next morning with the mare, my coin purse of two hundred-odd bits, and a bottle of very rare sherry gone. All part of the game, thought I, and I wasn't going to dwell on it considering what a wonderful time I had rutting her. But the universe was not finished punishing me yet, as that morning's micturition was a vivid rainbow of all colours and burning agony, necessitating that I follow the family tradition and adjourned to a doctor to undo the results of that liaison.

Though I did not know it, that night set me on a destructive course that would have dire consequences for the upcoming offensive into the Changeling heartlands. Or perhaps it didn't. Who knows? Maybe if I had been nicer to my friend that night things might have worked out differently, and the horror that was to follow could have been avoided. Or the problems I would face had far deeper roots than a moment's rudeness from Yours Truly, and I am not so arrogant to think that great events revolve around little old me. It's not my place to speculate here, but to deliver the facts as I saw them, though it is with some amusement that I note that scholars, historians, pundits, and the like tend not to bring up the events of that night for reasons that should be fairly obvious; nopony wants me being a randy blackguard dragging down the tone of their debates any further than they already have been.

At any rate, I wouldn't have written about this if I didn't think it would have some bearing on future events, but at the time I paid it very little heed and soon forgot about Second Fiddle again. I had Twilight's party to think about, and to tell the truth I had been rather dreading it; not only was Luna going to be there, but it meant venturing out of Canterlot and into that bleak, run-down, peasant village called Ponyville. It was, apparently, still part of the Duchy of Canterlot at the time and therefore 'mine' (my idea that Twilight, having her palace and main residence on my land, should in fact be my vassal was politely and decisively shot down by Celestia), but I had yet to grace it with my regal presence.

[Ponyville was historically part of the Duchy of Canterlot and remained so for two years after Princess Twilight Sparkle's coronation. Prince Blueblood would later release the County of Ponyville from his demesne, granting Twilight the title of Countess of Ponyville.]

That said, seeing Twilight Sparkle again was very much something to look forward to, and Drape Cut had even taken the liberty to arrange for me to spend the night at her castle following the party. In a series of letters, he argued that as we were expected to finish quite late into the night, either returning home or finding lodgings in the village would prove difficult, and given the large numbers of guests who would descend upon there, surely a pony of my royal lineage should also be afforded royal accommodation. I was pleasantly surprised to find that Twilight agreed, and granted me and a number of officers of the Night Guard the use of her many guest bedrooms, but then again, after what I had done for her in the House of Lords I'd say she owed me.

As he packed my suitcase, Drape Cut and I argued about whether Ponyville counted as Country or Town for the purposes of dress code, with Yours Truly wanting to wear a rustic tweed sport coat there and my valet arguing that a navy blazer was more in keeping with its growing urbanisation. ‘No brown in town’ and all that. He won, of course, he always did on these sorts of matters, and I found myself wearing said navy blazer, with a patch of the Night Guard's silver crescent moon stitched onto the chest pocket, paired with the appropriate regimental striped tie as I rode the train there with Cannon Fodder and Colonel Sunshine Smiles. While I was in mufti [military slang for civilian clothing], my fellow travellers were already in dress uniforms, as they either lacked or refused the services of servants to pack extra clothing.

In keeping with the government's wartime austerity measures, both private carriages and first class had been temporarily abolished, forcing me to sit in third class with the rest of the great unwashed. Those same measures, however, restricted travel somewhat, so at the very least the carriage was sparsely populated. Besides, Cannon Fodder's distinct aroma did much to deter the more determined autograph hunters.

[These austerity measures were introduced under the Defence of Equestria Act (the DOE Act), passed shortly after the attempt on Blueblood's life. This controversial act gave the government wide-ranging powers during the war, including restricting the movement of ponies, requisitioning property for the war effort, rationing of fuel, food, and clothing, and censorship.]

The journey took a few hours, and the well of idle chit-chat to while away that time had long since run dry. Cannon Fodder was never much for speaking beyond what was truly necessary, and Sunshine Smiles was engrossed in the heavily-abridged version of Twilight's lengthy and tediously-written report, which, despite having most of the illustrative examples and minutiae eliminated, still looked large and heavy enough to club a dragon to death with. I myself had the latest Daring Do novel to keep me occupied, but try as I might, I couldn't bring myself to focus on it; instead, the words on the pages seemed to evaporate from my mind mere moments after I had read them, such that I could scarcely follow the plot. Perhaps it was because the subject matter, the titular heroine competing with Changeling infiltrators to grab yet another artefact of doom, cut a little too close to the bone for me, or that I was far too distracted with my own thoughts to tackle the populist literature before me.

Eventually, I gave up the pretext of trying to read even this light and unchallenging story, and just stared out of the window at the scenery rushing past us. My thoughts had strayed into that dark, murky realm of existentialism that I tried to keep quiet with drink and mares, but here, with no other stimuli to keep myself from descending to such depths, I had no choice but to tackle it head-on. The war had laid bare the vacuity of my life, freed as it were from the daily struggles of the common pony, but now brought down to their level by that shared horror. As they say, there is no going back, but now that those idle luxuries that had once given my life such meaning were exposed for the empty follies that they truly were, what was there to occupy the space they once filled?

The sight of the thatched roofs of Ponyville coming into view interrupted such thoughts. Peering out of the window, I could see where the railway line curved around at a respectable distance from the Everfree Forest, and nestled between there and the lumpen hills where those famous apple orchards sprawled, was the tiny collection of those quaint little cottages. While it looked lovely, its proximity to both the Everfree Forest, that last blighted spot of untamed nature infested with monsters, and the Gates of Tartarus had rather put me off visiting far more than the fact it was merely a tiny, rustic village with little to appeal to the urban aristocrat. Furthermore, ponies who would willingly live in such close proximity to those two aforementioned tourist attractions were clearly insane and I wanted nothing to do with them.

Though I had never visited Ponyville before, I had seen it through the window of a train carriage on my way to much more interesting places, so the rows upon rows of cottages and endless fields of apple trees were all familiar to me. What was new, however, was the castle towering over the entire village; a gaudy tree-like structure apparently in imitation of some ancient Crystal Empire designs, topped with a tower shaped like the star symbol of Twilight's cutie mark, which I found to be a tad gauche. Clearly, the Tree of Harmony hadn't heard of the concept of subtlety when it gifted Twilight with an entire castle after defeating Tirek.

By the way, if you, dear reader, are at all curious about what I got up to during that particular crisis, the answer is 'not very much'. Those expecting personal heroics on my part will be disappointed, and clearly haven't paid much attention either. I was in my palace minding my own business when Tirek and his lackey Discord burst in, whereupon I was drained of all magic. It was a rather unpleasant experience, having all of my magic sucked out of me like milkshake through a straw, and made all the more humiliating when the megalomaniacal centaur bellowed 'is that it?' at me immediately after. Apparently, he too believed in that ridiculous conspiracy theory about my family having access to forbidden blood magic, and was quite upset when he found such a thing doesn't actually exist.

The train came to a juddering halt at the station, and I was instantly on my hooves to stretch my tired, numb limbs. I longed for fresh air and space too, finding the confines of third class travel to be rather too claustrophobic after hours stuck inside that cramped, filthy carriage. I left Cannon Fodder to deal with my luggage, though Sunshine Smiles insisted on carrying his own for some peculiar reason, and I trotted out onto the station platform ahead of everypony else. It was a rather dismal affair, to be honest, that consisted of a stretch of wooden planks positioned at precisely the right height to make egress from carriage a little bit awkward, being rather lower than what one expected. As for the station building, the roof and even its canopy were thatched to keep with the rustic milieu of the village, and the fact that the sign was a primitive drawing of a train seemed to imply a certain level of illiteracy here.

I had expected Twilight Sparkle to greet us personally at the station, or at least one or more of the other Bearers of the Elements of Harmony, and escort us to the castle where we would be staying. Even Spike the Dragon would have been an acceptable choice of chaperone, if an unbearably annoying and insulting one. Instead, there were three blank-flanked fillies, a unicorn, an earth pony, and a pegasus, sitting around near the door and peering at the train with a sudden and keen interest. When I stepped onto the platform, the three sprang to their hooves and trotted on over as fast as their little legs would carry them.

I don't like foals; they are loud, volatile, obnoxious, and quite often I can't understand a word they say, so I might as well try talking to dogs instead. Standing there, I looked to the carriage behind me, hoping that Cannon Fodder might emerge from the door to drive them away with his charming bouquet of body odour. Alas, from what I could tell from peering through the windows, it appeared they were arguing with another group of passengers about a mix-up with the luggage. I would have to deal with these fillies myself.

As the three approached, I saw that they each wore costumes resembling military dress uniforms complete with little peaked caps, though their insignia was clearly just whatever they thought looked 'cool' or simply made-up. The pegasus filly in particular had an improbable array of medals on her chest, and appeared to have served in the Wonderbolts, the Solar Guard, and the Night Guard all at the same time. It would have been a remarkable career at the tender age of ten, but made all the more impressive and humbling by the fact she had apparently accomplished all of that despite her stunted wings, which were little more than feathery stubs protruding from her back. I expect that this all sounds rather adorable, or even cute, but I found it to be rather depressing, really; as much as I dislike foals, that this infernal conflict has seeped into the realm of the schoolyard could only be seen as a triumph of our baser instincts over the supposed innocence of foalhood. They should be playing anything else other than soldiers.

"Papers, please!" said the earth pony. The rustic twang in her voice marked her out instantly as one from Equestria's rural and backwards south.

"I beg your pardon?" I said, looking down at the three as they stood side by side before me.

"Papers!" repeated the pegasus. Her tiny wing-stubs buzzed angrily, lifting her about half an inch off the ground for a second or two. "You have to show us your papers!"

"What papers?" I blurted out. "And why do I have to show them to you?"

"Your identification papers, sir," said the unicorn. Her accent was a little more refined than those of the other two, and felt very familiar, though I could not place my hoof on it. "We're on the lookout for Changeling spies."

"And trying to get our cutie marks at the same time!" The pegasus pointed to her blank flank.

"Who are you all?" I looked around the empty station platform. "And where are your parents?"

"We're the C.M.C.P.P.M.M.C.C.F.!" they shouted together. Fortunately, having been exposed to Princess Luna's Royal Canterlot Voice at short range meant that I was quite used to sudden and very loud noises, but the shrillness of their pitch still felt like icicles shoved right inside my brain.

I rubbed a hoof over my abused ears, wondering at what point I'll just go completely and irreversibly deaf from Luna's shouting, the roar of cannon fire, and these three fillies' incessant screaming. "The what?"

"The Cutie Mark Crusaders Ponyville Militia Para-Military Combined Cadet Force!" The three fillies then introduced themselves in turn: the unicorn was named Sweetie Belle, the earth pony Apple Bloom, and the crippled pegasus was Scootaloo.

I blinked vacantly at them, trying to formulate an adequate response to that particular outpouring of insanity. Was I supposed to play along with them? That sounded like something Celestia would do with foals and their absurd imaginary games, but I felt that sort of thing was beneath me. This was hardly the sort of thing that I wanted to encourage, either.

"I see," I said, at length. I didn't, really, but I assumed that any explanation they could give was not going to clarify very much for me, and I had rather more important things to be getting on with. Trying to recover my regal composure by standing straight and tall like my father taught me by beating me with a stick until I got it right, I said in as clear and authoritative voice as I could manage given the circumstances, "I am Prince Blueblood."

The three looked up at me in puzzlement, then exchanged a few furtive glances with one another. I suppose it might have been possible that they might not know who I was, but given their apparent interest in the ongoing war and the fact that my handsome face was plastered all over recruitment posters without my prior approval, it was very unlikely. Still, for a few seconds at least I was allowed to indulge in the novel experience of being anonymous, until Scootaloo ruined it for me.

"No you're not!" she exclaimed, wing-stubs buzzing again in a vain effort to bring her airborne.

"Yeah, you're not tall enough to be Commissar Blueblood!" said Apple Bloom.

Sweetie Belle tapped her chin, her wide green eyes scanning over my frame appreciatively. "He kind of looks like the photos in my sister's shrine, before she threw it out and set it on fire, that is."

"But where's his hat?" Scootaloo waved her peaked cap about, which appeared to have once been a part of a chauffeur's uniform that she had selectively painted red and glued on a paper cut-out of a skull.

A deep, warm, friendly chuckle from behind informed me that Colonel Sunshine Smiles had finally sorted out whatever problems involved the luggage and disembarked. Unless Cannon Fodder had a sudden desire to see Appleloosa (and why on earth would anypony actually want to go and settle in that miserable little frontier town with its backward buffalos I'll never know, nopony can like apples that much), I assumed that he too had emerged onto the platform.

I looked over my shoulder to see my two travelling companions standing behind me, as the train itself slowly drifted away from the station and on to the less fashionable parts of our fair realm. Sunshine Smiles grinned so that the right side of his mouth matched his scarred left, while Cannon Fodder stood there holding my suitcase by its handle in his mouth. I made a mental note to have it disinfected before unpacking, if and when I arrived at Twilight's castle.

"I see you've made some friends," said Sunshine, moving to my side. The three fillies stared up at him, towering over them and looking very imposing and authoritative in his midnight-blue dress uniform and gold lace.

"They didn't give me much of a choice," I muttered, mostly to myself though. "What took you so long?"

"Nothing," he said, his voice taking on a mock-innocent tone that I found to be just the right amount of insulting. "I was just watching you."

"Oh, thank you."

He pretended not to hear and turned to the foals, then, to my surprise and their obvious delight, snapped to attention and saluted briskly. "Colonel Sunshine Smiles of Her Royal Highness' Night Guard. I have orders to present myself, Prince Blueblood, and Private Cannon Fodder to officers of the Ponyville Militia Guard, to be escorted to Princess Twilight Sparkle's castle."

The 'Ponyville Militia Guard' exchanged a few confused looks between one another, while I tapped my hoof in increasing frustration at having to indulge in this foalish game. Still, the Colonel seemed to be enjoying himself, at least.

"What officers of the Ponyville Militia Guard?" asked Sweetie Belle.

"Well, my Granny's in charge of the militia," said Apple Bloom, "maybe we should go get her."

[Granny Smith held the rank of colonel and commanded the Ponyville Militia Guard, albeit in a ceremonial role. Her father, Pokey Oaks, founded the militia to defend the fledgling village from the encroaching monsters of the Everfree Forest. Because of their role in keeping the Everfree at bay, the Ponyville Militia was one of the few militia regiments not raised to full Line Regiments of Hoof under the Twilight Sparkle Reforms.]

"There's no time!" exclaimed Scootaloo. "They've got to get to Princess Twilight urgently, probably to discuss some top secret plan to win the war. We'll take them to the castle, and then we'll get our cutie marks for sure!"

"I dunno," said Sweetie Belle. "I thought they were just here for some fancy party at the castle. It's all my sister has talked about for like a week. It's the Grand Galloping Gala all over again."

Scootaloo, however, cleared her throat dramatically, puffed her tiny chest out, and marched forwards in a manner she probably thought portrayed the utmost military authority, but merely resembled a cockerel strutting about the farmyard. "At ease, stallions, and follow me! Quick march!"

She carried on towards the village, to where the Castle of Friendship loomed over the peasant hovels and even the town hall. That they would all get tired of this absurd mockery of the militarism that had strangled our fair nation when it would yield no cutie mark did offer me some minor comfort, but did not save me from the flush of embarrassment that crept up my neck and made my shirt collar feel suddenly very, very tight. Feeling almost the same amount of unease as I did before facing battle or a disapproving aunt, I followed on with my companions in tow into what was, for me, a place as dark, mysterious, and unknown as the endless jungles of Zebrica where my father had disappeared into - a common, rural, earth pony village, populated by ordinary ponies with whom I had next to nothing in common aside from the same number of limbs.

It was some relief, however, that we attracted less attention along the way than I had anticipated; a village occupied by the likes of Twilight Sparkle and her friends is likely used to such strange sights as a group of foals in home-made military uniforms leading a prince and three soldiers straight into their village market. Anywhere else I might have been mobbed or at least stared at, as I hardly blended in with these naked lower-class types, but here I was more or less ignored except for a few ponies not engrossed in their shopping or conversations watching me and then turning away quickly when I made eye-contact. I expect that being in civilian clothing, which I prefer to refer to as merely 'clothing', had made me less noticeable, which meant that I could merely pass off as just a stallion too well-dressed for this bleak little village. Then again, if what the three fillies had said earlier was any real indication of how the general public viewed me, I was completely unrecognisable without that stupid hat, and thank Faust for that.

Fortunately, the three fillies had left me in peace for much of the journey, aside from the occasional asinine question about tedious details of my life. Once they had accepted the fact that, height aside, I really am Prince Blueblood, they were quite eager to learn that, yes, princes still do a variety of things that most ordinary ponies had to do like eat breakfast, bathe, and sleep. Sunshine Smiles, however, being rather more eager to interact with them on their level, occupied most of their attention, answering their questions about life in the military and telling very heavily sanitised stories about the war. They gave Cannon Fodder a wide berth at first, likely on the strength of his unique aroma, which the warmth of spring was allowing to flourish, but eventually curiosity got the better of them and he too was subjected to a battery of questions from the irritatingly curious foals.

The Castle of Friendship drew closer, casting its long shadow over us. The bright light of the midday sun in high spring scintillated off the crystalline bows of the 'tree', tinting the surrounding grassy fields in reflected purple light. Great banners depicting Twilight's cutie mark wafted in the gentle breeze. A balcony overlooked the main entrance, and as we approached, I looked up to see the Princess of Friendship herself standing there, her forelegs perched over the balustrade, watching us intently. Whatever reluctance I felt about coming to Ponyville seemed to wash away at the sight of her, and were it not beneath my princely dignity I might have picked up the pace and trotted on over faster.

Perhaps, I thought, this party might not be so bad after all.

Chapter 6

I dare say we could have found the Castle of Friendship ourselves, it being the single largest structure in this tiny village and visible from just about every part in it. If anything, we might have arrived earlier if we didn't have to answer tedious questions and then stop for ice cream along the way (which I paid for, as apparently somepony had taught these foals about the concept of noblesse oblige). The cobbled stone path that formed the main thoroughfare of the village led straight to the steps leading up to the main door of the castle, and I assumed that this was a later addition to the pre-existing road organised and built by mortal ponies, and not spontaneously formed into existence like the building itself. Then again, I had no idea how powerful the Tree of Harmony's architectural abilities were, so as far as I was concerned extending a road should have been foal's play compared to raising an entire castle from the ground.

Twilight abruptly vanished from the balcony. It was always rather disconcerting when she did that; even as a fellow unicorn I always felt that having oneself forced through the holes in the fabric of space and time to be somewhat unnatural. As we approached the set of golden stairs sweeping up from the road, the leftmost of the great set of double doors was enveloped in that same pinkish-purple glow and was pulled open to allow us entrance. I admit to hesitating before crossing that threshold, as some peculiar sense of anticipation chilled my innards when I glimpsed the grand entrance hall beyond. The Cutie Mark Crusaders, our guides, had no such anxiety about being in the home of royalty, apparently being frequent visitors to the Princess, and simply trotted on in.

I followed to find myself in a vast hall, which, like most castles and palaces built in the old unicorn style, was the crux around which the other rooms, hallways, chambers, and so forth were constructed, rather like spokes on a wheel. Quite unlike mine, then, being a labyrinthine mess of passageways and rooms built with no obvious or rational purpose, at first designed by a distant ancestor of mine who was a few Elements short of Harmony and then modified by successive generations who were not much better. Anyway, the crystalline motif and the purple colour scheme of the outside was carried through into the design of the interior, as indeed was the tree-theme, which was repeated in the design of the wallpaper in what I could only assume was a rather egotistical touch on the Tree of Harmony's part. It was all very elegant and majestic; the overall effect filling one with both a sense of awe and kindness, at once evoking the fearsome and terrifying power of Harmony as well as its welcoming, soothing embrace. Rather like a cathedral, then.

Though it took considerable effort, I was determined not to appear at all impressed with any of this, and thus affected an air of aristocratic aloofness. Sunshine Smiles, however, could not contain himself and let out a quiet and reverent humming noise as he looked around and up at the hall.

Twilight was already there, standing before us in the centre of the hall. Smiling broadly, she seemed genuinely pleased to see me, or perhaps her mirth was directed at the three fillies who proudly presented Colonel Sunshine Smiles and me to her. I looked around, expecting to see liveried servants rushing forwards to take our luggage to our rooms while the hostess greeted us, but alas I saw none - not a butler, valet, attendant, maid, chef, hoofstallion, retainer, or even a gardener to be seen at all. The absence of staff in so grand a palace was rather odd and very disconcerting, like something vital had been sucked out of this place, but I imagine that she still had yet to fully internalise her new position in life and the considerable advantages that it brings, such as never having to worry about performing tedious manual tasks ever again (unless one's regal aunt sends one to the frontline, of course). Then I recalled Spike's continued existence, and for a brief moment, looking about the vastness of the hall around us, I almost felt sorry for the Princess' number one assistant cleaning this entire building by himself. Almost.

"Welcome to the Castle of Friendship!" she said cheerfully as we approached.

"Your Highness," Sunshine Smiles intoned, bringing his head down in a deep bow and scraping his right hoof along the slick marble tiles. This time, Twilight refrained from correcting that behaviour as she had done with me, instead reciprocating with a smile and a slight inclination of her head, all in a manner peculiarly reminiscent of how Celestia acknowledged such greetings.

"Princess Twilight," I said, following the Colonel's lead with a little less of an exaggerated motion, and instead merely inclined my head a few degrees in her direction.

The three fillies rushed forwards ahead of us, each of them beaming proudly at their Princess. I stood back a little and watched, shocked at just how brazenly familiar they were behaving towards the pony who was ostensibly, despite her low birth and distinct lack of breeding, a co-ruler of Equestria. There was no bowing, curtseying, genuflecting, prostrating, or even nodding; they had simply marched on up as though she had never been granted the pair of wings that rested elegantly against her sides.

"We brought the Colonel and Commissar Blueblood, Twilight!" said Apple Bloom. So, they were on first-name terms with the Princess, then. I had gathered the foals must have had some sort of friendly relationship prior to her ascension, which had continued despite the new gulf that existed between their respective social positions.

"Oh, thank you," said Twilight, sounding a little surprised. "I was about to send Spike to fetch them, but he's been busy helping Pinkie Pie set up tonight's party."

"See?" exclaimed Sweetie Belle. "I told you it was just a party."

"Yeah, well, it's still a really important party!" retorted Scootaloo, somewhat defensively. "Come on, girls, even if we can't find any Changeling spies there'll be lots of army ponies who need a Ponyville Militia escort to the Castle. Let's move out!"

The three fillies cheered, again at such an obscenely high volume that I feared that the entire crystalline structure of the building would just shatter and bury us under a mountain of elegant shards. There was probably some peculiar function of the lungs of foals, later lost as one reaches maturity, that allows their voices to reach such heights of shrillness and loudness in spite of their tiny size.

As I ruminated on this conundrum and waited for the ringing in my ears to cease, the Cutie Mark Crusaders saluted Colonel Sunshine Smiles with clumsy waves of their right forehooves, which he reciprocated with an uncharacteristic sharpness for an officer whose regard for the age-old traditions of the Royal Guard was often less than what his position demanded. After a round of 'good-byes' and 'farewells' and so forth they galloped out through the door, and I was finally free of them.

With that out of the way, Twilight escorted us to our rooms. From the entrance hall, we were led through a series of wide, airy corridors and halls. Judging from the thin layer of grey dust that rested on the floor and over the sparse furnishings, this part of the vast castle was rarely in use. This was understandable, considering only the Princess and her assistant/butler/servant/pet baby dragon lived here; even my palace, though populated with staff as any great house should be, had areas that nopony had set hoof in for weeks, months, years, or even centuries.

"I hope the Cutie Mark Crusaders weren't too much of a hassle," said Twilight.

"Not at all," I said, wisely keeping my true thoughts on the three fillies to myself.

"Did they ask to see your 'papers'?" Twilight chuckled. "They did the exact same thing to Princess Celestia last time she visited."

"What did she do?" I asked.

"Had Raven Inkwell show them a one-bit coin, the side with her face on."

"We all did odd things trying to get our cutie marks," said Sunshine Smiles, grinning to himself.

His, of course, was a stylised yellow sun with an abstract depiction of a happy face, consisting of two sunspots for eyes and a coronal loop for the smile, and striking yellow beams fanned out in an irregular fashion. It resembled a foal's depiction of Celestia's golden orb, albeit made by a better educated one with access to a greater array of drawing equipment than just crayons and paper. Far be it from me to allow my gaze to linger on another stallion's rump, especially when a rather more attractive example from the opposite sex was more easily in sight, but I did ponder the praxiological implications of such a joyful cutie mark and special talent on a pony whose job was to spread the precise opposite.

[Praxiology is the study of cutie marks and their meanings. Blueblood's reference here is anachronistic, as praxiology was codified as a specific field of science five years after the end of the First Changeling War by the Cutie Mark Crusaders.]

"So, Pinkie Pie is setting up the party?" I said, wanting to change the subject. Though I had yet to meet her personally, I had heard stories from those who have about the exuberant, energetic, and utterly insane party planner's behaviour. Though I had assumed much of it was hyperbole, as many of these tales seemed to imply a terrifying disregard for the laws of physics and reality that seemed rather too close to that of a certain daemonic lord of chaos, I feared what awaited me that night; would I be hobnobbing with my fellow officers or playing pin-the-tail-on-the-pony like some foal's fifth birthday celebration? Then again, my foalhood birthdays were always rather sober affairs, at least until I had to move in with Auntie 'Tia, by which time I had outgrown those sorts of games anyway.

"Oh yes," said Twilight, oblivious to my growing anxiety. "She's planned everything; she even made the invitations herself!"

"Did she now?" That Pinkie Pie apparently knew about formal evening wear did help assuage some of my misgivings about tonight's event. Not by much, though; bobbing for apples in full ceremonial dress complete with a heavily starched and rigid collar would be a tad impractical, should it come to that.

Twilight nodded. "She's been a real life-saver, especially now that princess duties have taken up a lot of my free time. This will be the first official state function the Castle of Friendship hosts, with ponies coming from all over Equestria to attend, so I want to make sure it's absolutely perfect."

Something told me that it wouldn't; a hunch, as one might call it, or merely an observation on the universal tendency towards one's expectations to be utterly dashed upon reaching that lofty threshold of 'absolutely perfect'. Provided that there were no ridiculously large cakes or Changelings at the party, for it was my understanding that social disasters tended not to repeat as far as my extensive experience in such things went, whatever happened I trusted in my ability to get out of scrapes at least mostly in one piece. That said, my habitual paranoia was conspicuously quiet for once, and for the first time in a while, at least since that rather unpleasant encounter with an overly-sharp cake knife, I felt as close to 'comfortably at ease' as I possibly could with the grim spectre of my impending return to the front looming over me.

It turned out that this castle had an abundance of guest rooms, and so a number of other officers who would be attending this party had also been granted their use. In fact, a few of the keener ones had already arrived and set themselves up in their chambers. I imagined the Tree of Harmony had intended for this place to be used as some sort of communal hub of friendship, rather than being for the exclusive use of Princess Twilight and her friends. The room that I had been allocated was rather small, at least by my standards, consisting of a modest single bed, a wardrobe, a dresser and mirror, and a large window that provided a lovely view of the bucolic Sweet Apple Acres. Overall, it was not the worst place that I ever had to stay in, as a few nights spent in that disgustingly unhygienic cave had rather lowered my standards somewhat; war tends to do that, and while I had immersed myself in luxury since my return to Canterlot, the more homey style of this guest room suited me just fine.

Cannon Fodder dropped off my suitcase for me, while I sat on the bed and tested it. It was quite comfortable, but not as soft as I'd have liked; I prefer a more yielding mattress that one can just sink into, yet rigid enough to support rather more vigorous activities.

"I know it's not as luxurious as you're used to," said Twilight, standing at the doorway and watching me with a slightly amused look. She then stepped out of Cannon Fodder's way as he slipped past to get to his own room, her nose wrinkling as my aide got close enough for her to take in the full, unvarnished blast of his body odour.

"Princess," I said, sliding off the bed and back onto my hooves. "For the past two years I've been sleeping on rigid camp beds and on the ground, so I think this room will do me just fine, thank you."

"Oh, good! Spike will be happy to hear that."

"Why would Spike be happy?" I failed to see the connection, but something told me I would like it when Twilight elucidated that particular point. Anything involving a certain baby dragon tended not to bode well, if that debacle at the Equestria Games was any indication.

"He assembled most of the furniture in the guest rooms," said Twilight, sweeping her hoof in a wide arc. "The Tree of Harmony left most of the castle empty, so we had to bulk-buy some flat-pack furniture from the Crystal Empire. You know, to keep with the whole crystal theme. We tried to do all of it together, but, you know, Princess-things got in the way and Spike had to do a few rooms himself. I think the Cutie Mark Crusaders might have helped out with a few too, hoping to get their cutie marks in flat-pack furniture assembly."

I eyed the bed I had been sitting on just a few moments ago warily, expecting it to just collapse at any moment. "What's a flat-pack?" I asked.

Twilight gave me a queer look; one that implied that she couldn't work out whether I was honestly ignorant of the concept, which I in later years discovered for myself, or simply making fun of her. My presumably gormless expression seemed to prompt her in the direction of the former, but I was spared yet another lengthy, tedious, and condescending Twilecture when who should pop his grotesquely mutilated visage around the open door frame but Captain Red Coat, appearing like a malevolent ghoul behind the Princess.

"Excuse me," he said, mercifully sparing me from having an inordinate amount of my time wasted on a subject I didn't particularly care about. "Sorry to interrupt, everypony."

Red Coat slipped past Twilight, who, despite her status as the foremost expert on friendship in Equestria, still could not suppress the primal instinct to recoil from the sight of the stallion's disturbing facial disfigurement. It had been more than a year since he had faced Queen Chrysalis in battle, indeed Twilight had been there when he lost a foreleg and half of his face to a searing blast of magic, and while his wounds had more-or-less healed to the point where he could still function as an officer of the Royal Guard, what was once the face of a young, handsome, youthfully optimistic stallion scarcely into adulthood was now marred forever. There was no getting used to the sight of it, I'm afraid to say, only learning to suppress the overwhelming urge to avert one's gaze from the mutilated horror that was once a stallion's face.

"That's okay," said Twilight, apparently forcing herself to look him in his one good eye. "How can I help?"

"It's my dress uniform," said Red Coat, taking the midnight blue dress tunic that was draped over his back and holding it up by the sleeve, all in a manner that would have made my valet faint with shock. "I can't get my hoof through the sleeve properly. The machinery keeps getting caught, and I don't want to tear it. Maybe I should just cut it off?"

Military prosthetics were hardly elegant things, being designed to be cheap, durable, and easy to maintain so that the crippled soldier can be returned to active duty as quickly as possible. The result was that the rather ugly brass and steel appendage attached at the stallion's shoulder stump was far bulkier than its organic counterparts, and the tailor who had designed, cut, and stitched together this tunic had not anticipated that its wearer would one day lose a limb.

"A tailor should be able to fix that," I said. He probably could have done that in Canterlot, where most renowned tailors outside Saddle Row conducted business, before coming all the way to this backward little earth pony village, but I kept that thought to myself.

Red Coat winced and looked at his hooves, ears wilting. "I don't really know any of your fancy tailors, sir, and I don't think they'd have me either."

Not without an introduction, of course, but I would have been happy to arrange one for him with one of the more egalitarian-minded of my favourite tailors. That was beside the point now, anyway; we would hardly be able to return to Canterlot in time, and it appeared that taking a pair of scissors to this exquisitely crafted garment was our only option to make young Red Coat here look at least somewhat formal enough for tonight's event.

"Oh, Rarity can do it for you," said Twilight. My right eye twitched at the mention of her name. "She'll be in her shop about now. In fact, I'll-"

An almighty crash echoed through the entire castle - the calamitous sound of a very large, fragile, and expensive chandelier falling from a great height and shattering into a thousand pieces on a marble floor. I should know, I've seen and heard chandeliers fall far too many times in my life. Twilight froze, her body tense and her mouth hanging open in shock, while Red Coat and I exchanged awkward glances with one another. The silence that fell was so total, so all-encompassing and suffocating, that even with my damaged hearing I could make out a voice that was unmistakably Spike's from somewhere deep within this castle, just barely on the cusp of audibility:

"Oops."

Twilight snapped her jaw shut and forced what was probably the worst fake smile I had ever seen. I'd have thought by now she would have mastered the art of the disingenuous smile, being the most important skill royalty must learn. "The Carousel Boutique is just off the town square, and now-I-have-to-go-and-fix-this-bye!"

Before either of us could say anything, Twilight popped out of existence once more with an eye-stingingly bright flash of purple light. With her gone to deal with this latest crisis to demand her attention, I placed my suitcase on the dresser, popped it open, and started unpacking. Normally, I would have a servant do this for me, but against all expectations there were none available in this entire castle, and I was not about to let Cannon Fodder get his filthy hooves over my dress uniform. Besides, I had seen Drape Cut do this before, so how hard could it be?

"Sir?" said Red Coat. I looked up from arranging my pyjamas on the bed to see him still standing in my room.

"You heard the Princess," I said. "Rarity's shop is 'just off the town square'. She'll sort out your sleeve."

"I know," he said, shuffling from side to side on his hooves. "I was just wondering if you could come with me. All of this fancy clothing is new to me, and I wouldn't know what to ask for."

He just didn't want to venture out with the 'normal' ponies by himself; I saw through that conceit instantly, but, feeling unusually generous, seeing as I still felt I owed him for taking that shot instead of me, I decided to humour him. Leaving my suitcase behind, and hoping that it and its irreplaceable contents would still be there when we returned, Red Coat and I retraced our hoofsteps through the corridors, back to the entrance hall, and out into Ponyville.

Twilight didn't actually point out where the town square actually was or how to get there, but fortunately for us, my special talent was more than up to the task. Ponyville was a typical rural village of Equestria's empty and boring Midwest; the town square formed the hub and was dominated by what should have been the tallest structure here, the town hall, were it not for the sudden appearance of the castle. It was simply a matter of heading there, avoiding more street urchins along the way, and in theory this Carousel Boutique should be relatively easy to find. Knowing Rarity as I do, being the sort of low-born mare with a delusional aspiration to ascend into the aristocratic elite of our realm, her shop would stand out amidst these primitive thatched hovels by being an almost perfect replica of traditional Canterlot architecture.

Red Coat was subdued for most of the journey, as he walked on with his head bowed in the manner of a condemned criminal on his way to the gallows. Occasionally he would look up and glance around at the villagers, who were for the most part simply getting on with the tedium of their day-to-day lives, and upon making eye contact, or what he probably thought was eye contact, he would immediately snap his gaze back to the very interesting patch of ground at his forehooves.

"They're staring at me," he said quietly, and mostly to himself.

I looked around, and as I was quite used to being stared at by gormless members of the public amazed at seeing an actual prince walk amongst them, I hadn't really noticed. Seeing now with a newer perspective, while the majority of these simple villagers were far too engrossed in buying fruit and vegetables, chatting, or wandering around aimlessly to give either of us a second glance, more than a few were quite openly watching Red Coat and not being terribly subtle about it either. Most, of course, looked away when I returned their gaze and had the good sense to look guilty when caught in their indiscretion.

"Nonsense!" I said with forced cheerfulness. "They're staring at me."

Red Coat gave me a rather pointed look; it was not one of my best attempts at misdirection, of course, and he saw straight through it. Nevertheless, I had said it and therefore I was duly bound to commit to it, so I performed my best impression of Princess Celestia on a public visit by smiling and waving at the ponies around me. It simply led to even more awkwardness, but, at the very least, I could say that it had been deflected from my companion and onto me.

Fortunately, Ponyville is, or was back then, a rather small village, so the indignity of our walk through the town square was rather short. Acting on a vague hunch, which is how my special talent likes to present itself most of the time, I led Red Coat away from the bustling market in the shadow of the town hall, and down another nameless street. The dirt road, little more than uncovered ground where a succession of hooves had trampled away the grass and weeds, opened up into a small field or park. There, a short distance after the cottages ended and atop a small hillock surrounded by a few trees and some small tents, was the centre of what would later become Rarity's empire of fashion.

It appeared that my assumption was at least partly correct, though it appeared that the proprietress had mashed together architectural cues from all over old Unicornia rather than a straightforward imitation of the Canterlot style. Apparently modelled on, well, a carousel, it was a tall, circular design painted in soft pinks and blues, and in keeping with the apparent chronic illiteracy that has gripped this poor earth pony community, the signage proudly depicted a ponnequin instead of a name.

The bell chimed as I opened the door and stepped inside, and I was immediately taken aback by just how empty the shop was. Your typical Saddle Row tailor is located in a rather small building constructed before Ponyville was even a single parked wagon in Canterlot’s shadow, and yet must service the sartorial requirements of a great many clients, each of whom have exacting standards and the wealth to back those up. Therefore, each shop along that famous Manehatten street bursts at the seams with so much accumulated stuff - suits, shirts, sports coats, blazers, ties, pocket squares, bolts of cloth, cutting rooms, fitting rooms, portraits of notable customers (namely me), and so on - crammed into an area no larger than one of the smaller bathrooms in my palace. What I saw instead was a wide open and airy space, with a small stage on one side of the room and a fitting area on the other, a grand staircase swept up to the floor above, and ponnequins clothed in elegant gowns were dotted strategically around the place. The decor, too, was quite unlike the somewhat oppressive style of a traditional tailor's, with their wood-panelled walls, heavy oak furnishings, dim lamps, and staff who always regarded the newcomer with suspicion and barely-concealed contempt. Instead the Carousel Boutique was light, welcoming, and generally quite pleasant; I didn't like it.

The door at the back of the room swung open, revealing Rarity herself. "Welcome to the Carousel Boutique!" she announced with the confident cheerfulness of a born salespony. "Where everything is chic, unique, and magn- You!"

The expression of pure, unadulterated hate flashed across her face for about half a second before she deftly recovered her composure. Another pony might not have noticed it or merely dismissed the fleeting death-glare as a product of their imagination, but I was rather more in tune to such things than most, and it seemed that despite having saved her life (purely by accident, I assure you) Rarity still bore an irrational grudge against me. If she could hold onto that, then she might fit in with the Canterlot aristocracy she aspired to joining better than I had initially thought after all.

"Yes, me," I said. Red Coat followed me inside and shut the door behind him, and then took up the position normally occupied by Cannon Fodder in my shadow. He looked to the ground, and appeared to be trying to angle his head so that only the 'good' side was visible to Rarity.

"Well!" she said with a defiant sweep of her head as she trotted on over. "What brings you to my humble little shop? I had expanded my business into stallions-wear, but I'd have thought my creations were beneath your notice, Your Highness."

"Ordinarily, you'd be right," I said, stepping to the side. "But my friend here has a sartorial emergency that requires your expertise."

"Oh?" Rarity arched an eyebrow, but bit back on the obvious retort that must have been forming in her head about me not having any friends. She would have been right on that account, of course, but I was not about to admit it to her. Instead, she slipped effortlessly back into her more usual charming demeanour, with a soft, welcoming smile to her lips and a delicate flutter of her painted eyelids. Acting as though I had just completely disappeared into the ether, she stepped past me and approached Red Coat.

"Then you have come to the right place!" she said, extending a hoof as one would to coax out a nervous dog. "Come now, darling, there's no need to be shy. Let's take a look at your garment and see what's wr-"

Rarity shrieked; a short, violent exclamation as she recoiled in horror. Red Coat had looked up, revealing to her the puckered scar tissue that covered the entire left side of his face. With her hoof over her mouth and eyes wide in shock, she stared, apparently stunned into paralysis by the realisation of her own faux pas. Quite at a loss as to what to do, I stood there dumbly, knowing that nothing I could say would possibly lessen the embarrassment that suffused the room like Cannon Fodder's body odour.

Red Coat turned to leave, but that had jolted Rarity out of her fugue, and she darted forwards and touched him on the shoulder.

"Please don't leave," she said, and Red Coat paused. "I am so very sorry for that outburst. It was unprofessional, rude, and downright unladylike of me. Believe me, I am not in the habit of screaming at my customers, or anypony at all for that matter. You just startled me, is all. Come, you must be here for Twilight's party tonight, so I'll make it up to you by ensuring you'll be the most dashing officer there."

Pulling insistently on his upper foreleg, she led the reluctant Captain Red Coat onto the stage, where he stood in that rather awkward manner young stallions do when they find themselves at the centre of unwanted attention. Rarity, having gotten over her shock rather quickly, trotted around him in a circle, appraising his form and stature with a rather amused 'hum' of appreciation. She then enveloped his uniform in a soft blue glow from where it was draped over his back, and held it by the shoulders, suspended in mid-air.

"It's the sleeve," said Red Coat, though Rarity didn't seem to acknowledge him, instead running her expert eye over the garment. "I can't fit my metal hoof in it. I thought about cutting it off-"

"Cutting it off?" exclaimed Rarity, somehow sounding more shocked and horrified than her short, sharp outburst earlier. She held out the sleeve for him to see. "Somepony put a lot of care and attention into crafting this sleeve, and you wanted to cut it off? Heavens, I am so glad you came to my boutique so I could stop you from committing such a crime against tailoring."

Red Coat blinked vacantly at her; he was right, he was quite out of his depth with this sort of thing. "I'm sorry?" he blurted out.

"So you should be!" Rarity snapped. She grabbed a tape measure, seemingly out of thin air, and began the process of taking measurements of Red Coat's prosthetic limb and mangled shoulder. "Now, tell me about yourself."

"There isn't much to tell," said Red Coat, shrugging.

"Nonsense! Everypony has their own story to tell. And stand still, please, and do try to relax; it's very difficult to take accurate measurements when you fidget like that."

"Sorry."

"Quite alright, my dear." Rarity scribbled down a few notes on a sheet of paper on a clipboard, which I recognised as being the same arcane scribbles my tailors used to summarise a pony's unique physiognomy. "Elegant clothes allow a pony to present the best possible version of themselves to the world. A garment such as this tunic says to everypony who sees it, 'I am a stallion of strength, fidelity, honour, and duty', when it's worn correctly. Sometimes it just needs a little coaxing to have the desired effect."

"Right now, I just want ponies to keep their lunch down when they see me." Red Coat shrugged, earning himself an admonishing but playful slap with the end of the tape measure.

"I think I can do more than that." Rarity smiled, stepped onto the platform, and guided Red Coat to the mirror, and while it was clear that the stallion would rather not look at his own reflection, she lifted his head up delicately with a hoof and held it there. "That little bit of rudeness earlier aside, I'll tell you what I see. I see a young stallion who has been through much to help keep Equestria safe; somepony who has been very brave indeed. I can't hide your face, and nor would I wish to, but if you project enough confidence then ponies will look past those scars. My job, no, my calling, is to bring that brave, noble pony inside you to the fore. Now hold still, I need to measure your inside foreleg. And you can help me by telling me your name and what you do."

"Oh, uh... my name is Red Coat, and I'm the captain of an earth pony company in..."

As that was going on, I had grown bored of hearing Red Coat recount his life's story and had wandered over to the ponnequins. The sartorial arts were something of a casual hobby of mine, back when I was much younger and better looking than I am now. Sartorialists will point to me as leading some sort of vanguard in shifting the traditional Canterlot style of stallionswear away from the stiff and rigid forms of my father's generation, and onto something that was altogether more comfortable without sacrificing elegance. Really, however, I just wore what I deemed to be acceptable and, as ever, others chose to rationalise my choice of a soft, turn-down collar with a blue bow tie instead of the starched wing collar and an extravagantly knotted cravat as having some sort of grandiose point to it. The fact is, I just happened to be rich enough and good-looking enough to get away with it, and in my early twenties I had little else going for me besides those two.

Rarity's designs, despite her provenance as a designer of ladies' garments for cider-drinking country folk, were rather impressive. I had gravitated towards two ponnequins, one displaying what I had first assumed was a Solar Guard officer's mess dress uniform and the other a fairly standard navy blue lounge suit. The styling was rather conservative on the latter, but I had to admit that the detailing was of exceptional quality. What I noticed, however, was that the padded shoulders and structure of the military uniform, designed to make one look as impressive and authoritative as possible regardless of one's stature and posture, was echoed in the civilian suit. Upon closer inspection, I noticed that the mess dress was entirely without any form of military insignia, and was more of a costume than something to be worn by genuine officers.

"It's the latest trend," said Rarity, having finished taking Red Coat's measurements. The tunic was hovering in mid-air just behind her, wrapped in that soft blue glow, with the sleeve and shoulder marked with a series of lines and crosses at seemingly random places. "Military chic."

"I was wondering why so many unlikely ponies had been promoted to general," I said dryly. I hadn't worked it out back then yet, but when mares start wearing tight, brightly coloured tunics with gold lace and young chaps develop a craze for growing extravagant moustaches and whiskers, it was usually a clear sign that the country has forgotten what a dreadful business war actually is. Just a tip from me to you, dear reader, to watch out for such things and make necessary preparations to escape the insanity that is bound to follow.

[The short-lived 'military chic' craze is correlated to public support for the war, and peaked around the time of the declaration of war and again at the publication of the Twilight Sparkle Reforms. By contrast, another contemporary fashion among young ponies was to defy austerity measures by wearing extravagantly designed shirts, jackets, coats, suits, and dresses that used excess fabric that was otherwise rationed.]

"Fashion is merely a reflection of the times we live in," Rarity continued, "and these are very strange times indeed. Nevertheless, an entrepreneuse must adapt to her clientele and its milieu. Ponies look up to their heroes, which are usually the Princesses in most normal circumstances, but these days it's soldiers."

"I remember those princess dresses," I said. "Every mare in Canterlot looked identical for a month."

Rarity made a sort of quiet 'huffing' noise. "That wasn't my finest hour, I'll admit, but as an artisteI can at least nudge fashion away from trite imitation and into the realms of elegant personal self-expression. I certainly won't be making that mistake again."

"Quite." I lifted up the sleeve of the suit and ran my hoof over the fabric, finding it to be quite smooth, soft, and light compared to the heavier wools I was used to, almost like silk. Lifting the right quarter of the jacket, I saw below Rarity’s label printed on the inside pocket was that infamous ‘CC’ logo. "I would have thought you'd be struggling with fabric rationing. My tailor has a three month waiting list."

[‘CC’ stood for ‘Controlled Commodity’, which means that the piece of clothing met the government’s wartime austerity regulations.]

"It has been a struggle," said Rarity. She had crossed over to a desk in the corner of the room where an antique sewing machine rested, and without slowing or halting her speech, she sat down before it and got to work, as though the movements required to alter Red Coat's uniform were entirely automatic.

"But the imposition of such restrictions merely forces one to become more creative! To use what little I have in the most efficient way possible and to find innovative new fabrics that have yet to be rationed. After all, it simply would not do for everypony to be clothed in rags even in this time of crisis. That suit you're looking at, for example; cheap, inferior wool is blended with a tiny amount of star spider silk, making it much tougher and more wrinkle-resistant than such a light cloth would otherwise be, so it will survive long after this dreadful conflict has ended."

It didn't take her terribly long to complete the alterations, and within a few minutes she had Red Coat trying on the tunic. To his evident surprise, not only did the sleeve effortlessly accommodate his misshapen mechanical hoof, it now appeared to conceal it completely; and now to all outward appearances, if one’s attention was not pointed towards the stallion’s false limb, it appeared to be as real and organic as his remaining three legs.

While Rarity continued to fiddle around with Red Coat's tunic, offering opinions on how he ought to wear it to flatter him as much as possible, I thought about what she said about the suit. The star spider silk had intrigued me; even the tailors of Saddle Row struggled to get enough of the stuff to make a single pocket square, let alone have enough to blend it with wool to make a suit. Its alleged properties were legendary, being nigh-indestructible without sacrificing lightness and comfort, and in Equestria's distant past had been used as a flexible armour by the elite of the Royal Guard. It was a shame it was about as rare as common sense in a government employee these days.

"Rarity?" I called out.

She let out a quiet, exasperated groan, then turned and offered the most insincere smile that I had ever seen on a mare. "Yes, what is it?" she answered in a sort of sing-song voice.

"Where did you get the star spider silk from?" I asked.

"Why, the Everfree Forest, of course!" She said the name of what is quite possibly the single most dangerous spot in Equestria this side of Tartarus as though it was just the quaint, little, family-run fabric shop just down the street from her boutique. “It’s the only place they live.”

"Of course," I said. "Rarity, I want to commission you."

Her eyes practically bugged out of their sockets, and her mouth dropped open. "What?" she blurted out. "I mean, of course, it's just... why me?"

I chuckled and shook my head. "Come now, I'd have thought you wanted a royal warrant to go with your new line of stallionswear."

[A royal warrant of appointment is issued to tradesponies who supply goods or services to members of the Royal Family, Prince Blueblood included. This allows them to advertise to the general public that they supply to the issuer of the warrant.]

Rarity smiled, though the quizzical crease of her brow remained. As Captain Red Coat was busy admiring his reflection for what was probably the first time since he earned those scars, she trotted on over to me, and said sotto voce, "A royal warrant would give my business a boost in these difficult times, but I can scarcely imagine you of all ponies being so generous with yours."

"Is it so hard to believe I just want to support small, independent businesses?" I said with mock indignation.

"Yes!" she hissed.

"Fine. I want you to make me a suit of star spider silk armour like the Royal Guard of ancient times; something I can wear underneath my uniform and cap, and will give me some modicum of protection the next time I'm thrust in the way of some very angry and hungry Changelings."

She hummed and tapped her chin with a hoof, while I tapped a forehoof on the ground to affect a sense of impatience. In truth, I was desperately anxious; this might be the only opportunity for me to get some damned protection without Pencil Pusher eviscerating me for going against regulations.

"If you think you can actually do it," I said. Rather like Rainbow Dash, the best way to get her to do something is to imply that she can't, but only if it involves fashion.

"Darling." Rarity stroked her hoof through her mane and stuck her nose up in the air, and with the utmost formality, she fixed me with a piercing gaze that made me consider my little jab might have pushed her a little too far. "I can make anything the client desires. We can source enough silk from the Castle of the Two Sisters, and Twilight's library is sure to have some ancient tomes detailing the proper techniques. The question, however, is simply a matter of cost. I fear it might be a bit pricey, even for you."

I held up a hoof and shook my head dismissively. "I never discuss money," I said, giving my best impression of my father sneering at a common clerk. "Have your staff contact mine, and we can come to some arrangement. I trust that would be satisfactory?"

It would, but in hindsight I should have at least attempted to negotiate the price down, as vulgar as that would have been; the cost would prove to be rather steep even for a pony as fabulously wealthy as I, and would force me to open up the Sanguine Palace to the lowest and most disgusting creatures on Faust's divine creation, tourists, in order to recoup the rather hefty fee Rarity would place on her services. No price was too high for me to improve my chances of survival even by a tiny amount, however, and in the coming months, and indeed for the rest of my life, that sentiment would be vindicated a thousand times over. Having peasants, some of them not even ponies but foreign creatures, wander through my home, taking photographs of my family heirlooms, dragging their hooves and claws and Faust-knows-what-else over my carpets, and harassing my servants, was a tiny price to pay for even the slightest leaning of the odds for my survival.

Author's Note

Most of this chapter was written while I was sick with what I suspect may have been the coronavirus.

Now wash your hands.

Chapter 7

Regardless of her feelings either way towards Yours Truly, Rarity remained a consummate professional for the most part, except when she measured my neck and had wrapped her tape measure there a little too tightly for comfort. As with any Saddle Row tailor, she refrained from vocalising the peculiarities of my unique physique, having jumped from drunken overindulgence to military austerity and back again in a short space of time, and instead jotted them down in that impenetrable code in her notebook. Only when I removed my clothes, standing as naked as the common pony and revealed the veritable portrait of scar tissue on my back did her facade slip, gasping quietly in shock at the rippling lines that marred it.

Nevertheless, she got what she needed to start on the set of armour, plus a lounge suit in a grey check to maintain some level of cover. It would certainly raise eyebrows with my fellow aristocrats in the Imperial Club to walk in wearing a suit made by a brand new tailor without centuries of tradition, but if she was truly as good as the populist fashion magazines' incessant proselytising, then the quality of the garment should speak for itself.

As for the star spider silk armour itself, as I had requested a rush order, Rarity assured me that it would be ready in five days time and that it could be collected from her new store in Canterlot. My desire for secrecy around this 'insurance', as I liked to refer to it, might come across as undue paranoia on my part, but in war, as in games of chance, one never revealed the metaphorical ace up one's sleeve. Besides, I would not put it past a few of my fellow officers, particularly a certain former criminal, to attempt to steal it were they to discover it. Red Coat, at least, remained in awe of me enough to maintain his discretion.

With that finished, Red Coat and I went back to the castle to prepare for the party. His transformation was nothing short of astounding; at Rarity's insistence, he had undertaken the journey back wearing his ceremonial dress tunic, complete with a spare cap that she had lying around and generously donated. It's amazing what insouciantly unbuttoning the stiff collar of the tunic, balancing the cap at a rakish angle, and a pep-talk from a Bearer of an Element of Harmony can accomplish. Scars aside, he looked to be the purest ideal of a noble defender of Equestria. At the seamstress' instructions, he stood a little taller and straighter, but not so much as to appear to have a rigid metal pole inserted somewhere uncomfortable, and overall he carried himself with a sense of confidence that was lacking in his demeanour before. Now, as he strode alongside me through the streets of Ponyville, his disfigurements were no longer an aspect of his to be pitied, mocked, or feared, but had become a badge of honour in the eyes of the common pony - a symbol of sacrifice in the name of Harmony.

Of course, none of this would have been necessary if Red Coat and his family hadn't been caught up in the war fever, likely drummed up by Princess Luna as she searched for willing ponies to lead her Night Guards. I wondered if he had ever visited home since that awful night, and if his father was proud of the son returned mutilated and scarred. That was none of my concern, however, beyond my job as a glorified counsellor for an entire battalion of ponies insecure and maladjusted enough to volunteer for military service, and I had a party to prepare for, anyway.

This time, our journey to the castle proceeded without any further distractions, and before long I was back in the relative solitude of my guest room. It turned out that this unpacking business was rather more complicated than Drape Cut had made it look, and I was quite at a loss as to where exactly my clothes, toiletries, and other bits and bobs should be stored. Eventually, I worked out the functions of a clothes hanger through trial and error, and my evening clothes were stored away in a state of relative neatness in readiness for tonight, and everything else was merely strewed across the dresser top. I became acutely aware of just how helpless I was without servants to do these sorts of things for me, but that was what I paid them for, after all.

I passed the time until the party in relative solitude; there is a very limited amount of effort that I can allocate to being the sort of interesting and sociable Prince that everypony expects me to be, and though it could be sustained by a steady supply of alcohol and hors d'oeuvre, there comes a point where even I tire of exchanging witty badinage with my fellow nobles and would rather be by myself. Fortunately, Twilight's library provided both privacy and entertainment; the former in that the Princess herself was distracted by the preparations and the guests were off enjoying the very limited sights of Ponyville (there's a bell tower and I think that's it as far as tourist attractions go), and the latter in the sheer number of books on offer. I attempted to grapple with The Teleportation Treatise, thinking that learning how to instantly remove myself from danger would prove invaluable, before I realised that it would take more than a single afternoon to learn what Twilight mastered in a year, and I gave up completely. Instead, I became engrossed in something called Burnferno, which was more befitting my intellect.

The party itself started in the late afternoon, a few hours before Celestia and Luna were due to swap their respective astral bodies in the sky. Dressed up in that tight, restrictive ceremonial dress uniform of a commissar, I looked as though I was about to attend a funeral instead of a celebration. Though I found black to be quite flattering when it contrasted with my white fur, the stark red and the ghoulish skull motifs leant it an oppressive air that I found to be rather incompatible with what was supposed to be a happy occasion. It appeared as though it was designed by two separate ponies who absolutely refused to compromise; one of them was an experienced tailor, and the other a thirteen-year old colt addicted to comic books.

[Blueblood is partially right on this. The uniforms of the Royal Commissariat were designed by Rarity, but the winged alicorn skull symbol was designed by Princess Luna. Her initial sketches on a napkin made during a dinner with Twilight Sparkle and her friends are currently on display in the Clover the Clever Museum of History in Canterlot, along with a few other less savoury doodles.]

I therefore toned down the severe formality of the outfit with a patterned cravat tucked into the open neck of the double-breasted tunic and a flower pilfered from Twilight's garden in the lapel. The detestable cap that served as the most identifiable part of my uniform was balanced at a precariously rakish angle on my head. After a bit more preening in front of the mirror, with Cannon Fodder in place of my valet to offer advice, I was only half an hour late to a party in the same building I was already in.

Fortunately, introductions to the Princesses always took a considerable amount of time, as each pony, Yours Truly included, is desperate for any kind of recognition and attention from the universally-beloved Princess Celestia. That there were now four of them to be presented to certainly didn't help speed the process up either. The queue leading from the great hall stretched some distance out into the corridor when I arrived. While I could have used my position as her favourite (and only living) nephew to jump right at the head of the queue, as the majority of the guests were officers armed with decorative but still deadly rapiers and champagne and cocktails would flow like the Canterlot waterfalls, I thought it best to try and keep things as civil as possible this time.

I took my position at the back of the queue, behind a rather nervous-looking mare in the crimson uniform of General replete with gold braid and an assortment of medals. She shot me a rather odd look as I passed her, and as I stood there, waiting with growing impatience for the line to move forwards, I could hear her muttering under her breath. I dismissed her as a lunatic, but then again, most generals are; to attract enough attention from one's superiors to gain a promotion into the general staff and to carry out one's duties knowing that each decision means the deaths of scores of young stallions and mares, success demanded a certain separation from reality. Looking back now, I suppose that's where Crimson Arrow and McBridle fell short - they were both too normal to be successful generals.

The line moved forwards a few steps, and then the mare in front of me sighed, turned on her hooves, and stared up at me. She was a small, middle-aged earth pony, with a face and frame that reminded me of a rat or other unpleasant rodent; certainly, her nose twitching did very little to discourage me from making that comparison. Her dress uniform was untidy and clearly un-ironed, and she had chosen to replace the cap with a black beret. There was a full ten seconds of her staring up at me before she deigned to speak.

"There are catbirds in my army," she said. Her Trottingham accent was sharp, clipped, and refined; the sort that was adopted and learned, as opposed to a natural way of speaking.

"I beg your pardon?" I said, wondering if I was speaking to an escapee from a nearby mental asylum.

"Catbirds, Blueblood, in my army."

I frowned, wondering what in blazes she was on about, but then I noticed a pair of griffons standing further ahead in the queue. Both of them were incongruously wearing the older dress uniforms of the now-reformed Royal Guard, though the crisp, neat tunics were supplemented with a few items that spoke to the unique barbarism of their kind. One, who I took to be an officer senior to his companion, wore fur-lined pelisse draped over his left shoulder that looked unsettlingly real. The ponies in front of and behind them kept a fair and respectable distance, further than any of the other guests in the queue.

"You mean the PGL?" I said. "And it's Prince Blueblood, if you don't mind, or simply 'Sir' for the sake of expediency."

[The Princess's Griffon Legion (PGL) is a regiment of the Equestrian Army, and is made up of the descendents of griffons who fled to Equestria to escape the mad King Grover III's reign of terror.]

The General squinted up at me. "I am the daughter of a farmer," she said, puffing her chest out. "And now I am a general and you are not, and I will be the one to lead the Equestrian Army to final victory in the field."

"I'm sure you will," I said, unable to hold back on the sarcasm. "And you are...?"

"Market Garden." She said that as though I should have known already. Granted, if I had paid closer attention to the mountains of paperwork currently putting my desk's structural integrity to the test, I probably would have recognised one of the rising stars of Twilight's newly reformed general staff. "General Market Garden, if you don't mind, of the First Army. Princess Luna said you're going to be my special liaison. I already have one commissar peering over my shoulder, so I don't think I need another, thank you very much."

I decided that I didn't like her, and as it happened, I would later find out that I was hardly in a minority in finding Market Garden, despite whatever skill she had as a leader, to be rude and abrasive. Something, however, didn't quite add up.

"What happened to General Solitaire?"

She smiled slyly. "I had a word with the Ministry of War. Victory will require decisive action, the likes of which Solitaire and the old guard of officers have proven themselves to be incapable of taking. Crimson Arrow had no imagination and McBridle had no initiative, and neither of them had any sort of fighting spirit, which, I assure you, I have in spades. I simply made my case to Field Marshal Iron Hoof, and here I am. And here you are, working with me now."

More like keeping an eye on you, thought I. As much as her brusque manner and over-inflated sense of self-importance grated on me, if I could impress upon my superiors in the Commissariat the need for me to serve as a facilitator between a general whose appalling personality was all but bound to insult everypony who had to work with her, then I could at least have an excuse to keep myself out of harm's way. After all, she might be correct in her assertion that she was the one to bring Equestria 'final victory in the field', as she had put it, like some prophesied messiah appointed by Faust herself, but that would all be for naught if she got herself fired from that position by being rude to the wrong ponies. Not everypony can get away with it as I can, especially the commoners.

Market Garden was still talking, rambling on about the state of the war and offering her own opinions on how it should be fought and that if she was in charge from the start we would have won by now. I was only half-paying attention, with the other half distracted by the rather delectable pair of flanks on the mare just ahead of her in the queue. Fortunately, said queue started moving at a fair old pace, and I assumed that Princess Luna was getting impatient greeting each and every guest in turn instead of imbibing heroic quantities of mead and having what she called 'fun'. By the time it looked as though she was starting to suspect that I was merely nodding and saying vague affirmations in strategic points in her monologue, it was time for her to be presented to the Princesses. Based on her inflated ego, I was surprised she didn't ask the rulers of Equestria to bow to her.

It was my turn, and that decidedly one-sided conversation with Market Garden had made me all the more desperate for a drink. Having done this countless times, I kept my greetings short and professional, knowing that I would have plenty of time to chat with the Princesses later; a quick bow and an equally-brisk 'Your Highness' was sufficient to expedite this.

That, however, all fell apart when I got to Twilight. Celestia and Cadence greeted me with their usual warmth, while Luna was her typically cold and distant self. When I saw our newest Princess, however, I found myself momentarily stunned into paralysis. Where before she was plain old Twilight Sparkle, albeit with a pair of wings and ever so slightly taller, apparently having had the same treatment that Rarity had given to Red Coat earlier, she looked every inch the perfect pony princess. She wore an elegant blue and white dress that hugged and accentuated her figure, with a train that cascaded elegantly from her flanks to the floor. What was more alluring, however, was the confidence with which she now held herself; the pretty clothes were merely an accent to her natural beauty and power.

I realised I was staring at her the same way Blitzkrieg stares at a free and open bar, and rapidly collected myself and gave a hasty bow. After a brief exchange of trite greetings I was free to canter through the open set of double doors and into the hall with embarrassment flashing hotly on my cheeks.

Whatever issue there had been with the chandelier had clearly been rectified. It hung rather precariously over the hall from a vast domed roof, resplendent in glittering white crystals, sweeping silverwork, and gently glowing candles. Nevertheless, though the chain that held it suspended over the heads of dozens of party guests certainly looked sturdy enough, I decided it was best to give the space directly beneath it a wide enough berth for now.

The hall itself was of modest size. A central area, underneath the aforementioned chandelier, had been cleared for dancing, a small band played inoffensive classical music in the corner, and around the sides were tables and chairs for ponies to sit on. A larger table atop a raised platform was at the far end of the hall, reserved for the four Princesses. At my right hoof side as I entered the hall was a longer table upon which was served a variety of party snacks, sandwiches, and, most importantly, drinks. On the left, a few open double doors led to a sweeping balcony, from which one could view Ponyville in the distance and the malignant gloom of the Everfree Forest beyond.

As for the guests themselves, most of them were officers of Twilight's new Equestrian Army, and judging by the varying amounts of gold lace, medals, and other shiny accoutrements that one accumulates the further up the totem pole one climbs, there appeared to be examples of just about every rank from major to field marshal. A number of ponies were in the civilian equivalent of ceremonial dress, white tie for stallions and ball gowns for mares, and I recognised a few as senior members of the Cabinet and Bearers of the Elements of Harmony. It occurred to me, standing there and watching over all of the very important ponies congregated entirely within one room, all chatting, eating, drinking, and dancing all in that somewhat restrained way before a party truly starts, that between them and all four Princesses also being present, this was the perfect opportunity for Changeling infiltrators to decapitate Equestria's political and military leadership in one strike.

That was when I noticed the place was positively crawling with guards. There appeared to be one guard for every two guests as far as I could see, and they stood around the corners of the room and at doors and windows, and pegasi were perched like gargoyles on wall sconces. Each was in full plate armour and were fully armed for combat. The earth ponies and pegasi carried those new-fangled muskets, which a number of guests were excitedly discussing, and, to their credit, the guardsponies remained professionally detached and refused to demonstrate how they worked in spite of the persistent nagging. Looking around with a fresh appreciation for security, as my habitual paranoia kicked in once I became aware of just how big a target had been painted on Auntie 'Tia's rather large flanks, I spotted the unicorn guards discretely moving between the groups of ponies and surreptitiously scanning them.

Though I assured myself that security was tight enough to dissuade even Queen Chrysalis from so obvious a target, the weight of my sword hanging from my belt was immensely reassuring, especially after last time. I also noticed that most of the other guests were likewise armed, though I wagered most of those swords and hoof-pistols that adorned the officers and the odd civilian had never been drawn for their intended, practical use at all.

I made a beeline for the drinks, my highly-polished horseshoes tapping on the marble floor as I crossed the hall at a brisk pace. A few heads naturally turned in my direction, as I apparently made some sort of dramatic entrance, which I put down to a level of superficial charm I have always been able to project without effort. Passing the soft drinks, fruit juices, and Apple family cider left out for the tedious sort of killjoy who doesn't drink alcohol, I grabbed a flute of champagne. A quick sip confirmed it to be of an acceptable vintage; perfectly drinkable but unremarkable, but it would do for now.

I turned around, only to be met face-to-face with a bright pink earth pony. Her nose was mere inches from my own, and she wore a grin so broad that it appeared to take up more than half of her entire face. Messy hair like cotton candy and a dress decorated with candy motifs confirmed that this was none other than the infamous Pinkie Pie, whom I had glimpsed from afar at the Grand Galloping Gala so long ago. I let out a short, violent exclamation and flinched back, bumping my rump into the table behind me and knocking over a plate piled high with canapés.

"Hi, Mister Blue-Buddy!" she exclaimed.

"What did you just call me!?" I roared, almost snapping the champagne flute in half. A few ponies turned to look, but I ignored them.

Damnation, what was the point in sending earth ponies to school if they don't learn how to address their social betters correctly? First that Market Garden filly, and now Pinkie Pie. I blamed Twilight, of course, for remaining too familiar with these commoners so they forgot their instinctive awe of royalty. However, that Pinkie Pie was, against all logic and reason, a Bearer of an Element of Harmony and therefore some shade at least of nobility, not to mention a popular heroine and a universally-beloved party planner, probably meant that I shouldn't toss my drink in her face.

"It's Prince Blue-Buddy to you," I hissed through gritted teeth. "Not 'mister'; that's for common stallions."

"Oo-ooo-oo!" She pulled back to a more comfortable distance. "What are you a prince of, exactly? I mean, Celestia is the princess of the sun, Luna is the princess of the moon, Cadence is the princess of love, and Twilight is the princess of friendship."

My initial shock of anger had rapidly deflated, though that might have been because I had been quaffing down that champagne much too quickly. Perhaps, after all, this was an opportunity to educate her on how to approach royalty correctly.

"My distant ancestor took the title of Princess of Blood, but my family hasn't used that for hundreds of years."

Then, the deluge of words began - unceasing, without pause for breath or thought. I cannot describe adequately being subjected to a Pinkie Pie ramble in mere words, but I shall endeavour to replicate what little I can remember of the nonsensical tirade, flitting as it did between different subjects within the same sentence as her mouth struggled to keep up with the sudden and violent changes of topic within her mind. All of this was accompanied by a great deal of mad gesticulation and physical props she had summoned from somewhere. It was like being held beneath a waterfall, unable to escape or do anything but stand there and accept one's fate. Try as I might to interject, there was no stopping her without clamping her mouth shut by either physical or magical means, which I doubted would do much to help anyway.

"Does that mean you're in charge of all of the blood in Equestria? Like, the blood flowing in everypony's veins right now? That's so cool! Because sometimes when I'm lying in bed playing with Gummy, he's my pet baby alligator, and he suddenly comes up with this really, really, really fun idea for a special kind of pie for Rainbow Dash's birthday. You know Rainbow Dash, right? She's my friend and she loves my pies and I bake one for her every birthday, Hearth's Warming, Summer Sun Celebration, Winter Moon Festival, Nightmare Night, and Tuesday! Anyway, what Gummy comes up with is so unbelievably amazing that I just have to write it down before either of us forget it. So I jump up out of bed to get to my notepad before the awesome idea leaves my head, but then my head goes all 'whoa' and I have to lie down again. By the time I stop feeling dizzy I've forgotten the super-cool pie idea - the 'pie-dea'! Twilight said it's because I'm standing up so quickly that my blood can't keep up and get to my head in time. If you could tell my blood to stop being so lazy and keep up with the rest of me, then that would save so many pies!"

Over the course of that insane rant I had completely drained my first glass of champagne and started on the second. Being a little bit tipsy didn't help me understand it any better, and I'd need a damn sight more drink in me before I could. Finally, however, I was allowed to speak:

"'Blood' is an Ancient Equestrian symbol for the Herd's fighting spirit and determination to never give up in the struggle for Harmony. More recently, it’s come to mean the purity of the noble unicorn bloodline descended from Princess Platinum."

Pinkie Pie carried on. What she said, I simply can't tell you, as I had given up on even trying at that point. Instead, I looked past her to find anypony who might come to my rescue; the Princesses were still busy with the introductions, Red Coat was chatting up some young mare and looking very dashing as Rarity had promised, and Sunshine Smiles was wrapped up in a conversation with his new best friend Shining Armour and the two griffons. I'd have even settled with listening to General Market Garden drone on endlessly about how she was going to personally win the war all by herself, presumably by lecturing Queen Chrysalis to death.

"...and that's how I found out Applejack and me are your cousins!"

That jolted me out of my fugue state. Almost choking on my champagne for a second time that night, I struggled to find a way to articulate an appropriate reaction to that particular piece of utter nonsense. "What?" was all that I could manage on such short notice.

"Gee, Prince Blue-Buddy, it's almost like you weren't paying attention to a word I said!" She then waved over at a group of nearby ponies. "Hey, Applejack! Come and meet your new cousin!"

I recognised her instantly, the Bearer of the Element of Honesty who had baked the enormous cake that had ruined a perfectly innocent dinner jacket. Applejack trotted on over, grinning inanely, and if I didn't know any better I'd say the two of them had planned this.

"I'll be," she drawled, tilting her peculiar, beaten old hat back so that she might have a chance of looking me in the eye. "Is that true, Pinkie? Does that make us royalty?"

[Blueblood had written Applejack's accent phonetically. For the sake of maintaining readability and with respect to Applejack, I have taken the liberty of correcting this.]

"That isn't how it works," I said, feeling the pit of my stomach suddenly drop like a trap door. "There must be some mistake."

"Nuh-uh," said Pinkie Pie, shaking her head. "Now, listen carefully this time. The Apple Family is really, surprisingly, stupendously good at keeping records. Goldie Delicious has the paperwork to prove it; your great-great-great-Grandpa Pureblood and Applejack's great-great-Aunt Jonagold Apple got really friendly, like really, really, really friendly, and their love-foal was Applejack's Great Uncle Empire Apple."

"Well, now," said Applejack, sidling over to my side and playfully jabbing her elbow into my ribs. "What do y'all make of my 'common carnival fare' now, cousin?"

"I don't think that actually makes us cousins," I sneered. "In any case, the College of Heralds would never approve an application based on such tenuous grounds." [The College of Heralds is a royal corporation that oversees all matters of heraldry and peerage in Equestria on behalf of the Princesses. Its remit includes genealogical research and recommendations of the granting of peerages.]

"Well, bless your heart." Applejack waved her hoof dismissively at me. "We ain't fussed about titles and all that, and I don't need no fancy ponies to tell me who's my kin and who ain't. Besides, it ain't really up to me to judge whether you and yours are Apples or not; that'll be up to Granny Smith, but I reckon I could put in a good word for you, cousin."

"Ooh!" exclaimed Pinkie, jumping up and down on the spot like an excitable puppy. "We could have the next Apple family reunion at Blueblood's! Think about all the Apples in Equestria converging on your palace, parking their wagons on your lawn, raising a barn in your garden, dragging their muddy hooves over your carpets, drinking your drinks, taking you on a hay-ride through the streets of Canterlot for all of your fancy pony friends to see! Wouldn't that be fun? Hey, that's funny, you've turned an even whiter shade of white!"

Pinkie Pie was spared my full and honest assessment on just how 'fun' I would find all of those things, when the sharp sound of a spoon gently tapping on the side of a champagne flute cut through the noise of the room like a rapier blade. All conversation ceased and all eyes turned towards the table on the raised platform where, now that they had finally finished with the introductions, the four rulers of Equestria sat. The aforementioned glass and cutlery were held in Twilight's magic, as she rose to her hooves and cleared her throat to deliver a speech. I used this opportunity to make my escape, and as I darted to cover on the other side of the hall where hopefully I wouldn't be spotted in the crowd, I reassured myself that with the sheer size of the Apple Family and my ancestor Pureblood's rustic tastes such a connection between our families was inevitable. I also wondered how expensive it would be to have two Bearers and their entire families assassinated.

"Ladies and gentlecolts," Twilight began. Her voice was curiously flat and robotic, as though reading from a script.

The silence that had fallen on the crowd was reverent, like that of a cathedral. She looked to Celestia first, presumably for reassurance, which she received in the form of a polite nod and an encouraging smile, then continued:

"I would like to thank each and every one of you for coming to this celebration of our armed forces; it is by their continuing sacrifice that our safety and Harmony is maintained. This day marks the founding of the Princess of Friendship's Own Regiment of Prism Guards, and with it the completion of the much-needed reforms of our military. The sword of Equestria, blunted and rusted after centuries of neglect, has been re-forged, and is ready to put an end to the Changeling threat for once and for all. Colonel Fer-de-Lance, bring forth the standard."

At that command, an honour guard marched through the open double doors and into the hall to the sound of triumphant martial music. The sound of their horseshoes pounding against the marble all but drowned out the band behind them. A tall, scarred mare in a deep purple dress uniform I hadn't seen before led the procession, followed by a rather nervous-looking ensign bearing the regimental standard itself. It was purple, and bore the heraldic device of Twilight's cutie mark in the centre, framed by an alchemist's prism. There was some symbolism about the Magic of Friendship being refracted through the hearts of ponies or some such rot, but it flew right over my head at any rate.

The crowd scurried out of the way of the marching honour guard, which forged a path right up to the pedestal where the four Princesses sat. This stern-looking mare barked an order, calling a halt to the procession and, mercifully, to the music. As the silence re-settled over the crowd, she brought the trembling ensign up to Princess Twilight. It was rather difficult to see from my perspective, huddled away near the back and away from the more irritating of her friends, but fortunately my tall stature allowed me to glimpse her exchanging a few words with this Colonel Fer-de-Lance, whoever she was, before taking the limply-hanging end of the regimental standard and planting a kiss on it.

With that silly bit of ceremony over with, the party went into full swing. The Colonel joined in, though I would not have the pleasure of speaking with her that night, while the honour guard was sent packing with the standard; it was just as well, too, as I had already gotten myself into a heap of trouble just to rescue one flag and I was in no desire to repeat that whole awful affair.

From then on it was all a mad, drunken haze of flitting between clusters of officers and civilians important enough to deserve an invitation. To recount everything would be a waste of time for the both of us, dear reader, and it was without scandal or much more embarrassment than I had already suffered. Anecdotes and bon mots were delivered with their usual impeccable timing, and as the alcohol flowed and the guests became ever more merry the music rose and swelled in tempo and energy until even I felt the need to dance. In spite of the other deficiencies in her personality, Pinkie Pie had done a sterling job in this party; the strict protocols and traditions of formal parties had been maintained (her own behaviour to Yours Truly excepted), but it was still a lively and entertaining affair.

The brief interlude in the festivities for the lowering of the sun and the raising of the moon by both Princesses was a particular highlight. An hour or so after that, I realised that I had seen very little of Twilight Sparkle since her little speech, beyond the occasional glimpse of purple in the small gaps between groups of chatting ponies. Being well on my way on my journey to inebriation, I decided that I ought to rectify that; after all, seeing her again was the main draw for me in attending this party, and I'd be damned if I was going to be sent back to the frontline without at least a friendly chat. I cannot explain this need in rational terms, only a strong, emotional longing to be in her company, to hear her voice whether passionately extolling the virtues of whatever obscure academic practice held her interest that week or bemoaning my lack of ability to keep up.

I found her on the balcony after much searching and almost getting cornered again by that tedious General Market Garden. It was quite a chilly night, still being that time in Spring where the days are warm but the temperature plummets rapidly after sunset, so the balcony was quiet compared to the raucous party inside. Twilight stood at the edge, her forehooves resting on the rail as she looked over at Ponyville beyond. As far as I could make out in the gloom, the only other ponies around were a couple rather too interested in exploring the contents of each other's mouths than what their Princess was doing. Clearly, she wanted some quiet time to herself. I, on the other hoof, was much too inebriated to recognise this at the time, and stumbled on over next to her.

"That was a nice speech Princess Luna wrote for you," I said, stumbling over to her side. I'd taken another glass of champagne with me, and sipped it as I gazed out at the village.

Twilight turned her head slowly and gave me a quizzical look. "How did you know she wrote it?"

"Your speeches aren't usually so bellicose," I said, and I almost added 'mercifully short' and 'direct and to the point' to the end of that. "The bit about the rusty sword is very much something Princess Luna says too. If I had a bit for every time I've heard her use that analogy I'll finally pay off my late father's gambling debts in one go."

"I couldn't think of anything to say." She had been drinking, that much was clear, but was doing a better job than most of hiding it. I expect that a princess should never be drunk, though with princes it's more or less expected, but whatever quantity she had it was just enough to loosen her tongue for the first pony to speak to her. "I'm the Princess of Friendship, for pony's sake, and I'm making speeches about war, my face is on recruitment posters all over the realm, and now soldiers will march into battle led by a flag with my cutie mark on it. Doesn't it all sound a bit... you know?"

"Perverse?"

"I was going to say 'wrong', but that works too." Twilight sighed, and turned her gaze back to the warm, soft lights of Ponyville, whose tiny pinpricks in the distance seemed like a small homage to the majesty of the stars above. "It's just that after all I've done to get my reforms passed, all the things that I had to do to get it through Parliament, seeing that flag just now had made me wonder if the Magic of Friendship has failed us. We shouldn't have been in this situation in the first place."

Those words cut deeper than I thought they should, or it might have been alcohol-induced melancholia, and as I stood there, watching her stare forlornly into the distance, I found that I could not stand to see her look so sad. "Friendship hasn't failed," I said. "And it certainly doesn't mean you've failed, either."

"What is war but a failure of friendship to solve our differences? Perhaps if we reached out to the Changelings we could come to some sort of arrangement, and even helped them. But no, Equestria went to war, and now more ponies are going to die because we couldn't find a peaceful solution."

"Chrysalis didn't give us much of a choice," I said. "You're right about friendship, but don't you think we have an obligation to defend it, by force if necessary? It's gruesome and horrible, yes, but talking our differences out over tea and cakes only works if the belligerent wants to, and I doubt Chrysalis is all that keen on tea, anyway."

"On a rational, logical level you're absolutely right. Believe me, I've told myself this a thousand times over since that speech. But what use is friendship in war? How can it survive against all this hate?"

Twilight slumped over the balcony rail, and I feared for a moment that she might have passed out until she drunkenly lifted her head up. In the dim light, her eyes sparkled with the glow of a party that suddenly seemed so very distant. The wind had picked up, tugging at my tunic, and I thought back to just how unpleasant the heat of the Badlands was. In a week's time I'd be longing for this cold again.

"I don't know why I'm telling you, of all ponies," she continued in that sort of far-off voice a drunk pony uses when just rambling without much in the way of forethought. "It wasn't all that long ago you were calling me names and stealing my things and getting into fights with my brother."

"I like to think I've changed since then," I said. "You certainly have. And I think Equestria needs you more than ever now."

She appeared to be lost in thought, which I imagined was a constant peril for one as intelligent as her. "I'm not so sure," she said, at length. "I made my report and I got my reforms completed. The rest is up to the army while I do princess-things."

"Someday, hopefully soon, this dreadful war will come to an end, and both victor and vanquished will need somepony to bring them together to ensure a lasting peace. Until then, I think Equestria desperately needs its Princess of Friendship to keep it on the right path, lest this war makes us lose sight of what we're fighting for."

I was babbling by this point, merely saying the first coherent thoughts that swam up from the depths of my subconscious mind, but it seemed to do the trick. Twilight Sparkle smiled at me, and I felt a sudden and inexplicable sense of relief at that sight. And yet, though I longed to stay, the light and noise of the party beckoned me back, to once more take on the mantle that Canterlot's high society had placed on my shoulders as a high priest of senseless hedonism. Oh, the glitter of champagne in a crystal flute, the sparkle of the sequins on a pretty mare's dress as she danced across the marble, the chorus of laughter that follows a perfectly-delivered bon mot; it all sang to me in an intoxicating siren's song of soporific excess. This was the last party I would attend before returning to the front, and the knowledge of it left its sourness on every drink, snack, and pair of lips I had tasted that night, and if this was to become the last one of my life then I promised that it would be one worthy of the most depraved of my ancient family line.

"Pinkie Pie put a lot of effort into this party," I said, holding out my hoof, "and I think she'd love to see you enjoy it instead of standing out here in the cold."

She looked out into the darkness and then back up at me, then her smile grew wider. "Of course," she said, taking my hoof. "Thank you, Blueblood."

She followed me back, once more into my world of light and decadence.

***

A single ray of light cast by Celestia's rising sun streamed through a crack between the curtains and landed directly on my face. I opened my eyes, only to be blinded by it, and clenching them shut once again seemed to soften the pain only slightly. Something was beating a rhythm in my head roughly in time with my heartbeat, and whatever creature it was had also made use of my skull as a latrine before promptly dying. At some point in the night, I must have had the stuffing beaten out of me by a lover's jealous husband and then forced to run a marathon at knife-point. This, however, was all very familiar to me; this was the Morning After and I had a hangover.

Slowly, I rolled away the sweat-soaked duvet and stretched out my battered limbs as much as the bed would allow; the sheets were somewhat stuck to my body, so the process was reminiscent of unpeeling a banana. I lay there, the draft from the window cooling my coat, and I waited for the misery to end, but my mouth felt as though I had gargled with dust and I would have to answer a certain natural call soon. There was nothing for it, and sooner or later I'd have to drag myself out of bed like a vampire out of its tomb and begin the long and slow process of piecing together the events of the night before. The pounding in my brain subsided as I wiggled down and away from the accusatory beam of sunlight, and, after a moment of bracing myself for the onslaught the day would bring, I opened my eyes.

This was not my room.

It was far larger, for one, with a wide open space in the middle, a modest bookcase next to a set of double doors, a mirror plastered with photographs, and a very complicated-looking telescope by that window. My clothes were on the floor, along with a blue and white dress that looked familiar but my alcohol-soaked brain still couldn't work it out. I then saw that there was a rather large book on the bedside table, leaning drunkenly against a gramophone. Squinting until the words on the spine would stay still enough for me to read, it was titled 'Lectures on the Theory of Advanced Thaumodynamics: 2nd Edition'. There was only one pony in the world who would consider that to be appropriate for light bedtime reading, and when the name formed in my mind like an enormous billboard, I felt suddenly very awake and very sober, but no less nauseated.

Oh no.

Next to me on the bed was a pony-shaped lump under the sheets. The pounding in my head grew faster as, desperate to confirm or disprove my fears, I took the corner of the duvet with my magic and delicately rolled it back. When I saw a pair of purple flanks emblazoned with stars, the memories of the night before came flooding back, clear and shockingly vivid.

After our little discussion on the balcony, Twilight and I had rejoined the party, and we drank, talked, and danced. Or rather, I danced while she had some sort of seizure, but as nopony rushed to give her medical aid I just assumed that this was normal for her. We both carried on long into the night, after most of the other guests had left, in a veritable kaleidoscope of sybaritic excess, until it was just me, her, and the two other Princesses finishing off what remained of the food and drink. Luna drunkenly regaled us with stories of when she and Celestia were foals, complete with miming and imitations, and with only a few gentle corrections from the slightly more sober elder sister; Twilight rested her head on my shoulder as we listened on, and I recall being subjected to a few unsettlingly eager grins from Cadence.

Nevertheless, all good things must come to an end, and the Princesses all had business to attend to the following day. Being the gentlecolt that I always claimed to be but only sometimes lived up to, I escorted Twilight back to her chambers, still chatting about any old nonsense that came to mind. We stumbled through the corridor, tripping over carpets and bouncing off the walls, and could scarcely keep our hooves off one another. Once there, however, with the door closed and out of sight from other, more judgemental ponies, all pretence dropped; we tore off each other's evening clothes and fell upon one another in a spontaneous, champagne-soaked eruption of a mutual lust long-repressed by social propriety and a decade of juvenile antagonism.

Back in the present, Princess Twilight Sparkle began to stir, and I considered ducking under the bed and hiding there until I could make my escape. Too late. She rolled over to face me, her eyes flickered open, and then bugged out of their sockets when she saw me sitting in her bed with a very guilty grin on my face.

"Good Morning, Twi-"

Twilight screamed.

Chapter 8

"What are you doing in my bed?!" Twilight Sparkle shrieked. Before I could begin to answer, she screwed up her face in an expression of utmost disgust, like an infant after being fed a slice of lemon, and clamped her hooves over her clenched eyes. "Oh, Luna's full moon, we didn't, did we? We did! I remember everything!"

Gripped by panicked disgust, Twilight scrambled away in a flail of hooves and bed sheets, but her long tail had become matted to my inner thigh with substances that, shall we say, Princess Cadence would be more than comfortable discussing openly, but not Princess Celestia. [You need to buy me dinner first.] A sharp tug that painfully ripped out a hoof-full of my coat and she was free, but, apparently disorientated by the same deleterious effects of a hangover upon her motor skills that I suffered, she tumbled over the side of the bed and fell in a heap on the floor, wrapped up in the duvet like a cigar.

The door violently swung open, striking the wall with a loud 'bang' that felt like iron spikes being driven right through both ear holes. Spike stood there at the door, bleary-eyed from apparently having been woken suddenly. I assumed that his bedroom was close to Twilight's, but given the surprising volume her little lungs could manage with that scream, it was likely that the entire castle, as vast as it was, heard it. Perhaps Luna was giving her lessons in the Royal Canterlot Voice.

"What's the matter this time, Twilight?" he said, rubbing his face. His manner implied this sort of thing was a regular occurence in the household.

However, when he saw me, he looked suddenly very awake; his large eyes narrowed to slits and his lips turned back in a snarl in some sort of juvenile imitation of an angry adult dragon, only without any of the menace. Nevertheless, I couldn't help but feel more than a little perturbed, as though he may not have been able to eat me just yet, I was still very much flammable.

"Oh!" exclaimed Twilight, forcing a manic grin to her face as she skilfully unwrapped herself from the duvet. Her smile was far too wide to be anything but wholly insincere. Her voice, too, was likewise far too chipper and upbeat to truly sell the illusion that everything was, despite all outward appearances, completely fine. "Good morning, Spike!"

Spike, not being quite as stupid as he looked, arched an eyebrow. He then jabbed a stubby talon in my direction, and said, "What's he doing in your bed?"

"Prince Blueblood was, uh..." Twilight trailed off, her jaw flapping open and closed but with nothing resembling coherent words coming out.

Realising that it was down to me to resolve this awkward situation, I cleared my throat. "Well, Spike," I said, offering my best imitation of a standard Twilecture, "when a stallion and a mare like each other very much, they start to get certain urges..."

"Shut up, Blueblood!" Her horn flashed, and something clamped down on my muzzle quite firmly, such that, try as I might, I couldn't so much as move my lips let alone open my mouth. Touching it with my hoof, I found that it was encased in something that felt as smooth as glass. Try as I might, I could not dispel the spell, as my magic, being quite feeble and unrefined, seemed to slide off it like rainwater off a conservatory window. It was folly of the highest regard to even think I could attempt to undo even the simplest of Twilight's spells. Although, all things considered, it was good that she felt merciful enough to allow me to breathe, however, never one to be silenced by a mare, I decided to signal my displeasure by wordlessly mumbling and waving my hooves around. I was ignored.

"What's going on?" said Spike.

"Nothing!" said Twilight, a little too quickly. "Why don't you get started on everypony’s breakfast? We had a busy night, so we could do with lots of pancakes. Not that Prince Blueblood and I had been doing anything we shouldn't have, because we didn't!"

Faust forbid that two adult ponies have a drunken liaison together, but as I sat there, watching Spike look on dumbly as the limits of his knowledge and experience had been stretched just a little further by this revelation, I contemplated just how much trouble I could be in if this got out. My tendency towards pessimism, or simply a realistic view of a universe out to punish me for some horrendous sin committed in a past life, was only enhanced by this awful hangover, being the metaphysical sort that leaves one feeling entirely separated from the natural order of things. While I, noted philanderer, cad, and bounder, could get away with frequent dalliances with mares considered to be out-of-bounds owing to some sort of real or potential marital status, this was the one mare, outside of certain very distant family members, above me in the social pecking order. I concluded, as I sat there dumbly with Twilight's magic clamped around my muzzle, that I was in deep trouble, unless I could keep her from getting too angry; something told me that crawling out of the window and sneaking across the garden, as I am usually forced to do when caught, wouldn't be of much help here.

Spike, meanwhile, frowned and sucked in a deep breath. "Ri-iii-ight," he said. "Will he be having pancakes?"

I nodded with great enthusiasm, hoping a big serving of breakfast would help settle my churning stomach. However, Spike rolled his eyes, blew a raspberry, and slammed the door shut with a force equal to what he used to open it. Alone together once more, Twilight breathed a heavy sigh of relief, sounding like the gas being let out of a trans-continental airship, and collapsed likewise into a heap on the floor beside the bed.

After a few seconds of waiting for her to remember that I was still here and very much incapable of speaking, I crawled on over to the side of the bed. The sheets and the duvet still clung unpleasantly to my sweaty coat, such that I had to keep peeling it away as I crawled across it. Once there, I reached down and gently tapped Twilight on the shoulder, and when she flinched and looked up at me, I pointed emphatically at my muzzle.

"Oh," she said. Her horn flashed and the pressure around my jaw disappeared. "Sorry."

"That's better," I said, rubbing at my cheeks. "Now what in blazes was that all about?"

Twilight squinted up at me, and I wondered if I was about to be sent on a one-way journey to the moon or some other celestial body befitting my apparent crime. "Do we have to talk about it right now?"

I sat on the bed, with my hindlegs dangling off the edge. Resisting the sudden and inexplicable urge to pat her on the head like a faithful dog, I merely shrugged and said, "Well, no, we don't have to talk about it if you really don't want to. Instead, we can just pretend this never happened and carry on with our lives, except each time we meet again will be marred by this unresolved problem, potentially crushing a new and emerging friendship between us."

Her brow furrowed into a frown. "Are you saying we're friends?"

"With benefits." Don't look at me (this manuscript?) like that, there was no way in Tartarus I or any other stallion could resist saying that. Her retort, however, came in the form of a rather large and heavy pillow, wrapped in purple magic, hurled with great force at my head. It connected with a 'thud' and knocked me clean over, and I lay there on the comfortable, warm bed, contemplating simply allowing the plush mattress to whisk me away back into the gentle emptiness of unconsciousness. There was no such luck, of course, as I rolled onto my side I saw Twilight had turned and lifted her head to face me, at first with a look of concern, but when she discovered that she hadn't accidentally killed me with the pillow, her exasperated scowl returned.

"No chance of round two, then?" I said, affecting a cheeky grin. Twilight growled in response, and held the pillow threateningly over my head. "I'll take that as a 'no' then."

"Look, Blueblood," she began, apparently finding some degree of solace in doing what she did best - lecturing ponies. I propped up my head on my hoof, while she laid her weapon down amidst its soft, cushiony brethren on the bed. "You might be the sort of pony who sleeps around with anything on four legs, but I'm just not that kind of mare."

"You could have fooled me," I said. "Then again, you read an awful lot, so I imagine the spectator sees more of the sport."

Twilight glared daggers at me. "You wanted to talk about this, so if you could just be serious about it..."

"What's there to be serious about?" I said with a shrug. "Let's put this into perspective, shall we? We are two adult ponies who clearly drank far too much at a party and then slept together; hardly the most shocking thing to ever transpire in good old Equestria. And the fact is, Princess, if you didn't feel at least some modicum of attraction to me, there is no way you would have allowed me into your chambers and into your bed regardless of how inebriated you were."

"I guess," she said. "I mean, you're right, I did want it, but if I wasn't drunk then I don't think I would have."

"Well," I said, inching myself closer to her until my forehooves dangled off the bed, "as I said, there must have been something within the two of us for this to have happened. How about a dinner together? Come to my palace; my chef, Sous Vide, is a true artist."

"Blueblood," she said, her voice no longer angry, but soft. My stomach dropped and my heart felt like it was caught in a vice; I knew that tone of voice all too well, as it was the same one that I used in similar situations with the roles reversed. "I like you, Blueblood, and I'd be lying if I said there was nothing between us. And, I have to admit, last night was fun. But I think you know as much as I do that it couldn't work out between the two of us, just yet, I mean."

So, this is what it was like, thought I, and I didn't like it. Embarrassed and angry, I hopped off the bed and gathered up my clothes that had been hurled onto the floor in that night of passion, while she watched with what looked like a shamed expression on her face.

"I'm sorry," she said, watching me awkwardly.

"Don't be," I said, trying to fold up my ceremonial dress tunic but getting it completely wrong, so I just bundled it up and draped it over my back. Drape Cut could press it later. "Like you said, it was just 'fun'. I'll buck anything with four legs and a pretty flank, and that night it just had to be you. It could have been any one of those mares at the party - Rainbow Dash, Applejack, Market Garden - but I picked you."

"I'm not saying it'll never work," snapped Twilight, somewhat defensively. "I don't know why you're suddenly acting like this. You just said there's nothing to be serious about. Unless, you really think there is."

That realisation struck me like a velvet glove slapped across my muzzle. I stood there in mute horror as I understood that, as with most things, she was completely and utterly right. Just why did I react like that? Unless, deep down within me I really did think that there was at least the potential for something more than a brief fling. Either way, I was a damned fool for thinking that Princess Twilight Sparkle of all ponies would be the one to fill it, or that she'd be at all interested in exploring the slightest hint of a potential relationship.

"No," I said, making my way to the door. "There's nothing, Your Highness. Like I said, we got drunk and did something silly together, and nothing more."

"We can still be friends," she said, holding out her hoof. "We'll write to each other."

"Of course." I should have said something, but there was nothing that I could say to magically make this better; it was better to allow this to linger in awkwardness and then die a quiet, dignified death than to drag it out for longer until even friendship between us would become impossible.

I stepped through the door and shut it behind me. The castle appeared to be empty, as I expected the majority of the guests were still recovering from hangovers, so nopony saw me lean against the cool, crystalline wall and beat my hoof into the side of my head until I felt suitably chastised for my idiocy. This was all still salvageable, I hoped, but it would take a damned sight more honesty and work than I thought I was worth. Perhaps Drape Cut might have a plan.

Aside from a brief run-in with Colonel Fer-de-Lance looking for the kitchens, I made it back to my guest room without much further issue. Once there I had a cold shower in the en suite bathroom, which did much to clear my head, as though the soap and water cleansed the fog from my mind as it did the filth and sweat from my coat. The sound of running water and the rare sense of isolation allowed me time to reflect; my track record with relationships, by which I mean genuine relationships with mares and not the sort of until-dawn-do-us-part dalliances that I was used to, was abysmal, bordering on non-existent. Faust knows I have had as much yearning for companionship as much as any stallion; yet a reputation for a caddish disregard for the feelings of my temporary partners and a view of marriage warped by an aristocratic system, which views such things only in terms of political gain, meant that the moment I felt anything greater than base lust, I had little to no comprehension of how to act upon it appropriately.

So, that was that, I decided. Whatever it was that I thought I had felt, and as I had explained to Twilight years ago in that dreadful siege, feelings of affection were luxuries that aristocracy, of which she was now a member, were denied. There was nothing to do except to bury those emotions, steel oneself, and carry on with a veneer of noble aloofness. That shower probably took a bit longer than I had planned, but it did the trick; feeling a damned sight less embarrassed than before, but not quite up to my usual self, I dried myself off and gathered up my clothes.

The application of a crisp white dress shirt, a well-cut navy blazer with flattering shoulder pads, drape, and a nipped waist for a masculine silhouette, and a louche cravat around one's neck did wonders for one's sense of well-being. After half an hour or so of preening in front of the mirror, suitably armoured for the day ahead and with those frightful scars of mine concealed, I was ready for what I knew would be an awkward and uncomfortable breakfast.

Breakfast was held in one of the smaller of the many dining rooms that the Tree of Harmony had so thoughtfully provided for Twilight Sparkle, apparently having decided that, as Princess of Friendship, she might be called upon to host a number of dinner parties for different guests separately but simultaneously. [The simpler and more logical explanation is that there were a large number of empty rooms that had to be furnished by Twilight herself, resulting in many rooms with the same purpose.] Compared to the party of the previous night, it was a much quieter and more restrained affair. When I arrived, a number of the guests who had stayed the night were already present and tucking into plates of pancakes. The room was of a modest size, at least by my standards, with a number of circular tables dotted around the place and each with four or five chairs. About half were occupied by officers, either naked or in civilian clothing, and each in wildly varying states of hangovers; General Market Garden looked to be completely fine, Colonel Sunshine Smiles looked merely tired, Cannon Fodder was happily stuffing his face with pancakes with his usual lack of regard for the appetite of others, while Captain Red Coat appeared to be completely and utterly comatose. [General Market Garden did not drink that night, as she was a teetotaller.]

I spotted Twilight Sparkle at the table with Sunshine Smiles and Red Coat, while the other three Princesses had spaced themselves out in the room and had sat with the other guests. For a moment, our eyes met across the room, before she blushed, looked away, and resumed her conversation with Sunshine Smiles. Now, I had a choice; sit somewhere else and make further awkward eye-contact with her across the room, or sit at that same table and try to carry on as though I hadn't been drunkenly riding below her crupper just a few hours ago. The latter seemed like the best option, and I trotted on over, weaving around the tables and chairs, and sat down beside her.

"Good Morning, Princess!" I said cheerfully, and then nodded to the other guests. Sunshine Smiles reciprocated in the usual way, while Red Coat waved his hoof lazily in my direction and then proceeded to rest his head on the table. Twilight, however, apparently did not expect me to be so bold in my endeavour to pretend that everything was fine, and spluttered out a bewildered greeting followed by an awkward chuckle.

Spike then waddled on over, bearing a plate piled high with pancakes, fruit, and cream. He wore an apron stained with flour and fruit juice, and upon his head was a tall, white chef's hat that was crumpled a little in its middle. His face twisted into a snarl as he tossed my plate onto the table with some force and then stomped away as angrily as his stubby little legs would allow him to. There was a face on the pancakes made out of blueberries, strawberries, and whipped cream, and while everypony else's bore a happy countenance, mine did not. It was the very definition of anger and hatred given form in the medium of breakfast; its strawberry eyes, whipped cream frown, and maple syrup snarl spoke of a deep, fundamental loathing of my very existence that thus far has not been replicated in any other art form since. I had to commend Spike for it. If his intention was to convey the utmost displeasure of what I had done with his alleged 'sister' then he had done so most eloquently.

Somepony sat on the vacant seat to my right, and when I looked up to see who it was I saw that exact same hatred reflected in the face of Shining Armour. Before I could say a word, he grabbed my blazer's lapels with his hooves and pulled me so close that our muzzles were less than an inch apart.

"Shining!" whispered Twilight from my left. Everypony else on the table stopped and watched, except for Red Coat, who had fallen asleep on his pancakes. "What are you doing?"

"Listen very carefully, Blueblood," hissed Shining Armour, his voice barely above a whisper and positively dripping with rage and contempt. "I know what you did, you pig, and if you so much as even look at my sweet, innocent little Twiley again I'll rip you a new- a new... oh, geeze, Blueblood, the look on your face!"

Shining Armour, Prince-Consort of the Crystal Empire and former Captain of the Royal Guard, broke into a fit of hysterical laughter. Bewildered, confused, and still more than just a bit terrified, I managed to push his hooves away from my lapels, doing my best to smooth down the crumpled fabric, so I could just slump back in my seat and watch, dumbfounded at the display. Indeed, everypony on the table was looking at him, and I spotted Cadence, who sat on the other table entertaining another group of officers, trying to conceal a giggle by daintily holding a small teacup to her lips.

"That was too easy," said Shining Armour, once he managed to recover enough to speak, though his face was still twisted by a huge grin. He then glanced under the table, leaned in close, and whispered into my ear, "You didn't wet the floor, did you?"

I spluttered out a hasty response: "Certainly not!"

"Shining," said Twilight, hissing from my other side. "That wasn't nice, and how in Celestia's name did you find out, anyway?"

"Spike told me," he said with a casual shrug. "He thought he could get me to beat Blueblood here into a messy pulp, just like old times. I mean, you're both grown-up ponies, aren't you? And Blueblood's helped me out of a few scrapes before, anyway, so I'll let him have this one. Can I get some pancakes too, please?"

He got his pancakes, and the rest of the meal proceeded with a tense sort of formality. Aside from that odd display from Shining Armour, everypony carried on with a very hostile sense of etiquette that reminded me perfectly of my foalhood meals with my parents, when they deigned to allow me to dine with them. Conversation, such as it was, was terse, tense, and unfailingly polite, and never drifted once from society's pre-approved 'safe' topics such as the weather, local sports, and the on-going conduct of that murderous war to the south. Twilight remained the consummate hostess, apparently having suppressed whatever feelings she had towards Yours Truly following our little spat earlier, though an experienced socialite such as I could detect the thin cracks in that regal facade.

Colonel Sunshine Smiles was the first to leave, and he took Captain Red Coat, slipping in and out of varying stages of lucidity, with him. Once I had finished my plate of pancakes and my tea, I saw no reason to linger any longer than I had to, and so spared Twilight any further embarrassment. I said my farewell, curt and polite, and as I got up to leave, however, her hoof brushed against mine and lingered there briefly.

"Good luck out there," she said, giving my foreleg a light stroke. "Make sure you come back in one piece."

"Yes, that's the goal in war, is it not?" I said; it was the sort of thing Commissar Blueblood the Hero was supposed to say, complete with a cocky grin and perhaps a wink. Nevertheless, we said our goodbyes and I trotted on back to my room to pack for the train ride home, though as I left the dining room, I could feel Twilight's eyes lingering on the back of my head.

The journey back was uneventful, being spent catching up on lost sleep, and as was much of the remainder of my stay in Canterlot, barring two incidents of note. The first was picking up my star spider silk armour from Rarity's shop in Canterlot, the Canterlot Carousel. Unlike her Ponyville boutique, this was more in keeping with the usual aesthetic of traditional haberdasheries, as the space afforded by the more rural shop was a luxury in our capital's older districts. Rarity herself was still in Ponyville or gallivanting off somewhere at the whims of some magical map, which was just as well as I’d rather not risk her wrath if she had found out what I had done with Twilight, so instead I was taken care of most agreeably by a tall, leggy mare from Trottingham named Sassy Saddles.

That minor dalliance aside, the armour itself proved to be everything that I had desired; it fit like an undershirt beneath my dress shirt and tunic, and a few careful tests with one of the many swords in my palace's armoury proved it to be at least resistant to cutting and stabbing, if not fully proof. It would, however, prove to be an effective insurance for when I faced the enemy in battle once again. As a garment, however, it was certainly as beautiful and elegant as Rarity had promised. Despite it being a form of functional armoured underwear, her dedication to the craft of tailoring certainly showed through in every single stitch. The fabric itself was wonderful too, having a soft, satin sheen to it that belied its strength and durability. I wondered if I could have ties made out of this stuff, and hopefully without nearly bankrupting my estate again in the process.

I trust readers, whosoever finds this document long after I have passed (I hope), will not think me a braggart for having written about my liaison with Princess Twilight Sparkle; while sleeping with an alicorn princess certainly did wonders for my self-esteem in the short-run, once I got over the subsequent rejection, in the long-term there were unpleasant consequences which, in hindsight, I really ought to have seen coming. Drape Cut, being rather more perceptive than I, gave one of his rare but insightful instances of unasked-for advice. I remember it clearly, along with the icy sensation of dread that crept up through my bowels as he explained while serving me my afternoon tea.

"If you'll permit me, sir," he said, laying the tray of scones and tea on the table in the drawing room. "Rumours of your amorous relations with Princess Twilight Sparkle have circulated amongst my colleagues in the Adytum Club. I feel that it is in your best interest, if I may be so bold as to step beyond my bounds, to remind you that Her Royal Highness the Princess of Friendship is not the frustrated wife of a noble-stallion nor a Prench courtesan. I fear that if this indiscretion was to be made public, it would have the potential to escalate into a scandal that no amount of generous donations to our educational facilities can distract from. Especially, sir, when one considers certain members of your own family would no doubt see this as an opportunity to make a move against your title."

[Prince Blueblood had the habit of deflecting criticism of his numerous scandals in his late teens and early twenties by making generous donations to schools and universities across Equestria. These donations were often made without any thought as to how these institutions would use them and were far in excess of their actual needs, leading to such instances as Ponyville Elementary School having five hundred microscopes for a class of eighteen students and the University of Canterlot founding the Prince Blueblood Endowed Professorship of Equine Sexuality.]

I hadn't considered that, but now that it had been brought to my attention, the increasingly frequent visits from my sisters suddenly made a whole lot of sense. Sangre and Azul, identical twins who had been married off to Prench nobles who also happened to be a pair of identical twins, had never attempted to hide their envy of my taking of the regal title simply because I had the good sense to be born first.

"Power," one of them, Sangre, I think, had said, when I had lost patience with the two of them haunting my palace's drawing room one day and I demanded to know what they wanted.

"Yes, power," said the other, probably Azul. I never did work out how to differentiate between the two despite growing up with them, but as they spent nearly every waking hour together and were physically and psychologically identical to the point of obscenity, there was very little point in treating the two of them as separate individuals. They were one pony spread across two bodies, and their husbands were no better.

"I meant right now," I explained. "And other than power."

"To tell you that your behaviour is unbecoming of a prince," said one, "and that Papa would be very disappointed if he could see you."

"You've become popular with the lower orders," said the other. "And popularity is so terribly vulgar. It would be better if somepony more deserving had your title."

They were referring to themselves, though how they would agree to share one title between the two of them I don't think they had worked out yet. Presumably Sangre, born two minutes and thirty-three seconds before Azul, would take it should anything happen to me. Though I was safe in the knowledge that while the both of them, and many others in my extended family, wanted that which gave my life some modicum of meaning, they were all far too lazy and indolent to do anything at all about it besides complain. However, should this silly little affair with Twilight erupt into a scandal beyond my power to control, they wouldn't have to do much to take what they had wanted their entire lives.

At least I could rely on Twilight Sparkle keeping quiet out of sheer embarrassment, hardly being the sort herself to boast about such things anyway, and through her influence the discretion of Shining Armour, Spike, and her friends could be maintained. As for the others at the table, Colonel Sunshine Smiles' was hardly the sort to gossip and Captain Red Coat was barely aware of what was going on around him. Anypony else at the party who had somehow discovered what the two of us had gotten up to that night could be dismissed as spreading scurrilous rumours aimed at besmirching the honour of a national heroine. With the initial panic over, cold and rational thought reassured me that all would be well. At least, however, until I got to the front, when I would have more immediate problems to deal with.

Speaking of which, I expect I have rambled on about my time in Canterlot for far too long. The pony who finds this document will likely agree with that, and wonder why I spent all of this parchment and ink to write about parties and tailoring and politics instead of the exciting battle. The answer to that is simple - I'd much rather write about such trivial things than that particular piece of horror. Nevertheless, I feel that I must exorcise those demons from my mind and my dreams, and perhaps doing so will give my last years in this mortal realm some degree of peace.

The 1st Battalion of the Night Guards, of which I was the unhappy commissar, had completed its re-training and was to be sent to the front. There it would be joined by the rest of the Guards Division and the First Army for what Field Marshal Iron Hoof was euphemistically calling 'the Big Push'. In order to prepare for it, I, as political officer, was to be sent on ahead to do something, I wasn't sure what exactly, to make sure the battalion's arrival would be as smooth as possible. I spent about a day or so considering chartering a one-way flight to Klugetown and claiming political asylum there now that the slavers there had been dealt with, but I wagered Luna would follow me even to that benighted little spot on our fair continent. Considering what was happening there, concurrent with the war and unknown to ponykind at the time, it was a good thing I saw sense. [The Changeling Wars coincided with the Storm King's seizure of power in Klugetown, in the aftermath of the Royal Guard's prior campaign against the slavers there.]

So that was that; back to the front. That's such a simple phrase for something that held so much horror and dread for me, and though it was always there in the background throughout my stay in Canterlot, leaving its bloodied hoofprints over everything I saw, it still felt quite distant and remote, such that when the day finally approached it was quite a shock. I spent the night before in a horrendous state, alternating between fitful sleep with strange dreams and just sobbing into my pillow, but though the night dragged on with the maddening tedium of insomnia, the dawn finally came as it must always do.

My uniform, new armour, weapons, and a few personal affects were packed up in a suitcase and given to Cannon Fodder, who had come to collect me. I made a round of farewells to my loyal staff who would continue to look after the palace and my affairs for me, and then it was off to the station.

I felt sick for the entire journey, and not just because I was stuck next to Cannon Fodder for hours on end in an enclosed train carriage. What should have been a very pleasant journey in which I could read, ponder, or just watch the majesty of Equestria rush past was ruined utterly by the thought of the dreadful fate that awaited me; one that had I not wasted those weeks and months in Canterlot pretending it was not to come I might have found a way to weasel out of. The hours bore on, and the green and pleasant heartlands became the parched plains of the south, and there was a dreadful sense of déjà vu as I repeated that same journey I had made those years ago when I began my unhappy career.

This time, however, we did not stop off at Dodge Junction but carried on, the carriage having off-loaded all of its civilian passengers by now. The train slipped through Black Venom Pass on the new supply line, past the logistics depot, and finally stopped just outside Fort E-5150, now given the less unwieldy and more apt name of Fort Nowhere. Having reached the end of the line and my destination, we disembarked, emerging into the harsh sunlight, blistering heat, and choking humidity of the Badlands, onto the very last outpost of civilisation. It all felt very terribly, dreadfully familiar; rather like returning to an abusive home, I imagine.

The fort had changed much since I was last there, being evacuated in a stretcher. Over the course of the Twilight Sparkle Reforms and the resulting build-up of the new First Army, this tiny pre-Equestrian outpost had been transformed into a vast encampment that would, in the near future, house over fifteen-thousand troops. [I Corps, which was to lead the offensive into the Badlands, and consisted of the Guards, 3rd, 7th, and 12th Divisions.] The keep and its walls were now little more than a miniscule portion of this entire camp, which sprawled out in a mass of tents and primitive wooden structures all around the formerly empty plains that surrounded it.

The train might have deposited me on the outskirts, but I was still greeted with a veritable hive of activity. The ponies and mules of the Logistics Corps had mobbed the goods wagons and set about unloading the supplies that keep an army marching, but beyond the creaky wooden platform a seemingly endless swarm of soldiers marched, drilled, trained, or just sat around off-duty in a clearing ringed by tents.

Entering a military camp of this size is an assault on all senses, and can be utterly overwhelming for those unprepared for it. The sight of so many ponies, the sound of incessant chatter, barked orders, and marching hooves, and indeed the smell of what was effectively a medium-sized town crammed into a relatively small space, devoid of the luxuries of privacy and solitude we take for granted, was incredible and unsettling; this was to be my life now again, either for the next couple of years or until something terrible happens to me, whichever came first.

"Do you see anypony here to collect us?" I asked. The stench of Cannon Fodder's body odour, overpowering even that of the camp's inhabitants, alerted me to the fact he had finished collecting my luggage and had emerged onto the platform by my side.

"No, sir," he said, looking dumbly around at the platform. The remaining few officers on the train had disembarked with us and were soon swallowed up by the crowds, and often getting in the way of the loggies trying to offload and organise the crates of supplies. My orders had been to report to General Market Garden, and I had assumed that somepony, likely a low-level staff officer with the ink on his Academy certificate still wet, would be sent to collect me. I suppose with the excitement of the imminent Big Push, even the arrival of Princess Celestia's favourite nephew warranted no special treatment.

"Well, where in blazes am I supposed to go?" I snapped.

"The General's probably in the castle," said Cannon Fodder, ever the quiet voice of reason and logic.

That seemed as good a place to start as any, thought I, and at least in there I could get some shelter from this abominable heat. I had been standing there for less than a minute out of the shade and already had sweated right through Rarity's armour and my tunic, though it was something of a mild blessing that perspiration stains tended not to show up on black, at least until it turned a sort of grey-ish brown with all that dust. This, coupled with the incessant, droning noise, occasionally spiking with sudden bursts of activity from Faust-knows-where in the camp, meant that I was already starting to get a mild headache and an almighty thirst. The sooner I was sequestered away in my quarters, away from all of this nastiness where I could at least pretend I was back home in Canterlot during some sort of heat wave caused by vindictive pegasi whom I had neglected to tip, the better.

I was about to hop off the platform, not bothering to try and find the stairs down, when from out of the crowd emerged a familiar pony in a black and red uniform. When I saw him, I was so shocked by the incongruity between the pony I knew and the severe and formal uniform of a commissar that I could scarcely remember his name. His earnest grin, so eager to please his social betters to get even the slightest recognition, stirred up the name from my subconscious, along with a more recent memory of when I might have behaved in a rather appalling manner towards him.

"Second Fiddle?" I blurted out.

He had by now reached the platform, though standing below it he had to crane his neck further back than usual to look at me. "It's Commissar-General Second Fiddle," he said, grinning and puffing out his chest like some sort of ridiculous bird trying to establish dominance. "But just in front of the troops."

His uniform was similar to mine, being a black, double breasted tunic with red piping, a crimson sash around the waist, and a black peaked cap with a winged skull emblem, but in addition to being ill-fitting his differed from mine in the gaudy trinkets that festooned it. The severe and formal uniform had been rendered ridiculous and showy with the addition of a white sash from his right shoulder to his left hip, and yellow aiguillettes tipped with gold were wrapped around his foreleg and chest like small, constricting snakes. The epaulettes were studded with gold pips, apparently signifying his high rank, and in spite of the ever-present dust that was already staining my finery they and every button and badge shone brightly in the stark, white sunlight. Most conspicuously, however, he wore a long coat draped over his back and shoulders like a cape, fastened around the neck with a gold chain from which hung a polished enamel sun-and-moon pendant. All in all, I thought he looked unbelievably silly, as he apparently tried to convey as much authority as possible with excessive ornamentation, but in over-doing it had the precise opposite effect.

So, this was his 'exciting new opportunity', and a fortnight ago I had rendered him completely insensible with drink, smeared pitch over his cutie marks, and left him in the tender care of Canterlot's finest so I could go off and rut a stranger in peace. Judging by the way he seemed to be pleased to see me I could safely assume that he had little to no memory of the incident, or he was a damned sight better liar than I could ever hope to be and was about to cheerfully lead me straight to a gallows. At least his coat on his flanks had started to grow back, from what I could tell.

"Come on, Blueblood," he said, beckoning me over with his hoof. "Let's not keep the General waiting."

Chapter 9

Once again, I had been confronted with the terrible and inconvenient truth that my actions have consequences. Faust damn me, if I hadn't been so blinded with lust for that Prench whore, stirred up with my fear of Auntie Luna and the war itself, I'd have put what Twilight Sparkle had been preaching incessantly about over the past few years into practice and avoided a whole heap of unnecessary grief. While my impulsiveness when it comes to sating my animal desires has consistently gotten me into trouble ever since one of Celestia's ex-pupils put me in a coma for grabbing her flanks [My former student Sunset Shimmer, and Blueblood was twelve years old at the time], my instincts for weaselling out of such problems remained just potent enough for me to avoid internalising whatever lesson I should have learnt by now.

"How have you been?" I said, hoping to tease out his thoughts on the incident under the guise of making small talk. It was best to get it resolved now, lest he continue thinking about it and come to the realisation that it was, in fact, all my fault.

Second Fiddle led me through the camp towards the castle, around and through groups of tents and small wooden structures. "Busy," he said. "Very busy. It's my job to make sure the generals are all fully committed to the Big Push, and some of them are still holding onto the old way of thinking. No stomach for offence, as Princess Luna put it. Market Garden's fully onboard though, so that makes things a lot easier for us."

"Oh, yes," I said. He was walking far too quickly for comfort, almost at a trot or a canter, and I had a devil of a time trying to keep up when the crowds became a tad too dense for easy movement. I'd also lost track of Cannon Fodder, but I trusted he'd turn up before time. "I've met her."

"Have you now?" he said, his pace slowing a little, before picking up again. "She's an odd one, but she's got the offensive spirit we need. When did you meet her?"

"At Princess Twilight's party."

"Oh." Second Fiddle sucked air through his clenched teeth. "I was invited but couldn't attend, because of what happened after the Tartarus Club."

Ah, there it was, and now I had to tread quite carefully here to avoid implicating myself. "About that," I said, inflecting what I hoped sounded like genuine concern into my voice. "Why did you run off like that? I'd have seen you safely home, but I couldn't keep up, on account of my war wound, you see, and I lost you in the darkness."

I carefully left out any mention of that mare, lest it trigger some kind of sudden and involuntary recollection of the night's shameful events. He glanced around, and then tapped me on the shoulder and led me on a short diversion behind a rather large officer's tent. There, away from the eyes and ears of the common soldiery, with the exception of Cannon Fodder who could be trusted to keep quiet, he leaned in close and explained in a hushed voice:

"I don't know," he said. "I can't remember. I must have gotten a bit too carried away with the spirit of things, just like the time we found that crate of champagne in the teachers' lounge and we both drank the whole thing. Do you remember that? The prestige cuvée Princess Celestia bought for the teachers to celebrate Twilight getting the highest ever grades in the school’s history?"

"Yes, I remember." That was the incident that had directly led to my expulsion from the School for Gifted Unicorns. There were many others, of course, but that one was the final straw, so to speak.

"All I know is I ended up somewhere dark, and then some ruffians set upon me and, uh, they painted my flanks with tar or... or something! And then the guards came and I was locked in a cell until morning, and then Princess Luna had to come and fetch me. Oh, it was so embarrassing; I had to have my flanks shaved to get it off, and it took a week for my cutie marks to grow back. If only you'd been there to stop them!"

As he went on like that, I had to wonder how in Tartarus Princess Luna could ever think he was commissar material. At least I had the distinction of being in the wrong place at the right time and had managed to blunder my way, with help from Cannon Fodder, of course, into a clumsy rescue of Cadence. Then, it struck me; it was the same way he had managed to worm his way into my little gang of fellow bullies, cronies, and hangers-on in the playground - toadying. He was full of it, and it was always a challenge to work out just how sincere he was. I could scarcely believe that anypony could sound quite that pathetic without intention, but I thought it best to take him at face value for now.

"Oh, Sun and Moon!" I said with mock astonishment. "The streets of Canterlot just aren't safe anymore!"

"But I have to ask," he carried on. "Why didn't you come to check up on me? You had two weeks to pop by and see if I was well."

"Oh." Blast, I hadn't thought that far ahead. Fortunately, my knack for spinning convincing lies on the spot saved me. "I wanted to, believe me, but as a prince of the realm, journalists and photographers and the like are so eager for pictures and stories of me for their audiences to lap up in their gossip magazines. I simply couldn't risk one of their ilk finding out about what happened to you, a Commissar-General, and publishing it."

Second Fiddle smiled, genuinely it seemed, and said, "You're a true friend, Blueblood."

Well, that was a bloody relief, thought I, as we resumed our journey. We passed through the portcullis gates, the crumbling walls rendered a useless historical landmark now that the camp had stretched beyond its bounds. The courtyard had been cleared to make some sort of formal parade ground, and at this time of day it felt eerily quiet and empty when compared to the sheer noise and chaos of life beyond the walls. The only ponies around were a couple of staff officers trotting past us, each carrying books, papers, envelopes, attaché cases, and the like to and from the castle keep that loomed over us.

A few years ago, this had been the site of the bloodiest siege in Equestrian history since the Nightmare Heresy, which I had barely survived, no thanks to a certain Princess who couldn't do the sensible thing and just leave well alone. The dirt, which had turned into cloying mud by the rains, that so many ponies and Changelings had fought, bled, and died for had been neatly paved over. With the Equestrian flag wafting languidly in the stagnant, warm breeze, here, in this little isolated spot of tranquillity, one would be forgiven for thinking the war was so very far away.

Still, as my horseshoes tapped noisily on the polished stone, no doubt kept clean thanks to frequent punishment details, my mind drifted back to events that at once felt so very distant and terribly vivid in my memory. I had to ponder a question that still had yet to be answered to my full satisfaction, and would not until years later - whatever happened to all of the Diamond Dogs?

***

The keep's interior provided some measure of respite from the choking heat; the climate was still unpleasant, with the humidity feeling as though one was wading through soup, but at least I no longer had the glare of the sun in my eyes. The guards on sentry duty checked my papers and subjected me to the usual detection spell. While Cannon Fodder had been sent off to sort out my lodgings for however long I was to remain here, I was led through the claustrophobic maze of corridors and rooms and out into what was, hundreds or thousands of years ago when this place was the seat of some petty kingdom's power, the great hall.

Though the great hall had changed much, I still had a striking sense of déjà vu as I entered. With the exception of the dais, the entire place had been fully renovated; where before it had served as a wide open space for the soldiers to sleep in, it had now been converted fully into a dedicated headquarters. Desks, tables, filing cabinets, and the like filled the space, and were it not for the dozen or so ponies in barracks dress uniforms pouring over maps and tapping away noisily at typewriters, it could have looked like any conventional open plan office.

My eyes were drawn to the same dais where two years ago my fellow officers and I had huddled around a table, which was actually an ancient door panel propped up on some boxes, and discussed the deeply concerning news that we were about to be assaulted by an entire Changeling war-swarm. The makeshift furniture was now gone and had been replaced by a proper map table that could more adequately support the sheer quantity of paper, books, ledgers, compasses, inkwells, quills, pencils, rulers, and other stationery piled atop it. Against the wall, where the old throne upon which some long-dead kings and queens had planted their equally ancient behinds stood before it was thrown out to make room, was another, smaller table, upon which were many bowls of fruit, mainly cherries, and pitchers of clear water.

General Market Garden stood at the table where Captain Red Coat had that terrible night, staring intently at a map of the Badlands as though doing so hard enough would cause the entirety of the Changeling lands to spontaneously combust. A mug of hot tea, which the Trottingham ponies still insisted on drinking even in this infernal heat, was balanced precariously atop a collection of papers and photographs piled up haphazardly in a shallow mound. When she lifted it periodically to drink, which wreathed her sharp, weasel-like features in steam, a brown circle would be left behind to frame the portrait of some Changeling like a halo. A few staff officers lingered around her, and each apparently waiting for some sort of order or confirmation.

As I entered, she looked up and peered down her muzzle at me. An imperious wave of her hoof sent her underlings scurrying away for the moment.

"Ah, Blueblood," she said. The lack of the correct title still rankled me, but aside from an involuntary twitch in my left eye I like to think I'd hidden my irritation well. "I trust you had a pleasant journey?"

"Pleasant enough," I said, and then followed up that lie with an even bigger one. "It's good to be back again."

"Yes, quite." Market Garden narrowed her eyes and pursed her lips. "I'm sorry for pulling you away from your regiment early, but I wouldn't have asked for you if I didn't think you were necessary."

So, it was all her fault then, not that I would have done much more with an extra week at Canterlot. Although, perhaps I could have found a way to weasel out of my duties, perhaps get a transfer to somewhere safe, remote, and boring like the White Tail Woods or Vanhoover.

"I'm sure they can take care of themselves without me." Though I fully expected to find out that, in my absence, the entire Night Guards regiment had collapsed into an atavistic orgy of drunkenness, brawling, theft, property damage, murder, and bad language; Canterlot would be in flames and it would be all my fault for leaving them out of my sight for more than a few days. At least, that was the impression that I received from my fellows in the Commissariat whenever I had to be absent from my duties, even when I was languishing in hospital and rendered insensate with painkillers and anaesthetics.

"Right," said Market Garden. It was clear she didn't care the slightest jot for this sort of small talk, and while I had to agree that such trite conversation was beneath the both of us, I at least had the good sense not to inflict it on other ponies. At least, the ones whose presences I can tolerate, that is.

Saying nothing further, Market Garden crossed over to the table where the drinks and snacks were, taking her mug of tea with her. While she did this for whatever reason (perhaps planning another costly and inconclusive offensive worked up an appetite), I peered over at the things strewed across the surface of the table to try and discern any clues as to what sort of misery I was in for in the coming days, weeks, months, or however long this would take. The maps, aerial photographs, and scribbled notes offered very few hints that I could work out, other than that we'd be marching deeper into Changeling territory to accomplish something of some military worth. My eyes were drawn, however, to the small portrait of a Changeling, which, the more I studied it from my awkward vantage point at the opposite end of the table, began to look more and more familiar. Indeed, its stern, cold, insect-like countenance, even distorted by perspective and framed by a ring of tea stains, inspired a peculiar sort of dread in me, like something stirred up from a repressed memory, that I could just about piece together if given the time.

"Here, Blueblood, have an apple!" Broken out of my reverie, I looked up just in time to see General Market Garden grab an apple from the bowl on the snacks table and toss it at me in an exaggerated cricketer's throw. It arced gracefully through the air, as apples are wont to do when thrown with moderate force, and impaled itself squarely on my horn. "Good catch!"

Too stunned to say anything, I stood there dumbly as fresh apple juice trickled down my forehead. However, I recovered at least enough of my senses to prise the apple from my horn and mop up the juice with a hoofkerchief. I looked to Second Fiddle, who pulled an apologetic face that implied that this sort of behaviour was hardly uncommon for the General, and then jabbed in the direction of his open mouth with a hoof and mimed chewing.

"Thank you," I said. I took a bite, finding it to be delicious, despite having been stuck on my horn. In fact, I hadn't eaten for much of the train journey here, so, despite the unconventional delivery, I was actually grateful for it. Market Garden watched me for a few uncomfortable seconds while I ate the apple, and then crossed over to the table again.

"What have you been told about the upcoming offensive?" she said. "Operation Buttercup?"

"Not much," I said; in keeping with the habit of a lifetime, I hadn't read much of the small forest's-worth of literature that ended up straining the inbox on my desk to the bursting point. Very little of it was of any real use anyway, and what was I could have Cannon Fodder summarise for me in a few short sentences. "Is it the Big Push?"

Market Garden snorted and shook her head. "That's what Iron Hoof calls it," she said. "And the press."

"It's good for morale," said Second Fiddle insistently, though Market Garden just rolled her eyes and otherwise ignored him. "It's fine if you don't know the details; the specifics of the operation have been kept on a strictly need-to-know basis. We've had far too many leaks already; the damned Changelings always get through."

"They've had an easy war so far," said Market Garden. She looked over the mess of maps and charts with an eager grin. "Not any more, now that I'm in charge. My predecessors' aims were sound—to defeat the enemy decisively in open battle—but they lacked both the means and the will to do it. This time, we'll draw them out into the field by applying more and more pressure until they can stand it no longer and are forced to stand and fight. And we will do this by threatening their only means of sustenance."

"The Changelings are starving," said Second Fiddle, trotting up to the table. "That's why they attacked Canterlot in the first place; their current source of love is no longer enough to feed their growing population."

He picked up a large photograph, roughly the size of a broadsheet newspaper, and levitated it over for me to see. It was of an ancient walled city, and the pegasus must have been very high up indeed to have taken it [There is a limit to how high pegasi can fly, so the photograph described was in fact a composite made up of ones taken at lower altitudes]. A wide river bisected the city neatly into two almost equal halves, which were joined by a series of bridges of varying width. Where the river flowed into the city was a formidable but ancient castle keep, constructed so that the water ran through a culvert beneath it. It towered over small, squat, blocky houses, open squares, and narrow, winding streets, which all reminded me of the underground city the Rat Pony Tribe now squatted in, and implied that it had been built by ponies of the same culture, if not the same dead kingdom. However, even from the lofty perspective, I could still make out other, more alien structures dotted amidst them. Jagged black and grey structures that looked unlike any architecture I recognised wrapped around and over the other buildings, including the castle, like putrid lichen clinging to the edifice of gravestone.

"That's Virion Hive," Second Fiddle continued. He then placed the photograph back down on the table once I had a good look at it. "A town of some two thousand native ponies that came under Changeling occupation about a hundred years ago. There are other such settlements across the Badlands, but this is the closest one of significant size. The love stolen from towns like this is taken back to Chrysalis' Hive to provide sustenance for the entire Changeling race."

"If we threaten their supply of food," said Market Garden, "then we shall force the enemy into open battle. When the enemy is defeated in the field, we will cut off their supply of food. Then they will be forced to come to terms or risk starvation."

Well, that all sounded just fine and dandy, I'll tell you that much, but I couldn't help but detect a couple of flaws with that plan. While Market Garden's exaggerated sense of self-confidence in her abilities as a military leader was certainly a refreshing change from McBridle's frank, realistic, but ultimately depressing outlook and Crimson Arrow's singular incompetence, whether or not the size of her ego was justified was another matter. Furthermore, this new general had yet to shake the Army's fixation with defeating the Changelings 'in open battle', whatever in Tartarus that was supposed to mean.

I expect that they and everypony else who went through the Academy and learned the art of war and how to hold a knife and fork correctly were all thinking of the ancient wars of conquest and the repeated Griffon invasions, which all tended to be sorted out in a number of quick, decisive, but costly battles before one side or the other sued for peace, capitulated, or was banished to the moon. Chrysalis, however, did not attend the Academy, and must have picked up her strategy from somewhere else, and if anything seemed to be dead set on avoiding anything quick and decisive at all. In fact, if I didn't know any better, I'd say she was trying to drag this infernal conflict out for as long as possible.

"That's the gist of it," said Second Fiddle. "There's a bit more to it, but that'll do for now, I think."

"There's one more thing," said Market Garden. "I still need to tell him about the catbirds. That's why we wanted him here."

Second Fiddle pursed his lips and puffed his cheeks out at that particular slur, then sighed and said, "The Griffons are coming. The PGL will be joining I Corps as part of Operation Buttercup in a few days' time."

With the mention of the PGL, the final piece of the world's worst jigsaw puzzle elegantly fell into place: "You would like me to make sure they stay out of trouble."

"While making sure our soldiers work with them in a spirit of comradely friendship and harmony," said Second Fiddle. He looked at Market Garden pointedly, who didn't seem to notice the not-so-subtle admonishment and found the maps on the table to be far more interesting than this talk about Griffons. "You spent a good few years in Griffonstone, so I can't think of anypony else more qualified!"

I could think of several ponies, actually, but they probably said that they were otherwise occupied and I just so happened to be the next pony in line. My time in that accursed black heart of their decaying empire was spent sequestered in the safety of the Equestrian embassy there, not that it was ever of much use, as the Griffons of Griffonstone were hardly inclined at all to have any dealings whatsoever with our realm, beyond trading their expertise in gem cutting for salt.

I was ten years old at the time; my father, having been recently ousted from the position of viceroy of Coltcutta, was appointed as ambassador to the Griffons, where it was presumed he'd do less harm. Aside from a few brief excursions out under armed guard, including one occasion where I had wandered off on my own and was traumatised when I'd drifted into one of their horrifying butchers' shops, I saw very few ordinary Griffons. The only Griffon I had anything close to regular contact with was the terribly excitable and very annoying young daughter of one of the maids who I'd been entrusted to foalsit from time to time, and she was hardly indicative of what most of their kind was like anyway.

Still, getting the Griffons on my side could still help, especially with the direction that Equestrian society was moving in back then, for better or worse. As I've always said, and tried to impress upon my cadets in the Academy in my old age to varying degrees of success, the more friends you make with the common soldiery the more likely they are to watch out for you, both in battle and in camp. One does not even need to actually like them; as long as they believe one is looking out for their best interest, they'll eventually return the favour even at great personal risk to themselves.

So I agreed to do it, which was met with an exultation of joy from Second Fiddle and further indifference from Market Garden. There was little else of actual worth to discuss, but that didn't stop the Commissar-General. He mostly prattled on about a few minor administrative things that I have since forgotten about - the rota of the officers of the day, restricted areas in the camp, passwords, and, most importantly, the opening hours of the officers' mess. However, I was damned exhausted after that lengthy train journey, and the heat and humidity of the Badlands certainly had a way of just sucking what little energy I had left. Certainly the barrage of information I had just received did little to help either.

He continued to drone on, having switched the topic onto some of the things he had gotten up to since his cutie marks grew back and he got to work here, doing something or other to inspire the offensive spirit in our officers. I can't be expected to remember every single conversation I've had over the years in such detail, and whatever it is he said I clearly didn't think was important enough to scribble down at the time either.

[This sentence is the clearest indication that some of this manuscript is constructed from notes or a personal diary Blueblood had made either during or shortly after these events. Certainly, notebooks and diaries have been found amongst his personal effects, but these are little more than short fragments. This would account for the exceptional detail of these memoirs, at least on those matters he chose to provide it.]

"Sorry," I said, interrupting his bloviating about how his efforts have streamlined the command structure or some other such self-aggrandising nonsense. "I'd love to stay and catch up, but I'm behind on my paperwork, and you know how the Commissariat gets if the paperwork is late."

"Oh." Second Fiddle's ears flattened and he pawed at the ground with a hoof. "Of course. I'll see you at the mess tonight?"

I offered a cheeky grin. "As long as you promise to lay off the drink this time," I said. "I was terribly worried about you."

Though not worried enough to have inquired about his well-being after the incident, thought I, but that was in the past and there was little point in dwelling upon it when there were bigger, more life-threatening things to occupy my attention. Market Garden was engrossed in reading a report of something or other, and it felt a bit rude to interrupt her, so with a polite nod to my old school chum I turned on my hooves towards the door. I made it about three or four steps before her thin, reedy voice, with its grating over-pronunciation, caused me to stop mid-stride about halfway to the door, beyond which lay some measure of peace and quiet away from all of this.

"Just one more thing," said Market Garden. I turned to see her pick up the photo of the Changeling from the table with her lips and hold it out to me.

"Come on, he's just arrived," said Second Fiddle, but it was too late; I had seen and recognised the face on the photograph.

I don't think it is unfair to say that all Changelings look more or less the same, but some of them, most notably the Purestrains, were at least unique enough to allow even Yours Truly to differentiate between them. The example shown before me was one that I could never forget nor fail to recognise; it was tall, broad, and its thick chitin was like a suit of lacquered black plate armour, while its large, compound eyes evoked a cruel sort of intelligence, cold and calculating, that was absent in its more bestial comrades. My mouth turned dry and the pit of my stomach seemed to collapse like a rusty old trapdoor at the sight of it, and my mind conjured memories of a partially-collapsed cave, that same hellish creature towering over me, and a mocking, sadistic smile turning the corners of its thin maw.

"W-what?" I stammered out, before collecting myself. "How did you get that?"

"It's your old flame," said Market Garden. [Presumably after having taken the photograph out of her mouth] "Odonata, or 'General' Odonata as she's calling herself now. The Changelings have made a press announcement that she will be leading the defence of their occupied land."

I frowned. Something didn't add up. "Changelings don't make announcements, especially not to the press."

Market Garden shrugged. "This time they did. I'm not surprised you don't know about this; the Ministry of Information's been trying to suppress it. Faust knows what they aim to accomplish, except for pretending to be a civilised race, but it said that this General Odonata will 'lead our gallant drones in the defence of our Hive, our Queen, and our way of life' and that 'the unprovoked invasion of sovereign Changeling land by the Equestrian imperialists will be met with swift and merciless retribution'."

[The Changelings made numerous such 'announcements' throughout the war, usually in the form of letters and articles dropped off by infiltrators at the offices of Equestrian newspapers. Most were blocked from publishing by the Ministry of Information after the DOE Act introduced wartime censorship of the press. Other newspapers took a stand against this oppression of free speech by publishing them anyway, arguing that these articles were such obvious attempts at propaganda that it was impossible for a pony intelligent enough to read their paper would be taken in by it. Nevertheless, Changeling infiltrators had invested a great deal of time and resources into this propaganda effort, to the point where it is rumoured that this was a deliberate act of sabotage by Purestrains disloyal to Queen Chrysalis. Recent historiography indicates that infiltrators used these as a means to pass coded messages between cells.]

"I thought she was dead," I blurted out. "I-I-I saw her fall into the ravine! Rainbow Dash crushed her wings; there was no way she could possibly have survived that."

"Then she has made a remarkable recovery. Or they're simply lying. We will find out soon enough."

Well, that was that. After another set of 'goodbyes' with Second Fiddle I skulked off to find my quarters, leaving the apple core behind for them to dispose of. It was a small and rather depressing affair, as the more spacious room that I had occupied before must have been appropriated by somepony else in my absence. The only furnishings here were a desk, a chair, and a bed. At the far end was an open window, which was little more than a large hole in the wall that had been covered loosely with a torn linen sheet. Cannon Fodder had already unpacked my things for me and then disappeared off to do something or other, but, judging by the lingering scent of mouldering sweat and rancid vegetables lingering around the small room, he must have left very recently.

While I was thankful for the solitude, the sight of a barren military cot, covered with an itchy wool blanket and wedged up against a bleak stone wall, truly hammered home the reality that I was back at the front once more, and that my future, for as long as I would have one, would be filled with much hardship and misery.

That Odonata was somehow still alive was a concern, yes, but I reassured myself that, whatever happened, the likelihood of the two of us meeting one another again was miniscule. She was a general, whatever that meant in the Changeling hierarchy, and I was but a lowly regimental commissar and special liaison for Market Garden, whatever that meant in the Equestrian Army's hierarchy. I should have known better, of course, that our fates would be intertwined, but I’m getting ahead of myself there.

I crawled into the cot for a nap, rested my head on the lumpy pillow, and stared up at the ceiling. As I drifted off to sleep once more, or what passes for sleep given the unbearable heat and the nightmares, the image of her face, framed with the hefty chitin like a helmet and sneering with supreme arrogance, lingered in my mind.

***

The acclimatisation period was far rougher than the first time I had to go through that awful process. The heat, humidity, and whatever it was in the water that one's intestinal tract took exception to resulted in a rather unpleasant experience that my 'official' memoirs had judiciously left out. None of the ghost writers and editors, being enamoured with the image of Yours Truly as some kind of gallant, conquering war hero, wanted to paint a textual picture of me running desperately to the latrines every ten minutes or so, especially when it was revealed to be a mild case of the Trots that took the better part of a week to pass. Readers will be thankful if I likewise refrain from any further detail than is truly necessary, but suffice to say I was placed on light duties until I recovered, and whatever time I had that wasn't spent in a state of misery in the latrines was filled up with drinking gallons of water and lying flat on my back with fever and stomach cramps.

A piece of advice, if you will, from me to you, dear reader, is that if you ever find yourself south of Appleloosa to drink only gin and tonic. It's much safer than the water there.

I blamed the habit I had picked up from Colonel Sunshine Smiles of eating some meals with the enlisted soldiers, which might explain why most of my fellow senior officers had escaped the epidemic of disease in the camp. Indeed, even a brief excursion outside the keep before the disease made venturing too far from the latrines a risky endeavour, unsupervised by Commissar-General Second Fiddle, revealed it to be a filthy, dismal place; the stench was appalling, even by the standards of a military camp, and while the soldiers appeared to be in good spirits and full of optimism for victory over the Changeling foe, the degrading conditions that they found themselves in, with nearly a quarter laid low by a variety of communicable diseases, was a tremendous shock to me.

Evidently, hygiene standards had slipped somewhat since I was last here, and while I was being examined by Doctor Surgical Steel, who had stayed behind at the fort, in the keep's hospital wing, he explained:

"It's t' plumbing," he said, as I lay on my back on the bed and he poked around at my abdomen with a cold hoof. It tickled, and I hated it. "Thousands more soldiers come over here and they can't build t' plumbing fast enough to cope, so we get little outbreaks of t' Trots and t' like just to keep us from getting idle in my old age. Aye, 'tis bad enough I still have to fix cuts and bruises, broken wings, and now burns with those fancy new musket things everypony keeps raving about, now it's diseases we're supposed to have kicked out of civilised Equestria a hundred years ago. Now, drink plenty of water and tha'll be right as rain in a week or two, and for Faust's sake lay off t' booze. I know tha won't, but I'm contractually obligated to tell thee."

Any hope that Twilight's much-ballyhooed reforms had burned away the decay and rot of incompetence in the Royal Guard was consequently shot down. In hindsight, it was naive to believe that with the passing of a law everything would be fixed overnight, and in their eagerness to build up the forces necessary for the Big Push somepony had neglected to consider the infrastructure of the camp where this build-up was happening. It’s one thing to read in a history book that on such-and-such a date the Twilight Sparkle Reforms were passed, giving the reader the false impression that after sorting out the political mess a switch had been flicked and the military instantly became fully competent, but the reality is that such change takes time.

History likes to credit me with starting the process to fix the sanitation issue, but really, it was Cannon Fodder, of all ponies, who should receive those laurels. It was his reply on my behalf to a letter sent by Princess Twilight Sparkle, explaining that I was far too sick to respond personally to her friendly letter, that opened the enquiry into the conditions of Fort Nowhere and provided some much-needed impetus to officers already struggling to fix the problems. I just happened to be the first pony to have fallen ill deemed important enough to warrant such an investigation.

[The issue of sanitation across the entire front remained a constant problem throughout the war, especially on the Eastern Front as Equestrian forces pushed through the Hayseed Swamps and the Forbidden Jungle, and Blueblood's implication that it only became a problem at this point is misleading. It is likely that he didn't know or care about it until he got sick. Efforts to improve sanitation and the living conditions of soldiers were already underway when he arrived, having been started in earnest by General Market Garden when she took command of the 1st Army. It only became a political issue when Twilight Sparkle received Cannon Fodder's letter and started the inquiry, which only hastened a process that had already begun.]

Alas, in receiving credit one also receives blame. After a week, when the sickness had subsided to the point where I could at least undertake a short conversation without fear of being interrupted by an emergency dash to the latrines, I had a rather unwelcome visit from Second Fiddle.

"We can't afford this distraction," he said, his voice muffled by the hoofkerchief clamped over his muzzle. "I know you meant well, but Operation Buttercup must proceed according to the schedule."

"It won't proceed at all if our army is too sick to fight!" I snapped; a week of this had hardly put me in the best of moods, and I was already feeling unhappy about being back here. "It's out of my hooves, anyway. Princess Twilight Sparkle has ordered the Ministry of War to stamp out the disease here, and I can't exactly tell her to stop it."

"It's not about that," said Second Fiddle, shaking his head. "Things have changed since you were last here. You're not the only commissar around anymore; you're part of a team and you answer to me. Do you understand? Don't you dare go above my head again, Blueblood."

Now, that was a shock, I’ll tell you that much. Second Fiddle might have been the meek, slimy sort of pony who likes to try and ingratiate himself with his social betters, but give anypony like that the smallest amount of authority over another and they will wield it like a vengeful bludgeon on their former superiors. I was about to demand what in the blazes made him think it was appropriate to speak to a prince of the realm like that, when Cannon Fodder, apparently acting on his own initiative for once, trotted on over from his desk where he had been sorting out my paperwork.

"Excuse me, sir," he said. Second Fiddle gagged a little, as his hoofkerchief was not enough to avoid a full blast of my aide's halitosis at such close range. "His Highness is under doctor's orders to rest."

The emphasis on my royal title was not lost on either of us, and, after a few moments of bewildered stuttering, Second Fiddle gave up and stormed out of my office while I crawled back into bed. It looked like meeting Drape Cut had an effect on Cannon Fodder, and I was certainly not about to complain if it meant certain ponies could be kept out of my mane while I was occupied with the business of trying not to die.

Recovery was slow, but not slow enough; by the time the PGL turned up and the headaches truly began, apparently delayed as the part of the camp apportioned out to them had to be rendered suitable for habitation, Surgical Steel pronounced me 'well'. I tried to convey just how rotten I still felt, but the dour old doctor wasn't having any of it. As skilled a liar as I am, it was nothing compared to the analytical power of a seasoned, experienced doctor who lacked any sort of patience for time-wasters. Needless to say, my attempts to get sent back to Canterlot were rejected outright, and once again I was stuck here to suffer. This illness had rather set the tone for the upcoming campaign, and mark me, dear reader, it was only going to get worse from there.

Chapter 10

The PGL arrived to very little fanfare, and it was just as well, really, because as soon as Lieutenant-Colonel Guillaume unpacked his suitcase there were problems, which, apparently nopony except me could solve. Never mind the fact that I was still quite ill, though at least able to move about under my own power for limited periods of time and speak in more-or-less complete sentences without being interrupted by another mad dash to the latrines, it appeared that I was the only pony at all interested in getting everypony to work together. As afraid as everypony was of Changeling infiltrators sowing discord and mistrust in our ranks, they needn't have bothered as we ponies are quite capable of doing that by ourselves.

Readers, particularly younger ones who are presumably used to seeing our towns and cities teeming with griffons, hippogriffs, yaks, and Faust knows what else creatures have been allowed to take residence upon sacred Equestrian soil, will probably wonder what in blazes everypony was getting upset about. By way of explanation, I can only state that it was a very different time, and the idea that the Magic of Friendship could be extended beyond the confines of our race (and whether one included other equines such as zebras and donkeys in that definition was still up for debate) was met with a considerable amount of scepticism. One only needs to examine the EEA's rather vocal condemnation of Twilight's School of Friendship in later years to get an idea of the sort of mindset that still plagued the older, more aristocratic officers. Now, imagine that arch-conservative leader of theirs with the ridiculous goatee, total lack of a sense of humour, and no sense of irony in charge of hundreds, perhaps thousands, of soldiers and one will begin to have an idea of the problems I had to sort out.

If I document each and every single little dispute that I had to settle between the PGL's arrival and getting tossed into battle then I'd be long interred in the family mausoleum before I could have a chance of finishing, so I shall describe just two of the most significant ones. The first revolved around rations; it is said that an army marches on its stomach, and the job of ensuring that each and every soldier is fed and healthy enough to fight requires a monumental effort. I had yet to even meet the Griffons, who were at the time getting themselves settled into the camp, when I, apparently now 1st Army's resident expert on Griffo-Equestrian relations, was dragged away from my rest and back to the train station.

"It's meat, sir," a snivelling lieutenant of the Logistics Corps said as he pointed at a pile of boxes still in their wagon. The ponies and mules under his command lingered around the station platform, distinctly not doing any work at all. Instead, they lounged about in the hot midday sun, looking rather like a clowder of overgrown cats on the veranda of an Appleloosan orchard house. "They won't touch it."

The sound of the train's whistle felt like a hammer to the head, and the engineer in his hickory stripe overalls and cap leaned out of the cab windows and gesticulated at the idle workers.

"Oh, come on!" he yelled above the hissing of the great steam engine. "I've got a schedule to keep!" The loggies ignored him, and, apparently out of a lack of any other method of persuasion, he simply blasted the whistle again and retreated back inside his cabin.

"Give me the manifest," I demanded, holding my hoof out. A week of the Trots had eradicated what little patience I had left for this sort of petty nonsense, and while I was at least tolerably well enough to deal with this, the illness had left me with a great feeling of nausea and bloating. How much of my foul mood had to do with being sick I can't say for certain, but I hardly think my bearing would have become that much more cheery had I been a tad more careful with the water.

The lieutenant swallowed air and then held out the clipboard for me, and I seized it in my magic. A quick glance at the paper pinned to it confirmed my suspicions, and I trotted on over to the goods wagon. The work-shy loggies scurried out of my way, but then crowded around to watch what I was doing. A few whispered to one another, and from what I could gather from little snippets I could pick up, they seemed to be rather concerned that I'd just have the whole lot of them flogged for their impertinent little strike. I was certainly tempted, if only out of spite at having been disturbed, and I would have been well within my rights to do so; many of my comrades in the Commissariat would have sent for the provosts to round up the miscreants without even leaving their office, but my deliberately cultivated reputation for being somewhat fair must have led this officer to seek me out personally.

Wooden boxes were piled up neatly in the goods wagon, and each was stamped with the symbol of the royal crest of Equestria and then a bewildering array of numbers and letters that corresponded to a system that nopony but that special breed of bureaucrats can comprehend. Nevertheless, I had picked up enough of that arcane knowledge, against my own will, of course, to identify these as containing food rations specifically for the use of Griffons. I lifted the lid of one of the boxes, revealing it to be crammed full of innocuous little brown paper packets each tied up with string. Without hesitating, I unwrapped one of the packets and then took a large bite out of its contents; the gathered crowd emitted a short, shocked gasp.

"He's eating meat!" one of them cried.

"They're scones!" I announced, turning around and holding up the griffonscone in the air, with a neat bite taken out of it. At the very least, the loggies had the very good sense to look embarrassed and mumble some half-hearted apologies, before they sheepishly sidled past me, tails and ears drooping and pointedly avoiding eye contact with me, and started doing the job that Equestrian tax bits paid them for.

I forced myself to swallow it, despite the foul taste and the pre-emptive cramping of my stomach, as spitting out the disgusting, chewy, and rock-hard lump purporting to be a delicious scone would have undermined my point somewhat. Griffonscones, if you've never tried the national dish of old Griffonstone, are an acquired taste, and it's best acquired by searing off one's taste buds with a soldering iron first. The best way I can describe the experience of eating one, or attempting to at least, is to imagine biting into an old brick that had been heavily dusted with cinnamon and talcum powder. I've heard they've gotten better in recent years, but I'm not going to take that risk.

[Griffonscones are a staple food for Griffons and formed the bulk of the PGL's food rations. They are notoriously unpalatable for ponies, but with a few tweaks to the traditional recipe, such as the addition of baking powder, they can be quite delicious. Conservatively-minded Griffons regard such adulteration to be an offense to their tradition.]

With that done I returned the manifest to the officer, who then dropped it on the floor when he attempted some sort of apologetic salute. I then hopped off the platform and wandered back into the camp while they got on with their jobs. I can't say that I entirely blame his stallions for jumping to that conclusion, as most common ponies back then had likely never even seen a Griffon before and had only hearsay to base their assumptions on. The manifest itself merely said 'PGL rations', and commoners who had only heard 'Griffons eat meat' and could barely spell 'omnivorous' would have jumped to the conclusion that the rations contained meat.

It occurred to me then that I yet to introduce myself to Lieutenant-Colonel Guillaume, the Griffon commanding this battalion of the PGL, but now that I had been dragged from the womb-like security of my cot I thought I might as well do something to make sure that this outing was not a total waste of my time. My plan to ingratiate myself with them and earn their trust would be ably assisted by the good news that their problems with their rations had been solved by Yours Truly.

I weaved through the maze of tents and small buildings, and when I was safely out of sight I tossed what remained of the half-eaten griffonscone away. One of the many stray dogs in the camp, now endemic thanks to home-sick soldiers desperate for creatures that would provide them with unconditional affection feeding them, approached the unassuming confection, gave it a sniff, then screwed up its face in disgust and kicked it away into the dirt. Even creatures that will eat excrement didn't want it. Nevertheless, much of the filth and rubbish that had accumulated in the camp had been cleared away, thank Faust, and with it the infestation of vermin that fed off the detritus and carried with them the contagion of disease was down to a much more manageable level, for the time being at least.

The Griffons' portion of the camp, by contrast, was almost spotlessly clean, though the offensive stink that permeated the entire camp was never too far behind. They had only just moved in, of course, and so hadn’t had the chance to let standards slip and the filth to build up.

I hadn't seen so many Griffons in one place since that year I spent in Griffonstone, and being rather solitary creatures who seemed to spend the majority of their lives trying to avoid one another as much as possible it was very rare that I saw even a fraction of the multitude that I saw before me. Griffons in the golden plate armour of the old Royal Guard practiced musket drill in the parade square to the gruff barking of a sergeant, going through the endless repetition of load, aim, fire, reload, and so on. Having claws instead of hooves, they appeared to be having a much easier time of it than our earth ponies and pegasi, who even with the necessary adjustments and refinements that Twilight Sparkle had worked out with the gunsmiths of Manehatten to accommodate our clumsier appendages, still often struggled to meet the required minimum rate of three rounds a minute. Above, Griffons in V-formations swooped around, engaging in mock battles with one another, with 'dead' soldiers sullenly gliding back down to earth to sit in a small squared-off area marked 'Time Out'.

A sentry pointed me towards one of the larger tents just off the parade square, where his Colonel was likely to be and was, he assured me, quite eager to meet me. I doubted that. Nevertheless, I trotted on over, skirting around the parade square where the soldiers drilled, and slipped inside the tent.

The senior PGL officer I had seen at Twilight's party sat behind a large wooden crate that served as a makeshift desk, pouring over the forms and letters that made up the bulk of a military officer’s job. Though we had attended the same party, we hadn’t had the chance to speak at the time, as my attention was otherwise occupied. The rest of the tent was just as spartan, with only a small pile of straw in the corner arranged into something like a nest for a bed. The only decoration present was a framed portrait of Princess Celestia placed in the far corner with an unlit candle as some sort of primitive, makeshift shrine. The artist, whoever he was, had managed to capture her calm, patient, and motherly demeanour in the medium of oil paints quite well, and it was quite reassuring to see her gentle smile in a Griffon’s tent of all places.

The officer looked up from his paperwork as I negotiated my way through the tent flap. In the heat of the Badlands, he had wisely left his fur pelisse behind, and instead wore a clean, crisp dress tunic, whose lustrous crimson hue had yet to fade with the sun and the constant dust. As I took off my hat and tucked it under my armpit, he smiled, or made what passed for a smile with a sharp beak, and stood up from his seat.

"Your Highness," he said, bowing his head sharply and clicking the heels of his hind paws.

It had been quite a while since I was last addressed with the proper respect that my regal title demands, common ponies apparently having forgotten their etiquette in recent years, so it was something of a pleasant surprise to be addressed so, if by a Griffon. At least they, the expatriate community that resides in the secluded areas of our realm, held onto the old ways of appropriate deference. Or this could have been a cynical gesture to appeal to my admittedly fragile sense of self-worth, wrapped up as it was with a title that, if I must be honest, was starting to feel like more of a hindrance than a boon by that point in my life. It worked, of course, as my withered and desiccated ego lapped it all up like a cat with cream.

"Lieutenant-Colonel Guillaume, I presume?” I said. He nodded and puffed out his chest; creatures seemed to like it when I bothered to remember their names, and this time I had made an effort to seek it out. “I believe I owe you a griffonscone. Forgive me, but I helped myself to one just now as they were being unloaded.”

“Ah.” The Griffon sucked air through his beak and frowned, tilting his head to one side. “Trouble with our rations again?”

“I’m afraid so.”

His eyes narrowed. “Let me guess, they thought it was meat?”

“Yes, though I managed to convince them that your scones are safe to handle.”

“I am sorry you had to deal with that, sir,” he said, the exasperation clear in his voice. “It’s a damned nuisance. One has to wonder if our ancestors had to deal with this when they fought side-by-side with ponies against Nightmare Moon’s hordes.”

I gave an easy sort of shrug, as though sorting out their little problem was not a hideous waste of my time, which could have been better spent hiding in my quarters brushing up on the latest edition of Princesses’ Regulations, albeit with a Platinum’s Secret catalogue tucked discreetly within the pages.

“It’s my job,” I said. “Sometimes ponies need a little reminder to work together every now and again.”

“Yes,” he said, “we all serve Princess Celestia.” Guillaume looked to the portrait in the corner, and made some sort of strange gesture where he placed his right claw over his breast and splayed out the talons as wide as they could go. [The Sign of the Sol Invictus, a quasi-religious gesture used by the PGL as a declaration of loyalty to me. The spread-out talons symbolise gratitude radiating like the rays of the sun from the hearts of the Griffons who were granted asylum in Equestria more than a thousand years ago.]

While such dedication to my regal aunt was admirable, in a way, I hoped that it would not slip across the dividing line between appropriate respect for the authority of our Diarchy and into the utter absence of sense, reason, and regard for the safety of oneself and others that comes with fanatical devotion to our alicorn princesses. It was as though they, these descendents of refugees, felt that they constantly had to prove their allegiance to our fair realm above and beyond that which was expected of the average subject. As I was about to find out quite soon, this apparent need was as much the result of continued doubt expressed by ponies who took Celestia’s grace and generosity for granted as it was their peculiar desire to show ‘gratitude’ for something that had happened so long ago.

Nevertheless, we had a brief chat, where I asked some general questions about how they were settling in; I didn’t care that much, to be honest, but it never hurt to at least feign interest in the well-being of others, as they seemed to like that from authority figures such as Yours Truly. His strange adoration of my Auntie ‘Tia, being a tradition peculiar to the PGL, notwithstanding, he proved to be a rather amicable chap, the likes of which I would not have been unhappy to have met at a cocktail bar in Los Pegasus. Despite the severity of the ongoing war and the rather dire situation that we found ourselves in, his calm and measured confidence, coupled with a sense of honesty about himself that other officers tended to lack, made speaking with him less of a chore than it had been with his equine counterparts.

Alas, we were not there to socialise, and he had the tedious business of overseeing the organisation of his regiment or some such boring bureaucracy to deal with anyway. I’m sure I had something else that I ought to have been getting on with too, as the Night Guards regiment would be arriving shortly, and with it the long-awaited offensive could begin at last. I was about to leave when, in accordance with a common theme of others managing to throw me off before I could escape, he touched me by the shoulder and fixed me with a determined glare.

“It is an honour, sir,” he said, his voice quivering strangely with the same reverence it had when speaking of Celestia; it was most odd and rather unsettling when applied to me of all ponies. “My ancestors fought to the last Griffon at the Princess of Blood’s side a thousand years ago. I hope to live up to that standard one day.”

I wasn’t entirely sure what he was getting at there, and I felt rather embarrassed at that odd reference to the long-dead progenitor of my regal line. “Well, let’s hope history doesn’t repeat itself,” I said, hoping that it was indeed the right thing to say.

He smiled and thanked me, and I beat a hasty retreat lest I find myself signed up for a suicidal last stand. I already had one of those thus far in my career, and that was more than enough for my liking. As I trotted along back to my office, hoping to get there before Second Fiddle, who continued to peer over my shoulder and tut at everything I did like a disapproving matron, it occurred to me that once again I was to be the quiet voice of reason in a world driven mad by this war; Guillaume certainly seemed level-headed and, by the standards of the officer class, some measure of sane, but so often the memory of the glories of a distant, romanticised past can cloud one’s judgement with the desire to, as he had put it, ‘live up to that standard’.

My family’s history becomes more mired in legend the further back one delves, culminating in the mythical figure of the Princess of Blood looming over the memory of her scions and casting us all in her heroic shadow. Only Celestia and Luna can say with any degree of certainty about what really happened in Equestria’s distant and bloody past, and even then they are still subject to the same all-too-equine biases and presumptions as the rest of us mortals. I dislike ponies mentioning that ancestor of mine, as usually it is done as a reminder of how far my family has fallen since then, and applied as an exhortation for me to do better. The crimson sash had already given me an impossible standard to live up to, and I scarcely needed another.

[The event referenced by Lieutenant-Colonel Guillaume is more commonly known today as the Last Stand of the Princess’ Griffons. In the Battle of the Everfree during the Nightmare Heresy, the Princess of Blood and two hundred Griffons of the PGL defended the Castle of the Two Sisters against overwhelming numbers. This delaying action bought me time to collect the Elements of Harmony and banish Nightmare Moon. Neither the Princess of Blood nor the Griffons survived.]

The second incident was really a number of smaller incidents that merged together to create one single mess that fell squarely into my lap. Next to the PGL’s camp was that of the Prism Guard, and what began as a few minor scuffles between soldiers of the two regiments accidentally, or purposefully as might be the case, straying into one another’s ‘turf’, as I believe is the correct term in the common parlance, inevitably escalated when these groups encountered one another when on leave and frequented the bars, gambling dens, and brothels of Dodge Junction. While their own regimental commissars really should have sorted this out on their own - after all, that is what they were paid for - now that junior officers had been getting involved in this foalish spat that now apparently required my specific involvement.

“I asked for you personally,” said Colonel Fer-de-Lance when she invited me into her office to discuss this nonsense. My reputation for undue fairness had its drawbacks, it seemed, as everypony in the entire damned military wanted me to sort out their problems for them.

I slipped through the open tent flap, past the tall, scarred Prench mare, and caught a whiff of some light and floral fragrance wafting from her. Inside, it looked as though she had tried, and failed, of course, to bring a little bit of the elegance of her native land with her. It was almost funny, in a way, to imagine her orderly lugging the massive, ornate desk around with him while on campaign, along with the rather large armoire filled to bursting with extravagant uniforms. Decorative silk tapestries depicting several dour-looking ponies in the finery of the Prench court hung from the tent poles.

Fer-de-Lance followed me in and took her seat at this mahogany desk, with its carefully positioned desk mat and gilded inkpot, and invited me to sit on the cushion opposite, which I did gladly. “This is getting out of hoof,” she said. “Lieutenant Golden Tarot has challenged a Griffon officer to a duel.”

I settled back in the cushion and stroked my chin, waiting for her to continue. When it became apparent that she was waiting for my input, all I could muster was a flat, bored, and uninterested, “I see.”

“Perhaps I should have them arrested,” she continued. “That would be according to the new regulations, no? Duelling is forbidden now.”

“Yes,” I said, wondering where in blazes she was going with this. “Twilight Sparkle believes it’s more sporting to let the Changelings kill our officers instead.”

“But I do not think such a thing will help.” She waved her hoof dismissively, apparently having ignored what I had just said. “Golden Tarot is one of us; he is a stallion of the noble class, and I believe he is a cousin to your sisters’ husbands. His honour will be insulted if he is not allowed to duel an officer who has insulted him so horribly. Even if this officer is a Griffon.”

“And what did this Griffon do?” I asked. “And who is this Griffon, anyway?”

Fer-de-Lance flicked through a neatly placed stack of papers on her desk. “Lieutenant Gunther,” she said. “I think that is what it says. Griffon names are very confusing. He left a dead rat in Golden Tarot’s tent.”

I tapped my chin, affecting to look as though I had dredged up some bit of insight from the depths of experience. “What do you think caused this Lieutenant Gunther to leave a dead rat in your officer’s tent?”

She shrugged her shoulders and leaned back in her seat, tapping her hoof on the table in annoyance. “The two broke up an argument with their soldiers on a joint training exercise, and some of my ponies ended up in the infirmary. Then this barbarian puts a dead animal in his tent as an additional insult. A duel is the only correct response to this, if they were not made illegal.”

“It’s an apology,” I said, and Fer-de-Lance boggled at me.

“Pardon?”

“Griffons are part-feline, after all. If Golden Tarot’s rejected the apology-rat, then Gunther would feel just as insulted. Just call for the provosts to put a stop to the duel and be done with this farce.”

“I’m afraid I cannot.” Fer-de-Lance spread out her hooves apologetically, and I felt an inward burst of irritation at being expected to do other officers’ jobs for them - it was all Luna’s fault for making me her special catspaw in the 1st Army. “The honour of a Prism Guard officer is his life, and his word is his bond. If he has sworn to duel then he must proceed, and were I to forbid it he would take it as a betrayal on my part.”

As I sat there, listening to this nonsense, I cast my mind back to helping Princess Twilight Sparkle pass her reforms, and the rather underhanded things I had to do to arrange the victory that she, and Equestria itself, needed. It was all well and good getting the required signatures on the piece of legislation that put all of her changes into practice, but it appeared that reforming the chopped-up remnants of the old Royal Guard into something resembling a modern army, free from the costly distractions caused by the egos of aristocratic officers, was where the real struggle still lay.

“You want me to do it,” I said, finally putting two and two together. “I, as somepony on the outside, turn up, break up the duel before either of them can hurt themselves, and they can both carry on thinking that honour has been satisfied because Prince Blueblood ordered them to stop it instead of an ordinary provost. Or you, either.”

“Yes,” she said. “I trust that you will not mention this conversation.”

If this seems ridiculous to you, dear reader, then I imagine that you are a pony of some reasonable level of intelligence and wit. Well done. The very concept of honour is a shackle to the aristocrat, like a price that one must pay for one’s birth into a position of privilege, in the form of a frustratingly vague set of guidelines that one ought to follow in the absence of common sense. It’s all well and good opening doors for ladies and doffing hats to strangers on the street, but when it comes to fighting and potentially dying over perceived insults then it all becomes a bit silly, frankly. The true art of nobility, I find, is to navigate one’s way around these rules, exploit them where appropriate, and find ways to weasel out of them without being seen to break them. That, apparently, was where I came in to resolving this little spat; it was very astute of her, and I imagined Fer-de-Lance was as seasoned a veteran of this as I am, though I had to wonder why she couldn’t have picked somepony else to bother.

So I agreed to do it, and at the appointed time and place I emerged onto the scene flanked by two provosts I had grabbed along the way. Golden Tarot and Gunther had agreed to fight this duel out in the Badlands, about a mile south-east from the outer confines of the camp and beyond the defensive line of trenches and fortifications. Aside from their seconds, who were their ensigns, there were no other ponies or Griffons present. It was dawn as well, with the sun creeping over the eastern edge of the vast expanse of desert, and I expect the two of them thought that this was all very dramatic and such.

I had arrived a few minutes late, affecting to look as though I had picked up this rumour of an illegal duel at the last moment and then frantically raced to put an end to it. Fortunately for them, neither had been badly injured, each having received only a few light nicks from each other’s swords; it appeared that their relative youth, being merely older teenagers the both of them, and inexperience in such things led them to be quite restrained in their duel, though had I not arrived there was still every chance it could have escalated.

The two combatants seemed almost relieved when I arrived and forced my way between them, though that sense of relief was quickly destroyed when I assigned them and their seconds latrine duty. Technically, I had been in breach of regulations in assigning officers manual labour as a punishment, instead of the more usual fine they could easily pay off, but this was about sending a message that duelling was not to be tolerated any longer, and neither was wasting my time. Furthermore, I had placed these two apparent enemies into the same punishment detail, which I hoped would allow them to bond over a mutual feeling of resentment over this injustice.

Whether or not that truly worked I’ll never really know; first because I never bothered to follow up on it, and second I would not have had the time to even if I had the inclination. It was finally happening - the Big Push, Operation Buttercup, the grand offensive, or whatever you want to call it. After months and months of anticipation, preparation, planning, and monumental logistical effort, the thing that I had been dreading for so very long was finally upon us. The arrival of the Night Guards and some pegasi from the newly raised MWC [Meteorological Warfare Corps] from Cloudsdale meant that the build-up of forces was finally complete, and the great offensive could begin. The order was given out at last, and the camp, already a hotbed of activity, positively exploded in a level of excitement that I could scarcely comprehend.

Within two weeks of receiving those orders, much of Fort Nowhere was emptied; the thousands of troops and all the necessaries that kept them fed, happy, and armed were vomited forth onto the great plains of the Badlands. Try as I might, there was no possible excuse that I could muster to remain with the small garrison left behind, who had the gall to express disappointment at missing out. Were I brave enough, I’d have happily swapped places and uniforms with any one of them. Even attempting to induce a second attack of the Trots, which I was well aware might be lethal twice in a row without so much as a rest, was doomed to failure as, despite their usual lackadaisical approach to such things, the army had managed to stamp out the worst of their sanitation problems before that intrepid little bacteria had a chance to invade my bowels once again.

And so we marched deeper into the Changeling heartlands, with each step bringing us closer and closer to the awful fight that I knew must inevitably follow. I am certain that every schoolfoal knows the particulars of the first engagement of what would later be called the Battle of Virion Hive, so ingrained as it is in popular military history, so I shan’t bore my readers too much with the minutiae of the plan and how it all went, save for how I saw things transpire.

I Corps had marched for the better part of a full day and made camp for the night. The going had been arduous, of course; we had marched all day in the blazing sun, and only stopped every now and again to make sure that the soldiers didn’t die of dehydration and exhaustion before the Changelings could have a fair go of that instead. Even as dusk fell I barely had time to eat a hasty dinner and rest my aching hooves before I was dragged in for yet another conference, this time with Major General Garnet, who commanded the Guards Division, the two Brigadiers who commanded the 1st and 2nd Brigades of the Division, a pegasus from the MWC and a number of desk-shackled staff officers.

Major-General Garnet was yet another one of Twilight Sparkle’s rising stars, being a very modern sort of major-general with a penchant for memorising a whole host of interesting but ultimately useless facts about the most obscure of topics. That was probably why he got on so well with the Princess, I imagined. Nevertheless, despite his tendency to expound upon pointless trivia, this odd personality quirk is what had allowed him to come up with, what I must admit, was a rather good plan. Of course, ‘good’ plans in war still result in a whole lot of death, dismemberment, injury, trauma, and misery for everypony involved except the planner.

“These hills here,” he said, pointing to said geological formation on the map he had pinned up to a board in his tent. “They are the key to taking Virion Hive. They form a natural defensive line from attack from the north, which just so happens to be where we’re coming from. The Changelings know we’re on our way, so they’ve done what any sensible general worth his stars would have done and dropped a war swarm right on top of it; on the reverse slopes, too, out of sight of our artillery just to make things more interesting for us. Ladies and gentlecolts, General Market Garden wants that high ground and I intend to give it to her on a silver platter. Now, this is all very interesting from a geographical standpoint, being a stratigraphic sort just like the Appleachians…”

He went on like that for a while, and that gallant little imitation of a Twilecture was still very fresh in my mind the next morning when I got to see that ridge up close. It was still very dark when I was woken from my fitful sleep, plagued with nightmares as it must always be, and the Guards Division was quickly mustered and sent out into the desert. As the sky turned from inky black-blue through the varying shades of purple and orange with the slow rising of the sun, those aforementioned heights, ridges, hills, or whatever the correct technical term is for the scrap of high ground we were about to fight, kill, and die for, were gradually illuminated.

It took a few hours of yet more marching to reach the base, where the ground, which had changed from the empty, flat plains of the northern Badlands to the more hilly and rocky terrain of the Changeling heartlands, began to slope up and up to reach a high, sharp peak, where it would slope away just as dramatically into the valley where the city lay. The last hour of the march was conducted under the cover of clouds, helpfully provided by the MWC, so my only view of them, before everything became smothered in dense grey fog, showed that the ascent was hardly an even and consistent affair. Gentle slopes suddenly became sharp cliffs and rocky crags, punctuated by the occasional ditch and cleft. The sight of it, silhouetted darkly in the dim light of late twilight, rising ahead of us, looming like some vast and grotesque monster, filled me with a quiet sense of dread - it was happening, and there was nothing that I could do to escape it.

Once the pegasi had placed the clouds over the entire division, I could only see up to about three feet in any real clarity. The soldiers marching on ahead were consumed by this endless grey fog, but those closest were still visible as ghostly silhouettes, like lost souls drifting into the eternal void of Limbo. How nopony got lost in that pea soup of a fog is a testament to the discipline and training of the ordinary Equestrian soldier, and I suppose the map-reading skills of junior officers. The hills were no longer visible, but the sight of them before they became obscured was still present in my mind, and knowing that they were still there, concealing however many thousands of Changelings behind their ragged, broken peaks, only heightened my fear. In the vague, indistinct, uniform grey I imagined I could see the hills, bigger, steeper, and rougher than they truly were.

The division came to a halt, just where I could feel the ground beneath my hooves start to slope upwards. I had very little idea of what was going on around me, but from what I could tell as messages were passed up and down the line, the sharp ‘pops’ of teleporting runners cutting through the muffled noise of an entire division trying to arrange itself in formation, everything had gone smoothly thus far. We had arrived only slightly out of position in the fog, as even our experienced weather ponies struggled here, but it was quickly sorted out.

After I had done my job, moving up and down the line and offering hollow words of encouragement to nervous soldiers, there was nothing left to do but stand there and wait as the first phase of the plan was executed. The Solar Guards had been sent forwards out of the fog as bait to lure the Changelings down from the safety of the reverse slope, down to where they would be in sight and range of our hidden muskets and artillery. That was the theory, at least, for even I, as inexperienced with strategy as I am, feared that the enemy would be somewhat suspicious of the sudden onset of a dense fog in a land known for its hot climate. [Without pegasus-controlled climate, naturally-occuring fog in the Badlands is rare but not unheard of, especially in the Changeling heartlands where the climate had been warped by Chrysalis’ malign influence.]

We waited in silence, or as near to silence as it was possible to imagine with so many ponies around; the sound of a lot of ponies trying to be completely silent is distressingly loud and chaotic. Armour clinked and rattled; ponies coughed, whispered, or merely breathed; hooves shuffled in the dirt; and a myriad other such noises echoed from all around us, each amplified and distinct in this peculiar, awkward hush. My ears twitched and shifted involuntarily at each such sound, some louder and closer than others. Somewhere, a pony broke formation to vomit, with the sound of great retching followed by a splash. His comrades jeered at him, but they were silenced with a single barked order from a sergeant.

I could sympathise entirely. While the Solar Guard was off ahead, dangled like a small treat in front of the maw of a very hungry tiger, I could only wait and allow my anxiety to build up like the bubbles in a shaken bottle of champagne. It was maddening. There was no possible way of knowing how they fared up there - if the Changelings had taken the bait, if the battalion was being massacred as we stood by unknowing, or if the enemy was still safely behind that ridge.

A cannon fired, and its roar decisively cut through the silence. I jumped, which made Major Starlit Skies snicker. Glaring at him only made him grin wider. Seconds later, another, fainter ‘thud’ could be heard as the shrapnel shell exploded in mid-air to shower its victims with a lethal hail of lead. Another cannon followed, and then another, in a small, desultory cannonade that only served to bolster the illusion; no Equestrian force, no matter how small, attacked without artillery support.

They were coming, then; the artillery would not have opened fire without a target, as Market Garden abhorred wastage. The plan was working, or so it seemed, and very soon I would be hurled into the fight once again. I was at the front, you see, standing with Major Starlit Skies behind two lines of earth ponies and unicorns. Behind us, Colonel Sunshine Smiles stood with more earth ponies in denser formations should the enemy close in for hoof-to-hoof combat, which they most certainly would. The pegasi remained at the rear to keep the cloud that concealed us where it should be, and dart in to keep the Changelings from taking to the skies and outflanking us. Even further back, Major-General Garnet was safely out of harm’s way to direct the battle. He didn’t need my offer of assistance, of course; no, my place was at the front with the stallions, and try as I might there was no getting out of this without unveiling myself as the coward I truly am.

My heart pounded in my chest, louder than the distant cannon fire seemingly muffled by the fog. The air was dense, soupy, and was thick with the stench and taste of fear and sweat and vomit; it was everywhere - in my nose, my mouth, and clogging my throat like a urine-soaked ball of cotton wool crammed down there. Each breath was laboured, like sucking air through a clogged straw. By Faust, I wanted it over with. If this was to be my end, then so be it, if it meant an end to this interminable waiting.

Just let it end.

“Sir?” said Cannon Fodder, who had been standing silently by my side. “Are you alright?”

I noticed that he was having no problems breathing, and neither did anypony else for that matter. It was just me, or rather the mounting fear within.

“I’m fine,” I said, forcing a grin. “Must be allergic to clouds.”

A cold wind blew, plucking at my coat, chilling my sweat-soaked fur, and nearly knocking my cap off. The standard of the Night Guards above fluttered. A thousand pegasi behind the line beat their wings all at once, striking up a brisk gale that blew away the cloud and provided some momentary respite from the horrid stench. As though a veil had been lifted, a curtain drawn from a window, the battlefield was revealed. Ahead was the great range of hills, and there, upon the slopes, the Changeling war swarm rushed down towards us.

Thousands of drones charged. Each second brought them closer to our line, a pitiful two ranks between me and them. They could only have been a few hundred yards away; their hooves thundered on the ground and their wings filled the air with an awful buzzing. Amidst the great mass of them, some running, others already airborne, I could already make out individual drones; snarling, slathering beats with fangs bared and tongues flickering as they bore down on us. The earth trembled, reverberating up my hooves as I stared transfixed in horror at the sight. Dear Luna, this was suicide.

They had left it too late. The Changeling swarm would be upon us soon, and we’d be washed away like a sugarcube in a cup of hot tea.

“Present!” shouted Starlit Skies, his voice surprisingly loud and sharp for a such a soft-spoken pony. He held his hoof up as though he was about to merely signal the start of a school sports day race, and peered at a quietly ticking pocket watch. The first two ranks lowered their muskets or horns. We happened to be behind an earth pony company, so I had a front row seat in seeing how these allegedly war-winning weapons would be used. It would be very interesting to see that before being ripped to shreds.

The cannons thundered behind us somewhere, one after the other in an irregular, rolling volley. Each was like the pounding of a hammer against my skull. Spears of flame and smoke screamed over our heads, piercing through the residual fog that still lingered and leaving behind the sharp, acrid tang of burnt gunpowder in its wake. The slope of the hill was a killing field; roundshot tore great, ragged wounds into the swarm, while shrapnel and mortar shells eviscerated scores at a time in murderous showers of iron and lead. Yet it was not enough, the holes torn by cannonfire were quickly healed as the dead, dying, and wounded were merely left to be trampled. The enemy’s formation dispersed, spreading out so as to minimise losses. Yet for all the fearsome power and horror of modern artillery, Bramley Apple’s battery was not enough to halt the seemingly limitless numbers of the enemy, who cared not for casualties. The swarm charged onwards to our fragile line, unimpeded by hail of shot and shell.

“Steady, lads!” The Major wiggled his nose, which settled the pair of pince-nez balanced precariously there, and peered through the lenses at the vast swarm. “Wait for my command!”

The enemy were a mere hundred yards away, and the artillery ceased firing lest they hit us. The absence of the roar of cannonfire was suden, abrupt, and disturbing - now, the drumming of thousands of hooves and the buzzing of thousands of wings had become overwhelming. Though I prayed, pleaded really, the thundering mass of Changelings showed no sign of slowing or stopping at the sight of an entire division about to open fire. Instead the snarling, hissing mass of hooves and fangs roiled like a boiling sea, and rose up like a tidal wave.

Give the order, I wanted to scream, give the bloody order, damn you!

Our troops stood firm - horns charged, muskets levelled with locks back and hooves clenched around triggers - where I had no thought but to turn and run, yet my hooves remained rooted to the ground as though glued. It was the end; nothing to do but stand and wait for it to happen - for us to be swept away in an onslaught of hooves and fangs. Major Starlit Skies gazed out thoughtfully at the oncoming horde, with no more concern than one would for a particularly tricky crossword puzzle, and then he looked at his pocket watch again. The stampeding beasts were almost upon us and nopony could possibly miss, so what in blazes was he playing at? Sixty yards and closer every second - give the order you senile old fool, give the order or I will.

I could stand it no longer, and yelled over the noise, “Give the or-”

Major Starlit Skies dropped his hoof. “Fire!”

Chapter 11

The volley thundered out from the front rank in a sharp, ragged crash of musket fire and magic. The smoke billowed back in my face, stinging my eyes and assaulting my nostrils with the sharp tang of burnt powder, but as I blinked away the tears and peered through the swirling morass, I saw the entire vanguard of the horde eviscerated in a storm of lead and magic. A great, screaming confusion erupted in their ranks, as the foremost drones crashed down into the dust before us in a hideous flail of twisted, broken limbs and bloodied craters of flesh and chitin. Those behind, carried forwards by the momentum of the charge, careered straight into their fallen comrades, and became entangled in the grotesque pile of eviscerated corpses.

“Fire!” roared Starlit Skies again. The second rank fired over the heads of the kneeling first rank, and the volley smashed into the mess of panicked Changelings. Drones shrieked and fell as the musket balls and magic bolts ripped into the densely-packed mass, hooves lashing out blindly and tripping the ones who had somehow survived. As the smoke cleared in the stiff breeze, it unveiled a horrendous sight that haunts me still; a few scant dozen or so yards away was a bank of dead and wounded Changelings, all piled up in a bloody and twisted tangle of drones, with limbs and heads and wings stuck out at obscene angles. Some still lived, though barely, and I glimpsed one such poor creature, a raw crater in its chest oozing ichor and liquified organs, shrieking in the madness of indescribable pain, trying in vain to pull itself free from the weight of its dead comrades.

Major Starlit Skies surveyed the carnage with his usual dispassionate, analytical coldness. The enemy had been given a bloody nose, yes, but the greater mass of the horde was still unbroken, though merely reeling from the onslaught. It would not be long before the Purestrains re-established their hold on their drones, and would descend upon us before the front rank had the chance to reload.

“Fix bayonets!” he shouted. “Draw swords!” The order was relayed across the line, and at once the unicorns drew their swords and the earth ponies went through the mechanical process of fixing bayonets.

I saw one, quite close to me, struggle to insert the blade’s handle into the gun’s muzzle. His hooves shook with fright, and the bayonet slipped from his sweaty grip and landed in the dust. Sergeant Major Square Basher, who had been trotting up and down the line making sure everypony was ready and sorted, came across this poor lad, who flinched from the imposing mare and the onslaught of creative invective that was to follow. To his surprise and mine, she simply picked up the dropped blade, inserted it into the barrel, twisted it to lock it in place, and offered a few quiet words of encouragement that I couldn’t hear.

[These early bayonets were of the ‘plug’ type, which fitted directly into the musket barrel as Blueblood described, and allowed the musket to double as a spear for close combat. This, however, prevented the gun from being loaded and fired. The socket bayonet, in which the blade is off-set from the muzzle and would allow the soldier to load and fire, was introduced much later.]

Surely they would flee, thought I, in the face of overwhelming Equestrian superiority in the field, but there was no such luck. A retreat back to the high ground would still have allowed us to fire upon them with impunity and without fear of retaliation, so another frontal attack before our troops had a chance to reload and recharge was their only recourse. I could see them, beyond the jagged line of the dead and dying, regrouping and massing for the final charge that would finish us off, unless we got there first.

“Sir?” Cannon Fodder touched my shoulder, leaving a smear of filth on the already dusty tunic sleeve. “Your sword?”

It was still in its scabbard, hanging by my hip. I muttered a quiet, awkward ‘thanks’ in embarrassment and drew it with a sharp rasp of steel grating on steel. The hefty Pattern ‘12 sabre, more like a heavy machete for chopping into tough chitin than anything else called a ‘sabre’, felt oddly reassuring in my grip. Gliding Moth’s rapier, which had remained a constant and reliable companion when I inherited it, was back at camp; its elegant and slim blade was ill-suited for hacking up Changelings, and I couldn’t risk losing it, either.

Then, somewhere close by but unseen, a bugle blasted a short, cheerful little refrain that was soon drowned out utterly by the fearsome, terrifying roar, louder than the volleys, that rose up from our ranks. I was deafened by it, and cowed by its oppressive power; it was a bestial, atavistic cry that belonged more to our primitive ancestors braining one another with large rocks than supposedly civilised ponies. But then I suppose we always were those ponies, and such bloodlust only lurked behind the locked door of civility where it could be torn open by drill instructors and projected at an enemy to fight.

I was swept forwards from behind on a veritable equine wave. Try as I might to slow myself to allow those soldiers more eager than I to charge on ahead, I found myself somehow forced to the fore, as ever, to the very front line with the earth ponies. I scrambled with my newfound comrades over the piled bodies of the Changelings, my hooves sinking into ichor-soaked dust and squelching horribly in glistening entrails and exposed flesh. There was nowhere for me to go without stepping on something disgusting, that was once a living, breathing creature that, regardless of orders, probably didn’t want to die here.

I had half a second’s glimpse of the disorganised rabble that was the war swarm before we collided into it. The earth ponies smashed into the horde, their bayonets slicing through toughened chitin and into the vulnerable flesh beneath, and the dead and wounded were trampled under-hoof.

Hurled into the hell of combat once again, I swung wildly with my sabre. The drone looked shocked, horrified even, as the brutishly heavy blade came down and bit deeply into its skull. The creature hissed and shrieked as I tugged the sabre free, blood and brain matter splashed into my face, and it fell to the ground in a twitching, bleeding heap.

I stepped over the dead thing. The next one lunged at me, sharp and glistening fangs bared for my throat. My sword was raised again to fend it off, but this one ducked underneath the panicked swing. Cannon Fodder, advancing by my left, thrust his spear and caught the creature in the exposed gap between chitinous plates. It fell to the ground like a coat dropped from a hook, bleeding from severed arteries. My aide flashed me one of his rare grins, looking very proud of himself.

The Guards Division forced the enemy back, but the Changeling swarm surged against us, battering itself against the impenetrable Equestrian phalanx. For a moment the scrum was at a stalemate, as ponies and Changelings pushed against one another, struggling in the massed press of sweat-soaked bodies and sun-baked armour. Squeezed on all sides, I barely had room to swing my sword, while around me, the long muskets tipped with bayonets were now unwieldy with the enemy mere inches away, and many soldiers had discarded them. As ever, for all the advances made in the science of killing, it all came down to hooves, teeth, and fangs.

A Changeling hoof struck my nose, and it exploded in a torrent of blood and pain. There was no time to check if it had been broken; the creature hissed and reared up on its hindlegs, forelegs flailing to smash my skull. I flinched back, right into the pony behind me, who yelled something I couldn’t make out and gave me a heavy shove forwards. My horn rammed into the drone’s chest, knocking into the hard chitin without so much as a scratch or a dent and sending a jab of pain right into the centre of my skull. It tumbled over onto its back, and I, without conscious thought on my part, hacked my sword down like a great machete.

The drone raised its hooves to try and block my sword, but the heavy, inelegant blade simply chopped through and severed them. I hacked again, putting the poor thing out of its misery by burying the blade deep into its chest, and its screaming mercifully ceased.

We pushed on, and slowly, almost imperceptibly at first, the Equestrians began to drive the Changelings back up the hill. Above, the light pegasus company weaved through the air, while the heavier ones lingered closer to keep our foe pinned to the ground. I struggled onwards, pushed forth by the grinding momentum of the advance, my horn aching with each and every swing of that heavy sword and my limbs with every step. What was going on elsewhere, along the flanks, ahead and behind, beyond the mere three feet all around that had become my entire world, I had no idea; there was only this narrow, solipsist view of but a tiny portion of this monstrous struggle.

Everything became a blur of blood and steel. In the press of bodies all around and my attention reduced to my sword and the snarling beasts immediately in front of me, so it was no wonder I or the ponies near me failed to see the ditch ahead. All I can recall of it is seeing the vast horde ahead of us part suddenly, opening a wide gap, and before I could look down I felt the awful sensation of my forehooves falling through where I thought the ground should have been. I scrambled back on my hindlegs, but there was a pony behind me, and with no room to manoeuvre I toppled over the edge. My hooves grabbed onto the closest thing that seemed sturdy enough, but that happened to be Cannon Fodder, and I only succeeded in dragging him down with me.

I rolled down this steep, almost sheer drop down into this ditch. Rocks jabbed painfully into my body, and scraped against my skin until I came to a stop in a bruised and bloodied heap.

Everything hurt, but that at least meant that I was still alive. I dragged myself to my hooves with Cannon Fodder’s assistance and grabbed my sword from the ground, which had slipped from my magical grasp. A cursory check proved I wasn’t gravely injured, though my new uniform would never be the same again.

About a score of us had fallen in, including the pony behind me who I had bumped into. Apparently seeing that we were trapped, a mob of Changelings braved the swarm of pegasi above and dived into the ditch to finish us off. Only then, as the grinding advance of the Night Guards proceeded above us, did they perhaps realise they were now trapped in this ditch with us.

We were stuck there, and that became readily apparent when I tried and failed to get out the way that I had fallen in. I scrambled back, trying to crawl up and out of the ditch, but the ground was too steep and the gravel too loose for my hooves to find firm purchase. What could only be described as a vicious brawl broke out, as both sides, maddened by their newfound captivity, realised the only way to escape was to exterminate the enemy.

There was no glory in this, only savagery. Here, a stallion’s neck was torn open by Changeling fangs and he fell, choking on his own blood as he desperately tried to stem the bleeding with his hooves. Next to him, another pony repeatedly stamped on a drone’s head until its skull cracked and its face turned to jelly. A unicorn blasted magic at point-blank range into a Changeling’s chest, burning a smouldering hole the size of a dinner plate clean through, before he was mobbed by three others and he fell beneath them. Elsewhere, a pony and a drone wrestled in the blood-soaked dust in a fatal embrace, until their coats and chitin became so covered in foul-smelling sludge that it was almost impossible to tell the two apart. Around us, the battalion poured around the edges, though in the mad press of bodies all around, a few tumbled in after us.

I darted right in; I don’t know, I wasn’t thinking straight, but it seemed that if I was going to survive this hell I had to do something. As the pony and the drone rolled in the dust, hooves hurled at one another and teeth snapping, I wrapped my hooves around the Changeling’s waist and pulled it back. At the same time, I brought my sword down between its neck and shoulder, impaling it right through. It gurgled, spasming in my hooves until it suddenly went limp. The soldier thanked me and joined his comrades, and I dropped the dead thing and followed.

Another drone lunged at me, this one with its right hoof transformed into a sharp spike twelve inches long from the fetlock. Bewildered and surprised at this, I scrambled back, slipping in the puddles of blood and ichor, and only just brought up my sabre in time to deflect the thrust. It was a little too late, however; pain burst around the left side of my chest as the blade sliced into it.

Yet there was no blood, though it hurt like the blazes. I didn’t know if their kind were capable of expressing surprise, but the face that the Changeling pulled looked desperately close to it. That moment of hesitation was enough for me to turn my sword in a loop, still using the momentum gathered from when I deflected the thrust, and raked the blade through the Changeling’s chest. The thing shrieked and flinched back, and blood gushed from the gaping wound. Acting more on instinct, despite knowing there was no way even it could survive that, I leapt forward and hacked the blade down, catching the creature in the neck and digging deep into its flesh.

Then it was over as quickly as it had begun. The Changelings were all dead, along with about half of the ponies. A few would join them before the day was over, judging by their horrendous wounds. This ditch had become a charnel pit; bodies were piled up at the bottom, drones and ponies alike in the still embrace of death, unmoving and yet whose lifeless eyes stared accusingly at those who had been granted the mercy of survival. Those survivors stared back with haunted, empty expressions; one of their number broke down and sobbed quietly, and were it not for my station as an officer I’d have done the same.

My ribs stung with every laboured breath, but I was still alive; Rarity’s armour had paid for itself. I pulled at my tunic, seeing the hole that the Changeling’s bladed hoof had ripped into it, and when I angled it the right way I could make out a scratch, about three inches long and quite deep with frayed edges, in the star spider silk. With it, I suffered only a painful bruise, but without it, the blade would have slid between my ribs and punctured a lung.

The stench of death and blood all around had become overwhelming, and the bile burned the back of my throat. My head swam, as though I was drunk, and simultaneously there came an immense throbbing and pounding inside my skull, or perhaps it had been there all this time and I only noticed because now I had a second to think about it. My mouth was desperately dry, and all I could taste was copper and ash, so I tried to drink from my canteen. I ended up spilling a great deal of its precious contents, and what I could greedily gulp down was not enough.

I wanted out of there. Now. The sight of so much horror inspired a peculiar sort of mania in me, and despite my injuries I threw myself against the steep slope to try and escape it. One would think that I would have become accustomed to such sights after all that I have been through, and I can say with some small element of pride that I did not, and still have not. Strong hooves seized me by the shoulders and lifted me up. I flinched, raising my sword in panic, and squirmed as they wrapped tightly around my upper arms.

“Easy, sir.” I looked up to see not a drone but a pegasus lifting me out of the ditch. His comrades had started doing the same to the others. “It’s only us.”

After being dropped unceremoniously on the dusty ground, I pulled myself up and tried to fight the rising nausea and panic. Cannon Fodder was deposited next to me by another pegasus who promptly sped off to wash his hooves; my aide looked no worse for wear after our shared ordeal, though I had lost sight of him in that gruesome fight. Looking around, from what I could tell, though somewhat delirious with pain and adrenaline, it appeared that the division had advanced without me. Good luck to them, thought I, as I stared up at the ridge and the vast band of steel and gold that stretched off unseen into the distance either side, but I was in no eager rush to join them. It looked like they had already reached the summit, and were holding the high ground Market Garden had ordered them to take.

Around us, though, was not much of an improvement on the misery of the ditch; bodies dotted the entire stretch of the slope from its base to its peak, some torn and bloodied, others whole and looked as though they were merely sleeping, and all around I could hear the pitious wailing of the wounded and dying. We might have won this battle, the turning point in the war some would later call it, but every triumph must be tinged with loss and pain. I watched, not knowing where I was supposed to go or what I was supposed to do now, as the white-uniformed medics moved like ghosts between the bodies, both dead and clinging tenaciously to the thin sliver of life, marking the fallen, tending to the wounded, and easing the passage of the dying. Teams of stretcher-bearers collected those destined for the surgeon’s hacksaw, and carted them off down the slope to where a small collection of tents had sprung up; one must have been the field hospital.

Captain Blitzkrieg landed next to me, the flutter of his wings almost silent. He looked dreadful, more so than usual, with torn feathers, a gash over his right eye, and hoof-shaped dents all over his armour. He peered over the edge and into the ditch.

“Celestia’s tits,” he said breathlessly, pointing down at the butchery below. “Were you in that?”

“Yes,” I said. “Damned rotten business.”

“Too bloody right.” Blitzkrieg pulled out a packet of cheap cigarillos from his pocket, stuck one in his mouth, then patted his hooves over the pouches and pockets slung over his armour for what I assumed was his lighter. I obliged with a small light from my horn, and I admit gaining some foalish amusement out of making the diminutive pegasus have to rear up to reach it. He mumbled a thanks and took a heavy, impatient drag on it.

“The colonel wants to see you,” he said, expelling a dense cloud of smoke that was soon lost amidst the lingering smog left by the artillery and musket fire.

“Which one?” I asked.

“Ours, you daft ninny,” he said. I ignored the insult, or I think it was intended as such; although I have spent more time than I ever intended to with Trottingham ponies, some of their slang still escaped me. “He’s been chatting to the Griffons and he thinks he’s got an idea.”

Colonels getting bright ideas was rarely a good sign, and considering Sunshine Smiles himself was the sort who applied himself to his job with far too much enthusiasm for my liking, it was even less of an incentive. Nevertheless, Blitzkrieg pointed me to where the good colonel was, which, to the surprise of nopony, was right at the very top of the ridge.

I politely refused the offer of a lift, preferring to walk, or perhaps crawl, my way up there with Cannon Fodder rather than suffer the indignity of being carried by pegasi again. After about five minutes into my journey, pulling myself step by painful step up that uneven slope, I regretted that choice. However, I could hardly go back and ask for one now after having refused it; I would never hear the end of it from Blitzkrieg and the other pegasi in the officers’ mess once this was all over. The going was slow, not helped by the fact the adrenaline had started to wear off and the wave of exhaustion that had been kept at bay came flooding in.

I was drained, completely, utterly, and totally. My legs felt like they were made of jelly, and seemed like they could barely hold me up. I felt sick too, and were I not on an empty stomach I was sure I would have thrown up by now; in fact, I was rather hungry, and while I was moderately certain that eating something would help me feel better, I was afraid that I would almost immediately expel it. My nose too, where it had been punched by a Changeling, stung awfully, though at least the flow of blood had ceased for now. When I touched it with a hoof, the pain increased tenfold, like a hot knife straight to the nerves, and I could hear and feel a horrid ‘crackling’. Still, as long as I could focus on putting one hoof in front of the other, and try to ignore the horror all around me, I knew I could manage.

It was still early morning, as far as I could tell; I didn’t bring my watch, unlike Starlit Skies, as I did not fancy losing a valuable family heirloom in that fight. To give an accurate measurement of how long the battle, or at least the part I had participated in, had taken would be impossible; it had felt like an eternity, but it could only really have been an hour or so. I reached the top, where the entire division was arrayed out in a line along the ridge. As far as I could tell the fighting had mercifully stopped, judging by the general mood and bearing of the troops now arranged neatly into their formations as before.

I found Colonel Sunshine Smiles at the front of the formation, as usual, standing with Lieutenant-Colonel Guillaume and one of the unicorn runners some distance away from the front line of earth ponies and unicorns. As I approached, emerging out of the relative safety granted by the armoured wall of soldiers, I felt so terribly exposed out in the open. I looked all around in case some Changeling would suddenly dart out from behind one of the clouds of smoke that still lingered or dispel a cunning disguise as a rock and rip me to shreds. It would have been a shame, thought I, to have survived all of that, only to be struck down by an assassin.

The ridge sloped away into a shallow valley, and lying in the middle of it was that city I had seen in the reconnaissance photograph much earlier. That image had not done it justice; taken from a great distance, it had failed to convey accurately the sheer size and thickness of the walls that surrounded it, nor the formidable castle that towered over the squat, flat houses and the twisted Changeling architecture. To advance from this high ground that Market Garden had so desperately wanted to the walls would mean charging across open land, as replete with craters, ditches, and outcroppings as the other slope, without meaningful cover for what must have been at least a mile.

Once they crossed that open ground, an attacking army would have to overcome a deep and wide ditch that had been dug around the entirety of the city, except, of course, where the river passed under the walls. Even then, the massive stone walls would have to be breached, and these were not the same as the decaying, crumbling defences of Fort Nowhere - instead, they appeared to be new, or at least well-maintained and bolstered, being tall and thick, with towers and bastions at presumably strategically-placed locations to counter assault from the air. Changelings, being the sort of conniving, un-gentlecoltly, and dishonourable creatures that they are, were likely to have a whole host of other nasty surprises hidden away too. Any positive feelings about being on the opposite side of a siege after last time were very quickly washed away when I saw precisely what we would be up against.

“Bloody hell,” said Sunshine Smiles as Cannon Fodder and I approached. “You look like shit, Your Highness.”

“I fell in a ditch,” I said. “It was full of Changelings.”

The colonel looked far from peaky himself. His grey Night Guards armour had turned black with smoke residue and dried blood and ichor, which caked his peytral and covered up the eye symbol upon his breast. There were a number of cuts and gashes on his exposed skin, though they seemed to be superficial, but his left eye was bloodshot and there was a dark hoof-shaped bruise around it like a frame. He beckoned me over and pointed at something down in the valley.

“They’re retreating,” he said. I followed his hoof to see what was left of the Changeling war swarm milling about, roughly halfway between us and the city. If they were running away, it looked like they were doing it rather slowly. “Guillaume here has come up with a cunning plan. Why don’t you tell the commissar about it?”

The Griffon stepped forwards hesitantly. He too looked as though he had been in the thick of the fighting, though I had no idea what the PGL had been up to and where, as I hadn’t seen any of them from my myopic view point. [In the Battle of the Heights the PGL had fought to maintain Equestrian dominance of the air, with individual flocks, their equivalent of companies, assigned to different sections of the battlefield] In addition to the ichor and gore smeared on his armour, his beak and talons were likewise smothered in it. Despite being part of the Equestrian Army, it still seemed that the PGL adhered to the relentless, predatory savagery of the Griffon traditions of war; namely, tearing the enemy to shreds with the weapons that Faust, in Her dubious wisdom, had granted them.

“We can cut them off,” he said, his voice raspy, as though he had been shouting an awful lot. “Gather the PGL and all of the pegasi in the division, then cut off their retreat before they reach the city. Then the ground troops can move in, surround them, and then finish them off.”

“Then Market Garden and the general staff can have that decisive battle of annihilation they’ve always wanted,” said Sunshine Smiles.

I made a quiet, impressed humming noise as I peered over his shoulder at the fleeing Changelings, pretending that I was considering his plan. It certainly sounded all very dramatic and such, I’ll admit; the sort of thing Neighpoleon himself might have pulled off all those years ago before it all went badly for him. I, however, claim to be no expert on such things, and as a general rule if I think that any sort of military endeavour is a good idea based solely on my gut instinct and my complete lack of knowledge of anything military beyond hitting things with a sword, then it will very likely lead to disaster.

As it happened, the two weren’t looking for my input, but just wanted me to accompany Guillaume when he explained his bright idea to General Market Garden.

“It might be more convincing if you’re there to back him up,” said Sunshine Smiles. “General Market Garden seems to like you.”

That was a damned lie and he knew it, but then who could really tell with her? The pony had the social skills of a bowl of cold, watery porridge with a chunk of rusty iron hidden within its bland depths. Ordinarily I’d have leapt at the chance to get away from the misery of the frontline, even if it was just a mile or so further down where the generals got to sit back and watch the battle they had planned as they sipped their morning tea, but Market Garden’s personality was so unbearable that I was considering charging on ahead and trying my luck with the Changelings instead.

Of course, sense won out, and I accepted this task, knowing full well that its success could mean me being hurled right into danger yet again. I was about to start heading back down the slope to where I assumed Market Garden and her cronies still were, when I felt the unpleasant and distracting tingle of teleportation tickling hairs on my coat.

The dizzying sensation of being shoved across space and time was at least over in an instant, but it was disorientating enough to send me toppling over into Guillaume, who seemed to fare much better with such things and steadied me with a bloodied claw. Looking around, I saw that we were now much further down the hill, back where we had started. Gazing up at those heights, the rough and dusty slopes appeared to be covered in tiny dark dots, some moving and others still, while at the summit a great number of them had congregated into a neat band like a vast silk ribbon draped over it. I tried to see if I could find that ditch I had fallen into with Cannon Fodder, but from this distance all of those lines of trenches and pits looked the same to me, and I quickly gave up.

Another one of Twilight’s new innovations, though how many of the reforms that bore her name were down to her alone over the countless names tucked away in the references section of her report was anypony’s guess. Messages and certain important ponies could now be delivered faster and more safely by a cadre of highly-trained unicorns skilled in teleportation, instead of the traditional runners who had to trot or fly; it was all well and good, but I would have appreciated a warning first.

[Just like many other things associated with the military, this has its own acronym: Teleport-Aided Command and Control (TACC). The unicorns were therefore nicknamed ‘tackers’ by the troops. While an improvement on the previous system of relaying messages with runners, teleportation is very high level magic that few unicorns can ever master, and in battle may end up draining their magic too quickly. Therefore, runners were still in use throughout the war.]

Speaking of my aide, the unusually fresh air in place of the odour of fermented vegetables made me realise that Cannon Fodder had been left behind at the top of the ridge. Of course, his unique ability to suck out magic from all around like a sponge and channel it to Faust knows where worked just as effectively on beneficial spells as it did those that would harm us. Evidently, the unicorn who brought us here hadn’t been informed of this (I made great pains to keep this whole thing a secret, as it had proved to be very useful in otherwise deadly encounters) and he was a little upset at having lost a passenger, though I reassured him that he would turn up sooner or later.

We had materialised just outside Market Garden’s command marquee, which looked suspiciously like the sort used for the Canterlot garden party I had attended a few years ago during happier times. There were a few other large tents surrounding it, forming a small camp of sorts, and with it the usual bustle of frantic activity. One other such tent, the largest one around and a reasonable walk away, was marked out with red crosses as the field hospital, where medics and stretcher-bearers carried the more serious cases from the battlefield to be dealt with by the surgeons. Those awaiting treatment were placed outside in pitiful rows, each having been quickly bandaged up and left to wait for their turn under the scalpel or bonesaw. I forced myself to look away, but the moans of pain that could not be dulled by morphine and sedatives could not be ignored so easily.

I led Guillaume into the marquee. Inside was an austere version of Market Garden’s command centre in Fort Nowhere, with the very same map table occupying the centre and the same staff officers milling about and transporting vast amounts of paperwork to and from smaller desks and filing cabinets. The tent at least provided some measure of respite from the heat of the day, which by then was starting to beat down in earnest. Here, ponies chattered, argued, bickered, discussed whatever was on these very important bits of paper, and runners and tackers in weathered armour darted in, either collected or dropped off scribbled orders and reports, and then dipped out again.

However, as I stepped inside, the general hubbub of a busy office abruptly ceased, as though the needle had been wrenched violently from a gramophone record. Judging by the reactions I received, Colonel Sunshine Smiles was not exaggerating when he said that I looked like ‘shit’, as he had so eloquently put it, and though I had neither the time nor the inclination to verify that assessment by consulting a mirror, which I was unlikely to find around here anyway, the way that I felt certainly warranted so vulgar a term. I was covered in dust, sweat, ichor, and blood, and how much of the latter was mine or somepony else’s I couldn’t say for certain. The staff officers all stared at me as I staggered in, Guillaume in tow, each bearing stunned and horrified expressions - I wagered many of these bureaucrats had never so much seen the sight of blood until today, and I feared for their sanity should they peek outside at the rows of wounded laid out by the hospital.

“Blueblood!” exclaimed Market Garden. She grinned widely and beckoned me over with a hoof. “A spectacular victory by all accounts! And by Celestia you look like you’ve been in the thick of it. Oh, how I wish I could have been there.”

I concurred; generals might be a tad more careful about ordering offensives if they had to share in the fighting and the dying like the rest of us, but then I supposed there wouldn’t be very many such operations anymore. Although, that would be no bad thing, the more that I think about it, and perhaps we might have peace instead if leaders shared in the suffering of their followers. Really, though, there was little chance of that even if I did get my wish, and knowing my luck the likes of Market Garden would only be encouraged further.

“Shall we muster the troops for an inspection?” she continued, all but prancing back over to the large map table. Market Garden preened in front of the rather exasperated-looking staff officers, all of whom probably had been putting up with this sort of thing the moment she glimpsed Equestrian flag raised on top of the ridge. “The soldiers will want to see their victorious general!”

“My division has spent all morning fighting,” said Major-General Garnet, glaring at his superior. “I think an inspection can wait, ma’am, especially if the ponies look as bad as His Highness here. It wouldn’t be fair on them.”

“Oh, fine,” said Market Garden, sounding more like a spoilt foal who had been talked into sharing some of her birthday cake with the others at her party. Still, Garnet seemed to have handled her well, and even though he made absolutely no effort to hide his displeasure she either didn’t notice or didn’t care. “Let them bask in our victory for the moment, but I want to see Virion Hive for myself sharpish.”

Even in his ridiculously ostentatious uniform Second Fiddle still seemed to disappear into the background when in a large group of ponies, so it was something of an unwelcome surprise when he abruptly said something and made me finally realise he was present. As implausible as it might sound, with his highly polished gold reflecting the bright sunlight from outside and the assortment of self-awarded medals jingling with each movement, I had completely failed to spot him. Of course, I was also dehydrated, exhausted, and quite generally out of it after that ordeal, so I like to think I can be excused for this oversight.

“Why aren’t you with your battalion, Blueblood?” he said. His face was quite pale as he looked at me, or rather the blood splattered all over my uniform, and he covered his mouth and nose with that silly hoofkerchief.

“The division’s just routed an entire Changeling war swarm, so I think they can look after themselves for a bit,” I said, choosing to respond to his rather rude insinuation that I shouldn’t be here with a sarcastic quip, instead of the rather less erudite series of un-printable expletives that my lips had first formed before my aristocratic sense of propriety stepped in. “However, Lieutenant-Colonel Guillaume has a proposal for you.”

“I am not in the habit of taking advice on strategy from Griffons,” said Market Garden, turning away from us.

“I think we should hear it out,” I said, surprised at my own insistent tone. “I would not have come here if I didn’t think it had some merit. Guillaume, if you would.”

The griffon stepped forwards, trying to hold himself confidently with his head held high and back straight, though a more perceptive eye would have seen his tail tucked between his hind legs and the ruffled feathers around his neck. He explained his observation and suggestion as he had done with me just earlier, albeit with a far more deferential tone and a great deal more ‘sirs’ and ‘ma’ams’ used, almost in the place of commas and full stops were I to write out his speech verbatim. The generals and staff officers present listened on with varying levels of interest; Market Garden looked bored but paid attention presumably because she had been informed that it was the polite thing to do, whereas Garnet, for once listening to what another had to say rather than dominating the conversation with a prepared speech about whatever useless trivia interested him at that moment, was thoroughly enraptured by the idea, and had at least held off on his rambling until Guillaume had finished.

“It could work,” said Major-General Garnet. “A total encirclement of the war swarm, just like the Battle of Canine in the Second Ponic War, when the Cartaginians completely encircled and wiped out-”

“Yes, yes,” snapped Market Garden, silencing him with a wave of her hoof. “We all read about that in the Academy.”

I didn’t, but then again I spent most of my time in the Royal Academy chasing mares, drinking, and gambling instead of studying, and I still walked out with a commission in the Solar Guard as well as a collection of easily-cured venereal diseases, a cataclysmic hangover, and a coin purse heavier than the one I had enrolled with. The poor dears here before me had wasted that time actually learning, which, now that I think about it, is probably why they got to be generals in the relative safety of a mile behind the frontline, while I had to slog through the dust, dirt, and blood with the common soldiery. Nevertheless, I nodded along as though I understood the reference.

“It would be a tremendous gamble,” said Market Garden, partly to herself as she seemed to be thinking through the proposal. “Maintaining the encirclement would be difficult; we will require enough airborne troops to keep the bugs from just flying out of it, and even then our ground forces will be spread much too thinly.”

“We have reserves,” said Garnet, stepping around the table and picking up a clipboard with a few sheets of paper pinned to it. He peered down at the numbers and charts. “The Two Sisters Brigade [the common nickname for the 1st Brigade of the Guards Regiment, consisting of the Solar and Night Guards] took a bit of a beating taking that high ground, but the 2nd Brigade is still mostly fresh. They and the PGL can pin down the enemy while you send in another division to finish them off.”

Market Garden shook her head. “This is simply too much,” she said. “Far, far too great a gamble, and the costs of failure far too severe to justify it, even to destroy an entire war swarm. Now that we have taken this high ground we must conserve our strength for the fight ahead, not squander it with this cavalier scheme.”

“Ma’am, we may never get another chance like this again!” Garnet waved the clipboard at his superior, as though that might convince her. “We simply can’t let this opportunity slip past our hooves. I simply can’t. No general ever won a war through caution.”

“No, but generals have lost wars by wasting lives and materiel on such ill-planned adventures. I’ll not have it, Garnet. We dig in and prepare for a siege.”

Major-General’s Garnet’s mouth hung open in disbelief, as though the muscles that had held it shut had been rendered loose and inoperable. He looked to me, as if for help, but I couldn’t give more than a sympathetic look; I certainly was not about to get involved in this little argument, especially if it meant coming down on one side and earning the ire of the other.

“But if we strike now we can avoid a siege!” His voice now had become exasperated and pleading.

“A siege is precisely what I have planned for.” Market Garden swept her hoof over the veritable mountain of paperwork on the map table. “Our objective is to take Virion Hive, and I’ll not throw away the victory we have won this day by marching our troops into what might very well turn out to be a trap.”

“But-”

Second Fiddle cleared his throat and stepped forwards, startling me again by reminding me that he was still present. “General Market Garden has made up her mind,” he said. He then turned to Lieutenant-Colonel Guillaume, who had stood by my side throughout this whole argument with a sort of bewildered awkwardness, as though he had wanted more than anything to interject on behalf of his plan but his inferior rank forbade him. “Thank you for your suggestion, but it is not needed here. Now if you don’t mind, we’re all rather busy trying to win this war.”

He made a shoo-ing motion with a hoof and then turned away; the condescension rankled me, but I held my tongue for now. Though I hadn’t had much stock in Guillaume’s plan, and indeed, deep down, I must admit that I was hoping it would be rejected, seeing the rather disappointed expression on the Griffon’s face did invoke at least some sympathetic feeling in me. I muttered a thanks and then led him back outside and into the glare of the mid-morning sun, the smell of antiseptic and blood, and the choking dust all around.

“I thought it was a good idea, at least,” I said. “But General Market Garden has to consider the bigger picture. Don’t take it personally.”

Guillaume shrugged his shoulders, and clicked his beak. “I know,” he said. “At least I caught the eye of Major-General Garnet.”

So, he was more astute than I had initially thought, and when said general officer emerged from the tent behind us, apparently having followed us out, he discovered he was more correct than he had initially thought. Guillaume boggled at him, and then snapped to attention and saluted briskly, which Garnet responded to with equal alacrity.

“So much for that ‘offensive spirit’ she keeps talking about,” said Garnet. “The PGL acquitted itself well today.”

“Thank you,” said Guillaume, “sir.”

“You kept them off our stallions’ backs for the entire fight so they could concentrate on pushing forward, just like the Battle of Canterlot when-” he stopped, holding up a hoof to his mouth, and grinned “-I know, I’ll tell you all about that later. Look, the general’s said we can’t encircle the enemy, but you can still do something for me. You Griffons are hunters, so I order you to hunt; harass the enemy, pick off stragglers, just don’t let them have an easy retreat back to their walls. I’ll leave the specifics for you to sort out.”

He handed over the scribbled order on a folded sheet of note paper, and that appeared to mollify Guillaume for now. After another round of salutes and ‘sirs’ he flew off back to the top of the ridge and Garnet trotted back inside the marquee.

And so that was that; we had won, apparently, and that marked the end of my involvement in this part of the battle. I could go on to describe the mopping up, consolidating, and general fretting about that took up the remainder of the day, before I could finally retire for the night and drink myself into a stupor so I could finally sleep untroubled by nightmares, but I expect that I would just be repeating myself. That’s not important, anyway, as ever, history is less about these sorts of details and more about the debate between conflicting interpretations, as Twilight had told me decades later when this accursed war had fallen into what society would call ‘the past’.

I have told you, dear reader, as much as I can remember of that dreadful morning, or wish to remember, as the case may be. If it doesn’t tally up against what you have read in somepony else’s memoirs or what some intellectual binoclard had written in a dry history book then I’m at a bit of a loss; what I have laid out are the facts as I recall them, or rather the feeling of them. Some say that Major Starlit Skies had really left it too late and the Night Guards could only fire off a single volley before charging, whereas others say there was a third volley - I remember two, and I am certain that he, who always planned everything to mathematical precision, intended precisely two volleys. Perhaps they are right and I’m wrong, I was there and even I can’t say for certain.

I mention this because I expect some who read this will do so to seek elucidation on Market Garden’s decision not to pursue the fleeing Changelings, as if my testimony will shift the balance one way or another in the debate that had been raging in the long decades since. It is not my place to trade in should-haves and what-ifs; who can say with any real certainty that Guillaume’s idea would have worked as spectacularly well as some say, or if it would have resulted in throwing away a stunning victory as Market Garden feared? Might the horror that was to come later be avoided if the fleeing swarm was surrounded and destroyed, or would that have only accelerated the escalation of misery?

I am afraid that all I can provide on this account is, again, the events as I experienced them, but if pushed, if Twilight Sparkle held her horn to my temple and ordered me to come down on one side of the argument or the other or my brains will be ejected forcefully through the opposite side of my skull, I suppose I must err on the side of caution, as is my nature, and fall into Market Garden’s camp. I claim no expertise in that matter, but after that brutal uphill fight I was thoroughly exhausted, and I do not believe it would be arrogant of me to assume that much of the division felt the same way, regardless of what Garnet said about 2nd Brigade being ‘fresh’, and to ask them, and me, of course, to go through that again with barely a rest was demanding far too much of those who had already given so much.

As I crawled back up that slope for the second time that day, weaving around the bodies and the medics dealing with them, I knew, like this ridge after reaching the apex, the only way to go was down - things could only get worse.

Chapter 13

Of all of the very stupid things that I have done in my life, rushing out into the no mare’s land between the Equestrian front line and the walls of Virion Hive is not at the top of that extensive list (that would be the time when I was thirteen years old and burnt my name in Auntie ‘Tia’s lawn with a magnifying glass, and then told her she shouldn’t have made the sun so bright), but it’s certainly in the top ten at least.

The first order of business for our so-called expert was to take a look at the walls she was expected to help smash a hole in with her expertise. Being Princess Luna’s very special commissar to General Market Garden, I had appointed myself to look after Maud Pie; being a civilian in a military camp must be a very intimidating experience, and it was up to one’s friendly neighbourhood political officer to keep the vulgarity of the common soldier in check so as not to offend her delicate sensibilities. That it got me out of some of the more tedious and dangerous duties I had to perform was merely an added bonus, or so I had thought at the time.

Maud Pie sat on her haunches and peered through a pair of binoculars at the walls, while Cannon Fodder and I sat nearby and enjoyed a rather lovely picnic away from the office. A short distance away, the artillery crews conducted their grim, arduous work of pounding away at the fortification walls, but from where I was sitting it looked like they had still done very little except knock a few shallow dents in the heavy stonework. Still, in the fine tradition of the Equestrian military they carried on regardless, wasting ammunition and energy out of a curious sense of obligation to be doing something productive for the war effort.

Captain Bramley Apple had reversed his opinion on the new ‘expert’ the moment he discovered that she was a very distant cousin of his, and so rapidly that I feared he might be hospitalised for whiplash of the mind. However, as I had recently found out to my great embarrassment and irritation, it appeared that most ponies in Equestria have at least some tenuous connection to that intrepid clan of earth pony apple farmers, Yours Truly included. If Nightmare Moon herself had somehow returned from the depths of wherever the Elements of Harmony had banished her, with all of her daemonic legions of brainwashed cultists ready to drag Equestria back into a new dark age of night-based tyranny, and announced to him that she was his great-great-great-aunt’s cousin thrice removed, not only would she have a chance at being right but he would also renounce his vows to Princesses and Country on the spot and start waving the flag for eternal night. Blood is thicker than water, and all that.

After about half an hour of peering at a stone wall through a pair of binoculars, Maud Pie had apparently got what she needed and trotted on over to where Cannon Fodder and I were sitting and eating cress sandwiches.

“I need to take a few samples of the wall,” she droned.

“Whatever for?” I asked. “It’s a stone wall, isn’t it?”

“From here it looks like limestone blocks and cement, but your cannons shouldn’t be having this much trouble breaching it.” She raised a hoof and pointed it at the city off in the distance. “The Changelings must have done something to the rock to make it more resistant to artillery. It could be a coating on the outer wall or something in the mortar, but there’s no way I can tell from up here.”

“Fine,” I said. “I’ll organise a pegasus section to get you your samples.”

“I’d rather do it myself,” she said.

“What?” I blurted out, a little too loudly too. However, she didn’t react in the slightest at that outburst, and instead merely tilted her head a fraction of an inch to the left. “Why, in Celestia’s name?”

“Your pegasi won’t know what to look for, but I do. Besides, I can’t in all good conscience ask ponies to risk their lives on my behalf while I stay safe here. I don’t think I could live with that kind of guilt.”

“A commendable sentiment,” I said, “but completely out of the question.”

She blinked, slowly, and not once did her expression change. It was frightening, in a way; I suppose it makes little sense to imagine Yours Truly being intimidated by this mere slip of a filly, but spend more than five minutes alone with her and that cold, analytical, emotionless stare and even Iron Will’s famous iron will must slowly buckle under the strain.

“I have to get that sample,” she said. “General Market Garden wants me to help the artillery knock that wall down. Getting that sample will allow me to work out the quickest way to do that. If you want to win this battle before the Changelings can reinforce, you’ll let me do my job.”

Of course, I could have, and probably should have, let her do it alone; my experience in this dreadful conflict might have challenged some of my preconceived notions about the expendability of the lives of the lower orders in relation to my own, but such a thing was based on an understanding of shared peril in the sight of the enemy. I was hardly keen, however, to put my own life at risk for the sake of another apparently heedless of the value of their own. Indeed, I’d have been quite happy to let her go, and even give her a few of my uneaten sandwiches for a snack along the way, assuming that the soldiers on picquet duty didn’t stop her from this mad venture. I might have been responsible for her safety, at least, on an unofficial basis as her self-appointed chaperone, but I would have merely said ‘I did my best to stop her, honest’ and write it off as yet another tragedy in a war already replete with them.

That is, until I happened to recall who her sister was. I had met Pinkie Pie precisely once at that party, and that was quite enough for one lifetime. If she was capable of even a tenth of the unnatural feats attributed to her, that not even an egghead like Twilight Sparkle can adequately explain, then I feared what horrors she might inflict upon me if I simply stood back at a good safe distance, puffed away at one of the fine cigars that were nestled against Slab in my breast pocket, and watched as her beloved sister was torn to shreds by an entire war swarm of Changelings.

“What about Pinkie Pie?” I said.

“What about her?”

“She would be upset if anything would happen to you.”

Maud Pie paused, looked away and pawed at the ground with her hoof, then fixed me again with one of her chilling, emotionless stares. “Pinkie herself has risked her life for Equestria before, against Nightmare Moon, Discord, Tirek, and the Changelings too. She understands what we must do to protect Equestria.”

“I can’t allow it.”

“Blueblood,” she said, and I felt a chill creep along the length of my spine. “I will get that sample. Victory depends on it.”

She wasn’t going to change her mind, that much was apparent, and I could hardly risk her running off alone when my flanks were turned. Again, if I wanted to make sure Maud got out of this alive, there was nothing for it but to go along with this crazy scheme.

“Fine,” I said, with the usual sense of finality that comes when I’ve mentally worked myself into a problem that I can’t escape from. “Let’s get this over with.”

“Right now?” said Maud Pie.

I shrugged. “No time like the present, unless there’s something else you’d rather do.”

My schedule for the rest of that day was clear of anything that I couldn’t afford to miss on account of being captured or dead. The prospect of another strategy conference followed by an inspection of the penal unit clearing out the latrines was almost sufficient to make this utterly insane venture seem appealing; at least I wouldn’t be bored out there.

“You’re coming with me?” she asked.

Naturally, I had thought about roping in a section or two of unlucky soldiers to escort her, but as the old saying goes, if you want something done right then do it yourself. I had no desire to incur the wrath of Pinkie Pie, who I imagined would use my entrails for bunting at her next party. If, Faust forbid, something did go horrendously wrong and Maud was lost out there, then I was not entirely sure I would want to survive to live with the disgrace of losing a mare entrusted to my protection. Once again the old adage of dictum meum pactum [my word is my bond] that constrained all nobles of our realm had pointed me in the direction of mortal peril, slapped me on the flanks, and told me to get on with it.

“I can hardly allow a lady to walk across no mare’s land unaccompanied,” I said. Faust help me, what was I doing? With a bit of luck, some sense would seep into that rock hard skull of hers before we reached the point of no return.

So that was that, apparently; this time I wasn’t to be dragged along into yet another foolhardy venture, I was volunteering. I know this sounds like the last thing the cowardly wretch you know and love would do, but I had a reputation to maintain, and one that had at least eased a few things in my life too. The thing about reputations, however, is that one is built up by words as much as deeds; all I needed to do was to be seen to be eager to go and have another stab at the Changelings in the name of Princesses and Country and all that, even if not practically possible. All I needed, therefore, was to say ‘tally ho!’ and let saner officers talk me down, then I can trundle off back to my picnic without a slight upon my honour.

My mistake was assuming that there are sane officers out there.

First, however, we sought out Captain Bramley Apple to ask him if he could cease firing while we were out by the wall; it would not do well for me to have survived three encounters with the enemy and one rather nasty fracas with some natives only to be smeared across those very fortifications by an Equestrian cannonball. We found him doing that most un-officer-like activity of actually working by helping out with the loading and firing of one of the cannons in his battery. Clearly, I thought as I approached him, as he grabbed another gunpowder charge and shoved it into the still-steaming muzzle, he was in desperate need of my guidance if he was to be accepted by his fellow brother officers.

We told him of our plan, and rather than saying something along the lines of, “Heavens! That’s the daftest idea I have ever heard, sir, if you don’t mind me saying!”, or something to that effect particular to the colloquial dialect of the southern portion of Equestria his family hailed from, he instead scoffed as though insulted.

“Sir, I can hit a fly off a mule’s behind with one of these cannons and leave the mule unhurt,” he said, patting the side of his cannon as though it was a very large and friendly dog. “You’ll be safe, sir.”

“Be that as it may,” I said, “I’d rather you hold fire for the duration, just for my peace of mind.”

Bramley Apple tapped his stubbled chin and gazed down at the walls his cannons had been ineffectually hammering away at for the better part of a week. In the subtle movements of his lips and the steady gaze of his eyes I could almost see the calculations running inside his head; his mind only held two things, I found, being apples and artillery, and he accomplished both to the frightening level of the savant. Just about everything else he was more or less deficient, and, much to his credit I must admit, he at least acknowledged it.

“We’ve been firing all day now,” he said, still with that faraway look in his eyes. “If we stop now they’ll know we’re up to something. Now, take a look here.” He pointed at the walls below. “We’re focusing our fire on three points, here, here, and here. If you avoid those three and head to that bit in the middle next to that tower there you should be safe.”

I didn’t like that word, ‘should’; a lot of things ‘should’ be but simply aren’t, for example, I should be spending this war nice and safe in my cavernous palace with my loyal servants instead of running straight into enemy territory to grab a chunk of rock. Nevertheless, despite my misgivings Maud Pie seemed to be happy with that arrangement, I think. It was rather difficult to tell what she was feeling at any given point. I hoped, therefore, that the officer on duty at the picquet lines would be concerned about my safety enough to stop us going through with this.

No such luck. We trotted on down the slope to where lines of trenches and earthworks were in the process of being dug into the hard, dusty ground. It was not good ground for digging trenches, though, and I know this because Maud Pie had explained this to me at length in an hour-long lecture in such detail that even Twilight Sparkle would have found it excessive. The parched, dry earth proved to be difficult work for even the earth ponies with their shovels, resulting in rather shallow holes that tended to collapse at the first sign of moisture. Bolstered by sandbags, these formed a loose, almost continuous line along the length of the slope in front of the artillery batteries.

“Do you see how unsuitable the terrain here is for building?” said Maud Pie. She pointed to where a group of earth ponies struggled to repair a trench line where the wall had collapsed and buried part of it. “The city walls should have collapsed by now. Modern artillery has made medieval defensive walls like that obsolete.”

“Maybe they brought in stone from elsewhere,” I said. I had no idea, but it sounded plausible.

“It’s possible,” she said. “Or it could be magically enhanced somehow. The Changelings left some strange materials behind in Canterlot, and we still don’t know what they’re capable of. I must get that sample to find out.”

Here and there, however, the engineers had been set to building blockhouses along the picquet lines. These were small, squat, and rather ugly buildings that were, as befitting their name, shaped like crude little blocks. They were all in varying stages of construction, ranging from a square patch of land cleared and levelled in preparation to an almost-fully built structure, and every stage in between. Around each, scores of engineers, some of whom I recognised as being the Horsetralians I’ve had the pleasure of working with over the years, busied themselves in the varying tasks of construction that I, as a prince, had no knowledge or interest in.

[Very few of these blockhouses survived the war, as they were taken down for building materials during the post-war reconstruction. One, however, has been preserved in what is now the Virion Military Cemetery and is open to the public.]

We asked a sentry for the officer on duty here, and were pointed in the direction of one of the blockhouses in the more advanced stages of construction. It was more or less complete, or at least it looked to be to my inexperienced eyes, having the necessary four walls and a roof that form the basis for any permanent structure. There still remained scaffolding around the walls through, and a number of ponies in the dark uniforms of the Royal Engineers did something, Faust-knows-what, with the walls. Painting it, for all I knew.

The door had yet to be installed, which seemed like something of an oversight for any defensive fortification no matter how small. The interior consisted of a single, dark, and rather gloomy room, lacking windows except for small loopholes for muskets and horns. A few candles had been lit to provide some light, at least, whose soft orange glow, flickering in the draft from the open door, only added to the oppressive atmosphere in this cramped area. The ceiling was low, too, and I’m rather a tall fellow, you see, so I made the mistake of trying to stand upright only to hit my horn and almost knock off my cap. How Auntie Celestia put up with this sort of thing, I’ll never know. [One gets used to having to hunch and seeing where my little ponies neglect to dust the tops of bookcases and cabinets.]

There were a few soldiers arranging stout wooden boxes, but at the back next to a flight of wooden stairs leading up to the top floor two were busy trying to position a rather primitive desk at the direction of a young officer. As we approached, he looked up, made an excited little noise, and pushed past the two to rush towards me.

“Lord Commissar!” he said, snapping to attention and saluting. The rest of the soldiers ceased whatever it was they were doing and followed suit, with one dropping a small box on the floor with a loud clatter in the process.

“As you were, chaps,” I said. “Don’t mind me.” They didn’t, and happily got back to whatever it was that they were doing; the meaningless busywork the army likes to inflict on soldiers to make sure they don’t get too bored and find creative ways to alleviate it, it appeared.

“If I had known you were coming I’d have organised a better welcome for you,” said the officer, beaming happily that a ‘living legend’, as those blasted tabloids referred to me when it wasn’t ‘cad’, ‘bounder’, or ‘noted letch’, had seen fit to grace his tiny blockhouse.

I said he was young, but up close I could see that we were approximately of the same age, but he had not gone through the same deteriorating effect that combat inflicts upon young, bright, and eager officers. Either that, or he was simply more resilient than I. He grinned, and it was that same cocky, charming, and entirely sincere smile that Shining Armour had perfected. His was the sort of face that fillies squealed over and reassured their mothers that they were in good, safe, inoffensive hooves, before they would grow up and seek out an utter bastard like me instead.

“The name’s Flash Sentry,” he said. “Lieutenant Flash Sentry of Cadance’s Own Crystal Guards. What can I do for you?”

So that explained why everypony was so shiny, thought I as I looked around and realised that beneath all of the armour, webbing, pouches, pockets, haversacks, muskets, bayonets, and so on that the average soldier is laden with and under the ever-present dust that coats everything within minutes, there was a certain glittering luminescence to their coats that marked them as the recently-returned natives of our northern vassal. Except for Flash Sentry here, however; I suppose they still needed Equestrian officers to show them which end of the bayonet goes into the enemy.

[By the second year of the war a combination of losses and unequal recruitment of volunteers had put the regimental system under strain, which led to regiments with ponies from different recruitment areas of Equestria mixed together. The Crystal Guards is one such example, as the Crystal Empire was unable to muster sufficient volunteers for a full regiment (the lower population and the crystal ponies’ reluctance to engage in an Equestrian conflict is cited as a reason for this).]

I explained Maud’s plan to Flash Sentry, and as he nodded along eagerly I realised that I had made a rather fatal error there. There was no way in Hades that this stallion would dare to be seen contradicting Lord Commissar Prince Blueblood, Order of the Crescent Moon, Hero of Black Venom Pass, bronze swimming certificate, and so on and so forth; I could have informed him that my plan was to go to his next family dinner and roger his mother over the dining table and he would have wholeheartedly agreed. My mistake was thinking that ponies would be both sensible enough to realise I was doing something very stupid and brave enough to tell me to stop.

At any rate, those were the events that led to me crawling through the dirt to collect some lumps of rocks. Looking back, I realise that I have only myself to blame for this and what was to follow. After I finished explaining the plan, Lieutenant Flash Sentry wished us luck and pointed us in the direction of his platoon sergeant, who gave us a few tips on how to avoid being seen out there and a dusty light brown cloak each for camouflage.

“I’ll be wanting those back,” said the sergeant as I put on the first piece of genuinely practical clothing I had been issued with since joining the Commissariat.

“Of course,” I said, lying through my teeth; I had every intention of keeping it on the off-chance we would have to do something this daft again.

Following that, the sergeant showed us how to rub dust into our coats, manes, and uniforms, especially on the shiny bits. Cannon Fodder might have blended in with our surroundings thanks to all of the accumulated filth in his fur, but I with my white fur, blond hair, and black uniform stood out like a sore hoof. Maud Pie too, being made up of varying shades of grey and washed-out purple, would have blended in perfectly in some sort of granite quarry, but out here where the overriding colour scheme was a sort of beige-yellow, like the contents of an elderly pony’s wardrobe, she would be just as visible, perhaps even more so, than I. When we were through, however, wearing the latest fashion of linen cloaks and with our coats and clothes positively smothered with choking dust and clods of dry earth, we didn’t quite blend in with our surroundings completely, but from a distance one would have been forgiven for not noticing three lumps of earth shaped suspiciously like ponies the first time around.

“The three of you should be able to get through without being seen,” he said. “Don’t you worry, sir. We sent out a few small patrols on hoof and they all came back safely; the Changelings don’t seem to be bothered by ponies nosing around. But we’ll keep an eye out for you just in case.”

That still did not put me in the best confidence. And though I asked nicely, this Flash Sentry chap couldn’t just spare anypony at all with all of the very important building work going on, and a larger group risked being spotted and hunted down anyway. So this was it, again, and the day had been going so well for me, too.

Just before we left, however, Maud reached into her pocket and took out a small, ordinary stone. She placed it carefully on the ground, and beseeched the stone, Boulder she called it, to wait here until she returned. I was starting to detect a theme with her.

With that extra bit of madness done, we were sent on our merry way in the direction of the fort. It was early afternoon, just after lunchtime, and the sun was at its most fierce. This heat was the sort that one believes one might get used to it in perhaps a week or two, but one never really does; here it was forever stifling, stultifying, and utterly abominable. The air itself was hot and choking. The glare of the sunlight stung my eyes. Stand in front of an open oven for any length of time until the fur on your nose singes, then imagine that for about eighteen hours a day and you might have some inkling of the conditions we had to live and fight in. I mention this again because no sooner had we walked, or crawled, really, about twenty paces or so, much of the dust we had covered our coats with was washed off with the sheer amount of sweat that poured off us. Before long I resembled a zebra with streaks of sweat carving lines in this dust-camouflage.

We crept on, and I reluctantly led the way. I had no idea what I was doing, which I understand is now rather redundant to point out as I rarely had any inkling of what I was supposed to do, but here, alone except for my loyal aide and one mad mare, doubly so. Slow and steady seemed to be the right way to go about this business, despite my natural inclination to want to get this thing over and done with as quickly as possible.

Crawling down the slope felt like descending into the depths of Tartarus itself. I became acutely aware of how my sweat-soaked and dust-stained uniform rubbed against my fur, how much noise my hooves made against the dry earth, and how much dust was kicked up with each cautious step. Though they were below us, those imposing walls seemed to loom menacingly, dwarfing us like ants beneath its magnitude and threatening to topple over and grind us all into dust. The fortress keep towered over the occupied pony city, casting its oppressive shadow over the enslaved masses below and raising a defiant hoof to the oncoming force of liberation and retribution that would very soon batter itself to pieces against its walls. I wondered how many Changelings lay within. How many stood at the ramparts and gazed across the gulf between us?

It was just a matter of placing one hoof in front of the other, over and over, until it was all over. The going was desperately slow, and my paranoid instinct had directed me to the gullies, ditches, and trenches for cover, and when the terrain necessitated crossing open ground we crawled on our bellies. Whatever Maud Pie was going to do when we got to the wall it had better be worth it, thought I, when I’d scratched my leg on some brambles while trying to squeeze through them.

My head was swimming, the inside of my mouth felt like sandpaper, and there was an odd, metallic taste that lingered on my tongue. From behind I heard the cannons still firing, faintly like distant fireworks, and each muffled ‘crack’ was followed seconds later by a louder, more immediate thud as the lead shot struck the wall ahead. When I glanced back I saw small puffs of white-grey smoke blossom at the very crest of the hill, and then drift away lazily in the muggy breeze.

The wall towered over us. We were close, but there was one last obstacle for us to cross; the ground, which had been sloping downwards unevenly for the entirety of our journey, rose sharply to form a glacis. Behind this was the ditch that I’d seen at the top of the heights, and while I was under no illusion that they would prove difficult to cross, it was still something of a shock when I crawled to the lip of the glacis and looked down at the drop below. It was about twenty feet across and about half as deep, making a formidable obstacle for an army let alone three ponies alone. With nothing else for it, except for giving up and going home as I really wanted to from the outset, we carefully climbed down backwards into the ditch.

Just ahead of us, this huge grey edifice constructed of stones each the size of a medium carriage and cemented with what looked like tar rose up ahead of us. Either side of us was a tower projected out of the wall, and I realised that if the Changelings had access to artillery, muskets, and magic they would turn this ditch into a veritable killing field; there was nowhere to hide down there, and any attacking force would find itself trapped and ripped to shreds. It was a good thing they didn’t, thought I, but that reassuring notion didn’t make the itching in my hooves go away.

I don’t know how long this whole ordeal had taken, but the sun was not in the same position in the sky when we finally reached the wall as when we started. After crawling out of the other side of the ditch, we darted to the base of the wall. It made my head spin to look straight up at it from the base. Nevertheless, we were halfway done with this silly venture, so I sat down in the marginally cooler shade of the wall and watched Maud do whatever it was that she wanted to do here.

Maud Pie stood and stared at the wall, while Cannon Fodder and I lingered around her. I was supposed to be looking out for Changelings, but curiosity got the better of me and I kept glancing over my shoulder to see what it was she was doing. It was, however, apparently still nothing. If it was not for the occasional blink I’d have thought she had turned back to stone; her ability to stand stock still would have done her well in the Royal Guard back when a soldier’s main purpose was to stand to attention next to Princess Celestia.

“What’s taking so long?” I hissed at her. “Hurry up, will you?”

She either didn’t hear or was deliberately ignoring me, because she didn’t take her eyes off the wall. After about a minute of this, where I paced around muttering to myself with great irritation, she reached into the voluminous pocket of her frock and produced a tiny pick, which she then used to chip away at the stone. A small chunk was dislodged, and as Maud slipped it into her pocket something rather curious happened. This peculiar tar-like substance that covered the entire wall reacted to this miniscule violation of the wall’s structural integrity by pulling itself to fill the small hole she had made.

“That’s interesting,” said Maud, sounding anything but interested.

“Have you finished?” I snapped.

“Not quite.” Maud then turned her pick around to use the flat end to scrape off some of that tar. It clung to the pick’s head, and writhed like a live thing. The sight of this lump of translucent black ooze resisting the lure of gravity, somehow trying to pull itself back to the wall, was rather unsettling; it was as though there was some base, animal intelligence to this hideous thing, bent to the malign will of the enemy. Before it could do that, however, Maud scraped it off into a waiting vial, which was stopped with a cork and then slipped inside her pocket.

While she was doing this, I had wandered off a little, more out of frustration at the time this was taking. I had realised that I had left the cress sandwiches and the picnic hamper back with the artillery, and was annoyed at that too. By chance, however, I happened to look up.

“Maud!” I screamed, pointing up.

She turned and followed my hoof up to see the huge lump of masonry plummeting towards her. Rather than do the obvious thing and dive out of the way, Maud Pie stood rooted to the spot, apparently transfixed by the source of her impending demise. I moved to drag her out of the way myself, but Cannon Fodder, in a rare instance of showing individual initiative, wrapped a filthy hoof around my upper foreleg and held me back. It was too late anyway; if I had charged in then the both of us would have been crushed like two impertinent lumps of ginger in a mortar and pestle.

Maud turned on her forelegs, pirouetting like a dancer, and bucked her hindlegs skywards. Her rear hooves connected with the falling chunk of wall with a sharp crack that I first assumed were her bones snapping like twigs. This lump of masonry shattered into a thousand tiny lumps that fell harmlessly around her in a wide circle, and a cloud of choking grey dust spread to get clogged in my throat and eyes. When it cleared, there stood Maud Pie with that same blank expression on her face, surrounded by a pile of debris, which she regarded with only a trifling amount of concern.

“Those innocent rocks,” she said, stroking one rather large shard of broken masonry with her hoof. “War is hell.”

I looked up at the battlements above to see a number of Changeling drones peering over the edge at us. Their round, chitinous heads were silhouetted against the bright afternoon sky. We stared at each other for a tense moment, their cold gazes locking with mine, before two disappeared behind the crenellated battlement. I had every intention of being as far away from here as possible when they came back with another big chunk of old masonry to drop on us, so I darted over to Maud Pie, who still stood there looking forlornly at the smashed debris around her hooves, seized her by the upper foreleg, and pulled her away.

“Run!” I shouted, tugging at her. Maud was surprisingly strong, though it shouldn’t have been much of a shock after I had seen her smash part of a wall to dust with her bare hooves, and she remained rooted to the spot despite my panicked attempts to get her to move.

“But…”

“Shut up and run, damn you!” I let go of her and just galloped away with Cannon Fodder right behind me as usual; if she wanted to avenge her damned rocks, break down the wall with her bare hooves, and take on the entire Changeling war swarm all by herself then fine, good luck to her. After that display she probably had a decent chance of winning, but I certainly wasn’t going to stick around and watch that no matter how entertaining it might be.

I skidded down into the ditch, my hooves losing traction in the dry, dusty earth but I managed to remain upright. Cannon Fodder had tripped and tumbled down after me, but he soon righted himself and seemed no worse for wear.

Not for the first time and certainly not the last I cursed my inability to teleport. I scrambled up the other side of this ditch, dislodging small pebbles and dust to cascade down behind me. Just as I reached the top of the glacis I heard what sounded like a brace of firecrackers. Pockets of earth around my hooves erupted like tiny fountains of dust. Something shoved me violently in the flanks and I fell over on my face. My backside felt strangely numb. I lifted my head off the ground, my muzzle smarting where it hit the dirt, and looked over my shoulder up at the wall to see the Changelings on the battlements with smoking muskets, then when I dared to look down I saw a small, neat hole in my left flank cheek, which leaked a steady flow of crimson over my white coat. The vague sensation of numbness I had felt there gave way to a horrible, searing kind of pain. It burned, like I’d been stabbed with a hot poker.

“They’re shooting at us, sir!” shouted Cannon Fodder. He had somehow escaped the volley unharmed, and stood there over me with that expression of dull surprise he gets when something unexpected happens to him.

I thanked him for that observation with a barrage of swearing that I shan’t repeat here. The pain intensified as Cannon Fodder helped me to my hooves, but somehow, pure adrenaline most likely, I managed to stand unaided again. I was about to bolt, or as near to as I could in this condition, when my aide tugged at my shoulder. He pointed down into the ditch behind us, and there lay Maud Pie on the ground, dragging herself closer by her hooves and leaving a trail of blood in the dust behind her.

The Changelings were still reloading their muskets - prime, load, ramrod, and so on. That the enemy had our allegedly war-winning weapons was a shock, especially being at the receiving end of them. I could have ducked behind the glacis, which would have afforded me some measure of cover, but Maud was still there offering a big and obvious target for them. Now that Cannon Fodder had pointed her out to me I could hardly leave her for the Changelings and claim ignorance, and, again, there was the shame of having to return to camp without the defenceless civilian I was supposed to have been protecting with my life.

There was nothing else for it, despite the sharp, hot agony lancing through my flank I slipped down the slope with Cannon Fodder to Maud, riding down a cascade of loose, dry earth. There I saw that she had been hit once in the right foreleg, and though the musket ball appeared to have missed the bone and only struck flesh, it was doubtful even one as tough as she would be walking any time soon, if ever again. She was bleeding heavily, as I was, with a flow like a trickling faucet from that hideous wound; the both of us would be in deep trouble soon if we weren’t patched up soon. Her face was screwed up in pain, and though she did not cry out, her hissing, laboured breath and pale, flushed, sweaty pallor made her agony abundantly clear.

We would have to carry Maud Pie back, either that or risk whatever it was that the Changelings did to prisoners. It was something unpleasant, no doubt. I, for one, was not all that eager to find out, shot in the flank or not. Cannon Fodder took her one good foreleg and draped it over his filthy neck and shoulders, while I grabbed her by the scruff of her frock with my magic. She was heavy, and my horn ached a little as my magic supported more of her mass, though that dull ache was nothing compared to the hot agony in my flank. Together we dragged her, her hindlegs trailing two shallow trenches in the dust, up and over the edge of the glacis onto the other side. Just as we tumbled over it, there was another rippling crackle of distant musket fire and something like the buzzing of bees past my ears. A quick check revealed that none of us were hit this time, and we pushed on.

With each step a stab of pain savaged my left flank cheek and hindleg, so I was forced into an awkward, three-legged gait. The heights rose up in the distance before us, with the artillery as tiny dots at the very crest, and a thin, spotted line of the picquets punctuated by grey lumps of half-built blockhouses about halfway down. The safety they represented was so desperately far away, the great uphill expanse, filled as it was with crags and trenches in our way, seemed to stretch on into infinity.

I dared to look over my shoulder again, twisting my neck and trying to avoid looking at the deep crimson patch spreading across my flank and the dripping trail I left behind, and saw that the drones had taken flight. The sound of their wings buzzing filled the silence otherwise occupied by my frantic, panicked breathing. They had discarded the weapons that by all accounts they should not have possessed, reverting back to base savagery of swarm tactics. There were perhaps five of them, maybe as many as ten; I’m not sure as I was hardly in the best condition for counting. They would be upon us in minutes, with fangs bared and hooves pounding.

Maud Pie’s head rolled listlessly on her neck as she faded in and out of consciousness. I’d let go of her with my magic, and instead let her wounded foreleg fall across my shoulders. A thin, weak groan slipped past her dry lips, and her hefty, dense earth pony frame settled across Cannon Fodder and me. Her hindlegs dragged in the ground behind us, occasionally kicking to try and help us along. I buckled somewhat under the weight, but panic and terror does wonders for one’s strength and endurance, and we ploughed onwards, step by harrowing step up that slope.

The drones were almost upon us, and I could see their glistening fangs and those cold, hideous eyes. I drew as much raw magic as I dared into my horn, until it began to throb, then discharged it all in a mad, frantic, ill-aimed salvo of shots. None of them hit their marks, but it didn’t matter. In the hail of scintillating shots the Changelings weaved and turned, like, well, flies dodging the sweep of a tail around one’s rear. It would keep them off us for a bit, but not for very long, but if somepony out there in the forward picquet lines was doing their jobs properly, then they should have seen the spectacular fireworks display I had just set off and realised that something had gone awry out here.

My head swam drunkenly, my vision blurred around the edges, and the pain was such that I felt I might faint at any time, but we carried on. Only being flogged could compare, but this was a sharper, more intense kind of pain. I felt sick, and the bile rose up my throat. My mouth was terribly dry, and my tongue was a lump of steel wool. I could taste copper too, sharp and tangy.

Maud lifted her head up, and her face was contorted into a grimace of pain. I could see that she was trying to maintain her infamous stoicism, but fear and I were old friends by now - he had already taken up residence in my home and placed his monogrammed towels in my bathrooms - and it was clear to me that she was terrified and merely putting on a brave face despite it. With every agonising step that we carried her, her mask slipped just a little further. Tears rimmed her sharp, ice-blue eyes, and I could feel her shallow, panicked breath on my cheek; it stank of terror. The acrid stench of blood, sweat, and urine assaulted my nostrils, and whether the latter was mine, hers, or ours I couldn’t tell, but it probably all came from me. It hardly mattered anyway.

“There.” She looked over at a pile of large boulders, each roughly a third of the size of a pegasus filly, and pointed her muzzle over to them. “The rocks, take me to them.”

“We don’t have time,” I snapped. She must have been delirious with the pain, I know I was.

“Take me to them,” she said.

We were about halfway to the Equestrian lines, and still nopony was rushing to our aid. I feared nopony would. A sentry out there had one job to do and that was to stand there and pay attention to what the enemy was doing, and there were hundreds of them on the picquet lines and so surely one of them must have spotted us running for our lives with half a dozen drones on our backs. Acting on a hunch, or perhaps the panic had made me more amenable to suggestion, Cannon Fodder and I did as we were told and stumbled on to the small collection of rocks.

At her direction, we positioned Maud behind the rocks, her hindlegs just touching them, and I finally divined what she intended. The drones twisted and turned, apparently toying with us. One dived down towards us. I fired a salvo of shots from my horn, but the creature dodged and weaved in sharp, angular dashes as insects do. The others held back, apparently thinking us defenceless, and watched, flitting around like dragonflies above a stagnant pond on a hot summer’s day.

“Hold me steady,” said Maud. I did as I was told, wrapping my hooves around her upper foreleg and shoulder and bracing her against my chest. Cannon Fodder did the same with her other side. Under her loose frock, I could feel heavy, corded musculature, tight and toned like a coil under tension. As she steadied herself, I could feel her muscles shift and ripple against my seemingly weaker grip.

She looked over her shoulder. Whatever she was doing she had to do it pretty damned quick, as the drone was almost upon us. Her right hindleg lashed out like a piston, striking one of the boulders with her hoof and sending it tearing through the sky. I felt her whole body lurch forwards, like a recoiling cannon, and I steadied her as best I could. The flying rock struck the Changeling square in the chest, I heard a ‘crunch’ of shattered chitin and a sharp squeal of pain. Both carried on, arcing gracefully through the sky, and then disappeared somewhere off in the distance.

The other drones dived down upon us, having realised their error. Maud, however, was faster; her hindlegs lashed out again in rapid succession, with each kick pushing her body against Cannon Fodder and me. She hissed in pain, her body was slick with foamy sweat, but she still persevered. A storm of flying rocks ripped through the Changeling formation with the same lethal effect. At least three were struck dead-on, and another I saw tried to dart out of the way but was too slow, and suffered in a glancing blow that was nevertheless enough to send it crashing to the ground.

The three drones that were left arrested their attack and stopped. They held back in mid-air, hovering in place and occasionally flitting from side to side. Maud, however, had given the last of her strength and had slipped into a deep unconsciousness. She slumped against Cannon Fodder and me, her breathing shallow and rapid but her body still and heavy. I struggled to support her, but a pony who has truly fainted is much heavier than one who is fighting to stay awake and alert, and her hefty earth pony frame slipped somewhat in my weakening grip. It would not be long until I joined her, I thought, as stars sparkled in front of my eyes and my head felt as though it was swimming through a pool of jelly, and I was certainly in no position to fight should the Changelings gather what was left of their courage and finish us off.

“Sir!” Cannon Fodder’s voice cut through the haze in my mind. He jostled my shoulder and pointed behind us, and when I turned to look I saw what, right there in that moment, the most beautiful sight imaginable.

A platoon of crystal unicorns at full gallop rushed down the slope towards us, a cloud of dust kicked up by more than two dozen hooves in their wake. The ground shook as they charged in, the harsh light of the afternoon glinting off gold and crystal armour. Flashes of light in a dizzying array of colours erupted from their horns, and a volley of magic shots ripped through the air over our heads with the distinctive crackle of ionised air. The Changelings, having apparently realised that they were outnumbered and we three ponies were no longer worth the trouble, turned tail and fled back to their fortress as fast as their wings would allow them. I lifted my cap off my head and waved it at the approaching soldiers and cheered myself hoarse - somehow, against all reason and sense, we had made it through.

The soldiers slowed as their charge petered out now that there was nothing for them to charge against. I gave Maud Pie to one of the troops who immediately called for a medic to tend to her injured hoof, while the others swarmed around us to form a defensive square. While they did that, I staggered off in an odd daze that was a mix of immense relief, exhaustion, and possible blood loss. Lieutenant Flash Sentry swam into view, and steadied me with a hoof to the shoulder.

“What happened?” he said, sounding a bit distant to my ears. It was a struggle to focus on his words or his face. He offered his canteen to me, which I drank from greedily. The water splashed over my face, but what I could gulp down brought me some measure of relief from the lightheadedness and nausea.

“They have muskets now,” I said, handing his canteen back.

Flash Sentry frowned and then shook his head. “What? Changelings don’t have guns.”

“Then what in blazes do you think this is?” I pushed his hoof off my shoulder and turned around, presenting my flank to him.

Far be it from me to do that to another stallion, but I wanted him to see the very obvious wound in it. The pain had not died down in the slightest, and remained as hot and intense as ever; I would have given my royal title for morphine right there, if offered. Flash Sentry stared dumbly at it, with that dull, open-mouthed incomprehension of a pony whose previously-held convictions about the world had just been rendered completely and utterly wrong by overwhelming evidence.

“Oh,” was all he could manage to say. He turned slightly pale.

“I believe the word you’re looking for is ‘medic!’.”

Chapter 14

Getting shot in the flank bought me a few more days of medical leave on a comfortable military hospital bed with friendly nurses, both of which I had become rather intimately familiar with over the course of my career. It was a shame I only got to receive such hospitality after suffering pain and injury of a sufficiently debilitating degree. As Doctor Surgical Steel said when he had to examine my backside for the second time that month, it was only a ‘flesh wound’, as if there were other kinds of wounds out there that are inflicted without harming one’s flesh.

“A few inches to the right and it would have perforated your colon,” he said as he stitched up the hole in my left buttock after he extracted the musket ball with what looked like tweezers, dropping it in a metal tin held by the nurse next to him. “Then tha’d be crapping in a bag, which puts a bit of a downer on thee gallivanting around with fairer sex, so I’ve heard. I’m sure t’ mares of Canterlot would be grateful for t’ break. Now quit tha whining and hold still.”

The wound itself had become a literal pain in the flank. Until it healed, which would be a few more days even with the restorative effects of earth pony alchemy speeding up the natural healing process, I would continue to have trouble sitting or lying in any position that wasn’t curled up on my right side. I tried not to think about how much like fabric skin is as the good doctor closed up the wound, though the image of Rarity stitching up my hide like some sort of barbaric Griffon’s leather coat refused to leave my mind any time soon.

As for Maud Pie, she was fine after her ordeal. It would be a while, however, until she could walk on all-fours again, but by the end of it all her foreleg would be as good as new. The story that had spread around the camp was how I had single-hoofedly carried her back across no mare’s land under enemy fire and after having been shot myself. Never mind that it was Cannon Fodder who had done much of the heavy lifting, but neither he nor Maud herself had seen fit to correct what other ponies were saying. For this I received another two shiny commendations to pin to my chest in the form of the Flash Magnus Star and the Amethyst Heart. A reward for getting wounded seemed a little counterproductive to me, but by my count I should have received a few of them by now, so it was a long time coming.

[The Flash Magnus Star, named for the Pillar of Equestria Flash Magnus, is a military decoration awarded to commissioned officers for exemplary bravery in the face of the enemy. The Amethyst Heart was a relatively new decoration introduced by Princess Cadance, and is awarded to soldiers of all ranks who have been wounded in combat. Blueblood makes no mention of this, but on his recommendation Maud Pie received the Rockhoof Star, the civilian equivalent of the Magnus Star, for that same action.]

Nevertheless, after getting patched up and pumped full of painkillers, Maud was ready to present her findings to General Market Garden. Surgical Steel had told her to avoid work until her hoof had fully healed, but as she was one of that very lucky minority of ponies for whom their work was also their hobby, she carried on regardless, much to the good doctor’s irritation. At any rate, this all meant yet another strategy conference, and my newfound intimate knowledge of the Changelings’ defensive works was apparently considered important enough to demand my presence there.

It was early evening, and I was limping along to Market Garden’s command marquee when I bumped into Second Fiddle; if I didn’t know any better I’d have said he was lying in wait for me, waiting to pounce while I was in a bit of a rush. He darted out suddenly from behind a tent belonging to some other officer whose name I never bothered to remember, and trotted on towards me. A newspaper was tucked under his armpit and he had a very stern expression on his face, the sort that looked as though he had been practicing in front of a mirror before venturing out. His peaked cap was pulled lower over his eyes than usual in a manner he probably thought looked more serious, compared to the more rakish angle I preferred to wear mine. He was going to tell me off for something, getting shot or endangering the life of a civilian, most likely.

“Good evening!” I said, tipping my cap; he might have been something of an ass lately, but that didn’t excuse poor manners on my part, so long as it continued to rankle him.

Indeed, it seemed to have caught him off-guard, as he stopped, blinked a little in confusion, and then slowly remembered what it was that he wanted to harangue me about. “Uh, yes,” he said. “Look, Blueblood, I don’t like finding out what ponies under my command have done in newspapers unless they’ve died gloriously in battle.”

Those words probably sounded better in his head, I imagined. He held up the newspaper folded to a page about a third of the way through, where it showed a photograph of my flank with the rather prominent bandage over it. The headline of the article declared in bold letters ‘Prince shot in bum’, illustrating that illustrious organ of the press’ exemplary journalistic integrity. I could only assume the editorial team had given up on employing real writers and started hiring directly from middle schools. Quite how they got that photo I can’t say, as I don’t recall seeing journalists in the camp, but their kind are as bad as the Changelings are for getting into areas they aren’t welcome in.

[The Changeling War marked the first limited use of war correspondents, being the first major war to take place after the advent of print journalism, as journalists and photographers were dispatched to the frontlines to report on the ongoing conflict. These were, however, subjected to wartime censorship under the DOE Act. Photographs of Prince Blueblood’s flanks were apparently considered to be safe for publishing.]

“It was only a brief excursion,” I said, affecting a casual shrug as though getting shot at was something I had somehow gotten used to as a war hero. “When an opportunity presents itself sometimes one just has to take it. If Maud Pie figures out how to break down that damned wall then we might have won this war right there and then.”

Second Fiddle glared at me, the whites of his eyes stark slits against his charcoal grey coat. “I already warned you about going above my head. You just couldn’t resist another chance to show me up.”

“Oh for heaven’s sake,” I snapped, glancing around to make sure nopony was eavesdropping. Either the soldiers milling around nearby were too busy chatting, playing cards, or catching up on sleep to pay attention to our little tête-à-tête or the Equestrian Army had started recruiting from the Royal Actors Guild. “Will you get that silly notion out of your head? I merely did my duty and nothing more, and you’ll do yours too, I’m sure.”

I could tell he was trying desperately to think of some sort of witty response to that, but snappy badinage was never his strong point, so he merely settled for doing his very best impression of Princess Luna after she had accidentally eaten a lemon but didn’t want to admit it. Ponies who think that the world owes them something because they think they’ve had a hard life, as though the universe operates on some sort of cosmic balance system, tend to react poorly when the inconsistencies and flaws in their solipsist view of the world are pointed out. It was then that it occurred to me that since I had been shot in the backside he hadn’t seen me or inquired about my health at all, and I, being the snide cad that I am, could not resist twisting the knife just a little more.

“I’m fine, by the way,” I said. “Thank you for asking. It still stings, but the doctor says I’ll be as right as rain in a few days as long as I keep drinking those revolting potions. I don’t see why earth pony alchemists can’t make potions taste of anything but lukewarm vinegary Germane wine.”

“Oh.” He scratched at the ground with his hoof and his ears flattened against his head, which dropped slightly like that of an admonished puppy. “I’m sorry. I’ve been all out of sorts lately. There’s just so much work to do; Market Garden loves to plan absolutely everything to the tiniest detail and it’s a struggle to keep up sometimes, and I barely have any free time left to do anything else. We spent three hours last night talking about the rate of ammunition expenditure versus supply and the potential impact on our supply lines if we doubled the number of cannons. Do you know how many barrels of gunpowder is needed to keep a cannon firing each day and how many can fit on a single supply wagon? I do now!”

There it was, I could still play him like, well, a fiddle, I suppose, though had I known where this would lead later I might have been a little nicer to him. Nevertheless, now that we had cleared the air a little, as clear as it could possibly be out here with the unique aroma of thousands of ponies living in close proximity to one another, the two of us made our way to Market Garden’s meeting. An attempt at small talk by Yours Truly, commenting on the continuing hot and muggy weather and Countess Coloratura’s recently-expressed desire to perform for the troops (one occasionally listens to popular music, as, despite the expectation of my regal status, classical is rather dreary), was met with responses of one word or fewer and I soon gave up. It was all business with him, and considering that business was war I was even less enthused.

We filed into the marquee and took our places by the table. The usual hellos and welcomes were over and done with quite rapidly, Market Garden being the sort to want to get to what she considered to be the more interesting parts, directing the battle as she saw it, as quickly as possible. If it meant that this meeting could be over quicker without the pleasantries then I was fully on board, despite the mounting dread gnawing away at the pit of my stomach that such talk always inspires.

Maud Pie was there. Her injured foreleg was in a sling, so she hobbled awkwardly on three legs to the table, holding her notes in her mouth. Despite being drugged up on painkillers, she seemed no less subdued than usual. She placed the parchment on the table before her, sat on her haunches, and arranged them neatly with her one good hoof. As she did this, the other ponies gathered for the meeting, being generals of corps, division, and brigade, staff officers, the odd commissar, Second Fiddle, and me, leaned expectantly over the cluttered map table. In the dying light of the day and the bleak glow cast by the candles all around the marquee the sight had put me in mind of witches and warlocks gathered around a profaned altar for a Nightmare mass.

“It’s as I hypothesised,” said Maud Pie, “the walls are treated with a substance that makes them stronger. Bare limestone would have crumbled by now, but this Changeling resin has coated and permeated the porous rock, allowing it to absorb the kinetic force of a cannonball’s impact. It seems to be organic, and reacts to damage to the wall like a body reacting to a wound. Where your cannons have struck the wall it moves to reinforce that damage like a scab.”

“So, what is it, exactly?” asked Major-General Garnet.

“I don’t know. I’ve never seen anything like this before. My best guess is that it’s magical. I’m sorry, this is beyond my area of expertise, which is rocks. Just rocks.”

“I don’t particularly care what this, ah, ‘Changeling-stuff’ is,” snapped Market Garden, just as Garnet opened his mouth to ask another question. “What I want to know is can we overcome it and how long will it take given the current rate and intensity of our artillery’s firepower?”

[Blueblood’s testimony here appears to corroborate General Market Garden’s later assertion that it was she who had first coined the famous slang term ‘Changeling-stuff’ (usually abbreviated to C-stuff by soldiers, who may have invented this term independently) for chrysalite, a kind of magically-enhanced resin that the Changelings used as a building material (and not to be confused with the more infamous chrysaline, which is a different substance). Much of it was found reinforcing the buildings in Changeling-occupied settlements across the Badlands, including Virion Hive, making the walls much more resilient until the development of more powerful artillery and explosive shells nullified its defensive properties. As the war ended before the planned siege of Chrysalis’ hive could take place and the secrets of its manufacture are now lost, how a structure of pure chrysalite would withstand bombardment is pure conjecture.]

“It makes the rock tougher, but it doesn’t make it invulnerable. My best guess would be about three more weeks, maybe more, using what you currently have, until the wall’s structural integrity is weakened to the point where this substance can no longer hold it together.”

Market Garden pulled a face and chewed on her lower lip, Garnet muttered something under his breath to one of his aides that sounded bitter, while Second Fiddle merely snorted and stamped a hoof in irritation. This was supposed to have been a quick siege; knock a hole in the wall, send enough soldiers in to overwhelm the defenders, declare victory and start thinking about the next one, then repeat until the Changelings give up. That was the overall plan as far as I could make out from what little I remembered of those meetings, at least.

“We don’t have three weeks, we barely have two,” said Market Garden, dragging a sheet of parchment filled with scribbled numbers, sums, statistics, and other arcane things that made sense only to her and nopony else. “What if we had more cannons?”

“That would speed up the process,” said Maud. “It’s tough, but it’s not invulnerable.”

“Then we shall have every cannon available brought to bear on that blasted wall,” said Market Garden. “And when I say ‘every cannon’, I damn well mean every cannon! I’ll have the Ministry of War raid museums for antiques if they have to; I want that bloody wall smashed to pieces before the enemy can reinforce.”

“I’ll make sure we get enough,” said Second Fiddle, seemingly out of a need to be seen to be contributing to the discussion and therefore justifying his presence here. “Virion Hive will fall!”

Garnet, however, remained the depressing voice of reason. “If we assault a breach it’ll be a massacre,” he said, shaking his head. “Prince Blueblood’s report changes everything; the Changelings have muskets now, so who knows what else they have. We can assume that they have cannon too, and I promise you by the time we muster for an attack they will have sighted every inch of land and air between our line and the breach with infantry and artillery. We will take sustained casualties crossing the open land and sky, and once our colts hit the ditch the enemy will pour unrelenting fire there - muskets, grenades, lead shot, mortar rounds, shrapnel, and canister shot. Magic too, even. There’ll be no escape down there. Pegasi will have to contend with airborne shrapnel, too. Anypony who makes it to the breach will have to fight hoof-to-hoof with an entire war swarm. Ma’am, if my division takes that fortress by storming a breach it will no longer be fit to carry on further offensive action.”

“How could you possibly know that?” Second Fiddle blurted out before anypony else had the chance to say anything more sensible. “The Equestrian soldier is worth ten of their drones. By Celestia we will prevail.”

“Because I read books, sir, not propaganda,” said Garnet, shrugging and making no attempt to hide his irritation at that stupid question. “The gap between the artillery creating a practicable breach and a division mounting an assault will allow the enemy time to prepare. I suggest, ma’am, that if this army is to be fit for carrying on this fight that we bypass Virion Hive, leave a token garrison, and meet the relief column head on. All I ask is we think twice before hurling thousands of ponies to their deaths.”

“Canterlot expects results, Major-General.” Second Fiddle scoffed, shaking his head. “We’re fighting a war, and a war we’ve got to win. Casualties are inevitable in war, did your books tell you that?”

“Sir, there are casualties and there are casualties,” quipped Garnet. “The former is acceptable and the latter is not. Generals, good ones, are the ones that avoid casualties.”

Under normal circumstances I might have interjected, if only to put an end to this absurd conversation so we could move on to the next agenda item and I could be in bed sooner. Second Fiddle, however, had warned me to stop undermining him, but it became increasingly clear that he was perfectly capable of doing that by himself. I hadn’t said a word and he had already made himself a bigger fool than I ever possibly could, and that included when we were in school together and I had convinced him to jump out of a second storey window into a stagnant pond full of irate swans to impress some fillies. My old school chum seemed to have a knack for riling up the hackles of otherwise perfectly sensible ponies (inasmuch as anypony who willingly joined the military and stuck around long enough to rise to the general staff could be considered sensible), and it was going to get him into a lot of trouble one day.

Good, I thought as I watched the two argue over- well, nothing much in particular; Second Fiddle seemed to be more upset at the perceived challenge to his authority than what Garnet actually said. It would be about time, really, that somepony else other than me tried to make him realise that there was more to this war than his ego. That was what this was all about; like all of the ambitious officers I have had the misfortune to meet over the years, he had gambled the career he had built on a single, risky campaign, and here was a more experienced veteran telling him not only that it would not work out the way he planned and there would be little in the way of glory for him, but of the mortal consequences that even the slim chance of success would bring. An officer often has one of two reactions to being told of such consequences: either a stoic acceptance of the grim reality that his actions will bring accompanied by a token show of sympathy, or a steadfast refusal of the facts and a readiness to blame others. Second Fiddle was falling into the latter category.

It was Market Garden who put an end to this. She slammed her hoof on the table, making the scattered pencils, compasses, and a few of the closer staff officers jump.

“That’s enough,” she said. “If we could have one meeting without a petty argument then we would have won the war by now.”

“I apologise, ma’am,” said Garnet, bowing his head slightly in contrition. Second Fiddle, meanwhile, turned to me and mumbled something about how the general had started it, apparently expecting sympathy on my part. He would find none from me, as I sat there and pretended not to hear him.

“Your objection is noted, Garnet,” continued Market Garden. “But our orders are clear. Canterlot demands that we take Virion Hive now, not in a few months’ time, but now. We’ve been at war for two years and barely have anything to show for it. Our options are limited; you know that I would never consider a direct frontal assault on a fortified position unless there was no other option, but time is against us here.” She grabbed a large map and dragged it over, knocking over a few pots of pencils and quills and scattering a few other papers in the process. “Now, come on, how do we go about doing this the correct and proper way? I want ideas.”

The meeting descended into something of a free-for-all, as staff officers, generals, aides, commissars, and even the servants pitched in with ideas of varying suitability. One naive optimist, surprisingly the commissar attached to the 12th Division, suggested that, in accordance with the ancient laws of war, once a practicable breach had been made in the walls the enemy would then surrender to avoid a needless bloodbath. I had to admire such wishful thinking, as were I not so much the realist I might have fallen into such false hope myself.

[This was indeed the case in the ancient wars of unification and the wars with the Griffons. Once the walls of a fortification had been breached it was customary for the garrison to surrender now that their position had been rendered almost impossible to defend. Refusal to do so typically resulted in the attacking force granting no quarter to the defenders.]

Another officer pointed out that the artillery was currently hammering away at three points of the fortifications, and as long as the relief column hadn’t arrived to reinforce the defenders they may be unable to properly defend all three breaches if assaulted simultaneously. It certainly sounded plausible, at least to my uneducated ears, but Market Garden pointed out the impracticality of making three practicable breaches at the same time. Still, it was the most useful suggestion that had been made thus far. From there, the other suggestions were less helpful; a plan to send in pegasi and Griffons to seize the wall was dismissed on the account it would leave them isolated and trapped until the earth ponies and unicorns could get there in time. Weaponisation of the weather sounded appealing, zapping the breaches with lightning storms to keep the bugs from reinforcing, but the representative from the MWC warned that such things were difficult to control, particularly if his weather specialists were being shot at, and that friendly casualties as a result were almost inevitable. Lightning was more likely to strike Equestrian metal armour than Changeling chitin.

They carried on; one officer suggested dragging Princess Twilight Sparkle along, since she was apparently the most powerful user of magic who ever walked the face of Equus (which I couldn’t possibly comment upon, but her prowess in the bedroom, however, I could certainly testify to), point her at the walls, and simply make the whole lot disappear. I highly doubted that such a tremendous feat of magic would be within the power of even Twilight herself to accomplish. Besides, I remembered the last time an alicorn princess involved herself in the business of war and it ended poorly for all involved.

I watched all of this with my usual sense of detachment; the whole scene felt peculiarly abstracted, as though I was watching a troupe of very poor actors putting on a badly-written play in the most run-down theatre imaginable. Numbers and statistics, each representing the life of a pony were bandied about without a care, and it all felt so distant from the horrifying consequences. Perhaps this abstraction was the only way the ponies gathered around this map table, or safe in their offices and meeting rooms in Canterlot, could even begin to think about directing this war, for to acknowledge the reality that every decision taken must involve some measure of loss and grief, no matter how small, could only lead to a deadly paralysis of thought. All one could do, provided one was the sensible sort of officer who knew that this level of abstraction could only go so far, was to trick oneself into believing that this was all somehow worth it in the end if we won and to do one’s best to make that particular number on which all generals are judged as small as possible.

Nevertheless, my mind wasn’t completely distracted from the job at hoof. The ponies here had focused on ideas of going through the wall or over it or some combination of both, indeed those seemed to be the proposals most grounded in reality. Where the officers bickered and argued, however, and where their discussion was at least somewhat productive, was in the finer details of such a plan, which still boiled down to throwing ponies at the Changelings’ walls until either the enemy was overwhelmed or everypony was dead, whichever came first. However, as I looked over at the various maps and diagrams of Virion Hive on the table, the low, squat, blocky houses and rather primitive structures reminded me of what I had seen of the Rat Pony Tribe’s underground city and the extensive tunnel system in and around it. Maud Pie had said that the earth here was not good for building or digging, but clearly the natives here had found a way to make it work. Perhaps...

“Why don’t we go under the wall?” I blurted out. The conversation stopped abruptly; it was the first thing I had said for that entire meeting, other than ‘hello’, and now everypony stared at me. I’m not one to feel particularly self-conscious, as being raised to take on the role of a prince had instilled a sense of confidence that only a belief in divine right can provide, but I did wonder if I had just made myself look like an idiot.

“Blueblood,” said Second Fiddle, hissing at me, “that’s utterly stu-”

“Brilliant!” exclaimed Market Garden. “You're a genius, Blueblood, a military genius!”

Second Fiddle’s mouth drew into a thin, flat line across the lower half of his face, and his eyes narrowed into slits. “Yes,” he said. “A genius, of course. Just one slight issue; how are we supposed to go under the wall?”

“Oh,” I said, affecting an air of casualness that was sure to annoy him. “I know a pony.”

***

I have to admit that I was not at all certain that Earthshaker, chief of the Rat Pony Tribe and the cuckolded blackguard who flogged me, would even consider my proposal for more than a second. After all, he had no love for Equestria and especially Yours Truly, but I was pleasantly surprised and immensely relieved when he and about two dozen of his tribe marched into the camp, about six hours after Market Garden dispatched a messenger to their city with her proposal. It would have been rather embarrassing for me otherwise, after being declared a military genius by a pony whose immense ego was matched in size only by her distinct lack of manners only for this plan to have fallen through at the very first hurdle.

I say ‘her proposal’ as Market Garden promptly took all the credit for it and continued to do so for the rest of her life after the war. It was a running theme for her, and though I try my best to keep out of such debates, I am at least aware that McBridle insisted that Operation Buttercup was at least in part plagiarised from notes that he and his staff had left behind after he retired. Unfortunately, those seeking more definitive illumination from me on that subject will have to be disappointed yet again; though I counted McBridle as something of a friend, or at least approaching one, I was but a regimental commissar at the time and kept out of the loop, as it were, on the actual planning of the war unless it was of direct concern to me or the regiment. I suppose that he had a personal prohibition against talking shop when socialising, in the same traditions of the old gentlecolts’ clubs of Canterlot, was what made us friends in the first place, as opposed to the likes of Market Garden, for whom work consumed the totality of her existence.

It was mid-afternoon, just shy of tea time, when Earthshaker and his ponies turned up. They emerged from the desert, approaching in a small, tightly huddled mass with their chieftain leading the way. With their sand-coloured coats and dusty robes they looked as though they had emerged from the earth itself, and given their natural skill at tunnelling that would not have been an entirely unreasonable assumption. They were mostly earth ponies, with the odd pegasus and unicorn, and each carried spears tipped with the formerly-standard issue Royal Guard steel spearheads that I had attempted to offer them during that previous unpleasantness. I faintly wondered if they would try and swap them for muskets. Earthshaker himself, in what I took to be a bid to try and impress us, wore a battered iron breastplate over his robes. Metal was a rarity out here and the skill to forge it more so, therefore something like that must have been a status symbol for their sort. He must have felt like a right fool when he saw the rear picquets of our camp dressed from head-to-hoof in mass-produced mithril armour.

They were greeted by a welcome committee consisting of Yours Truly, Commissar-General Second Fiddle, and an honour guard made up of whichever Solar Guard soldiers and officers I could round up at short notice. I thought it best, however, if the Royal Standard would remain safely ensconced with the colour guard this time for reasons that should be very readily apparent to avid readers of this dross. While a few ponies were concerned about my previous history with Earthshaker potentially souring relations before they could even get started on this little favour for us, I was rather more worried about Second Fiddle putting his hoof in it and upsetting the fragile accord between our two nations that Princess Celestia and her intrepid team of negotiators had worked so hard to achieve. [Credit where it is due, I merely offered guidance and support to both Equestrian diplomats and tribal representatives, who did most of the difficult work of negotiating a deal acceptable to all sides.]

Second Fiddle might have been a dab hoof at the art of buttering up his betters for personal gain, as I myself have fallen victim to in the past, but his interpersonal skills otherwise required a bit of work. Something had put him in a sulky mood that day, and he spent the entirety of this little welcoming ceremony pouting and ignoring Earthshaker, which, upon reflection, was the very best outcome I could have hoped for, really.

“We will not do this for you,” said Earthshaker when I greeted him and his ponies. “We do this for our tribe, for our kin still enslaved by the enemy, and for revenge. The one who took Dalia from me is in that city, and I want both.”

Fine, thought I, whatever his motivation, nopony cared so long as it got the results we needed. “Be that as it may,” I said, “we are united against a common enemy. I invite you to share our water.”

Earthshaker was never one for conversation, and even without the language barrier and our mutual inexperience with each other’s native tongues I doubted he would have stuck around for more small talk. He merely nodded curtly and raised his hoof, then bumped it against mine when I reciprocated that gesture. I hadn’t forgotten the torture he had inflicted on me, and the scars that now criss-crossed my back would ensure that I never would. Likewise, he would never forget that I had rutted his wife, and although said spouse had been replaced by a Changeling, if she existed at all, his particular sense of stubbornness would not allow him to let go of a grudge once it had become firmly embedded in his mind.

When he turned his back and trotted on over to his gaggle of ponies I scraped that hoof on the dusty ground to wipe away the taint. It was difficult to suppress my feelings of disgust and hate, but a princeling learns from a young age to conceal his emotions, lest his father strike him with a cane for daring to express anything but a resolute acceptance of the situation at hoof. Yet needs must, and the true architect of our collective misery was cowering behind the safety of those walls; we would work together towards this end, yes, but I was not about to afford this belligerent little unicorn, who thinks just because he rules over a mob of backwards, slave-owning, and sullen heathens that he can throw his weight around, any more of my hospitality than what was necessary to expedite the end of this current unpleasantness. So I left him to it, resolving to keep myself as far from those proceedings as possible and trust that his thirst for revenge was stronger than his instinct to sabotage the workings of the ‘slaves of the tyrants of the sun and moon’, as he was so fond of putting it.

“So we really don’t have any engineers who can do this for us?” said Second Fiddle, once Earthshaker was reasonably out of earshot. “We have to rely on these… these heretics?”

“They’re not heretics, they’re heathens,” I said. “There’s a key difference, heretics are-”

“It doesn’t matter what the difference is,” he snapped. “They’ve all turned their back on Celestia.”

“I’m sure she doesn’t mind.” In fact, I was certain of it; Auntie ‘Tia was a damned sight more tolerant than those ponies who claimed to hold her in the highest devotion.

“I still can’t believe our own ponies can’t do this.”

“We have engineers, yes, but they’re all working on the trenches and blockhouses. None of them can do geomancy, not like the chief over there.” I pointed over to said pony, who was having something explained to him by Pencil Pusher - probably the location of where he and his ponies could pitch their tents or some tedious bureaucratic detail that the ponies who have been living in holes in the ground could never hope to understand. Southern Cross happened to see me looking over, pulled a face, and jabbed his head in the annoying bureaucrat’s direction, to which I responded with a wink.

Second Fiddle leaned in closer, and I could smell his sweat mixed with an overabundance of cheap eau de cologne and a breath mint. I almost gagged at it; at least Cannon Fodder understood the concept of personal space. “I just don’t trust them,” he said sotto voce.

“Well, neither do I,” I said. He looked a little relieved at that, as anypony who tries to conceal a spore of prejudice within them feels when another admits to those same feelings. And in my defence, at least I had a valid reason for mine. “That’s the fellow who flogged me, so you watch him like a hawk, you hear?”

That smoothed a few things over for the time being at least; Earthshaker could go about his business and Second Fiddle could indulge in his paranoid fantasies, and the only issues I would have to deal with is the latter occasionally mistaking some custom peculiar to the former’s tribe, such as stopping a few times a day to beg forgiveness from the spirits of the earth for this violation of its ‘flesh’, as being suspicious. They were easily brushed off and my old chum got to pretend he was doing something productive for a change. As for the actual business of digging the mine, however, I paid very little attention to that business, now that I had passed responsibility for supervising that onto Second Fiddle.

[Commissar-General Second Fiddle’s reaction to the native ponies of the Badlands is of particular interest in exploring the complexities of the thorny issues of culture, especially if we contrast this prejudice with his congenial attitude towards the Griffons. While he appears to have overcome the anti-Griffon sentiment commonplace among Equestrian officers at the time, it is surprising that he could not afford the same tolerance for individuals of his own species. Blueblood makes no mention of this, but as it has been my aim to create a kinder and more caring world since I was forced to banish my sister, the irrationality of prejudice presents an interesting philosophical conundrum.]

Market Garden’s final plan is known by every single schoolfoal in Equestria, but for those ponies reading who perhaps didn’t go to to school or whose education was free I shall do my best to summarise what was a rather more complex battle plan than anything Crimson Arrow or McBridle could ever have come up with. Essentially, she had decided to go with as many of the more sensible suggestions, including mine, as she could manage. Whatever deficiencies she had in terms of personality and likeability, she made up for in her capacity to scrounge up materiel, and quickly too. On the very same day Earthshaker had turned up more cannons started arriving from all areas of Equestria, likely denuding a few of the artillery batteries kept in reserve of their guns, and joined in the bombardment. The day after that even more came, and the entire stretch of the ridge immediately facing Virion Hive was lined with an unbroken line of cannons that fired all day.

In what was up to that point the largest bombardment in history the artillery would smash a series of holes in the fortification wall, but only two would be directly assaulted. While that was going on, Earthshaker’s tribe would dig a mine directly under the wall of the castle itself and our engineers would pack it full of dynamite, which was to be detonated just as the first assaults on the breaches were made. Assuming that the resulting hole in the castle keep was large enough it would then be stormed by the Guards Division and the whole thing hopefully captured. In theory, General Odonata would not be expecting a direct assault on the keep itself and certainly not by undermining, again, making the assumption that this could be kept a secret, and with the multitude of breaches and no indication of which would be attacked, she would be forced to spread her forces thinly across the entire length of the wall. If we were really lucky, we could even capture her with her socks down in the castle.

Three of the divisions of I Corps would launch a separate assault each, with the fourth held in reserve to exploit a successful attack should one present itself. Only one of these three assaults had to be successful, for as Major-General Garnet had pointed out while off on yet another installment of his award-winning lecture series on boring things nopony cares about, once a breach had been won and the reserves were sent in it spelt certain defeat for the defenders. Market Garden would pour troops into a held breach and, like a dam battered in a storm, the defenders would surely collapse against the ensuing onslaught.

A rush of excitement flooded through the camp, such that I hadn’t seen since the very start of the war. The troops were flushed with the success of the Battle of the Heights, which showed that we could defeat the enemy decisively in open battle, and despite everypony knowing that an attack, even with all of the advantages granted by whatever trickery our generals could summon, would be immensely costly, they were, on the whole, thoroughly looking forward to it. Market Garden’s belief in her ability to command bordered on the delusional, but her absurd over-confidence was reflected with the common soldiery; with all of the doom and gloom we had gone through with the dour General McBridle and the suicidally incompetent Crimson Arrow, a general with initiative and who at least appeared to know what she was doing had given them some sliver of hope that we could win this blasted war. I, of course, remained sceptical.

I appreciate that this talk about troop movements is all very complicated and not particularly interesting, unless one is that kind of pony who tends not to be invited to parties often, but for the rest of us more normal and well-balanced individuals I have taken the liberty of drawing a map illustrating the key points of this plan. There are more accurate military maps out there, I’m sure, but if you want to find one you’ll just have to go to a library yourself; I can’t do everything for you. Besides, it was all going to go to Tartarus in a hoofbasket very shortly.

[The map sketched by Prince Blueblood on the back of a set of instructions for flat pack crystal furniture lacks much of the finer detail of military maps and is out of scale, too. Virion Hive is much larger in reality, being a city of approximately two thousand ponies plus the Changeling occupation forces. The castle is smaller compared to the city as a whole, and the distance between the fortress and the Equestrian front line is much wider in real life. More accurate maps are available elsewhere, but this will suffice for providing us with a basic understanding of the plan. Upon seeing Blueblood’s horn-writing here I trust readers will develop a greater appreciation for the hard work that goes into editing his memoirs.]

Author's Note

Every military fiction story needs at least one map.

Chapter 15

There was very little indication that this day was going to go horrendously wrong, but there never is, you see. Atrocities have the nasty tendency to sneak up and pounce when one is entirely unprepared. I suppose that’s part of what makes them atrocities.

It was the turn of the Two Sisters Brigade to occupy the frontline trenches. This side of the ridge had been turned into a fortress to rival the one we would be hurling ourselves against very soon; the blockhouses had been completed, one every thirty yards or so in a jagged, wobbly line along partway down the slope, while the network of half-built trenches, observation posts, sandbags, and foxholes crept on ever closer to those formidable walls. Though many of the engineers had been poached to assist in the construction of the mine under our hooves, a few remained to work day and night to bring our ponies closer and closer, inch by inch, to the enemy. Overnight, a shallow trench, bolstered by sandbags and piled rocks, would appear a few paces ahead of the one behind it, manned by a team of unlucky ponies almost daring the Changelings to take a potshot at them from the safety of the walls. This would then be repeated, over and over, night after night, creeping ever closer.

Despite this, the Changelings were being quiet. There had been a year of very little of note actually happening in this war, at least from my perspective, but that was when we had advanced no further than the distance from my Canterlot apartment to the closest statue of Celestia; here, however, we weren’t so much on the doorstep of the Changeling Lands but had gotten one hoof stuck in the front door while our other groped for whatever cash, keys, or valuables were in reach. I’d have thought that the enemy would have done something to dislodge us from our position by now, before we could fully entrench ourselves and become harder to move than a maiden aunt in her favourite chair, but thus far they had all seemed quite content to sit back and watch. Indeed, standing out on the foremost trench with a pair of binoculars aimed at the ramparts, I could see sentries peering back at me from above. Either they were building to something or we were about to march into a trap, and the only way we could find out was to let it happen.

The Night Guards had occupied this section of the frontline for a few days now, forming a rota system by which some companies remained on the forward picquets while the others remained in reserve. We were, however, spread rather too thinly for my liking, but nopony in any position of command believed that the garrison in Virion Hive was at all capable of posing any real threat to our position. Thousands of ponies remained behind the relative safety of the ridge in the camp, whereas a mere single brigade held the front line. An aphorism about the self-plagiarism of history springs to mind.

After a dull breakfast of dry oats washed down with what passed for coffee out here, I was due to undertake an inspection of Captain Red Coat’s earth pony company on the forward trenches. They were due to be rotated out that afternoon, and regulations dictated that the regimental commissar should be on hoof during the process. Quite why a political officer needed to be present for this, or at all for that matter, escaped me, but as I was quite eager to be back on the safer side of the ridge I thought perhaps my presence could speed things along. Few things seemed to motivate a soldier to work faster than a stern-faced commissar periodically checking his watch and scribbling down names in a notebook, I found.

I sat down in the trench while Captain Red Coat chatted with a lieutenant about something, I can’t remember exactly what. The trench was little more than a modestly long and uncomfortably narrow ditch topped with sandbags, so my hindlegs were bunched up awkwardly to allow my tall and still somewhat chubby frame to fit. It was so narrow, in fact, that it allowed no room for a pony of any stature, let alone one of my not-inconsiderable height, to turn about face on the spot without bumping one’s nose and/or rump into either the excavated earth or a wall of sandbags. One had the choice of either reversing or rearing up on one’s hindlegs and pirouetting one-hundred-and-eighty degrees, using one’s forelegs on the wall for balance. The latter, however, meant that one’s head popped up over the top, and while I had been assured that the Changelings weren’t taking potshots at ponies with their shiny new muskets, the lingering pain and stiffness in my left flank cheek meant that I wasn’t about to take that risk again.

As I said, I don’t recall the conversation. All I do remember of that day before it happened and all Tartarus broke out was the way a clod of the hard and dusty earth I leaned against poked into my scarred back; ignoring the creeping headache as I tried to manage my water ration for the day; and, as ever, the sweltering heat and humidity worsening as the day bore on. The cannons continued to fire, and by that point the entirety of the top of the ridge was almost covered entirely by white-grey smoke. The faint breeze had blown the sharp, acrid tang of burnt gunpowder our way, mixing with the lingering smells of rank sweat and body odour.

In addition to Cannon Fodder, Red Coat, and the lieutenant, there were five ponies crammed into this little stretch of trench. They had clearly been there for quite some time, and the foul-smelling bucket at the far end that I steered well clear of was evidence of that. One soldier stood on his hindlegs and peered over the top of the pile of sandbags, balancing himself with his forelegs on a set of grooves cut into the earth. The others were huddled in the trench beside him, either snoozing, reading, chatting, or just staring into space. Another tried to stave off both soul-crushing boredom and the stiffness in his joints by trotting on the spot, and occasionally pacing up and down the short distance between the end of the trench to where his comrade lay lengthwise at the bottom stretched as far as the meagre space would allow.

I wished Red Coat would damn well hurry up with whatever it was he was discussing. This trench, this shallow ditch I had curled up in, marked the furthest extent of land liberated thus far. If I were to stick my hoof out over the edge of the parapet and touch the parched, dead earth beyond, it would cross that dotted line on Market Garden’s map that delineated friendly from enemy territory. The sooner he wrapped this up the sooner I could be as far away from that line as I could reasonably be without deserting.

The artillery barrage was constant from dawn until dusk, with the occasional salvo at night just to keep the Changelings from getting too comfortable, and try as I might I could never get used to the sound. The staccato cracks each varied in pitch, tone, and volume, as each gun had its own distinct voice. After a day of this and the dull emptiness of life on the frontline in general, I had learnt to identify individual guns based on the sounds of each one firing. The timings, however, appeared to be completely random. One cannon would fire, then a second later another one, more muffled by the distance. A few more seconds would pass, during which one’s mind drives itself into higher states of anxiety in expecting the next one, and then the next salvo takes one by surprise and the whole process starts again. It had become a grim orchestra of war, and each day I longed for nightfall and some blessed silence.

So when I’d heard a ripple of artillery fire that did not match what I had become somewhat accustomed to, I knew instantly that something was amiss. It had come from precisely the opposite direction, muffled by a greater distance, and of an altogether different register and tone to our cannons. Captain Red Coat stopped speaking mid-sentence, and his ears twitched to follow this new sound. The lieutenant lifted his head, and looked up and around as though he might be able to see where it had come from. The pacing soldier stopped in the middle of his stride, and the dull, meaningless chatter of the troopers came to a slow, faltering halt. Silence, except for the sound of our cannons continuing their discordant symphony, descended like a heavy, smothering blanket.

The pony at the parapet pointed at something beyond the sandbags, out into the emptiness of no mare’s land, and bellowed, “Incoming!”

The cry was repeated across the line, like echoes. I dared to look up and saw the sky streaked with grey-green lines of smoke, like flares. There were dozens of them, perhaps more, rising from behind the fortress walls, and having reached the height of their parabolic arc through the sky they descended down upon our position.

“Get down, sir!” Cannon Fodder shouted. He grabbed me by the shoulders and pulled me to the ground. The rough wall scraped against my wool coat, tearing a few new holes. I curled up there, huddled in the bottom of the ditch and cursing my lack of a helmet; it was all well and good having this star spider silk armour but arguably the most important part of me was still terribly vulnerable. On reflection, it was probably useless against artillery anyway. There was nothing for it but to place my hooves on my head, curl up in a ball, and close my eyes and wait for it.

The seconds dragged on. All around I could hear a frantic pell-mell of activity. Ponies shouted, pushed, and shoved against one another as they packed into the trenches that would offer some modicum of protection, and then silence but for the continuing rumble of artillery and the hushed, panicked, rapid breathing of the ponies around me reasserted itself. Here and there, from all around, I would hear a faint clink of armour moving, or a yelp or a whimper. Cannon Fodder was pressed against me, and another soldier on my other side. The burning heat of their armour warmed by the morning sun singed my fur.

These were mortar shells, I assumed; despite my deliberate lack of interest in such things, some of what I had heard Bramley Apple say about his beloved artillery pieces had somehow penetrated through my wall of ignorance. They fired explosive shells at a high trajectory, such that they would fall directly on top of the hapless infantry cowering in the trenches below. I’d seen our artillery use them to deadly effect on Changeling hordes, so I knew that if one landed dead straight into our trench none of us would survive; I’d be ripped to shreds, torn bodily limb from limb, and then scraped off the walls of the trench and shipped back for eternal internment in the family mausoleum.

There was nothing for it but to wait and it was agonising. I could only curl myself tighter into a ball against that trench wall, as though I could will myself into the protective embrace of the earth itself, or at least position either Cannon Fodder or the soldier next to me so that they would take the brunt of the blast.

It would come soon, in seconds maybe, either I would hear the crash of explosive shot detonating around me and the horrendous screams of the wounded and dying, or nothing at all for eternity. Yet all I could hear, again, was the panicked breaths of the ponies around me and my own heart thumping wildly in my chest. It still would not come. My hooves itched; something was desperately wrong, but I daren’t open my eyes to see. Our artillery had stopped firing.

My own breathing had become sharper, shallower, more rapid, and it stung. Something smelt strange, like the ballroom of my palace after the maids had mopped the floor, but a thousand times worse. Acrid, pungent, painful; it was getting stronger by the second, so strong that it burned with every breath.

Something was stuck in my throat. I coughed, which felt like a knife to the ribs, and my eyes opened. All around was smothered in a greenish-yellow fog that was utterly incongruous with the clear, hot day. It clung to the ground, pouring into the trench and settled at the base. The figures of ponies half glimpsed in the smoke writhed as if being burned alive, the one closest to me clutched at his throat, blood frothing at his blackened lips and eyes wild with terror.

Sheer, utter, and total panic broke out. Hoarse cries of agony filled the air, cracked by the ruined throats and lungs. Muskets fired wildly at an unseen enemy, as sudden and bright flashes of flame amidst the swirling fog.

Raw terror gripped me before I could fully comprehend what was happening. Immediately I seized the lip of the trench behind, facing the ridge, and tried to scramble over it. Cannon Fodder had somehow dragged himself up and over, and he seized my hoof and pulled me up. It was agonising. I was being burned from the inside, with every breath fueling the flame consuming me.

Something pulled at my hindleg. The pony I had sat next to clung to it desperately, his face pale, drawn, and bleeding from the nose, mouth, and eyes. “Please,” he croaked, “help me.”

I kicked my leg free, pulled myself up to unsteady hooves, and ran up the hill, leaving him to die. Those of you reading this who think to judge me should consider this, had I stopped to pull him free I would have died alongside him and I dare anypony with a sliver of a sense of self-preservation, hero or otherwise, to say they would not have done the same in my position. Anypony who tells you otherwise is a liar or an idiot. Besides, I am the one who has had to live with this.

This fog pooled around my fetlocks, flowing over the ground and around my hooves to find the recesses, ditches, and gullies in the earth. Yet all around it was still dense enough that all that I could make out of the panicked soldiers fleeing in terror were half-glimpsed shapes, disturbing the smoke and sending it swirling in fragmented clouds. Some ran, others crawled, and one or two I saw collapse mid-stride into a heap and never to rise again. The sharp, acrid smell of it cut through everything else.

I gasped, choked, hardly able to breath; every gasp of poisoned air was like red-hot needles in my lungs and a claw squeezing around my throat. Our frantic run had slowed into a stumbling half-trot. The ends of my hooves felt like lead, and I could scarcely summon the effort to place one in front of the other were it not for this insensate fear driving me onwards. My eyes, too, were not spared, stinging like the blazes and streaming tears that blurred my sight.

Aside from these glimpses of shadows in the mist, the only ponies we saw were dead or very near to it. We would stumble upon these bodies as we ran; each was twisted into grotesque shapes as they had succumbed to the gas, clutching their ruined throats or faces as they had fallen and writhed in the paroxysms of an agonising death. Their flesh had turned sallow and pale, except for their faces, which had broken out in blotches of black, blue, and blood-red like victims of plague. Sightless, bloodied eyes stared back to mock me with the horrifying fate that awaited.

It was not just the ponies either; animals had crawled out of their holes and died. Between the bodies of ponies were those of the small rodents that lived unseen in their underground burrows and birds that had fallen dead out of the sky. Even the plants had suffered; those few outcroppings of long dry grass and the small shrubs nestled against larger rocks had withered into limp, grey, brittle strands. The gas, whatever it was, seemed to kill whatever it touched.

Out of the choking fog emerged the squat, square shape of a blockhouse. It seemed to represent safety, of a sort, from this poisoned air, and out of a lack of anywhere else to go we headed straight for it. The gas was endless, all-encompassing, as though the entire world had been consumed by it. Cannon Fodder and I crawled up to the wooden door, the both of us on the verge of collapse, and pounded our hooves against it.

The door opened, revealing Sergeant Major Square Basher with a sopping wet feedbag over her mouth. Her bloodshot, weeping eyes blinked rapidly, and then, as though she had suddenly remembered who we were, seized the both of us by the shoulder each with her strong forelegs, and pulled us inside. She turned and pushed the door shut behind us with her hindleg, which she held there to keep it closed.

Two dozen haunted, ghostly faces, lit by dim candlelight, stared back at me. The ponies they belonged to huddled against the walls, clutching their sides and groaning in pain. A few others were laid out on the floor in rows, each dreadfully still until, from time to time, one would suddenly erupt into a great, rasping fit of protracted coughing. Their whole body would convulse as though shocked by lightning; limbs drawn in, clutching heaving chests, and their heads rocked forwards with hideous, growling barks. Then it would fade once more into silence, and the pony on the floor would go limp again. Like Square Basher, most ponies here had a wet feedbag over their muzzles, tied tightly just behind the nose and mouth with the excess string. A few others had bits of torn cloth instead, or ripped lengths of their own uniforms.

I staggered inside for two, perhaps three, steps before my legs gave out under me and I collapsed in a wretched heap on the floor. If I bruised my muzzle or twisted a leg I’d have never known, because the burning agony inside me had become all-consuming. It drowned out all other lesser sensations, except for fear, that is. The coughing fit had grown worse, and it felt like a sledgehammer to the ribs with each great, hacking expulsion. I wrapped my forelegs around my chest in an embrace and curled up in a ball, rolling onto my left side. My eyes clenched shut. Something was stuck inside my throat - wet, sticky, and slimy. My body shook with each cough, until that horrid, copper-tasting thing was forced ever upwards and I spat it out on the floor. When I dared to open my eyes again I saw that I had coughed up bloody red chunks in a dark crimson slime.

A pony pressed a water canteen against my lips and ordered me to drink. I didn’t want it, I only wanted to damn-well breath. Said pony, however, was terribly insistent, so I did as I was told and drank as much as I dared. It was a struggle though, with much of it spilling out everywhere, but it helped clear my throat a little. My head was lifted with a hoof and I looked up to see the half-covered face of an earth pony soldier, for his nose and mouth had been wrapped up with a wet white cloth that had been stained yellow. His other hoof reached about my sash, untied it, and then presented it before me.

“Piss on this, sir,” he said, “then wrap it around your face.”

I squinted up at him. “What?” I blurted out, or tried to at least; my voice was a raspy crackle, gurgling whatever liquified remains of my lungs still clogged my throat, and thus sounded like a broken gramophone.

“Sir, would you rather I did it for you?” he said; I couldn’t tell if he was mocking me or not, as the light was dim and I could only see his wide, teary eyes. “I was an alchemist before the war. I know what this stuff is, I’ve seen it before. The ammonia in urine will help neutralise the gas. It won’t be much but…” He trailed off and shrugged. Though much of his expression was hidden behind his improvised mask (and now I understood what the stains were), I could tell in the plaintive, defeated look in his eyes what he had intended to say and, wisely, decided against voicing it in front of an officer - it’s better than nothing, and we’re all going to be dead soon anyway so it won’t matter.

[This is a myth, ammonia does not neutralise chrysaline gas. However, it does react with water. It has not been possible to identify the former alchemist mentioned here, but it is likely he knew about this and thought it best that the soldiers use the most readily available source of ‘water’ without using up valuable water rations. As an aside, the Changelings’ tendency to name things after their queen can get confusing.]

So I did the deed, despite the audience of ponies watching me, and wrapped the sopping wet, uncomfortably warm, foul-smelling red silk sash around my muzzle. It made me feel slightly better, albeit merely as a palliative of sorts that would only delay the inevitable; I was dying, I was certain of it, as I had taken a rather nasty dose of whatever poison gas the enemy had seen fit to inflict upon us, and the damage to my lungs, already having received a fair old battering from certain expensive habit of mine, was likely fatal. Raw fear had turned to a quiet dread that seemed to rest upon my shoulders like a cloak made of iron, but being in a fair old state with my panicked flight and the grim realisation that, aside from a miracle, there was nothing that could be done about it.

Here, the air seemed clearer, if only by a tiny degree; with the door held shut by the Sergeant Major and the many loopholes in the walls plugged with cloth rags much of the gas had been kept outside. The acrid smell of the gas, sharp and acidic, too had faded somewhat, and was almost overwhelmed by the stench of urine and smoke. A small pile of charred wood and ashes that was once a chair testified to a pony having the idea of trying to dispel the gas with smoke, to which I assume his comrades had objections when it failed to have the desired effect.

Amidst the gaunt, bloody, and scared faces I spotted the mutilated one belonging to Captain Red Coat, who sat in the corner of the room near the door. His head leaned drunkenly against the wall and his one good eye was closed. He appeared to be sleeping, but as I staggered on over, my hooves having carried me thus far and proving reluctant to keep at it without a rest, he lifted his head with great effort and stared at me. Nothing was said as I sat next to him, though the soldier next to him budged up to make room and caused a small domino effect of such similar motions with those resting against the wall.

We sat in silence for some time, partly because I struggled to think of anything to say that would come close to explaining the magnitude of what we had just been through, but mostly because talking hurt. Well, everything hurt, and more than just my chest with every raspy, shallow breath. The fire that scorched me from the inside had spread to every portion of my already-battered and weakened body. I focused on my breathing, steadying it, trying to suck as much of the relatively fresher air in here as I could through that soaked sash, but it never felt enough. Soon, the headache was accompanied by a sense of dizziness, and the ends of my hooves tingled. Still, the cool stone of the floor and walls was soothing against my coat, as was the solid dependability of Slab still nestled safely in my inner breast pocket. Now that I was no longer gripped by a state of panic I could take stock of the situation.

I paused and strained to listen, beyond the coughing and moaning inside these four walls, to hear the muffled thunder of our artillery unleashing Tartarus upon the enemy in retribution for this atrocity. Yet that damning silence persisted still, and that leaden cloak of dread felt that much heavier as the implications of that were slowly pieced together in my mind. Whatever this foul new weapon was that poisoned the very air, its effects were spread much further afield than our small portion of the frontline, for that nigh constant barrage to stop meant that the crews there had suffered the same effects as we had. There was no way of knowing what was going on out there; for all I knew our tiny group of survivors could have been all that was left of the battalion, or the brigade, or the division, or the corps itself.

“Is this everypony left?” I said, and every word was like razors against the inside of my throat. Nevertheless, I felt the queer need to say something that might at least prompt our senior officer here to take some form of action - hopefully to run away further, if I had any say in it.

Red Coat rolled his head on his shoulders limply, and I shuddered at the sight. With his makeshift mask stained with tiny spots of dried blood, his one good eye red and other grey and empty, and the burnt half of his face with its rippling layers of twisted, puckered, scarred flesh, he looked like a corpse that had been re-animated. In fact, everypony around me looked at least some shade of dead, with some teetering very close to that desperately thin line between life and whatever fate lay beyond it. I imagined that I didn’t look much better, but I know I certainly felt it.

“Don’t know,” said Red Coat, his voice thin, raspy, and punctuated with sharp gasps for breath. “Others in the other blockhouses, maybe. Our TACC didn’t make it. No idea what’s going on outside.”

“There must be somepony out there.” I looked around at our plucky band of survivors again, noting that most were earth ponies with the odd unicorn. “Where are our pegasi?”

“Flown away, I guess.” Red Coat shrugged. “Or dead, like the others.”

I noticed that the brass and steel of his false limb had lost its sheen, having turned a dull greenish black. Looking down at the metal accoutrements that adorned my uniform, the brass buttons and silver and gold medals, revealed that the exact same had happened. The elegant crescent moon that hung from my breast was mottled with that same discolouration. The armour, too, of the soldiers here had likewise reacted to this gas, taking on this sickly black-green shade that looked unsettlingly like Changeling chitin. If it did this to metal, I dreaded to think what it had done to my insides.

Square Basher snorted and stamped a hoof on the floor, cracking the paving slab into a spider’s web of thin fissures. “Cowards,” she spat.

“We all ran away,” said Red Coat, sneering at his sergeant major. “They just ran away further. You’d have done the same.”

“Sorry, sir,” she said, drooping her ears. “It just ain’t right, sir.”

“Nothing about this is right.”

Silence, or merely the absence of conversation, fell upon us once more. Seconds, minutes, hours passed, I don’t know; perhaps I had fainted for a bit and was roused by Cannon Fodder, or truly only moments had slipped through our hooves. Either way, my shoulder was jostled by a rough hoof and I found myself looking up at the pale, teary, gas-stricken eyes of my aide.

“Sir, Changelings,” he said, his voice muffled by the stained feedbag over his muzzle. He pointed in the vague direction of the wall where the door was.

“They’re advancing up the slope on hoof, sir,” said Square Basher, her tone flat, emotionless, and defeated. She peered through one of the loopholes higher up on the wall, having removed the rag that was supposed to have stopped the gas from seeping through. Being a taller mare, almost on par with my stature, she had to lower her head to squint through it. “Taking their time, too, the bastards. If you pardon my language, sir.”

Red Coat lifted his head and craned his neck forward. His posture was tense, not so flaccid and limp as it was before, and a kind of nervous excitement seemed to suffuse his very being at the sound of this horrible news. Contrast, if you will, the utter dread that had consumed me; it was something of a relief, though a very minor one, that the gas stinging my eyes provided a plausible excuse for my occasional bouts of sobbing. I could understand it, though, we had been attacked by something that we could not possibly fight or defend against, and now, strolling leisurely up that hill on the assumption that everypony was dead was such an enemy that we could, albeit with great difficulty now, kill.

“How many?” asked Red Coat.

“Hundreds of them, sir,” said Square Basher, stepping away from the loophole. “They’ll be here soon.”

Red Coat rose to his hooves unsteadily, but his prosthetic limb, creaking a little heavier with the corrosion eating away at its workings, seemed to keep him upright. He leaned on it like an elderly stallion with a walking cane. As he looked over at the stallions gazing back at him, a tenser sort of quiet descended, and even the agonised groans of the more severely wounded seemed hushed. The ponies on the floor lifted their heads as much as their failing strength would allow, and looked to their officer. There was a growing sense of anticipation, a change in the atmosphere of this thoroughly miserable place, as he seemed to be piecing together some sort of plan. Clearly, I had to nip this in the bud.

“I hope you’re not considering what I think you are,” I said. “Nopony here is fit to fight.”

He looked over his shoulder back at me, his one good eye fixing me with a glare. “Princess Luna would want us to make our stand.”

“Princess Luna isn’t here.”

“There’s nopony else left,” he said. “It’s just us, sir. If it wasn’t us it’d be some other poor bastards. It’s just bad luck it happened to be us.”

“We’ll all be killed out there,” I said, sweeping my hoof in the direction of the door.

“No different to staying here, then. We’re all dying anyway.”

Square Basher pulled her musket from her shoulder, sat on her haunches by the door, and went about the mechanical process of loading it. Ears were folded back and her eyes wide in with fright she was doing her level best to suppress, but when she primed the pan an errant shiver of her hoof scattered much of the powder on the floor. I heard her curse under her breath, taking a second to collect herself, and she carried on. As she finished and shouldered her loaded musket, her body shook with a series of deep, heavy coughs that sounded like a bear being repeatedly struck by a train, and each time the feedbag around her nose and mouth became more and more stained with black-red flecks.

“This is no way for a soldier to die,” she said. “Sir.”

I fell into a sullen, contemplative silence once again, staring at the rank, disgusting puddle of dissolving lung tissue I had coughed up on the floor earlier. He was absolutely right; most, if not all of us, were dead ponies walking. The gas had already seen to that, and it was only a matter of time before we would succumb to it. Yet once it sunk in there was a kind of tranquility that came with this acceptance. With my fate sealed, I no longer had to consider the consequences to myself in the long term; there was only the present, the next few minutes or so, and what I could do with that little time remaining. If this was to be my end, our end, then perhaps it should have some meaning to it, and if we could take some of the bastards with us the better.

There was nothing further to say. I stood, fought off the wave of nausea and dizziness that accompanied any activity more strenuous than simply sitting there and trying to breathe, and followed Captain Red Coat outside. The soldiers, those who could, filed out after us, clutching muskets and bayonets.

The sight that greeted me as I emerged blinking into the bright sunlight was a vista of death and desolation that stretched as far as the walls itself. The malignant green fog had faded, leaving only small pools of the stuff collecting in the cracks and recesses of the ground. Here and there I could see a shallow ditch or crevice in the dry earth, and from it seeped wispy tendrils that crept along the ground with the dull, tepid breeze. Bodies twisted into unnatural angles littered the slope; some were still inside the trenches, collapsed at the base or stretched over the lip as they tried in vain to crawl out, but most had fallen as they had fled. Everything, even the plants and insects, was dead. The small trees and shrubs that had managed to eke out a modest existence in this barren wilderness had shrivelled up into jagged, broken claws that grasped in futility at the skies above. And all around, pervading this, was that sharp, acrid tang of the gas itself still lingering, which almost smothered the more earthy, familiar, but still-disgusting stench of death and blood.

Everything was dead, except us and the Changeling horde advancing up the slope.

True to Square Basher’s word, they were indeed taking their time; nothing should have survived, so why bother rushing? Yet now as still-living ponies stumbled, staggered, and crawled out of the blockhouse before them, pale and coughing up blood, the sight had stopped the entire swarm in its tracks. They were, perhaps, a scant thirty yards from us - close enough, at least, for me to see the expressions of utter shock and horror in their abominably un-equine faces. One, a figure that towered over the smaller drones that could only have been a Purestrain, stared in slack-jawed, uncomprehending disbelief at the sight of us; despite the gulf in species and differing facial structures, that look was wholly unmistakable.

The entire front few ranks of the swarm milled about in a state of confusion. Drones stopped and stared, others seemed to bicker, while the more enterprising amongst their vast number tried to ready their muskets in spite of the jostling about from their comrades. From our vantage point somewhat above them, I could see that the greater mass of the horde behind them had yet to see that, despite whatever it is their leaders had told them, there were yet ponies capable of putting up a fight. They pushed against the front ranks who, for whatever reason, seemed reluctant to advance further to sweep away the pitiful resistance our hoof-full of survivors could muster.

Captain Red Coat pulled away his makeshift mask, revealing the monument to the ravages of war that was his face, now rendered all the more horrifying with the effects of this gas. The exposed scar tissue had turned an ashen grey, such that he resembled more than ever a rotten corpse somehow given an imitation of life; certainly his stiff, lumbering gait didn’t help with that resemblance. He dragged himself along the ragged line of battle that the tattered remnants of his company had formed itself into, and then, apparently satisfied that everypony was as ready as they could ever be, drew himself next to me at the far end of the line.

He rasped out the order to present. The earth ponies aimed their muskets, squinting unsteadily down the barrels at the chaotic mess of the Changeling horde. A few in the front rank of the swarm had managed to organise themselves somewhat, and reciprocated the motion to level their own muskets in our direction. I held my breath, waiting for the storm of lead that would come our way, but, somehow, an act of Faust perhaps, we were faster.

Red Coat shouted the order, and our thin grey line barked out a thin, rippling rapport of fire. It was broken and ragged, and far from the disciplined, simultaneous volley the instruction manuals called for. The front rank of the swarm before us dropped to the ground, collapsing in a heap. Those behind stepped over the twitching, bleeding corpses of their comrades unlucky enough to have been in the front, and took aim.

This was it, I thought; the end. I closed my eyes, waiting for a tiny lead ball to rip into my flesh and send me on my way to whatever fate I deserved. It would be charitable to say that I prayed right there and then, for as a rule I try not to trouble the divine, should it exist, of my mere existence when there are rather more deserving ponies around, but I came desperately close. I heard the staccato crackle of distant musket fire, coming from the left this time, but I still flinched. My breath, what was left of it, caught in my throat, but to my surprise it was followed by another and another.

I opened my eyes. The front rank of the enemy had been decimated again by another volley, with drones lying bleeding on the ground before their comrades. Looking to the left, past our line, I saw that more survivors had witnessed our suicidal last stand and decided that they wanted to join in. They, perhaps two dozen earth ponies and unicorns, had drawn up in a line next to ours and had unleashed that second volley upon a stunned enemy.

Cannon Fodder tapped me on the shoulder and pointed past my head to the right of our formation. There, more ponies, likewise pale, limping, coughing up blood, staggered in ones and two out of the blockhouse adjacent to ours. The grey-green mist was stirred up by their hooves, lingering on matted, sweat-stained coats, to give them a horrendously ghost-like appearance. They arranged themselves into something approaching a line alongside ours, took aim, and fired a third volley into the enemy. The hail of lead crashed into the horde, felling a few more. But even if our flagging troops could keep this up, it would be no use; sooner or later the Purestrains would get their collective acts together, impose their malignant hold back over their panicked drones, and attack. I could see it; the swarm appeared to recoil from the meagre volleys like a wild animal that had been stung, but where drones had fallen to our muskets those who hadn’t lost their wits advanced to the fore.

Captain Red Coat trotted ahead of our line, drawing his hefty Pattern ‘12 sabre in a fluid motion. Standing there, almost daring the Changelings to shoot him, he reared up on his hindlegs, holding his sword as though to stab the sky above.

“We will teach the Changelings to fear the dark!” he roared, his voice cracking with a throaty gurgle. Despite the ruin in his lungs, his voice was loud and clear, cutting above the din of the skirmish. “Luna’s Own Night Guards! Fix bayonets and follow me!”

Bayonets were drawn from scabbards, and while some ponies rammed them into the smoking muzzles of their muskets, twisting to lock them in place, others simply discarded their cumbersome guns and held their blades as wicked daggers. A cheer of sorts rose up from our meagre ranks; distorted by gas-burned throats, it sounded more like the roar of daemons than any equine battle cry. Red Coat dropped to all-fours, swinging his sword in a great arc towards the oncoming horde, and the Equestrians surged forwards.

It was madness; sheer, utter, bloody, savage madness, but even I was caught up in the spirit of it all. Swept along by bloodlust and a thirst for revenge, I galloped down that slope as quickly as my broken body would allow. Our formation fell apart, splitting into smaller groups of ponies as each, suffering under gas injuries of varying severity, struggled in their own way to close the distance with the enemy. Most could gallop or at least trot, but many still could only limp along pathetically behind us. Fewer still, those whose bodies were closest to surrendering to the ravages of the gas, crawled along on their bellies, and their eyes burned with a kind of bestial hatred.

We collided with the swarm. Grey coats and grey armour rushed all around me, growling, cursing, and yelling with raspy, hoarse voices, thrusting and slashing with bayonets. I saw Red Coat himself plunge straight into the horde first, swinging his sabre down at a hapless drone that was too slow to pull the trigger of his musket. It bit into the skull, and then was torn free with a spray of ichor and grey brain matter. I was forced into the press of bodies, hacking at any sight of black chitin with my sword. What followed was a swirling mess of such savage fighting I had never seen before or since. Ponies, driven mad with the terror and pain of the gas attack, ripped mercilessly into the enemy. Those who should not have been able to even stand had pushed themselves beyond the limits of what their bodies were capable of, and stabbed, slashed, bit, stamped, and kicked at the Changelings. The famed discipline of the guardspony, touted as the thing that gave us the edge over our enemy, was utterly gone. It was no longer about victory or even mere survival, there was only vengeance.

The world darkened suddenly, like an unscheduled eclipse of the sun. Rain fell, slowly at first as huge, fat drops of water dribbled from above, then a veritable torrent of it was unleashed. It thundered down, soaking me to my skin in seconds, but the onslaught of water had dispersed the lingering wisps of the gas that had collected around our fetlocks. The dusty earth turned into a filthy, stinking grey sludge, mixed with blood and ichor and Celestia-knows what else, that squelched under my hooves. I dared to look up, away from the chaos in front of me, and above us the ponies of the MWC, clad in their sky-blue flight suits, urgently pushed huge, grey storm clouds into position directly overhead. Others hovered close by, beating their wings furiously to generate a chill wind over the battlefield.

A shrill cry of a bird of prey pierced through the clamour and noise of the battle. A flock of Griffons raced through the sky above, then the formation split into squadrons and descended upon the Changeling horde. I suppose it might have lasted five or ten minutes, but I have no way of knowing for certain. It felt like seconds, or perhaps that’s because of gaps in my memory; all that I recall are snapshots of blood and gore, the stained black and green sabre in my magic, and Changeling fangs. A stallion stamped on a fallen drone’s chest until nothing remained but an ichorous smear. Another bled profusely from a grievous wound in his neck but still he relentlessly slashed at his killer with his bayonet. We pushed forwards, driving deeper into the swarm itself, until it melted away into nothing and I stood there alone and surrounded by the dead and dying.

I staggered about in this glimpse into Tartarus in a daze. There was a sharp taste of copper in my mouth. Somewhere in that fight I’d lost my hat, and for some reason that I still can’t explain I thought it was very important that I find it. So I wandered between the mutilated bodies and the teams of medics to search for it in the mud. Stars danced in front of my eyes, and my vision swam drunkenly, veering from left to right with each step. Somepony called my name, Cannon Fodder I think, but I ignored it. A big Griffon with ichor stains on his beak seized my upper forelegs with his strong claws and barked something in my face, but I couldn’t hear or understand a word of it. I coughed blood onto his breastplate. Everything in my vision turned red, and then faded into darkness and silence.

***

I was on my back, held down by a warm and heavy rough fabric. Bright lights shone in my face. Something was stuck in my throat, all but choking me. The acid stink of the gas filled my nostrils. Obscure shapes, indistinct and fuzzy, swam before my eyes, coalescing into nightmares resembling deformed ponies. There was one by my right; a towering, monstrous figure in white and gold peering down at me. I flinched away from the creature, but a stab of pain shot through my chest.

The thing seized my hoof, but in an instant the panic that had gripped me faded. Soft, warm, and gentle, it stroked the back of my hoof in a tender way that brought back a flood of distant, happier memories of long, hot summers in Canterlot with...

“It’s alright,” said Princess Celestia. “I’m here. You’re safe.”

Trying to lift my head up made my vision lurch drunkenly, and my stomach responded in kind with an ominous gurgle, a sharp painful cramp, and the bitter tang of bile up the back of my throat. I gave up and let my head fall back onto the soft pillow and stared up at the ceiling.

“What?” I croaked out. Blinking rapidly seemed to clear my vision a little, and the blurry white-and-gold mess purporting to be Auntie ‘Tia slowly sharpened into the tall, beautiful, all-loving Princess I remembered. She smiled down at me, but her eyes were rimmed with tears that sparkled in the harsh light.

“Oh, Blueblood,” she said, holding my hoof in between hers tightly and crushing it against her soft, fluffy chest. “Something terrible happened, but you’re in the hospital now, and the doctors are going to take good care of you.”

“Oh, aye.” Another pony-shaped blob swam into view, and turned into the visage of Doctor Surgical Steel. The old stallion looked tired, with dark rings around his small eyes and a slump to his otherwise sprightly posture. “I always do. How’re tha feeling, son?”

“Could be better,” I said. It was the sort of answer that was expected; ‘alone, tired, afraid, and in agony’ would only have upset Celestia and have been of no help to anypony. My memory was fuzzy, and then and there, probably drugged up to Cloudsdale and back, I had only sharp, vivid snapshots of what I had been through. I remembered, however, my aide, and I couldn’t see him in the group around me.

“Where’s Cannon Fodder?” I asked.

“Here, sir.” The pony in the bed to my left raised a hoof and waved it in my direction. I felt an instant, gratifying sense of relief. “I’m fine, sir.”

Surgical Steel arched an eyebrow and cast his analytical gaze up and down my bed-bound form. “Your Highness,” he began, which was never a good sign as ponies only addressed me as such when about to give me bad news.

I squeezed Celestia’s hoof weakly as he continued: “Tha’s suffered damage to t’ entire respiratory system; mainly chemical burns to t’ upper airway, bronchi, mixed airway, and alveoli, resulting in a pulmonary oedema. That tube up t’ nose is what’s keeping thee alive for now, pumping pure oxygen into what’s left of your lungs. T’ good news is tha can expect to fully recover with supportive care in two to three weeks, or faster if tha had stopped smoking when I told thee to. T’ bad news is Canterlot’s sending a specialist down here to fix thee up in time for t’ Big Push.”

He shot a glare at another pony-shaped blob, this one taller and darker than he, and even with my blurred vision I could make out the disapproval etched with every line and crease on his face. This figure stood at the foot of the bed, apparently distracted by something else, turned its head and slowly, elegantly stepped closer with a familiar chime of silver horseshoes on tiles. The blob shifted into the shape of Princess Luna, whose approach sent the good doctor scurrying out of her way. Her thin lips pouted and her eyes hardened into a glare; she was angry, that much was certain, and could only just barely contain it for the sake of propriety.

“I swear,” she hissed, lips turning back into a timberwolf’s snarl, “we will make Chrysalis pay for this outrage! Poison gas! Truly, the cowardice of the enemy knows no bounds.”

“Luna,” whispered Celestia across the bed, “please, not now.”

The Princess of the Night glared at her sister, then slowly released the breath she had been holding. She turned her attention back to me, lying there helplessly and gasping for air, and her expression softened. Her hoof, cold but as gentle as the moon on a clear December night, stroked my cheek.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “You’ve been very brave, my nephew. Your valiant charge stopped the enemy from re-taking the hill and capturing our cannons. Such valour is the greatest exemplar of the most noble traditions of our Night Guard.”

Bravery had nothing to do with it, thought I; death seemed imminent and there was nothing else for it, and I would always take the slim sliver of a chance of survival over none at all. Besides, if anypony deserved whatever laurels that were to be bestowed for the charge that apparently saved the entire I Corps, though from where I was standing it seemed the MWC and the Griffons arriving right at the nick of time had more to do with stopping the Changelings than our meagre show of defiance, it was Captain Red Coat. It was he who mustered the broken remnants of the Night Guards for the famous counter-attack that had since become one of those great myths about the war; looking back, while I certainly saw expressions of shock and horror in the faces of the enemy, including the Purestrains, I sincerely doubt that they honestly thought they were being attacked by revived corpses of the dead. It was simply more likely that, as I had initially thought, they simply expected to face no resistance at all and had reacted accordingly when it became thoroughly clear that whatever Odonata or Chrysalis had reassured them was wrong.

“Red Coat?” I said. “Did he…?”

“There were too many of us,” said a voice from the bed to my right. I rolled my head over on the pillow, looking past Celestia’s larger frame to see Company Sergeant Major Square Basher lying there. She had likewise turned her head to face me, and I could see that there was a translucent tube inserted into her nostrils, which explained the unpleasant sensation I was feeling in my throat. It was a shock, however, to see this strong, physically-imposing mare laid up in bed like that, looking weak and pale. I dreaded to think how I looked.

“I don’t think we should talk about this now,” said Doctor Surgical Steel. Square Basher ignored him.

“The medics were overwhelmed, sir,” she said. “They had to help the ones they thought had the best chance of making it. They picked you, sir, and me. The Captain, they said, Red Coat was too far gone to help. He-” She stopped, sniffed sharply, and then rolled over onto her back and carried on, speaking to nopony in particular now. “A sergeant is supposed to look after her officer - make sure he keeps out of trouble, keep the troops in line for him, keep him safe.”

It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t bloody fair. A medic had made the cruel calculation that my life was worth saving over Red Coat’s, and that’s why I lay in this soft bed while his body was being boxed up and shipped back to his family with our flag draped over it. There was nothing but this hollow, empty sensation of numbness in the pit of my stomach. All I could do was lie back and stare at the ceiling with its faded, cracking paint, and think how it could, should, have been me. Then Luna had to speak.

“A glorious end,” she said solemnly, bowing her head. “There is no higher honour. We will remember him.”

Shut up. That’s what I wanted to tell her, and I’d wanted to say that to her for quite a while now. There was nothing glorious about Red Coat’s death, or that of any other pony in this damned war, and yet I found myself incapable of voicing that sentiment. Princess Luna meant well, of course; it was the sort of thing that a princess was supposed to say when confronted with this sort of thing, and as I lay there on the bed, gazing up at her with her head lowered in what looked like an earnest mark of respect for the fallen warrior, I wondered too if she in truth felt the same way that I did. Perhaps, I thought, the two of us were not so different, really. We were both royalty, for one, bound by the iron chain of tradition and propriety that forbids us from voicing the inner truth of our feelings. Just as I could not tell Luna that her words of glory and honour in death were merely convenient lies to perpetuate this awful war, she too could do little more than parrot such notions to justify to herself and her subjects, as all leaders must, that it was all worth it in the end.

She meant well; ponies only ever mean well.

The time slipped by strangely. Celestia and Luna remained by my side, though I fear I was hardly a considerate host. From time to time one or the other would drift away and speak with the other patients or the doctors and nurses. Visiting hours were soon over, however, more quickly than one expects, and Doctor Surgical Steel returned to shoo the Princesses away. Celestia squeezed my hoof and kissed me on the forehead, like she used to do when I was a colt, and stepped away. Luna protested a little, but the doctor had managed what I thought was impossible for mortal ponies and pulled rank on the Princess - in this hospital the word of the doctors and nurses was law, and she needed to leave. As she sullenly slipped away, the noise of her hooves striking the tiles somehow dimmed and lacklustre compared to their usual sharpness, she looked at me over her shoulder and seemed to mouth the words ‘I’m sorry’.

Alone, exhausted, and thoroughly miserable, I thought to rest my eyes for a moment, and found that I slipped into a fitful sleep. Yet even slumber was no escape for me from the war, for I dreamt of wading through a fetlook-deep pool of blood, sticky, thick, and congealing around my hooves. It stretched from horizon to horizon, and stank of decay. In the receding darkness I thought to see flickers of shapes resembling ponies in armour, stalking aimlessly through this vast, endless sea of blood, searching for something. When I looked down, I saw that the ichor through which I waded was not red, but a deep and unnatural shade of darkest blue.

Above, the sky was leaden with an impenetrable overcast of clouds. Yet, as I wandered alone, a small crack of light splintered the heavens. A single beam of cold, white moonlight shone from this hole in the sky, cast down onto a single spot but a short distance away from me. A tall, dark figure sat on her haunches with her head bowed in the centre of this bright spot, and I saw that this lake of gore receded from the touch of this blessed light.

I stumbled towards her. There, Princess Luna, lifted her head and watched me approach with her usual stern, cold, patrician bearing. My hooves splashed in the blood, staining my coat this peculiar, sickly shade of blue until they resembled dapples. As I stepped into this cone of moonlight, however, this ichor evaporated away, leaving my pristine white coat clean.

The ground beneath my hooves was polished marble, as I stood there and stared at Luna, unsure of what to say or do. Around us, beyond the reach of the light, the nightmare continued, though it seemed to slowly shrink away.

“Auntie, I-” The words got stuck in my throat; how could I possibly explain what I felt, what I was going through? What mere equine language could possibly give even the slightest indication of the depths I had fallen to?

“I know,” said Luna. She stretched out her forelegs wide invitingly. “It’s alright, Blueblood. I’m here.”

I staggered forwards, and then fell into her embrace.

Author's Note

I planned this chapter way before the current unpleasantness started

Chapter 16

How had it come to this? Two years ago when this war began, ponies and Changelings met each other as relative equals, face-to-face and hoof-to-hoof on the battlefield, where survival and victory was a matter of one’s skill and that of one’s comrades. Now, our artillery vomited increasingly lethal shrapnel and explosives at exponentially greater volumes and ranges, our pegasi had militarised the very weather, our soldiers each carried a weapon that allowed them to kill from afar, and now the Changelings could deploy this cruel gas that burnt ponies from the inside. This was not war as I or any of our leaders had known it as a contest of skill, fighting spirit, and strategic genius, but a race to devise newer and deadlier weapons and build more of them than the enemy.

I had plenty of time to think on this in the hospital, for the hours between anything interesting happening, like treatment, surgery, or somepony else nearby having a cardiac arrest, were ones where I had naught to occupy my mind but my own thoughts. Celestia and Luna could not remain by my side at all times, having affairs of state to deal with, and thus left for Canterlot the following day. With little else to distract myself, such thoughts invariably strayed into the less-than-cheery topic of the war itself, the very thing that brought me to such ruin once again. In these times I thought of those I had lost, Gliding Moth and Red Coat, both younger than I, though not by much, but arguably with more to live for. There were more too, those nameless faces and faceless names who fought and fell alongside me. It is the burden of the survivor to remember them, and thus cursed to be left to ponder the eternal, lamentable question of ‘should it have been me?’.

Second Fiddle, however, had elected to visit me this time; apparently the threshold for the pony who was, for the lack of a better term, my ‘boss’ to become interested in my personal health and well-being lay somewhere below getting shot in the rear and above being nearly killed by poison gas. He had picked a time in the late afternoon, long after Celestia and Luna had left. I had spent the better part of the intervening hours staring up at the ceiling, with only a brief interruption for an attempt at consuming lunch, which consisted of a thin, watery gruel-like soup of undefinable origin and flavour that I could barely keep down.

To distract myself from thinking too much about, well, everything that I have just written about here, I had forced myself to fixate upon a particular stain on the white ceiling immediately above my pillow. What it was and just how it got there I couldn’t say, and this being a hospital I was probably better off not knowing. It was an ochre-coloured blot, probably about two feet across and one foot high, and resembled an ancient map of some half-explored island. In its peculiar splotchy lines I saw a craggy coastline, bays, inlets, rivers, and lakes. My father, when he wasn’t busy representing Equestria on behalf of Princess Celestia, keeping natives in line, or beating me with a stick for failing to hold a fork correctly, fancied himself as something of an explorer, and would often spend hours every spare afternoon pouring over maps and charts of far-off places. So for those moments of lucidity, between drifting off into restless sleep and staring into space with my mind fogged by drugs and potions, I imagined ships sailing up and down the ragged coast of this island, dropping off parties of adventurers to explore the depths of its dark, untamed forests and open wildlands. These expeditions would find ancient, forgotten temples laden with the riches of a long-dead empire, tribes of Zebras untouched by civilisation, and dark, dusky mares eager for the touch of a…

“Blueblood?” Second Fiddle interrupted my foalish day-dreaming. He’d taken the seat next to my bed, rested one hoof on the sheets, and leaned over at me. The dozens of medals, gold buttons, braids, and other assorted shiny things pinned to his narrow, slim chest dangled as he did so, and tapping against one another it all sounded like a small wind chime. Another one of his newspapers was tucked under his armpit, which I had since learned was rarely a good sign.

“Visiting hours already?” I said, pulling myself up to my elbows. I had no idea how much time had passed since Celestia and Luna said their goodbyes; hours, days, or minutes, perhaps, all felt the same. A wave of dizziness and nausea hit me, but I carried on until I could at least lean back against the pillow and the headboard. Bitter, rank bile rose up the back of my throat, and I coughed and pounded my chest to try and get rid of it.

“I pulled rank to get in,” he said.

Just over his shoulder, a group of nurses and a doctor were having a rather animated discussion. One nurse pointed in our direction and gesticulated, but the doctor shrugged and appeared to say something along the lines of ‘he’s the commissar’. If that was Surgical Steel, I mused, then Second Fiddle wouldn’t have placed two hooves in this ward before that feisty old stallion unleashed a salvo of incomprehensible vitriol down upon him, regardless of rank, until he turned and fled with his tail between his legs. I made a mental note that, should this discussion prove to be unpleasant or simply boring, to inform the good doctor and see what happened next time.

“How kind of you,” I said.

I was hardly in the best of moods after both of my regal aunts had left, having fallen into that strange, hypocritical trap of feeling desperately lonely but also finding equine company to be thoroughly unbearable that leaves one feeling miserable and without much of a way to relieve it. Both of my neighbours on this ward, Cannon Fodder on the bed to my left and Square Basher on my right, remained quiet; the former, of course, was hardly one for unnecessary conversation and the latter seemed to be making a conscious effort to ignore me, far in excess of the usual awkwardness that the social gulf between a commissioned officer and an enlisted pony creates.

“My schedule is very full,” he said. “The attack has put a dent in our plans, but Market Garden is still pushing us ahead, and harder, too. All of us; Sunshine Smiles says he wishes he could see you, but he’s got to put his entire battalion back together now. We’ll assault Virion Hive in a week, maybe even earlier if your native heathen ‘friends’ can hurry up.”

I stared silently at him; the last thing I truly wanted to think about was work, for I had quite enough of that and its rather painful consequences already. What was going on outside this hospital was still a mystery to me, besides the vague things I’d picked up from various ponies around me, and frankly I had more immediate concerns on my mind. Second Fiddle shuffled awkwardly, apparently sensing my discomfort, and pulled a sympathetic face. It was the sort of expression where one can see the pony going through the conscious decision to do so, which has the effect of utterly ruining it.

“How are you doing?” he said.

“How does it look like I’m doing?” I snapped.

He looked me up and down and chewed on his lower lip, ears drooping. Sighing, he picked up his newspaper, being this morning’s edition of The Daily Ponygraph, and held it up in his magic for me to see. The headline, in bold, block letters, read ‘GAS HORROR AT VIRION HIVE’, with the slightly more restrained subtitle below stating ‘Changeling attack with asphyxiating gas beaten back by gallant counter-charge led by Commissar Prince Blueblood’. Through the soft blue glow of his aura I saw that the accompanying image was a pencil sketch of that particular atrocity, though depicted with the exaggerated heroism of blatant and unsubtle propaganda.

Yours Truly was front and centre, or rather, a muscle-bound, hulking, and unaccountably ruggedly handsome caricature purporting to be His Royal Highness Prince Blueblood, Duke of Canterlot, etc etc. The picture depicted the figure heroically rearing on his hindlegs, brandishing the Princesses’ Colours that was certainly not present for the charge, and about to dive head first into the swarm of what I imagine the artist, whomever they were, thought Changelings looked like. In accordance with the guidelines dictated by the Ministry of Information, the artist had made the enemy appear even more monstrous and bestial than they truly were; with oversized fangs, hunched, animalistic postures, and ghastly, hate-filled expressions. As for the ‘gas horror’ that the headline screamed in an angular, eye-catching font, the artist had drawn wavy lines and smudged outlines of ponies and drones in the background.

I thought it was the stupidest thing I’ve seen in a newspaper since the last time I appeared on a front page, but Second Fiddle’s eager expression seemed to imply that he had some hoof in this, whatever it was supposed to be. I could not help but wonder if common ponies were ever truly taken in by such transparent propaganda, but then whether they truly believe it on an intellectual level is not as important as how it makes them feel, and judging by the recruitment figures around this time I’d say that damned little drawing had certainly done its work.

“‘Blueblood’s Charge’, they’re calling it,” he said, tapping the image on the newspaper with his hoof. “You stopped the entire Changeling attack dead in its tracks.”

“I think the Guards Division’s counter-attack had something to do with it,” I said. “And it’s ‘Red Coat’s Charge’.”

“Who?”

I snorted, and I pressed my forehooves into the soft bed either side of me lest I lash out and injure myself trying to slap some semblance of sympathy into him.

“Captain Red Coat of the Night Guards,” I growled through set teeth. “Red Coat gathered the survivors in the blockhouse. Red Coat rallied us together. Red Coat led the charge. Red Coat was the first into the Changeling swarm. It’s Red Coat’s Charge, dammit!”

[The incident described is still commonly known as Blueblood’s Charge, even in academic circles. Prince Blueblood, however, would continue to correct individual ponies and insist upon calling it ‘Red Coat’s Charge’, and there are numerous letters that he sent to various publications and newspapers on this matter on record too.]

Talking still hurt, and that tirade took a lot out of me. I sat there on the bed, my chest heaving to catch my breath and my eyes blinking to make the swirling spots and stars disappear, but I suppose my guilty conscience demanded that I put right that absurd inaccuracy. It was bad enough that this appalling thing had happened at all, but to assign me of all ponies the laurels that rightly belonged to a more deserving pony felt like an insult graver than any I have fought a duel over before or since. Second Fiddle remained still as he sat through my rant, and when I had finished he folded up his newspaper, placed it on his lap, and sighed.

“And where is this Captain Red Coat?” he asked, spreading his hooves and looking around.

“He’s dead,” I said.

“Ponies prefer heroes who survive,” he said, and a damned sight too casually for my liking too. “Remembering martyrs comes after the war, not during it.”

What I wanted to say to him was a tiny but immensely powerful two word sentence, which ended with ‘off’ and started with a word that rhymes with ‘cluck’. Such language, however earnest and deserved, was unbecoming of a prince, so I held back.

“I see,” I said instead, “this is just a propaganda coup for you.”

“The war carries on,” he said with a shrug. “We’ve got to win this, old friend. General Odonata has crossed a line here, but your charge showed the world that ponies are not only tough enough to take it but to fight back. Because of this, the lines for the recruitment centres all over Equestria will stretch for miles in the streets.”

“In that case, I hope it was worth it.” I lifted up part of the thin plastic tube that led from the valve of a large metal tank, over the bed, up through my right nostril, and down my throat.

“It’ll all be worth it when we win this war.”

“You weren’t there,” I said. “Don’t tell me it was ‘worth it’.”

“No, I wasn’t,” said Second Fiddle. He patted his hoof on my bed and gazed into me with those icy blue eyes that stood out against his dark fur. “But I will be next time. You were right, I haven’t fought before so I don’t know what it’s like. But I’ll be there with the Guards Division as they assault the castle. Market Garden suggested it. She said if I wanted glory so much then I should go and find it myself on the battlefield instead of at her map table.”

If I was feeling malicious, I’d have said that Market Garden had said that to get rid of him. Though really, it was more likely an off-the-cuff remark that he took literally. Perhaps it would do him some good to see the consequences of what is said around that map table at first hoof. But despite the souring of our friendship, if such a thing truly existed between us in the first place, I felt a twinge of guilt at having subconsciously nudged him towards that decision; he might have been a pain in the flank, but considering what I had just been through, I could scarcely afford to lose another pony in my life.

“This-” I pointed at myself and then swept my hoof around at the beds, each occupied by the wounded in varying states of pain or drugged into silence “-is what glory awaits us.”

“You’ll be fine,” he said, missing the point as usual; being ‘fine’ simply meant being shoved back into the frontline again. “I had a word with the specialist from Canterlot, she’s just arrived this morning and she’s setting up right now. She’s one of the very best in this, ah, sort of thing, so I’ve heard. Princess Luna picked her personally, so you’ll be up and about in no time.”

[This is slightly inaccurate. When my sister received the reports from the front she demanded that Raven Inkwell fetch the ‘best pulmonary chirurgeon in the realm’. Within the hour, my loyal assistant presented Doctor Breathe Easy and her team to Princess Luna, who ordered them to prepare for immediate service at the frontline military hospital.]

Oh yes, the ‘specialist’ that I had heard so much about. Of course, like many things in this world, the field of medicine and health in general was not something that I had ever paid much attention to. I am a pony quite content to own a physical body but beyond the various fun things I can do with it, the specifics of which I shall leave to the depraved imaginations of whomever reads this, the intricate inner workings of it was something that I could quite happily leave to more professional fellows whose titles and suffixes were the results of hard work and study rather than an accident of birth, luck, or deception like mine. Nevertheless, I was not particularly enthused by this, as I wagered that whatever this ‘treatment’ involved was likely to be painful, uncomfortable, and disgusting for it to be as efficacious as advertised.

“I don’t think it’s fair that I get preferential treatment,” I said; gas injuries or not, it still paid to make the appropriate noises to show that I still cared somewhat about the common soldier.

“You won’t,” said Second Fiddle. He looked around at the ward and its patients. “It’s not just you, everypony will be getting it. We need every available soldier to take Virion Hive. You’re just going first.”

It wasn’t enough that we had all gone through the hell of a gas attack, the first of its kind in this war. No, for as Doctor Surgical Steel had told me in the bloody aftermath of the Siege of Fort E-5150, the Ministry of War will see to it that the mortal bodies of the wounded were patched up, stitched back together, or parts replaced wholesale, and then award them a shiny new medal. Then for those saved by the timely work of the medics and doctors, it’s straight back into the line with little more than a pat on the back and an encouraging word or two.

I couldn’t think of anything to say, and I probably ought to have given my voice a rest regardless, so I sat there staring through Second Fiddle. He shifted on his seat, and awkwardly inched his hoof closer to touch mine like he was some nervous teenager testing the boundaries of what was acceptable on his first date, and he leaned in.

“I’m not very good at this,” he confessed with a small, sad smile. “It’s this job, it just takes over your life. It pushes everything else out until all that’s left is this job.”

I nodded mutely, being rather stunned at the sudden and unexpected outpouring of introspection from a pony I had dismissed as being yet another naive, career-minded officer in need of a rude awakening. Perhaps there was something to him that I had overlooked, and maybe that strange young colt who just wanted to get ahead in life despite his low birth was still in there somewhere, buried underneath that absurd uniform.

“Just do one thing for me,” I said. “Try to talk about anything but the war.”

Second Fiddle chewed on his lower lip, and his eyes darted around the ward as though he was looking for something, anything, unrelated to the war that he could talk about. Of course, there was nothing, so he shrugged his shoulders, which made his various medals and buttons jingle again like a stampede in a convention of ice cream vendors, and said, “Like what?”

It was harder than I thought, but, of course, there was one thing that we shared. “Do you remember that weird little egghead at Celestia’s School? That four-eyed orange nerd who always wore that stupid cloak, like he thought he was going to be the next Starswirl.”

“The one who tried to grow a beard in seventh grade?” Second Fiddle stroked his chin as though he had a goatee. “I can’t remember his name, but I think I remember who you mean. You used to put his head down the toilet and flush it. Why?”

“You’re the one who pulled his cloak over his head and shoved him into the cubicle,” I said with a shrug. “I wonder whatever happened to him. It’s not as though I get invited to the reunions.”

We carried on in that manner for perhaps half an hour longer - stilted, awkward, and forced, but it was at least something besides this accursed war, and while in these environs it was not enough to allow me to sit back and pretend that I was back in the Tartarus Club or some other louche bar in Canterlot, the lightest reprieve was still more than welcome here. Such respites, however, are only temporary, being merely isolated oases amidst the vast desert stretching out before me. This so-called ‘specialist’ that I had been hearing so much about had finally deigned to turn up by my bedside, shooing Second Fiddle away and sending him scurrying back to Market Garden’s coattails.

Now, when I pictured the sort of doctor that becomes an expert in their field, I imagined a rather older lady, and specifically old enough to have reached a stage in her career to have gathered the necessary knowledge and expertise to be considered expert enough that Princess Luna herself specifically enlisted her services. So, I was rather surprised and more than a little concerned when the rather pretty young unicorn introduced herself.

“Hi!” she said cheerfully. “I’m Doctor Breathe Easy, your thaumopulmonologist. You must be Blueblood. At least, that’s what it says on your chart!”

“Prince Blueblood,” I said; I might have been bed-bound, reliant on a tube up my nose pumping Faust knows what in me to live, and wearing the single most undignified outfit imaginable in the form of a blue hospital gown, but certain rules of propriety still held true.

That seemed to puncture her irritatingly chirpy disposition as she looked momentarily shaken, then she composed herself and performed what passed for a modest curtsey. “Your Highness, then. Now, let’s take a look at your chart.”

She hummed to herself as she picked up the small forest’s worth of papers stored at the foot of my bed and flicked through it. This alleged doctor appeared to be in her mid-twenties, I presumed, and was a rather small, plump, and soft little mare whose figure was accentuated by a white coat that seemed to be at least one size too small. As she read whatever weird, arcane scribblings that the other doctors and nurses had left on my file, she let out an impressed whistle that started high and dropped rapidly in pitch, and then she crammed the papers back into the folder.

“You’re lucky to be alive,” she said, still grinning. “I’ll have your lungs fixed up, lickity split!”

“What, right now?” I blurted out.

“Of course not, silly.” Doctor Breathe Easy grinned wider, and I pulled the blanket up a little higher up my chest until it covered my shoulders. “In about an hour so, after the nurses have you nice and prepped.”

“Now just hold on one moment,” I sputtered. “I don’t even know what you’re going to do to me!”

“Oh, it’s very simple!”

It was not simple. To this day I still don’t know what the treatment actually entailed, due to my aforementioned ignorance on the subject of the various bits and pieces that make up this mortal coil. She did her level best to explain it in terms that a laypony like me could understand, I’m sure, but, as is often the case with ponies who are called experts and who possess knowledge far in excess of the rest of us, what was ‘simple’ to her remained utterly incomprehensible to me. I suppose this is how the common pony feels when I try to explain to them the virtues of the Marelanese buttonhole. As far as I could tell, however, between the veritable barrage of technical words that meant nothing in the Princesses’ Ponish and my attention drifting to the way her white coat hugged her curves, the procedure involved pumping my lungs with a cocktail of potions while making sure that I don’t accidentally drown in the process.

[The Baltimare Protocol is an emergency medical procedure first developed for treating respiratory damage caused by inhalation of toxic fumes from alchemical accidents. In the simplest possible terms, this experimental procedure involved injecting portions of the patient’s lungs one at a time with a very precise mixture of restorative potions to support and accelerate healing. However, it is an extremely difficult and risky operation that requires a precise balance of the alchemical components and constant monitoring of the patient’s status throughout. Furthermore, as with all thaumotological medicine, it cannot restore tissue that has already been destroyed. As a result, Blueblood and the other survivors suffered some permanently reduced lung capacity, which had to be compensated for by use of internal prosthetics.]

“Will it hurt?” I said, zeroing in on the most important question.

“Pfft.” Doctor Breathe Easy rolled her eyes and waved a hoof dismissively. “Of course it won’t hurt.”

“Well, that’s a relief.”

“You’ll be under general anaesthetic. It’ll only hurt when you wake up.”

***

That hardly put me at ease, but then I doubted anything anypony could have said would have. Nevertheless, by all accounts the procedure, surgery, or whatever the correct technical term for what they did to me went by smoothly, which is why I’m here decades later to write about it. True to her word, I didn’t feel a thing between the anaesthetist fixing the mask on my face and waking up hours later with burning agony in my chest. In my delirious, drug-fogged state I was taken back to clawing my way through the gas-filled trenches, with the smell of antiseptic and bleach being so close to the pungent, acrid stench of the gas, mixed with the lingering odours of blood and urine. I tried to lash out at the masked and gowned nurses and doctors. Fortunately for all involved, ‘lashing out’ is not exactly something one can really do when waking up from surgery, and I was quickly overpowered, pinned down, and given enough painkillers to keep me nice and sedate for the time being.

Needless to say, when I recovered enough of my wits after a few hours alternating between fitful sleep and staring up at the ceiling with the images of the gas attack burning in my mind, I was not in the best of moods. In fact, it was about as black as one could imagine. Another thing the good doctor had neglected to mention at all were the very interesting side effects of the treatment, such as everything smelling of lavender and my breath glowing in the dark. The latter made trying to sleep even more difficult than before. Once the pain wore off, though, I felt heaps better; I could breathe more easily for one, without having to gasp for each breath, and, in theory, I would no longer require the tube down my throat that kept triggering my gag reflex. All that meant, however, was that I would be discharged for active service once more in a matter of days rather than weeks, and therefore I would be thrust back into the frontline just in time for the assault on Virion Hive.

Yet some part of me wanted it. Revenge is a powerful motivator, and one merely needs to take a cursory glance at the bloody history of my family to understand how it can drive one to abandon all sense of reason, restraint, self-preservation, and perspective in the pursuit of settling a score. Lying there on that hospital bed and seeing the face of Red Coat vividly in my mind, I swore that General Odonata would pay for this, and if it meant putting myself in mortal danger once more then so be it. A prince understands that there are certain things in this world that are worth more than even one’s own life, and while I had dismissed much of it as senseless, wasteful twaddle, there comes a point where it suddenly makes sense and one finds that very thing to be valued above all else - vengeance. I would take her head, find a taxidermist amongst the Griffons of the PGL, and have it preserved and impaled upon a pike in my palace’s state room.

Just as I was considering where would be the best place to position a severed head, either above the mantelpiece or perhaps next to my favourite armchair by the fire and facing any guests I might have, I felt something pulling at the sheets covering me. Broken out of that self-indulgent revenge-fantasy, I peered over to see a small unicorn filly rearing up on her hindlegs with her hooves on the mattress.

“Hi, Prince Blueblood!” exclaimed Sweetie Belle.

I boggled at the sight of the very last pony I expected to see in a frontline military hospital. “How in blazes did you get in here?”

“We took the train,” she said, as though this was merely a day trip to the seaside.

“No, how did you get past the doctors and nurses?” I said. “And what do you mean by ‘we’?”

There was a tapping from the window just above and slightly to the left of my bed, which grew more insistent with every passing second. I looked up to see a small orange hoof pounding on it, and I could hear some muffled shouting from beyond. The latch was enveloped in a pale green glow, like the colour of absinthe diluted with ice water, as Sweetie Belle undid it with her magic, and in tumbled Scootaloo, a rather large cardboard box, and Apple Bloom. The former landed flank-first on the floor while the latter bounced off my oxygen tank; foals are quite resilient and this was a hospital, so I wasn’t overly concerned. As for the box, Scootaloo had managed to recover just in time to catch it.

“It’s a hospital, they’re much easier to get into than to leave,” said Sweetie Belle as she helped her two friends up to their hooves. “I had to tell them I was your daughter before they'd let me in.”

“What?” I blurted out. “Sweetie Belle, how old are you?”

“Eleven!”

“Which would have made me, uh…” Mathematics was never my strongest subject in what was already a pretty damned poor academic record, but I eventually managed to work it out using all four hooves to count three times over. “Twelve. Please, don’t ever tell ponies something like that ever again.”

[Blueblood would have been thirteen. He was twenty-four years old at the time of the Battle of Virion Hive.]

By now the other two fillies had sorted themselves out, brushing the dust off their coats and inspecting the rather ominous box they had somehow brought with them. Scootaloo, having finished trying and failing to even out the dents in the cardboard, squinted up at me, then at Sweetie Belle, and then back at me. “I dunno,” she said, “I still don’t see much of a family resemblance.”

“I should hope not,” I muttered to myself; I’ve had rather too many paternity scares for comfort by that point, and I certainly didn’t want any more salacious rumours about my rather troubled youth being passed around the camp.

“It’s fine,” said Apple Bloom, lifting the lid of the box an inch to peer inside. “They’re both unicorns, and their coats're both white, so it’s just enough to fool overworked medical staff. Anypony who looks at ‘em for more than a second can see Sweetie Belle ain’t regal enough to be the daughter of a prince. And phew, it made it alright.”

“Yeah, I guess that’s true,” agreed Scootaloo.

“Hey!” barked Sweetie Belle at her friend. “I’m plenty regal!”

“Nevermind all that,” I said, waving my hoof at them.

For some reason, and I still can’t fathom why, they stopped bickering immediately; ordering soldiers around was one thing, but trying to get foals, in particular ones who have just reached a certain point in their development, to do what I wanted was quite another matter. By now, however, the commotion they’d caused had gained the attention of a few of the other patients around me, who had lifted themselves up in their beds as far as their failing strength would allow to peer over at the three strange fillies. A couple of nurses had drifted back into the ward, and watched warily from the doorway where they seemed to wait for the moment to swoop in and ask them politely to leave.

“Now, do your parents know that you’re here?” I asked.

“My sister Rarity was looking after us,” said Sweetie Belle. “But she was busy with a big order for Fancy Pants.”

“But we left her a note!” said Scootaloo. “After last time, we always leave our sisters a note.”

“Yeah!” said Apple Bloom. “Letting her know that we’ve all gone to a hospital in an active war zone to visit Prince Blueblood!”

“Right,” I said, struggling to think of some sort of appropriate response to that. In the end, after a few seconds of wracking my brain, I could only fall back upon the most basic of questions that still encapsulated every emotion I felt at that point: “But why?”

After a silent exchange of gestures and nods, it was Scootaloo who stepped forward. “Well,” she said, rubbing her left forehoof with the other, “we heard about what happened, with the, uh, you know…”

“The gas attack,” I said flatly.

“Yeah,” said Apple Bloom. “And we all thought it’d be neat to send you some things, like a care package.”

“But we didn’t know how to send it to you all the way out here,” said Sweetie Belle. “So we decided to give it to you in person!”

The three fillies lifted the lid off the box together and tossed it aside, revealing a sheet cake. It was about the right size for a modestly unpopular foal’s birthday party, though it clearly had been made by one too. White icing was inconsistently slapped onto the undulating surface, resulting in sharp peaks and valleys that reminded me of the Yaket Mountains as viewed from an airship. There was a haphazard attempt at some sort of design around the edges that might have been intended as little blue bow ties, but they looked more like deformed birds. My name was spelt in thick blue icing in the middle, albeit as two words and with one too many ‘O’s. The ‘D’ had been smeared in transit, leaving it in a rude shape.

“We made it ourselves!” said Sweetie Belle, beaming proudly.

“All those times trying to get pastry chef cutie marks really paid off,” said Apple Bloom.

“Makes all those trips to the doctor with food poisoning worth it!” said Scootaloo.

“Wait, there’s more!” Sweetie Belle levitated the cake out of the box, albeit with some evident difficulty, and once it had cleared the top her two friends assisted in putting it on my bedside table. She then picked out a roughly-knitted scarf made out of a burgundy wool for about two-thirds of its length, then it abruptly turned into bright, Cadance-pink where I presumed its creator had run out of the wool of the right hue. Examining it, I found that there was no consistency of weave or indeed width, as it varied from twelve to eighteen inches wide and everything in between along the way.

“Rarity taught me how to knit,” she continued. “But I didn’t realise how hot it is down here. I guess you can wear it like a sash, or something.”

“I lost my sash in that battle,” I said, meaning that I’d urinated on it and wrapped it around my face to try and protect myself from the poison gas. “It will make a fine replacement.”

Apple Bloom reached into the box and pulled out a small earthenware jug that was marked with three prominent ‘X’s’ in black paint. Though it was stopped with a large cork and my sense of smell had been all but obliterated by the gas injuries I had suffered, it positively radiated fumes of alcohol.

“I also got you the stuff Granny Smith won’t admit she stashes under the bed,” she said, placing the jug on the floor next to my oxygen tank. Whatever mystery drink inside sloshed about, and the eye-watering smell of booze grew even stronger.

“And here’s mine!” Scootaloo jumped into the air, tiny wings buzzing like a fly’s, and thrust a signed and framed photograph of Rainbow Dash in my face. The stunt flyer’s image was captured in mid-air, apparently halfway through some sort of manoeuvre that probably required great technical skill, judging by the way her toned musculature strained against her skintight flight suit. Indeed, the photographer, who had to have been a pegasus to have taken it from that position, had no chance of keeping pace with her and thus front and centre were her flanks, whose curves were accentuated by the shiny, sky-blue spandex that coated them like a layer of paint. It was an alluring image that befitted the contents of certain gentlecolts’ specialist interest literature than mere merchandise. If one looked even closer than is socially acceptable, one could make out where the spandex hugged the athleticism of the Wonderbolt’s body.

“Thanks,” I said, taking the photograph in my magic and placing it face-down on my bedside table. “It will be a fine addition to my, uh… collection.”

A large cake, a rather shabby scarf, a jug of moonshine more suited to cleaning airship engines than drinking, and a photograph of a mare whose antics had almost got me killed; I had received worse gifts in my life, namely the Barony of Moo Jersey that was bequeathed to my demesne after Great Aunt Carmine passed away, but that wasn’t what mattered. It had to be some sort of cruel prank, I thought; I remembered how downright unpleasant foals could be, and I should know as I was the worst of the lot. Yet, as the foals stared back at me, with earnest smiles on their faces and their little chests puffed out with pride, I wondered if it could be at all possible that these three just wanted to do something nice for me? It was inconceivable. Nopony ever behaved in a truly selfless manner like that, aside from Princess Celestia perhaps and one always had one’s doubts, unless they were after something. Moreover, I was entirely undeserving of such a touching gesture, regardless of ulterior motives.

“I don’t know what to say,” I said, being another rare instance of me speaking the honest truth. “Thank you.”

“Aw, it’s nothing,” said Scootaloo. “Now let’s have some cake! I haven’t eaten anything since the train and I’m starving.”

Just past the three fillies I could see Square Basher again, who still observed us intently. She had propped herself up on one elbow, and in doing so the sheets had fallen away from her upper body to reveal a rather large patch of shaved fur that was covered with a blood-stained bandage. A furtive glance around revealed that more of the ward patients, at least those who were still conscious and able to, were likewise looking at the Cutie Mark Crusaders. Our existence in the past few days in the hospital had been one long spell in Limbo, and aside from the Princesses there had been desperately few visitors. I imagined that very few relatives and loved ones were quite willing to make the journey to an ‘active war zone’, as Sweetie Belle had put it, to visit them; either the patient would be returned to service, or sent back home and left to live out the rest of their lives with whatever injuries and ailments that Doctor Surgical Steel’s scalpel could not fix.

“That’s a very big cake you’ve brought,” I said, “but I don’t think even the four of us can finish it. I’m sure the soldiers here would be grateful if you shared it with them.”

It was then that the fillies appeared to notice the injured and sick ponies around them for the first time. They had overwhelmed me with this rather sappy display, but I now saw the terror in their eyes as they looked around at the ward. A military hospital makes for a rather unpleasant sight. Opposite me, for example, a pony with her face entirely bandaged up in bloody wrappings pricked her torn ears in our direction, and next to her a pegasus lay on his front to keep his weight off the two stumps where his wings used to be. The foals shouldn’t have had to see this; they should have been at home playing hopscotch or whatever it is that ponies of their age got up to, but here they were, face-to-face with the reality behind the ubiquitous propaganda they were exposed to on a daily basis.

“Well, uh…” Apple Bloom’s adorable bow drooped with her ears. “See, we kind of brought all this stuff for you.”

“And I’m thankful, truly,” I said. “But all of these ponies are a very long way from their homes and families, and I can’t think of anything better to help them right now than some homemade cake. I’ll be right here, alright?”

Despite their trepidation, they sliced up the cake into small squares and went about offering their treats to those patients awake and lucid enough to respond. I suppose it could have gone either way, really, but the fillies’ precocious nature and friendly disposition coupled with a wounded and depressed soldier’s need for comfort and something resembling a normal family life soon allowed them to open up. They split up, going from pony to pony under the supervision of the nurses who guided them around the ward, and spent some time with each to make awkward, stilted, but still friendly conversation.

Watching them from my bed, however, it was remarkable to see a small ray of sunshine peak through the leaden overcast clouds that seemed to smother this dreary place. At some point, and I still don’t quite know how, a sing-along had started when Sweetie Belle had uncovered a tiny old piano from somewhere. Unfortunately, these were all veteran soldiers, and that barrack room favourite ‘Chrysalis has Syphilis’ was not the most appropriate for such young fillies. Fortunately, the questionable lyrics seemed to fly straight over Sweetie Belle’s and Apple Bloom’s heads, who stumbled over a few of the words but made up for that with enthusiasm, while Scootaloo’s deep crimson blush and worried expression indicated that she had travelled a bit further along the path to maturity than her two friends.

Of course, this moment of levity could not possibly last. About an hour later when things had quieted down a little, Rarity of all ponies trotted into the ward with Colonel Sunshine Smiles doing his level best to keep up with her. She looked clearly frazzled, which by her standards meant that her elegantly coiffed mane only had one or two hairs just slightly out of place.

“There they are!” she exclaimed upon spotting her three charges. Scootaloo was chatting with the pegasus who had lost his wings, Sweetie Belle was reading aloud letters to the pony with no face, and Apple Bloom was sitting on Square Basher’s lap as she listened to foal-friendly versions of stories about the Sergeant Major’s career. Upon hearing Rarity’s shrill, dramatic voice slice through whatever conversations they were having, the three freezed and whipped their heads around to see her march defiantly into the ward.

“Thank Celestia,” said Sunshine Smiles, and the sarcasm in his voice was certainly not lost on me. He looked on over, the grin on his half-mutilated lips symmetrical this time, and winked; if I didn’t know any better, he might have had a hoof in encouraging these three fillies.

“Do you have any idea of the amount of worry you have put me through?!” Rarity then turned to the closest nurse, who was stuffing his face with cake, and said, “I am so sorry for any disruption they might have caused; I can’t imagine how much stress you must be under only for some fillies to turn up and start getting in the way. I’ll take them home right this instant.”

“Aww,” chorused the three fillies and a couple of the patients.

“But we left you a note!” protested Sweetie Belle.

“Ah yes,” said Rarity, snapping her head to glare at her younger sister. “Your little note was what made me so worried in the first place! What in Celestia’s name possessed you to think that coming here was a good thing to do? Now come along; this is no place for three little fillies and I’m taking you straight back to Ponyville. Now.”

Apple Bloom hopped off Square Basher’s lap, strolled defiantly over to Rarity, and swung her hoof over in my direction. “At least let us say ‘goodbye’ to Prince Blueblood first!”

“Prince Blueblood?” Rarity looked up and followed Apple Bloom’s hoof to where I sat in the hospital bed, politely waving at her. Apparently forgetting just how much of an unpleasant bounder I had been to her before, she trotted on over with ‘concern’ written starkly across her delicately-powdered face. She reached my bedside, looking me over, only briefly regarding the presents and half-eaten cake on the table.

“Heavens,” she gasped. “I can’t imagine what you’ve been through, but I read about that brave Captain Red Coat and, I know this will be of scant comfort to you, but I am most terribly sorry. I only had the pleasure of meeting him once, but it was clear that he was a fine gentlecolt who had much to live for.”

I have to admit that I was rather stunned that Rarity would remember him, let alone think to bring up and honour his memory in a manner far more befitting the stallion than anything Second Fiddle had attempted. Yet I suppose the Element of Generosity could express itself in ways beyond merely giving out freebies to ponies, and through this, regardless of her lack of social rank and noble title, exemplified those ideals of nobility that we real aristocrats fall short of achieving.

“Thank you,” I said, a bit more honestly than I intended.

“And I’m sorry if these three fillies were a nuisance,” she continued; thankfully, social climber though she might be, she wasn't a tenth as ruthlessly attuned to signs of weakness like a shark to blood in the water as a true Canterlot mare. “Needless to say we will be giving them a stern talking-to when we get back to Ponyville.”

“Oh, it was nothing, truly.” I said. The Cutie Mark Crusaders had assembled in the aisle and were looking quite sheepishly at the two of us. “But I think next time I’ll visit instead.”

If I would live long enough for there to be a next time, I thought. That seemed to placate the three of them, though not so much Rarity. It was, however, getting rather late and the train ride back to Ponyville was a long one, and while I found myself in the peculiar mood of wishing they could all stay, the seamstress insisted that she had already lost too much time for her big order. Sunshine Smiles escorted them away from my bedside, and from what I heard later even took them as far as the closest train station. The fillies chorused their farewells as they left, which was reciprocated by the more vocal of the patients including me, and waved enthusiastically until Rarity had to almost drag them out by their hooves.

When the door swung shut behind them, however, the gloom that had momentarily lifted began to descend by degrees once more. The ward quietened as the nurses stalked from patient to patient, administering medicines, changing sheets and clothes, and cleaning as they went. That momentary sensation akin to happiness that I had felt slipped away inexorably, until it left only the gentle memory of it, shining like a meagre candle in the dark. While darkness can make the dimmest light shine all the brighter, so too can such light make the darkness seem that much deeper if one’s sight strays to stare into the black. Still, I held onto that light, and, like Luna’s moon in the night sky, it would guide me through the darkness.

Author's Note

A bit of a filler chapter, but I think it’s needed after the previous one

Chapter 17

No sooner had I been taken off that damned breathing apparatus was I summoned for yet another staff meeting. I tried to drop an unsubtle number of hints to both Doctor Breathe Easy and Doctor Surgical Steel that I was in absolutely no fit state to exert the physical effort necessary to sit at a table and listen to General Market Garden drone on for hours, let alone be shoved back into frontline service, but the younger doctor had declared me ‘fit’ and the elder told me that I was taking up valuable bed space for more deserving patients. Therefore, after a few more days of further procedures and a veritable battery of tests, my lungs were given the all-clear and I was shoved through the front door of the field hospital and told to get on with winning the war.

Well, not exactly like that, but that’s how it felt at the time. While I could go on about all of the various indignities I had to go through in order for both doctors to bring this lumpen and ungainly frame of flesh and fat into as close to a picture of perfect health as my former lifestyle of indolence, laziness, drink, tobacco, and rich Prench food would allow, I fear that I simply can’t. Much of it swept by in a drug-fuelled haze, and try as I might I simply cannot recall those days in the hospital in much detail, save for what I have already described. It’s all written down in my file, which currently rests atop the sturdy old desk in the study my ancestors would use to deal with affairs of state and affairs of the heart, but the words have become meaningless in both a literal and figurative sense. Even if I knew what the word ‘bronchoscopy’ means, I am still in no position to describe to you, dear reader, what such a thing entailed for me.

[For the medically-inclined reader, Blueblood’s military medical record is available from the Canterlot Archive. A pony who is authorised to view these private memoirs should have no difficulty requesting it. It makes for some interesting reading and implies that his low opinion of himself extends even to his physical health.]

I must say, however, that Doctor Breathe Easy’s reputation was entirely deserved, unlike mine, and after a few more rounds of that treatment I felt reasonably close to healthy again. ‘Reasonably close’, for while I could walk about under my own power once more and with the aid of terror-induced adrenaline run away from mortal terror with my usual alacrity, there remained the nagging sensation that would persist constantly from then on that something was still wrong with me. Walking up stairs, for example; I was, and still am, relatively certain that I never used to get out-of-breath walking up the grand staircase in my palace before this happened to me.

As for Cannon Fodder, while most of the other ponies and I responded well to the treatment, his peculiar physiognomy caused a few problems with the bewildering away of thaumo-medical equipment used. I did warn them, but as his status as a blank was something of a state secret, as well as one of several metaphorical aces secreted under my Prench cuffs, and it was rather difficult to explain without going into specifics. That I barely understood it myself didn’t help either and my warnings were dismissed as the ravings of a maniac. Therefore, his recovery would have to be conducted in the old-fashioned way and he would be stuck in that hospital for a few more weeks. He didn’t seem to mind, however, being justifiably concerned about doctors poking about in his insides, and he looked forward to a nice holiday in a soft bed with all the magazines that I could arrange to be sent to him.

[Private Cannon Fodder’s military medical record describes a number of escape attempts from the hospital to rejoin Prince Blueblood at the front, which are curiously absent from this narrative. Either Blueblood was unaware, which is not unlikely as each attempt was thwarted when the night staff were alerted to his presence away from his bed by his body odour, or he did not see fit to describe them, which is another reasonable assumption given the self-interested nature of these memoirs. However, it appears that after these failed attempts, Cannon Fodder instead focused his efforts on recovery, which involved zebra alchemy, holistic medicine, and massages (though the masseuse insisted on a gas mask and gloves during these sessions).]

Nevertheless, I had some minor curiosity about a meeting of such great importance that even being gassed and subjected to experimental medical treatment was not enough for me to weasel out of attending. When I found out that Field Marshal Iron Hoof himself would also be present my interest was further aroused. I hadn’t seen much of the dull, unimaginative old reptile since his rather public dressing-down by Princesses Celestia and Luna at that tea party. It was probably down to those very same reforms that he had railed against that he was kicked upstairs where his tendency to meddle in the affairs of his generals could be minimised. Actually, as I thought about it, the appointment of Market Garden to command the field army spearheading the main thrust into the Changeling Lands now made some lick of sense; she was one of the very few ponies with the necessary strength of will and utmost confidence in her abilities to tell her superior ‘no, that’s daft, we’ll do this properly’ and have a chance of succeeding, or at least not getting fired.

I pondered why nopony in the Ministry of War had thought to simply get rid of Iron Hoof, as I was putting on my dress uniform for this meeting (and it was to some concern that I found that the tailored coat no longer fit me as snuggly as before, for I appeared to have lost a bit of weight at an alarming speed during my hospitalisation despite the fillies’ cake - chrysaline gas is not to be recommended as a weight-loss solution). Certainly, a running theme in Twilight’s recommendations was to break down the system that allowed officers to be appointed according to how many bits they were willing to part with for a shiny new badge, and, in theory, replace it with one that allowed leaders to be appointed on competence and merit. However, such a thing was more easily said than done, and though retiring an old field marshal could be done with the mere signing of a form, replacing him with somepony else up to the task is much more difficult. Besides, my instinct for that sort of petty politicking, being a mirror of that which takes place between nobles in the civil arena, informed me that he was kept merely to placate those conservative factions in both the Army and the government who still thought declaring the mangonel obsolete was too progressive.

Before the meeting, I made a brief diversion to the Night Guards’ portion of the camp to see how they were getting on. They and the Solar Guard had taken the brunt of the gas attack, and Sunshine Smiles certainly threw himself into his work trying to consolidate the depleted companies of the battalion and fill their gaps in time. I could tell, however, that he had taken Red Coat’s death particularly hard, though he did his utmost to hide it. The colt regarded him as something of a personal mentor, and that feeling was reciprocated by the older officer.

“I don’t know how to fill his command,” he confessed, once the pleasantries and the inquiries about my recovery were over. He stood behind a spotlessly-tidy desk in his tent, which was likewise immaculate; if I didn’t know any better, I would have said he had been trying to occupy his off-duty time by relentlessly cleaning his space. “There are plenty of young, promising lieutenants in the company, but they all lack experience.”

That was a lie. It wasn’t a matter of ‘reading’ him as I, being a skilled dissembler myself, can with other ponies, as his scarred face made interpreting his expression difficult. Most of the lieutenants, the ones who survived at least, were all veterans who had served in the regiment for as long as Red Coat had. Any of them would have been an ideal candidate for the job, I thought, but the Colonel just couldn’t bring himself to fill that gap.

“I thought about promoting Square Basher to Captain,” he continued. “She knows the company, and they’ll follow her into Tartarus and back.”

“A promotion from the ranks?” I arched an eyebrow.

“This is the new Equestrian Army. We award rank on merit now.”

That still remained to be seen, I thought. “Yes, but the lieutenants may feel slighted. I’m not sure Square Basher herself would approve. She’s a sergeant, through and through.”

Sunshine Smiles shrugged his broad shoulders, and despite his obvious size and fearsome appearance even without the Night Guards’ enchantments, there was something in his manner that felt defeated. When I looked him in the eye, however, we appeared to have come to some sort of mutual, unspoken understanding that, with this recent gas attack, we were all horrendously, hopelessly out of our depth here, and there was nothing to do but carry on and pray that the luck that had guided us this far would hold.

[By this stage of the war, the old Royal Guard armour that contained an illusory enchantment was being phased out in favour of more modern, mass-produced armour that lacked this feature. The old style was still used by some soldiers and are now highly sought after by collectors.]

“I should have been there, instead,” he said, at length. “I was further up the slope and missed the gas, mostly.”

“You led the battalion’s counter-charge,” I said, having already been brought up to speed on precisely how my regal rump was saved. “You did your duty. We all did.”

“It never feels like it’s enough, though.” He hissed a sharp sigh. “Nevermind. I still have a job to do.”

There was that feeling again: ‘it should have been me’.

I did not feel happy about leaving him alone, but I had that meeting to attend. Twilight Sparkle’s teachings about friendship might have encouraged me to damn that meeting and stay with him, but out here, at the very heart of the war, friendship itself as a concept felt very far away. He was a strong stallion, though, both in physical and emotional terms, and though he kept his past to himself it was clear even to me that he had persevered through strife and grief before, so I suppose I felt I was looking for some form of companionship for my own benefit. Neither this job as commissar nor my role as prince of the realm would allow such an indulgence, and so we made our farewells and I was off in the direction of Market Garden’s marquee once more.

Except, however, the meeting was not to be held there. Instead, a snotty little functionary with buck teeth and a hunched back directed me to the more private venue of Market Garden’s personal tent. It was across from the command marquee, and under guard by two stern-faced and burly provosts from whom the other officers seemed to go out of their way to avoid. This news, however, only served to aggravate that little paranoid voice inside my head, the one that has the frustrating tendency to be right far too many times in my life and is rather smug about it; for a gathering of a field marshal, a general, a prince, and Celestia-knows who else to take place away from prying eyes and ears and under armed guard must invariably spell horror and disaster for my immediate future.

The provosts allowed me inside and I was rather annoyed to find that Market Garden’s tent was a fair bit larger than mine. As is always the case, the space was dominated by the ubiquitous map board that every general officer liked to have and show off to their colleagues. Almost encompassing the wall to my right as I entered, I recognised the map of Virion Hive covering much of its surface. This, however, was marred with a great number of incomprehensible scribblings, strange diagrams, arrows, and photographs, such that it resembled the cell wall of a deranged madpony more than anything else. Besides that, however, the furnishings of the rest of the tent were remarkably sane and somewhat spartan; consisting of a large but simple desk, a few filing cabinets heaving with documents, a cot in the corner, and a few chairs scattered about the place. A slim collection of classic poetry left on the bedside table did not escape my notice, though I assumed that it was more the sort about daffodils and clouds than the more racy variety that I enjoyed.

Market Garden herself sat behind her desk, while the Field Marshal took a seat on the opposite side as though he was being interviewed. The only other occupant, besides Yours Truly stumbling through the tent flap and doing his best not to look like he was struggling to catch his breath, was Commissar-General Second Fiddle, who stood by the map board and admired it as one would a painting. It appeared that when I had arrived the three of them had exhausted all avenues of small talk and had descended into an uneasy silence, but then I saw that Market Garden was examining a musket. The weapon was placed on her inordinately tidy and organised desk, being the one item upon its mass-produced surface that was not arranged to mathematical precision.

“Sorry,” I said, taking off my cap and placing it on a nearby hatstand, next to Second Fiddle’s one with a higher peak. “I do hope you’re not waiting for me.”

“Not at all, sir,” said Iron Hoof as he stood from his seat. He nodded in the scantest imitation of a bow. “I trust your recovery is going well?”

“About as well as can be expected, thank you.” The military’s expectations, I thought, not mine.

“Can’t want to get stuck into the Changelings again, I bet,” said Second Fiddle, grinning. I did not dignify that statement with a response, except for a sharp glare that encouraged him to take a greater interest in the map than in me.

“So, what’s all of this about?” I said.

Iron Hoof lit his horn and the musket levitated out of Market Garden’s hooves, to her irritated surprise, and brought it over to me. “We picked up a number of these from Changeling bodies after your charge, and thought you might like to take a look.”

I don’t know where they got that idea from; I wanted nothing to do with these beastly things, but, for the sake of getting this over with, I took the weapon with my magic and proceeded to examine it as though I had any idea of how the damned thing operated. It looked rather like those used by our earth ponies, being a metal tube attached to a wooden thing and with a whole lot of rather complex things involving a trigger, a hammer, a pan, and some other stuff I have no chance of remembering. The trigger, however, was far too small for a hoof to wrap around, and seemed much closer to the sort used by the griffons of the PGL who use their talons to fire their muskets. I imagined the Changelings had to employ some of their transformation magic to use it, but as to why they could not manufacture them along our lines I couldn’t tell.

“Look at the stock,” said Market Garden with the exasperation of a pony trying to get another to see what she thought was bleeding obvious.

I didn’t know what a ‘stock’ was, but after some fumbling I think I worked out she meant the big wooden bit that rests against a soldier’s shoulder when aiming and firing. There, carved into the dark, polished wood was a symbol I hadn’t seen before: two lightning bolts arranged to resemble horns.

“What’s that?” I asked, turning the gun to point out the strange symbol.

“We’re not sure,” said Iron Hoof. He took the weapon back and then returned it to Market Garden to carry on fiddling with it. “I’d hoped the son of an explorer might know more.”

“Sorry, I don’t think I was involved in that expedition.”

“I’ve only seen it once before,” said Market Garden. “I was a major back then. My regiment was deployed alongside the Hippogriff navy in a joint anti-piracy operation to the far south, beyond Equestria’s borders. A pirate band was raiding the trade routes between Southern Equestria and our overseas colonies, and they sailed under a black flag with that symbol.”

“And that’s it?” I asked.

Market Garden shrugged. “We knew very little about them, and they weren’t keen on being taken prisoner. Not that we minded, of course. It was a damned awful business, that.”

“So, pirates are supplying the Changelings with weapons?” I said.

“After the sound thrashing we gave them, I imagine they would have had to find alternative employment as arms dealers.” She picked up the musket and aimed it straight down at the tent flap. Apparently satisfied, she placed it delicately down to rest with the barrel leaning against her desk and the other end on the ground. “It’s a shame what happened to the Hippogriffs. I wonder where they all went.”

We all know now, and it might seem obvious with the benefit of decades of hindsight, but back then the disappearance of the Hippogriffs coinciding with the temporary defeat of that band of pirates seemed wholly unconnected. Nopony in Equestria paid them much heed at the time, and I dare say that most of the uneducated peasants and working ponies of our land were completely unaware of the existence of an isolated kingdom of bird-ponies miles away from civilisation. This would all come back to bite us on the flank later when we weren’t paying attention, but that’s a story for another one of these confessions in due time. Then and there, with our assault on Virion Hive imminent, Equestria as a whole had rather more immediate concerns to deal with.

[It seems inconceivable now that Equestria would have ignored the plight of the Hippogriffs, however, prior to the Magic of Friendship spreading across the world, our nations were insular compared to the standards of today. Our Hippogriff neighbours preferred to keep to themselves and the Equestrian government was content to respect that. Save for the aforementioned joint anti-piracy operation, it was not unknown for our respective governments to go years without speaking with one another.]

“It’s possible that it could be a copy,” droned Iron Hoof; his monotone was starting to make my eyelids feel much heavier than before, and I considered asking him to speak into a recording device to help with my recurring insomnia. “S.M.I.L.E. is on it. Our military intelligence still knows very little about the Changelings’ industrial capacity, or anything else about them for that matter. If they are being supplied by a hostile foreign power then we can at least take action to stop it.”

“Is this what you needed me for?” I said, and probably a little too snippy as well. However, after what I had just been through for Princesses and Country, I think I had more than earned the right to be rude to a field marshal. Well, ruder than usual.

“No,” said Iron Hoof. “It’s about this assault on Virion Hive.” He paced over to the map and considered it. Though turning one’s back on royalty was something of a faux pas, at least considered by those who still cared about such things, it allowed me to see that his moustache had grown to such a prodigious length that the ends were visible from the back.

“It will still go ahead as planned,” said Market Garden, and rather urgently too. It was the most animated I’ve seen her since Fort Nowhere. “We have three practicable breaches already and a fourth on the way. The native diggers are close to completing their mine. The Two Sisters Brigade suffered losses in the gas attack but so did the enemy, and if we maintain the element of surprise the 2nd Brigade alone should be sufficient to take the castle. Virion Hive will fall.”

“I know,” said the Field Marshal, still looking over the map. “The Ministry of War has decided to make certain of that, which is why they’ve authorised us to use our own stockpile of poison gas. The breaches will be saturated with gas shells before our assault.”

Something in those words seemed to kick me right in the stomach, and all four of my limbs suddenly felt weak, as though they might collapse under me. Were such a thing possible, I could feel the blood draining from my face, like a creeping, peeling sensation over my skin. Iron Hoof remained expressionless, while Second Fiddle stood rather close to him and smiled that pathetic smile he used to try and endear himself to his social betters, looking like an upended crescent moon amidst his dark grey face.

Market Garden, however, was looking at her own forehooves as she digested this news. Then, after sucking in a deep breath, raised her head, fixed Iron Hoof with a stern look, and said most emphatically: “No.”

“What do you mean ‘no’?” blurted out Second Fiddle.

“It’s an insult!” snapped Market Garden. She rose from her seat and marched on over to her map board. “It’s an insult to my generalship; I don’t need to resort to such cowardly, vile means to win this war.”

Only she could have gotten away with speaking like that to a field marshal, aside from Yours Truly. Iron Hoof merely stared at her through her tirade with his characteristic coldness.

“We cannot win this war if we refuse to take the necessary steps, however unpleasant, to achieve victory,” he said. “The orders have already been prepared - our artillery will fire gas shells into the breaches moments before our colts start the attack.”

“If this is what you think it takes to win then I’d rather lose,” snapped Market Garden.

“You can’t possibly mean that,” said Second Fiddle. He shook his head, and then pointed at me with his muzzle. “Commissar Blueblood will agree, it’s time we gave Chrysalis a taste of her own medicine. Right?”

So that’s why they wanted me here, I realised; to nod my head along with their absurd, cruel, and thoroughly un-Equestrian plan and add a stamp of approval from an officer who had just survived an encounter with that very same weapon. Well, I think it’s fair to say that by that point my patience for this damned war as a whole, up to and including our own generals, had thoroughly run dry. I will admit to taking a certain amount of pleasure in puncturing Second Fiddle’s and Iron Hoof’s idea, like popping a balloon at a particularly bratty foal’s birthday party.

“I think it’s abhorrent,” I said. “If one has lived through that then one would understand that such an awful weapon should not be inflicted even on Changelings. Ponies won’t stand for it.”

Second Fiddle glared; I had clearly let him down yet again, never mind the fact that for once in my life I was making a stand for something (it was rather a novel experience to be standing atop what they call the moral high ground for perhaps the first time in my life, peering down at the mortals below. This must have been how Twilight Sparkle feels all the time). He snorted, pulled a face as though he had found half a worm in his apple, and shook his head, but otherwise said nothing.

It was Iron Hoof who spoke up in defence of his planned atrocity:

“I see,” he said, drawing out that last syllable. His mustachios bristled at me like two porcupines. “You accept that we can shoot Changelings, stab them with bayonets, beat them with hooves, blow them up with artillery, and starve them. You accept, sir, that the enemy can do the same to our stallions and mares out there too. But you seem to accept that the enemy may deploy poison gas against us but we cannot respond in kind, because you feel that it is unfair. Is it not more unfair to force our soldiers to assault a breach that has not been cleared by such a weapon?”

I had to admit, and still do, that his words made some sort of cruel sense; it is the cold logic of wars to escalate, as each side must invariably push the boundaries of what is acceptable in order to win in the absence of any other constraining factor. If the enemy had been the first to use this weapon, was it not incumbent upon us to use it ourselves to maintain parity? They had started it, after all. Yet, though Market Garden’s assertion that she would rather lose the war than stoop so low was indeed ridiculous, I concurred with the sentiment behind it; if we must resort to barbarism to win, if we must sacrifice even the very concept of Harmony upon the altar of victory, until we are no better than the enemy we have vanquished, can we truly say that we have won?

“There are ponies in that city,” I said, pointing to the map beside us. “Two thousand of them.”

“Not our ones,” I heard Second Fiddle mutter under his breath. I shot him the glare that I normally reserved for silencing a mouthy private soldier, but he seemed immune to its effects. “It’s about sending a message, Blueblood, that Chrysalis can’t do something like this without incurring an equal and just retribution.”

“The gas will affect them too,” I carried on, ignoring him. “I was there, I saw it all myself. There’s no guarantee that civilians won’t be caught up in it.”

Field Marshal Iron Hoof’s face was a masque, and he could damn well give Princess Luna a run for her money when it came to stone-faced expressions. If it was any stonier I’d have brought Maud Pie in to analyse it. I looked at Second Fiddle and found only disdain and disappointment etched upon his face, but I found unlikely sympathy in the form of General Market Garden, who, despite my personal misgivings about her particular style of leadership, overt fascination with plans and sticking to them to an extent that even Twilight would deem excessive, and lack of social skills, did look as utterly horrified by this proposal on an moral and personal level as I did.

“There’s no guarantee they won’t be ‘caught up’ in our artillery bombardment,” said Iron Hoof, and call me sensitive if one must, but for once I wished he would show even the slightest hint of emotion when discussing the lives of innocent ponies. “Or in a unicorn volley, or a charge. If the enemy chooses to use them as equine shields then it is not our fault, it is theirs. We cannot stop the prosecution of this war because we are afraid of a little collateral damage.”

“And what about our ponies? You mean to march them into a breach filled with poison gas?"

“Don’t worry about that, sir, the Ministry of War has taken all the necessary precautions.”

I arched an eyebrow at that. “Have they now?” I said wryly.

“Princess Luna said ‘no war can be won by half-measures’,” scoffed Second Fiddle. “I thought you’d understand that by now, Blueblood.”

I snorted, stamped, and shook my head. “I understand well enough, thank you, but I hardly think that Princess Luna was referring to gassing when she addressed the House of Commons. Come to think of it, I certainly don’t think that any of the Princesses would agree to this either.”

General Market Garden, apparently annoyed that nopony has paid her enough attention in five minutes, pushed her way between Second Fiddle and the map. “I can take the city without your blasted gas!” Her eyes darted all over the place, drinking in the mass of information plastered on the map board. “All I need is time. I can buy more of it by launching another crossing of the River Vir with VIII Corps, and it will succeed this time. Then they can engage the Changeling relief column before it reaches Virion Hive. With the city surrounded, we will have all the time we need to assault the walls.”

“Your offensive is stalling, General,” said Field Marshal Iron Hoof, and I had never seen Market Garden, or indeed any pony except perhaps Rarity at a certain Canterlot party, look so utterly offended. “We risk losing the initiative in a battle of attrition that Princess Celestia has made very clear she wants to avoid. Virion Hive must be taken now.”

“I want this in writing,” said Market Garden, her voice quiet and very level in that peculiar manner a pony adopts when trying to keep their emotions in check. Her hoof tapped on the ground, creating a small cloud of dust that stained her cuff. “Your name and your signature on the orders.”

“It has already been done.” Iron Hoof unbuttoned the large bellow pocket on the side of his khaki coat and produced an envelope bulging with papers, which Market Garden snatched out of the air with her mouth like a dog catching a very slow frisbee. As she opened the packet and flicked through the orders, notes, maps, and what-not inside, the Field Marshal continued:

“I Corps will take the city in two days’ time according to the plans you have already set out, so please don’t think that all of your hard work has been wasted. I have merely made a few necessary additions. And don’t think to alter those orders yourself, General.” His beady eyes peered out at Commissar-General Second Fiddle, who was now leaning against the map board as though it was a mantlepiece, and then at me, whereupon his gaze lingered a little while longer as though to insinuate that the following threat was as much directed at me as it was at Market Garden. “The Royal Commissariat will take a very dim view of you should you choose to disobey those orders. I understand that Solitaire is still interested in having the job you took from her.”

“Sir, I have never disobeyed an order in my life,” Market Garden snarled, tossing the envelope on the table, where it made a rather satisfying ‘thud’ sound as it landed. A few sheets of parchment slipped out and scattered on the desk. “But if this has already been settled, then what was the purpose of this meeting?”

“I would quite like to know too,” I said, more out of an odd need to be seen agreeing with the General on this matter; I truly did not know how this would play out in that all-important court of public opinion, but whatever happened I was at least determined that, if there was nothing I could do to stop this, my undeserved reputation that shielded me from much in the way of criticism of my various sins and indiscretions would not be at all tarnished by this. Remember, if one cannot stop something unpleasant from happening, at least complain so that ponies know that one’s heart is in the right place. Having the satisfaction of saying ‘I told you so’ is a most soothing palliative.

“Just to make sure that we’re all on the same page,” said Second Fiddle, and I like to think I’ve been in this game for long enough to understand what he truly meant - ‘to make sure Market Garden does exactly as she’s told’. “I trust that we’re all singing from the same hymn book now?”

Market Garden signaled her affirmation with a snort and a very restrained nod, while I muttered something about not having much choice in the matter. However, before we wrapped up and I was finally free until the next damned meeting, I remembered an odd choice of word that Iron Hoof had used earlier.

“What did you mean by ‘stockpile’?” I asked, and then, followed that path to its logical conclusion. “And how did you get enough poison gas for this attack in such a short amount of time? Unless…”

“Prince Blueblood!” shouted Second Fiddle, interrupting me. I suppose me vocalising a rather dangerous train of thought was enough for him to start using my correct title.

“That’s not for anypony to worry about,” said Iron Hoof, forcefully over-enunciating each syllable.

I begged to differ, as being a political officer meant that, in the rare instance that I took this job seriously, I was supposed to worry about such questions. Nevertheless, for what it’s worth that was my take on how this particular controversy panned out, or started, at least. It should not have taken a pony whose sole prior interest in military matters extended only to commissioning bespoke dress uniforms for themed parties to have pointed out just how unpopular this would be. But as Iron Hoof had said, ‘it has already been done’, and the great machinery of our military bureaucracy had churned out the necessary paperwork for this and ponies would die as a result.

[Recently de-classified documents confirm rumours and Blueblood’s suspicion that the Ministry of War had started a secret chemical weapons project known officially as Project Benchmark, but was colloquially called Project Bugspray. This had been discussed by the Ministry and the Commissariat but was not implemented until after the passing of the Twilight Sparkle Reforms, which was seen as a tacit approval of the proposal. However, fears of popular backlash and a repeat of the use of the Royal Veto forced it into secrecy (a justified fear, as had I been made aware of this I would have shut it down), and thus its stockpile of chlorine gas, a byproduct of dye manufacture, at the time was limited.]

“I’ll be writing a letter to Princess Celestia about this.” Running back to the highest temporal and spiritual authority in our realm was something I generally tried to avoid, largely because she frowned on my exploiting of our tenuous family link, however, in this case I think this was justified. I simply could not imagine she would condone this, and wondered if this had been deliberately kept from her. The alternative was too horrible to contemplate.

“All of the princesses we have if I have to.” Market Garden nodded her head firmly. “Do they know that this is going to happen in their name?”

“I don’t understand why this has gotten you two so worked up,” said Second Fiddle. “This is a cruel war, and we have to be cruel to win it.”

“There is a limit,” I said, “and this lies far beyond it.”

We all stared at one another for a moment that seemed to drag for hours, as none of us seemed brave enough to speak. All around the noise of the camp, the chatter of ponies, barks of orders, clatter of equipment in drill, and so on, seemed to fade away. Second Fiddle’s expression was hard, and I could see much of Princess Luna in that deep frown and disapproving sneer, but he lacked the sheer gravitas and presence that the darker of my regal aunts possessed to truly pull off the sort of intimidating glare that silenced the unworthy and cowed the defiant. Then I realised that this was all futile, for his was a mind that had already been made up for him by other, more powerful ponies far from here, but still I persisted.

“Doesn’t this all seem wrong to you?” I sighed deeply, realising that this was the point of no return for me and I might as well commit. “Have you ever stopped and wondered just why we’re so bad at this?”

“Blueblood, stop,” Second Fiddle snarled, glancing furtively at the other two in the room. Market Garden was back at her desk and more interested in the contents of the envelope, deliberately trying to exclude herself from the rest of the discussion. Iron Hoof merely stared in silence, but I imagined that he was quietly tucking away my little outburst in the great filing cabinet in his mind for use later. “You know that I can have you reported for spreading defeatism.”

“Just listen to me,” I continued, emphasising that point by jabbing a hoof in his direction. Pausing for breath, I touched that hoof to my chest, and said almost pleadingly, “We’re ponies, for Faust’s sake. This war, this killing, it isn’t who we are, at least not anymore. I worry that if we cross this line then there’ll be no turning back from it.”

I know I should not have expected any better from him, but I had hoped against all evidence pointing to the contrary, if the brief time we were friends had mattered at all to him, that he would at least demonstrate a token measure of sympathy to show that I hadn’t gone mad. Instead, he rolled his eyes so dramatically that he might have given himself a vision of the empty space that lies behind them.

“Save your philosophising for another one of your mares, Blueblood.” Then, a rather unhappy grin, more like a rictus, formed over his face. “Besides, it’s quite apt -- gassing bugs.”

***

The time had finally come. My letter to Princess Celestia had failed, either not having arrived in time, simply ignored, or blocked by the friendly censor [Most likely the latter, as I never received such a letter]. I didn’t think it would work anyway, for the great bureaucratic machinery churning away in the Ministry of War could not be halted or redirected quite so easily; decisions were made weeks, months, or even years prior, set down in parchment, discussed, amended, discussed again, and then signed and put into action. Because of this intrepid piece of paper now residing somewhere in the vast dungeon of the Ministry’s office building, the Equestrian Army was about to cross that aforementioned line in the sand into barbaric and callous militarism.

Though I had agonised over this over the course of the remaining two days, I had elected to join Twilight Sparkle’s Own Prism Guards as they assaulted the castle. Second Fiddle was there, you see, making good his promise to go and take some of the glory on the battlefield himself, and I wanted to make damned sure that he saw exactly what this inglorious form of warfare did to a pony. I wanted to grab his head so full of ego and ignorance and force him to stare into the lifeless eyes of an innocent bystander who had drowned on their own liquifying lungs, and then demand that he justify that to me. He would see it; the final expression of terror in that dead pony’s face, the blued lips, the blood streaming from the mouth and nose and eyes, and smell the stench of death and the acrid tang of the gas itself even through our new gas masks.

Oh yes, the masks. They had arrived the night before and were distributed to all troops. These early examples were little more than flannel feedbags that were soaked in some sort of alchemical concoction and pulled up to cover one’s entire face. Vision was accounted for by two glass eyepieces that had the very annoying tendency to fog up as one breathed, necessitating taking the flimsy thing off to wipe them down frequently. They also got hot very quickly and the stink of the chemicals was so bad that even I, now suffering from mild anosmia, gagged. The promised protection they granted from poison gas was rather suspect, but, as ever, a combination of a need to get as many produced as quickly as possible coupled with budgetary concerns meant that this was simply the best that the Ministry of War could supply. They were better than nothing I suppose, though ‘that will do’ is hardly a mindset congruent for military equipment.

When a pony wore one of these masks it had the obvious side-effect of obscuring their face entirely. The pale off-white fabric and the two glass eyepieces gave the wearer a ghoulish, ghostlike appearance that seemed to obliviate utterly all sense of the pony wearing it. The face had been erased, and with it seemingly so were the thoughts, feelings, emotions, hopes, dreams, prayers, and fears that made up the soul of a sapient being. If there was a better expression of the anonymised direction modern war was taking then I’d like to hear of it.

When I Corps was massed and arrayed to hurl itself against the breaches like waves upon the beach, each soldier wore one of these masks. As I sat and waited in the trenches, crammed in with Colonel Fer-de-Lance and her command staff, I did so seemingly surrounded by these ghosts of war. I could hardly tell ponies apart, except for Second Fiddle, whose gloriously resplendent uniform would mean the Changelings were bound to spot him instantly over me.

And on that note, I couldn't help but wonder if the gas would even affect its intended targets at all; nopony had the chance to test the blasted substance on them until now, after all. That worry stirred my gut almost as badly as my mask, leaving open the unsettling memory of how they'd advanced post-barrage, and the question of if they had counted on our pegasi dispelling the gas in time for their counter-attack or if they already had their own measures in place, seeing as how they were the first to come up with the bloody idea in the first place.

Fer-de-Lance stared at her pocket watch, which hanged in mid-air by an amber glow around its chain, and, though much of her face was obscured, I could see enough of her eyes through the eyepieces to see her frowning so hard that I thought she might have been trying to make time advance faster by pure force of will. I could sympathise. The waiting was always the hardest part, for in the heat of battle one barely has time to think and rationalise, but in the interminable hours that stretched on before the slaughter would commence in earnest were spent doing nothing but thinking of just how awful it was going to be.

The fortress itself was a dark grey monolith towering over us like an immense, sheer cliff face. To our right the clear waters of the River Vir languidly flowed through a huge, rusted metal grate that I assumed could lower and lift as the occupants of the castle desired. To the left were the walls, and the breach that had been smashed through by our relentless artillery bombardment had made a large, ragged gap there. The pummelled stone and rubble had formed a sort of crude ramp, which would allow our soldiers to advance straight into the Changelings’ carefully-prepared defences: cannon, canister shot, muskets, and Faust-knows what else they could concoct. Unless the pegasi could punch through their airborne screen of drones and under, shall we say, more ‘normal’ circumstances, it would be a slaughter.

We were close, the trenches having been dug unimpeded as far as the engineers would dare, barely a short charge away from the glacis that surrounded the city entirely. In the bleak light of the morning our brigade, nearly two thousand ponies strong or thereabouts, was cast in its shadow, and made even the sheer mass of the equine wave about to crash upon it seem tiny and ineffectual. Above, through the foggy, smudged glass, I fancied that I could see tiny figures in the dark windows and on the parapets, and wondered if they too felt that same trepidation and fear that we all felt down here. General Odonata had to know that the inevitable attack was coming very soon; our artillery had ceased, for even Iron Hoof wasn’t callous enough to risk shelling his own ponies, and, oh yes, thousands of them were now massed into the trenches just outside their walls.

A pony somewhere vomited in her gas mask, her comrades jeered, and her corporal ordered her to clear up the mess. I couldn’t see it, but I could build a mental picture through the noises I’d heard.

I missed Cannon Fodder terribly, and envied him as he rested on that comfortable bed in a hospital a good few miles behind our frontline. He had been there by my side through every single little scrape and we’d always pulled through, and while I would not consider ‘superstitious’ to be one of the very many flaws that make up the rich, mouldering tapestry that is my personality, I certainly felt as though his absence would portend some sort of horrific fate for me.

The morning dragged on, and the incessant ticking of Fer-de-Lance’s watch was becoming excruciatingly irritating, with each ‘tick’ like the beating of a disembodied heart. Elsewhere, I could hear ponies shuffling, occasionally chattering, and then told to be silent by their respective sergeants. Second Fiddle was reading a selection of the new pamphlets to be distributed to the troops upon the successful taking of the city, and when it finally began he was flicking through the one advising our colts and fillies on how to avoid contracting social diseases when fraternising with civilians. We were at least quite far back from the foremost trench, as unlike Sunshine Smiles this colonel held very little truck with this whole ‘leading from the front’ business, which I found almost made up for her rather arrogant demeanour.

Colonel Fer-de-Lance lifted her right hoof in the air, and, still not taking her eyes off the golden watch, swung her armoured appendage from left to right in time with the seconds ticking away. One, two, three, four, fi-

I felt it before I saw or heard it. The ground all around us - beneath our hooves and in the walls of the trench - trembled, as though the earth itself shivered. Ahead, I peered over the parapet of sandbags, across the gulf of no mare’s land, and saw at the base of the wall of the castle keep a vast sheet of scarlet flame erupt from the earth. A great tower of earth, stone, and smoke was thrown into the sky, lit from within as though a gate into Tartarus had been wrenched open. There was an ear-splitting roar. In the rising earthly column I imagined seeing grotesque monsters clawing their way out of the pit. It rose higher and higher, almost to the top of the wall itself, and there seemed to hang for a moment before it all collapsed into a fountain of dust, mud, and shattered masonry.

As the debris descended I ducked down under the parapet, pulling Second Fiddle down with me, who had been standing there and watching the fireworks. Clods of scorched mud and tiny fragments of stone rained down upon us, though the two of us were protected by the high parapet of the trench. I looked up to see Colonel Fer-de-Lance peering down at us, the shower of debris pattering harmlessly off her armour, and I could almost see the smug little smirk under her gas mask. This rain of rubble petered out, as April showers in Canterlot do, and I sheepishly rose up to my hooves and brushed off my uniform, which, I’m sure you’ll appreciate, was by now a futile gesture.

The smoke and fire was already clearing, leaving a cone of rubble and debris all around. There was a great crater scooped out of the earth, obliterating a portion of the glacis and the ditch, and where it intersected with the castle’s wall a large, ragged hole had been torn open. I strained my eyes, trying to peer through the fogging glass and the lingering smoke, and could just about see a modest cross-section of the interior of the keep. It was about wide enough to allow perhaps a company to march in without much difficulty, I thought, and I was about to find out quite soon.

Colonel Fer-de-Lance hissed, snapped her pocket watch shut, and tucked it back in her armour. “Merde,” she cursed, her voice muffled by the mask. “The imbecile peasants have detonated it too early.”

I checked my wristwatch. “Only by a few seconds,” I said.

“Makes you wonder what else they’ve been getting wrong, no?”

The artillery behind us fired a single volley as one staccato ripple of fire. Thin white streaks of smoke sliced through the air overhead and crashed into the fortress. Some were aimed at the parapets, while others were directed at the breaches themselves. In those places, an unwelcomely familiar yellow-green cloud began to coalesce, rising from beyond the wall and the breach itself, suffusing all around it like a spreading infection. If there were any Changelings or native ponies caught up in that suffocating fog I couldn’t see, but as I stood there and watched this blight upon the military honour of Equestria consume the walls, I saw vividly in my mind’s eye those grotesquely twisted bodies, hooves clutched around throats, and those wisps of green and yellow crawl across their still forms. Dear Faust, I thought, and we were about to march straight into that once more.

“Beautiful, is it not?” said Fer-de-Lance, staring at horror unleashed. And then, turning to the unicorn drummer colt standing nearby with his sticks floating aloft and ready above an ornately-decorated drum, which hung by a sash around his neck: “Begin, as our ancestors marched to war.”

The drumsticks were a blur as they struck out a rippling tattoo. A second drummer, a little further along the line repeated this cadence, and then another, muffled by the distance, all through the trenches like echoes in an empty cathedral. The entire battalion rose up and surged out of the trenches, over the earthen walls and sandbags. The earth ponies and unicorns flooded into the vast gulf of no mare’s land and marched into the hellish fog in a vast column; the pegasi rose up and soared aloft to fill the crisp blue sky like a massed flock of starlings. The Prism Guard had the honour of being the first wave, and Fer-de-Lance, lacking in subtlety as much as her Prench forebears, had opted to simply fill the breaches with ponies until it was taken.

The drummers beat out a thunderous rapport in unison, which seemed to drive straight into the primal hindbrain that still lingers within every equine mind, behind knowledge and reason, to the part that still remembers our unevolved ancestors galloping freely across the plains and steppes. It was a relentless, hypnotic rhythm that drove the ponies of the Prism Guard forwards into the gas-filled breach, on and on, over and over, until it sunk in and spoke to that ancient beast inside all of us a single, simple command that even it could understand -- forwards. The drums screamed it with every single strike of wood upon membrane. But more menacing than this driving, pounding rhythm, as loud and as overwhelming as it was, were a thousand deep voices, each distorted by the layer of chemical-soaked rags, chanting in time with the drumming in the ancient Prench traditions as Fer-de-Lance had said:

“Vive Celestia! Vive Celestia! Vive Celestia!”

Chapter 18

The advance of the Prism Guards across no mare’s land resembled one of those paintings that typically adorns the walls of recruitment centres. In fact, a year later I would find a painting of this attack in such an establishment, though the artist had chosen not to depict the ubiquitous gas masks we all wore for fear of discouraging new volunteers. The earth ponies and unicorns all marched out to the thunder of drums, chanting an oath in Prench for Princess Celestia to live even longer (which always came off as a little redundant to me when referring to a pony who is set to outlive everypony currently alive), and under a resplendent banner fluttering proudly in the breeze. Beneath my hooves, the ground shuddered rhythmically with every precise marching step. The pegasi soared overhead with their griffon allies, weaving through the clear mid-morning sky in tight, finely-drilled formations. Polished armour still shone brilliantly even in the dark, oppressive shadow cast by the fortress and the endless dust kicked up by a thousand sets of hooves. It was a sight to stir the heart, if one is into that sort of thing.

Until the Changelings opened fire.

The foremost companies had reached the shattered glacis, having stumbled over and around the pile of debris and smashed masonry, and crested over the lip of the crater that the mine had torn into the earth. The huge gap in the wall of the fortress, smothered in the putrescent tendrils of that hellish green-yellow fog flowing into the exposed rooms and halls, and the victory it represented was so tantalisingly close. It seemed then and there that all we had to do was reach it and the day would be won, but that assumed that either side in this war operated on sensible, rational means and would quietly give up to avoid needless suffering once it became abundantly clear that victory was no longer possible. War, however, is not a rational venture, regardless of what those who make it their business to attempt to understand it might say.

I was further back in the column, still with Second Fiddle and Fer-de-Lance when it all started to go wrong, as I knew it would. The former appeared to be quite enjoying his first little expedition to see the horrors of battle for himself, and indeed there was something of a spring in his step. It was to be expected; knowing him as I do, and I was afraid to say that I did, he was truly looking forward to achieving some of that glory he envied me for. I, however, merely trudged along with them, thankful that I was not stuck right at the front with a lunatic officer once more.

The familiar drumming of cannon fire broke my sullen brooding, and replaced it with mortal terror. It came not from behind us, as I had grown used to, but ahead and to the left at the part of the outer wall of the fortress near the other breach. The parapets of that high wall blossomed with clouds of white-grey smoke, each lit from within by lances of orange flame, and mingled with the fading wisps of the gas. From what I could tell from my own limited perspective, as merely another set of marching hooves in the column, most of the fire was directed at the Crystal Guards attacking that breach to our left. Nevertheless, streaks of fire and smoke tore into our column just ahead, the effects of which I could not see, but the shouts and screams of pain left little to the imagination. Then, smaller puffs of white smoke - musket fire - rippled along the wall and even from the breach in the castle keep, and the hail of lead shot plucked at the advancing battalion.

My paranoid suspicions about the Changelings’ own preparations vis-a-vis the grotesque art of chemical warfare proved to be horrifically true. Peering through the fogged-up eyepieces, past the clouds of smoke and gas leaking from the hole like pus from a suppurating wound, I could just about make out furtive glimpses of the cross-section of the keep revealed by the mine, and in there tiny figures darted around in the gouged-out remnants of rooms and halls, forming up in serried lines and wheeling in cannons. The element of surprise had not lasted long, whether they knew of our plan or had merely suspected that we might try such a thing it was impossible to say, but the effect was very much the same: the enemy had reacted with the sudden and unnatural speed and efficiency they had always demonstrated.

“Oh, Luna!” I heard Second Fiddle exclaim as he saw a cannon ball wreak a bloody streak through the formation. He flinched as shot and shrapnel screamed overhead. I couldn’t see his full expression on account of his gas mask, but the horror reflected in his eyes was all that was needed to move even Yours Truly to sympathy.

I took him by the upper foreleg, and said in as reassuring a voice as I could muster given the circumstances, “Stick with me and you’ll be alright.” As cliché as those words were, it was what he needed to hear, and I almost believed it myself. He nodded silently, the gas mask shifting about awkwardly on his face, and we carried on.

Still, the fire from the walls and the breach had been rather desultory, and certainly not the hell that I had been lying awake at night fretting over and what Major-General Garnet had been raving about before, but I was more than happy to have been proven wrong on this account. However, as I watched the earth pony companies surge into the crater, my hooves began to itch. For the number of figures standing in the broken shell of the fortress, silhouetted in the toxic mist and swirling smoke that choked the life out of our surroundings, the actual quantity of fire being directed upon the column was remarkably low. They were holding back, and the battalion was marching into a hastily-improvised but deadly trap.

Colonel Fer-de-Lance apparently noticed this. She stopped suddenly, scanning the vista before us; the foremost company of the battalion, the forlorn hope, had reached the bottom of the crater and were starting the climb upwards, like a dark mass creeping up the side of a rough bowl. The chanting had by now become an animalistic growl, repetitive to the point of inspiring madness.

All the while, I wondered what the pegasi and the griffons were doing, thinking that they would have reached the parapets and the breach by now -- I had seen enough demonstrations of the pegasi grenadier companies to imagine the sort of havoc their dropped grenades would wreak on static artillery. I looked up to see the sky almost black with drones, pegasi, and griffons locked in that deadly aerial ballet, and I realised with a sense of slowly dawning horror the trap that we had just willingly marched into. In taking to the skies en masse, the Changelings had stopped our airborne units from rushing forth as planned to quickly eliminate their defences, while leaving sufficient behind on the ground in an easily-defendable position to deal with the unicorns and earth ponies without being interfered with from above.

“Shit,” Fer-de-Lance muttered under her breath, but I certainly heard it and it’s typically the very last word one wants to hear from a senior officer on the battlefield besides ‘charge!’.

The Changelings had let us march straight into the breach without aerial support, and with the vanguard pouring into the crater they unleashed their hastily-prepared defences. There was a hideous, ear-shattering crash of a battery of cannons opening fire at once, and the entire crater was smothered in flame and smoke. I watched, horrified, as canister and grapeshot flensed the front ranks of the column. The growling, monotonous chanting of ‘Vive Celestia!’ was drowned out utterly by the shrill screams of the wounded and the dying. As the smoke cleared it revealed the crater stained red with blood, and that the enemy, apparently having stored them in this castle keep for just such an occasion, had, in the time it had taken for the battalion to make its advance, wheeled out their cannons into the half-torn rooms where the detonation of the mine had scooped out the outer wall. Those exposed rooms now made the perfect vantage points for the Changelings to spit death at the advancing battalion.

Their artillery crews commenced the arduous task of reloading their guns, meanwhile the once-meagre volleys of musket fire grew in intensity and rate, ripping into the column. There, ahead and below us in that crater, those somehow spared by the initial barrage reeled from the blow and then surged forth once more for another attempt. The Changeling cannons roared out again, raking the column with lethal hails of lead. The meal-grinder of the breach had begun in earnest.

The tattered remnants of the forward companies rallied, and, pressed on by their comrades in the second wave, drove forth again. I could do nothing but watch, despairing at the horrific sight, as the Prism Guards dragged and crawled their way up the blood-slicked stones of the crater and over their mangled dead. The result was predictable. Yet another volley of cannon and musket fire reaped across the slope of the crater once more, and the charge was hurled back into the base. There, apparently milling about in panic and confusion, the survivors seemed to sink into the shattered, broken earth to take some cover from the awful hail of fire raining down upon them.

“Make it stop.” I didn’t realise I’d said those words out loud until Fer-de-Lance looked at me through her gas mask’s eyepieces and arched an eyebrow.

“What?” she said.

The troops were climbing the slope of the crater again, because sometimes tactics devolve into a state of ‘if at first you don’t succeed, try and try again until everypony is dead’. This time they were slow and cautious, using the shattered masonry and earth for cover as they crept closer and closer to those guns. Again, red flame punctured the formation of the Prism Guard companies. Shield spells flashed in gold, white, and blue flickers of light amidst the column of ponies, but they were not enough to withstand the onslaught. Overwhelming artillery fire tore great bloodied gaps in the mass of gold armour, and yet again their advance was hurled back with grim inevitability. We were battering our heads against a wall, and hoping that our skulls were tougher than solid brick.

“This isn’t working,” I said; sometimes the role of a commissar was to point out the blindingly obvious. “Pull them back. Now.”

“We can still take the breach!” shouted Fer-de-Lance over the roar of cannon fire.

“They’re getting murdered out there!”

“We attaque à outrance!” [Prench for ‘attack to excess’]

“You butcher,” I snarled.

“The victor is the one with the strongest will! The greatest élan will overcome all defences! Every attack must be pushed to the very limit and the enemy will break before us!”

Even though I could see that was unlikely to happen, I struggled to think of alternatives. It is the mindless, seething savagery of siege warfare that a frontal assault into prepared defences until they were overwhelmed at staggering loss was the only viable option. The column had by now stopped trying to batter itself against the slope of the crater, and had instead spread out into a skirmish line. Yet the enemy held the advantage in both firepower and cover, and, war having been advanced by technology to the point where victory and defeat was as much decided by mathematical equation as ‘élan’, as Fer-de-Lance called it, this meant that the odds were firmly in the hooves of the enemy. It was those guns. They had to be destroyed somehow, but our pegasi, who had the best chance of evading their merciless fire and exacting vengeance upon the artillery crews, who had remained safe save for a few smattering of shots from below, remained trapped in their fight in the sky and unable to come to our rescue.

From my vantage point I could see that the only way to reach those cannons was straight through that killing field. Except, perhaps, I saw that the crater itself had formed a ridge of turned earth and debris around it, like a lip. Following this path, it would be possible for a group of ponies to advance to the castle wall and the breach torn into it with some modicum of cover from the deadly volleys. There, our troops would have a much better vantage point from which to exact their revenge upon the artillery crews in the form of lead and magic. More than that, where the crater met the great wound in the stone wall the ground had piled up around it, but it would, in theory, allow perhaps a section or two to climb up and inside the structure itself and engage the enemy hoof-to-hoof. I was surprised and somewhat disturbed to find that I appeared to be the only pony who had noticed this, so single-minded was Fer-de-Lance on using her battalion like a battering ram until either the fortress broke or they did that it did not occur to her to look elsewhere.

I pointed this out to Fer-de-Lance and explained it as best as I could manage, as the unique vocabulary that the military uses to explain complex movements of large numbers of ponies was one of the very few languages that I have struggled to learn (another example being whatever dialect of Ponish that Southern Cross uses to very efficiently explain orders to his engineers). A combination of shouting, pointing, and exuberant hoof gestures seemed to help get the message across in the best traditions of Equestrian tourists to Prance.

Fer-de-Lance listened in silence throughout as I delivered my little proposal, with barely a nod or anything to signify that she was even listening to me. She stared out at the carnage below, her eyes fixed upon the futility of the horrific slaughter taking place on her orders. I still could not see her expression due to the gas mask, but the sharp, intense glare, like two burning coals in a pit, gave me a decent idea of what the rest of her face was doing.

“Fine,” she hissed. She looked at the slaughter of her stallions and mares in the crater, and then, not even bothering to look in my direction as though my proposal to save her battalion was something of an imposition, said, “Go, and take 6th Company with you.”

And she expected me to do it for her, of course. It was my idea after all, and few things would have punctured the tentative confidence she had in this nascent, hastily thought-out plan of mine than to have told her ‘no, I’d much rather not, thank you’. At the very least, it would mean that should she take complete leave of her senses and insist upon joining in the massacre in the crater that I would be quite far away from that happening. So, in the hope that the commanding officer of 6th Company was a sensible chap who didn’t expect me to actually lead this venture, I trotted off towards the rear of the battalion, with the fear knotting in my stomach like a writhing snake.

I found 6th Company without much difficulty, and when I told their commanding officer, a rather chirpy young Prench stallion by the name of Captain Papillon who just couldn’t wait to hurl himself in front of the Changeling guns next to (and preferably in front of) Prince Blueblood, they were ready to move off and enact my desperate little plan in a matter of mere minutes. Whatever noted deficiencies Fer-de-Lance had as an officer and a lady, namely her rigid thinking, snippy personality, and tendency to offend sapient creatures of all kinds, they were almost made up for in drilling her soldiers to such a point of complete and total mindless obedience that even Changeling purestrains would be impressed.

As I was navigating my way around the other troops waiting patiently for their turn in the charnel house that was the crater, the thought had occurred to me to just melt away in the vast, organised mob of ponies that was the battalion and claim that my special talent had betrayed me and I got lost on the way to the crater again, thus taking credit for saving the assault without actually having to take part. Unfortunately, Second Fiddle had decided to accompany me still; his first sight of a real battle not having dissuaded him from his inane pursuit of a splash of ichor on his blade to brag about in the mess later, and so skiving off the rest of the fight was not an option.

Papillon practically skipped as he led his company around the lip of the crater. The ridge provided us with some cover, being quite high in places, twice that of an adult pony. There were a few gaps and low points, of course, through which one was granted a glimpse into the scene from Tartarus below -- flashes of flame and smoke, ruined bodies, and stark red blood on the stones. Even when one couldn’t see it, the noise of cannon fire and muskets, of the yells of officers and NCOs trying to drive their ponies onwards, and of the cries of pain were more than enough to give even the most lacklustre imagination sufficient material with which to build a vivid mental picture of what was going on down there. In fact, those glimpses of ponies ripped to shreds by canister shot or merely lying dreadfully still with their entrails draped over the stones, and the living cowering as best they could with terror visible in their eyes even through the masks, were almost a relief compared to the horror that was playing through my mind.

There was the smell, too. One would think that after having my olfactory senses ruined by gas and with the mask on that I wouldn’t smell the miasma of blood, burnt powder, and raw fear that soaks into every single battle that I have had the misfortune of participating in, but even with those deficiencies, it was still overpowering. It could have been in my head, filling in the gaps as it were, but it felt all too real there.

It is to my continued astonishment that we made it without being attacked. I feared that either the drones in the breach or the ones in the air would spot a full company of earth ponies marching around the lip of the crater, but somehow we escaped their notice. The fight in the air and the slaughter in the cauldron appeared to have absorbed the enemy’s full attention, and as we marched on at a brisk trot, I prayed that their fortunate inattentiveness would hold -- as ever in war, the lesson that hubris leads inexorably to defeat is a painful one, and if the Changelings believed that they had us held in both the sky and the crater, then it would be their turn to learn this.

Two of the platoons climbed up onto this small ridge into a position where they might fire on the Changeling gun crews, where they would not have a completely unobstructed view of the enemy but their volleys would at least give them pause in loading and firing their cannons. The third platoon was to continue sneaking around to the breach itself, where I had seen that a small number of ponies could squeeze through the gap between the drop to the crater below and the shattered wall. The reader may have up to three guesses as to which one I ended up following.

Despite shivering from fright and having ample opportunity to leave with what passed for his dignity intact, Second Fiddle still wanted that elusive ‘glory’, and the only place to find such a thing on the battlefield was where the greatest danger is. As Cannon Fodder’s absence from my side continued to be a great sucking void next to me, I decided, despite my better judgement, that he would have to serve as a substitute for now, albeit an inferior one. If I couldn’t keep him out of harm’s way then at least I would make certain that he wouldn’t get in the way of the soldiers trying to do their jobs; there was as much a risk of him getting it from Equestrian bayonets as much as Changeling fangs if I left him unsupervised with them.

Our gallant little platoon crept forwards, closer and closer to that gap. I was at the head of our little group, precisely where I was expected, of course, leading from the front with a thoroughly star-struck lieutenant. Second Fiddle trotted just behind me, taking up the position my absent aide would occupy. The ponies were eager to get ‘stuck in’, as Sunshine Smiles would put it, to the enemy, who were still too preoccupied with their gruesome, murderous task to notice our intrepid little band sneaking up on them.

The fortress loomed up above us, receding seemingly into infinity from our tiny perspective at its base. Where the crater intersected with the wall was a ramp of rubble and debris that reached up to the first floor, and would have to be climbed for any of us to enter. I, being tall, could climb up a little and rear up on my hindlegs to just about peer over the top, and see into the shattered room we were about to launch ourselves into.

Now that I was closer, I could see into this exposed cross-section of the keep more clearly, though the cloud of white-grey smoke and yellow-green gas swirling around still obscured parts of it. The Changelings had set up their cannons and infantry on three floors, from the ground floor up, across a series of rooms. Just over and beyond the mound of debris I was peering over must have been a small hall, probably once used for minor parties and events by the castle’s original owners. Part of this floor had collapsed onto the ground floor below it, so that what was left of the hall formed something of a gallery above it. What the Changelings had previously used this for I could not tell, as it was in a state of utter ruin from the mine. Whatever furniture and indeed drones and captive ponies had been inside were all but obliterated by the blast, judging by scattered debris and the curious green and crimson smears on the ground and walls.

Some of the blasted masonry and broken wooden furnishings were cleared hastily, shoved aside to make room for a large cannon. I could see, just a short jump away from this ridge, a crew of drones going through the processes of sponging out the fouling in the barrel and readying the next charge of grapeshot. There were ponies too, scurrying back and forth carrying bags of powder and shot from the large open doorway at the far end of the room. Changeling and pony all wore masks like ours, albeit each with a sort of metal canister with holes around the mouth and nose that I took to be some sort of filter. So that would explain how they survived the poison gas. Somehow, the vindication of being right yet again did not taste quite as sweet as I had hoped.

I dropped down before they could see me, praying they wouldn’t hear the rubble being dislodged as I slipped down the ramp with the chunks of debris scratching against my backside, but fortunately they all seemed too engrossed in their murderous work to notice somepony taking a look at them. The presence of ponies actively helping the enemy, though I reasoned that they must have been coerced into assisting their oppressors against their prospective liberators, was a disquieting one. Looking back at the Prism Guard troops with me, hate visible through those glass eyepieces as they clenched their guns and waited for my order, it seemed doubtful that they would be particularly discerning in whom they exact their revenge upon on behalf of their slaughtered comrades.

“Sir?” said the Lieutenant, rearing up on his hindlegs and balancing on them as he tried to look over the top of the mound.

“An artillery crew of six Changelings in the hall,” I said. “There are more in the adjacent rooms, and in the ones above and below.”

“We can take them, sir,” the Lieutenant growled. “See how they like it -- Equestrian steel right through ‘em.”

I looked up at the rubble mound again; the gap between the drop below and the fortress wall was quite tight, and ponies would have to climb up one, perhaps two, at a time. As ever, ponies seemed to have forgotten how to make decisions for themselves in my presence, and I’d have to give the orders again: “Send a runner back to Captain Papillon. Tell him his platoon is to fire one volley into that hall there, then we’ll go over the top and finish them off.”

“Sir!” The Lieutenant saluted by slapping the brim of his helmet with his hoof, making a dull ringing noise, and cantered off to do just that.

The order was passed down the line, back to Captain Papillon with the remainder of the company. After a full minute longer of having to listen to the incessant crash of artillery and the screams and cries of the wounded, with nausea writhing in my guts and threatening to bring up the scant breakfast of oats into my mask, we heard the distinct ripple of musket fire from behind. That was the signal.

I peered over the top of the rubble pile again to see that the volley had hit the gun crews hard. Bodies of Changelings had dropped under the huge, smoking barrel of the cannon, bleeding ichor into the stones. However, there were a few left alive, and those survivors were frantically turning their guns to aim at the ponies on the ridge firing at them. It should be enough, I hoped.

Second Fiddle was staring out at the massacre in the crater below, his body tense and as still as one of those curiously lifelike statues in the gardens of Canterlot Castle. Kicking him gently nudged him out of his stupor, and when he looked up at me I could see the raw fear in his eyes. He started shaking in his horseshoes.

Seizing him by his shoulder, I leaned in close to him, masks almost touching, and whispered: “You do exactly as I do, and you’ll get through this. Do you understand? I want you by my side when I go over that ramp.”

He didn’t respond, staring into space again, so I gave him a firm shove which caused him to stumble on his hooves. When he righted himself, he nodded fiercely. He was about to get precisely what he wanted, but whether he would like it was another matter entirely.

Drawing my sabre from its scabbard with a steely rasp, I jumped onto the rubble pile, stumbling a little as a few stones cascaded down the slope under my hooves, and raised my sword as though to stab the sky above. The platoon had gathered at the base, with each soldier positively chomping at the bit to dive in and kill. Armour clinked and rattled, and ponies stamped and snorted. Second Fiddle was directly below me, struggling to tug his own sabre out of its sheath with a shaky aura from his horn.

“Twilight’s Own!” I screamed above the din of war. The sound of guns, shouting, and screaming seemed to fade away in that moment, and time itself stood still. “Fix bayonets and follow me!”

There was a great cheer behind me as I hurled myself over the pile of rubble. I dropped over on the other side, landing in a stumbling flail of hooves and masonry dust. The Changelings, those that were still alive, turned and saw me apparently alone and very definitely outnumbered. They rushed towards me, and in the half-second that it took for them to close the scant amount of distance, wings buzzing as they skimmed over the piles of debris and the holes in the floor, I had just enough time to re-evaluate my choices in life before the closest drone was almost upon me.

A huge brute of a drone charged at me, wielding the large, heavy stick with a steaming wet sponge on the end for cleaning the cannon’s barrel like a club. The others hung back a little, letting the stronger of them reduce me to a little red smear. I stumbled back, slipping on the loose rubble behind me, and raised my blade up in a sort of guarding motion above my head. The staff came down, but my panicky fencer’s instincts saved me. The heavy, butcher’s blade of a sword chopped straight through the wood of the staff clean through, sending the sponge end dropping to the ground with a wet, sloppy ‘thud’. Again, purely on instinct, I pulled the blade back and, violating the apparent ‘rule’ that sabres are for slashing and not piercing, plunged it straight into the drone’s chest. The armoured chitin cracked and splintered under the force of the thrust, and the blade dug deep into the soft flesh beneath.

I twisted the blade with a sickening ‘squelch’ of tearing flesh and tugged the sword free with a splatter of stinking ichor on the stones and my uniform. The drone collapsed into a bleeding, twitching heap on the floor. The others were still coming, though they seemed a tad hesitant after seeing me run their swabber through. Another was even more reluctant, and seemed to be fiddling with the cannon’s touch hole. [The drone was likely spiking the gun, rendering it inoperable to the enemy by driving a metal spike into the touch hole. This could be reversed with some difficulty.]

I yelled incoherently in terror, which was muffled and distorted by my mask to sound more like one of rage, and swung my blade left and right in rapid succession in a blur of shimmering steel. This checked them, as despite outnumbering me, whatever instincts for self-preservation they still possessed appeared to override their urge to kill.

And where in Tartarus was Second Fiddle?

Cannon Fodder should have been with me, as he had always been through every scrape I had survived thus far, and I felt his absence even more acutely there. I’d rushed into the fight as though he was by my side, watching my back as is his place and gutting any Changelings who came too close with his now-obsolete spear. My rump was against the pile of rubble, the stones scraping against my flanks as I tried and failed to retreat further, and just as I was wondering what in blazes was taking the other ponies so long I heard the sound of hooves scrabbling on the rubble and a whole lot of cursing in Prench. Dislodged stones fell on my hat and shoulders. A burly stallion dropped down next to me, brandishing his musket tipped with a wickedly-sharp bayonet. Looking up, I saw the rest of them, laden down with their heavy armour, dragging themselves over the pile of rubble in ones and twos. Well, it was about damned time, thought I, but while that encounter with the swabber might have felt like long, fear-soaked minutes to me, only mere seconds could have passed.

The small mob of Changelings began to fall back; apparently realising that their position was hopeless, they slowly retreated step-by-step, still facing us and hissing as though that might ward off the ponies. However, after watching their comrades, their friends and brothers and sisters in blood, being slaughtered in the crater, our soldiers were not inclined to the virtue of mercy. Without prompting, the crazed ponies in golden armour rushed the retreating drones, trampling over the still-warm and twitching corpses and slipping on the congealing ichor, to hack them to pieces with bayonets and swords. It was quick, over in an instant, and the gun crew were all dead before they could reach the door, but the thirst for revenge could not be sated with the blood already spilt -- more was needed before it would be enough for them. The platoon had become a rampaging mob, spurred on by their enthusiastic lieutenant, and before I could do anything they poured out through the doors and holes in the walls to find more Changelings to kill.

I slumped against the rough pile of debris, panting for breath through this damned mask and finding each and every one a struggle to get enough air in my lungs. With the thrill of life-or-death combat over, at least for now, the customary feelings of nausea and exhaustion almost overwhelmed me. My mouth was dry and my head was swimming, but I still daren’t remove the mask to sip water as the corners of the room were still shrouded with the clouds of that dreadful gas. The room was now devoid of ponies, or indeed of anything else living save for me; the still, mutilated bodies of drones were splattered and smeared across the floor and rubble in morbid, sickening displays of violence. I could stand to see it no longer.

Peering over the side where the mine had ripped open this hall, I could see the crater below. The drop was dizzying, but I pushed through the ensuing vertigo. It was filled with ponies, living and dead, but those still alive let out a sudden, bestial roar of triumph as they saw their comrades kill the defenders, and the battalion, looking more like a Changeling swarm than organised units of Equestrian soldiers, rushed forwards in a vast, equine tidal wave. This time there was no volley of shrapnel and shot, no thunder of artillery and ripple of musket fire, and the cries were not of pain and agony but vengeful triumph. I watched them, feeling much like an invisible observer looking down from on high, as the attacking force, under the stained and torn banner of the Prism Guards, struggled up the slope and rushed into the keep itself through the ground floor beneath me.

The breach had been taken and the fortress would fall. Despite the relief washing over me like the cooling waters of Seaward Shoals, I had been in enough scraps like this to know that the Changelings were rather sore losers and would continue to make sure that our victory was hard-earned. The castle itself would have to be cleared, corridor by corridor and room by room, along with the streets and houses of the city too.

There was no point sitting around here for it, though I imagined that I’d done rather more than my fair share of participating by this point. I wasn’t even supposed to be there if it wasn’t for Second Fiddle. Speaking of which, now that the rush of fear and adrenaline had subsided to the point where I could almost think clearly, I started to wonder where he had gone. He certainly didn’t follow me over the mound of rubble and I couldn’t spot him at all in the mob of ponies tearing through the breach, and, even with my exhaustion and field of attention narrowed into the solipsist view of mere survival, I liked to think that I would have spotted a pony whose uniform made him look like he should be dangling from the ceiling in a discotheque than on a battlefield. I could only assume that he had run away and was cowering somewhere, and I will admit to a feeling of betrayal, which was as cutting as it was hypocritical.

Nevertheless, there was still work to be done, and he could go and cry somewhere like a little filly for all I cared; Odonata herself was still in the fortress somewhere, and I fully intended on collecting the debt owed for the scars that marred my back. There was motivation enough in the thought of my revenge thwarted to will my tired, aching hooves into motion and lead me straight into the waiting, gaping maw of hell. I dragged myself up off the ground and picked my way gingerly around the eviscerated drones, and though I tried desperately to avoid looking at the bodies, each in varying states of mutilation, that surrounded me I still found, even after having seen such sights far too many times before, that I could not help but stop and stare and wonder just what the point of all of this was. Some ponies say that they got used to such things and that after a while it no longer bothered them, but not I.

The sounds of the ongoing battle were distant and muffled; it was the song of the siren, drawing me closer and closer to my inevitable destruction, and yet I could not resist. Congealing ichor stuck to my hooves as I stepped in the spreading puddles of it, leaving prints on the stone floor. I tasted bile rising up my throat, but swallowed the disgusting mess down lest it ruin my gas mask.

After a few minutes of aimless wandering I came across a group of stragglers from the bloody assault on the breach -- tired, battered, and emotionally drained, they would be of little use in a fight now except as a physical barrier between the Changelings and my soft flesh. However, they pointed me in the direction of Colonel Fer-de-Lance, who had commandeered what might have been a servants’ dining area to use as her ad hoc headquarters for now. I thanked them, ordered them to get some rest, and trotted off to find her.

The room was dark with no windows, which is why I suspected that this space was once reserved for servants or whatever the Changelings have to do menial errands for them. This meant that while the air was stale, it was at least cool, and given that my coat and clothes were utterly drenched in sweat as usual I almost felt a chill coming on. The crudely-forged metal chandelier lacked candles, so Illumination was provided for by a soldier standing in the corner who had lit his horn with a light that was ever so slightly too bright for my eyes, but not so much that it might make me squint. Nevertheless, it allowed me to see that the walls here were bare stone, with no sign of that unnatural Changeling-stuff plastered over the rest of the castle’s exterior.

Fer-de-Lance sat at a primitive wooden table as her sergeant uncorked a bottle of wine with a sommelier’s flourish and decanted it into a waiting crystal goblet. The colour guard, led by a young ensign whose face was still covered in greasy spots, lounged in the corner with the singed and torn standard of the Prism Guards wrapped up for safe keeping. Tall, broadly-built sergeants armed with halberds and clad in ceremonial armour who guarded both the flag and the pimply teenager who carried it with their lives sat on wooden boxes, and eyed me warily as I staggered inside.

Having successfully taken the breach, in spite of her obstinate adherence to a long-outdated Prench military tradition resulting in far more casualties than strictly necessary, it looked as though Fer-de-Lance thought that the battle was pretty much done and dusted right there and now was the appropriate time to celebrate. She had pulled her gas mask down, so that it dangled by its straps from her neck like some sort of morbid scarf, and I could see her eager expression as the dark liquid filled her glass. As she and her staff were not choking to death on chlorine gas, I took this to mean that the air in this part of the fortress was safe and gratefully tugged down my own mask. After having worn that horrid thing for far too long, even breathing in this stagnant air unfiltered by chemical-soaked cloth was thoroughly invigorating to both body and spirit.

Judging from the deep purple-ish tinge to the wine and the faint aroma of dark fruit wafting around in this enclosed room, I identified it as a malbec. While I am always ready for a drink to steady the nerves and silence the monsters in my nightmares, even I, a self-confessed high-functioning alcoholic, thought that this was a tad on the premature side. It was quite early in the morning and the blood was still flowing in the crater and the halls as freely as the wine from the bottle, not to mention the castle was probably still crawling with Changelings. The appalling sight made me reach for my hipflask and take a swig of a brandy.

“Ah, Your Highness!” greeted Fer-de-Lance with uncharacteristic enthusiasm. She turned to her sergeant, and said, “Another glass for the Prince!”

“Certainly, ma’am.” The stallion lit his horn and a second crystal glass appeared with a flash of ice-blue light. I made a mental note to myself to insist that Drape Cut learn this spell so that we are never caught short at a picnic again.

“Your friend is not with you?” she asked as her soldier-servant carried on.

It took a second or two for me to realise that she was referring to Second Fiddle, and I’d have assumed that in the madness of taking the breach that he would have crept on back to Fer-de-Lance. “I expect he’s returned to Market Garden,” I said, trying to be diplomatic there. “To report on our success.”

“It is magnificent, no?” Fer-de-Lance continued. “In taking the breach, our colours will have their first battle honour: Virion Hive.”

Her sergeant poured the drink and levitated it over to me. I accepted the glass and made a show of performing the relevant things an oenophile was supposed to do - swirling the glass, holding it up to the light (in this case, the other unicorn’s brightly shining horn), sniffing it - before finally allowing myself the pleasure of actually drinking the damned thing. I was right, it was a malbec, and a rather nice one too. It seemed to make her happy though, and likewise I was relieved to learn that my sharp nose for such things had not been too blunted.

“There’s still the rest of the castle to go,” I said, ever the one to ruin an officer’s shiny good mood by smearing cold, hard reality on it. “And the city too.”

Fer-de-Lance scoffed, her premature optimism proved to be positively stainless even after the debacle in the breach. “I have sent sections out to comb the castle keep itself. It is slow business but the enemy has nowhere else to run, they will give in.”

She grinned at me, and that rare sight instantly made me consider that I would have been better off doing what Second Fiddle must have done and hidden myself somewhere. Her glass swirled in her aura, the crystal glinting in the harsh light and the red wine within sloshing around as though in a storm, and she continued: “I do not know what is going on out there. Have the other breaches been won? Are our comrades in arms celebrating in the streets outside, embracing the ponies they have liberated from the tyranny of the Changelings? Or are they dying as we once were before your gallant charge saved us? In truth, your bravery has put me to shame, for I have forgotten that an officer ought to lead by example. My sword has yet to be bloodied, and my ancestors must be shaking their heads in disappointment in me.”

“I simply did what was required of me,” I said, sipping my wine. My mind was still quite unsteady trying to put together the juxtaposition of the hell I had just waded through and the relatively pleasant sharing of a drink between two fellow officers, so it was not quite as sharp off the mark as is usual for me. Otherwise, I might have picked up on what she was getting at, made an excuse, and rounded up some stallions myself to go looking for Odonata.

“This castle is the highest point in this city,” Fer-de-Lance carried on. “It is a symbol of the Changelings’ oppression, and their hated black flag still flies from its tallest spire.” She drank deeply from her goblet, the purple-red wine staining her lips to look as though they were bruised. “You and I, we will lead the colour guard to the top of the tower, tear down their banner, throw it into the dirt, and raise the flag of Equestria as a symbol of our inevitable victory. It will embolden our soldiers, bring hope to the ponies living here, and fill the hearts of the enemy with despair.”

Ponies love a good symbol; after all, that’s the only reason why I continue to live a life of privilege and luxury paid for by tenants and taxpayers, despite contributing very little of material worth to society beyond keeping a select few bars and brothels in business. There was, however, one severe problem with her idea, or potentially thousands of smaller problems that compounded together like individual instruments in an orchestra to produce a symphony, and that was the unknown number of Changelings still inside this castle who, even if it has become clear that their defences must inevitably break under the Equestrian onslaught, would spitefully insist that their slow defeat is as drawn out and painful to us as possible. And, of course, Odonata might still be around, if she hadn’t fled already. Though I had fantasised about taking my revenge upon her while lying awake at night in that hospital bed, my lungs burning with every breath and my mind playing out scenes of such horrific torture that even Auntie Luna would have paled at the thought of them, now that the appointed time was approaching and my bloodlust was subsiding I wondered if it was truly worth the risk of Fer-de-Lance’s obstinance and arrogance ruining everything again. It would not do to find myself upon the cusp of realising my revenge in the best traditions of my family line, only for her to do something to get us all killed first.

Fer-de-Lance, however, took that I would tag along with her foolhardy venture as a given. I suppose it was only expected that Commissar Prince Blueblood would leap at every single opportunity to fight, nevermind that, upon reflection, he might like to stay behind and keep drinking wine until he was no longer capable of conscious thought, thank you very much. She rose from her seat and threw her now-empty glass against the wall, whereupon it shattered into a thousand glittering shards of crystal that scintillated in the harsh horn-light like frost. That none of the other ponies in the room jumped, aside from Yours Truly, implied that this sort of behaviour was hardly new to them.

“Come along, mes enfants!” she said cheerfully.

Trotting past me, she snatched my half-drunk glass of wine out of the air, took a rather lengthy sip of it, and carried on with my drink bobbing along in her aura with her. Her soldiers followed on, and I, rather stunned, fell into step, if only out of a desire not to be left alone in this dreary, deadly place. I did not fancy leaving her unsupervised either, lest she squander the hard-fought success of taking the breach. Rather annoyed and somewhat shocked by this, I reached again for my hipflask; if liver failure didn’t take me then surely the foolhardy ventures these officers dragged me into will.

Fer-de-Lance halted suddenly in the corridor and turned to face me, shoving her ensign into a wall in the process. “What’s a butcher?” she asked.

“Pardon?” I blurted out.

She peered over the rim of her glass of wine at me, eyes narrowed. “You called me a butcher,” she said, before draining the last gulps of my glass of wine, the stains of which upon her lips looked like the lipstick of one of the courtesans I liked to frequent in happier times. “What is that?”

“Oh.” I tried to think of something quickly. “It’s a griffon term of endearment.”

Fer-de-Lance glared at me, clearly not believing those words, and then pulled her gas mask over her face. The hideous, blank-faced figure chuckled grimly, distorted by the layers of cloth. “If we win this, I will forget the things you said to me before.”

The aura around the glass vanished, and it dropped to the ground and shattered into a thousand sharp slivers and splinters of crystal. I could almost see her self-satisfied smirk under her mask, as the fabric shifted slightly with her facial expression. Fer-de-Lance held that stare for a moment longer, almost daring me to look away, but my dull-eyed, vacant expression of quiet bewilderment held and she gave up. She marched on and I followed, stepping carefully around the broken fragments of glass, though they soon faded out of existence to be returned to whatever magic they came from. As we proceeded into the darkness, guided by a now-dimmed hornlight, I had the awful feeling that we’d only really just started.

Chapter 19

“Are you sure you know where you’re going?” snapped Fer-de-Lance. We had only been walking for a few minutes, and that was enough for her to lose patience with my somewhat temperamental special talent.

“Not really, no,” I admitted. Fer-de-Lance snapped her head around to stare at me, her eyes almost popping out of their sockets and through her gas mask’s eyepieces.

We had stopped in a hallway slightly larger than the ones we had seen before. Mercifully, there were a few windows here to alleviate at least some of the claustrophobia that was slowly spreading over us like the Smooze. These were little more than thin slits with the interior portion of the wall cut at an oblique angle, most likely to allow archers here to loose arrows at an advancing enemy, but the meagre light of mid-morning streaming through them, forming golden bars that pierced through the gloom like spears, at least helped remind me that there was a world beyond these dreary, cramped corridors. On the opposite side was a blank stone wall, interrupted occasionally by decaying wooden doors and large, pony-sized holes that the Changelings had patched up with that strange, unsettlingly organic building material of theirs.

There were still ghostlike tendrils of gas drifting slowly on the faint drafts that disturbed the stale air of this place. It collected in the corners of rooms and in some places lingered around the level of my fetlocks, and our walking through them sent these wisps writhing in the air like ghostly snakes. We had encountered a few corpses of Changelings and native ponies along the way, and the effects of the gas on both were very evidently similar -- an agonising death. As I passed them, sightless, bloodshot eyes stared accusingly at me and blued lips spoke of the horror of their final moments in this world. I could only hope that their spirits were of a generous, understanding nature, and trust me when I whispered ‘I did my best’ as I passed them by.

“That does not fill me with much confidence.” Fer-de-Lance stepped forwards and jabbed at my cutie mark with her hoof. “This is your special talent, no?”

“It is,” I said, pushing her hoof away and then rubbing at where it had left a grimy mark over the already filthy compass rose. “It’s never steered me wrong before.”

That wasn’t strictly true; my special talent and I would sometimes disagree on precisely where I needed to go, but in the absence of anything like a map we had little choice but to rely on its fickle whims. The original architects and builders of this wretched place were not the sort to make maps and plans of their creations, and even if they did, it was unlikely that after thousands of years of neglect and a century of Changeling occupation that it would match the current rats’ nest of rooms, halls, and corridors it had turned into. I had also wanted to find Odonata, though what I would do when I finally found her I had yet to fully make up my mind, so it was all but guaranteed that my cutie mark would get somewhat confused, like a taxi pony with two clients who cannot agree on where to spend the rest of their evening.

Fer-de-Lance, however, wanted to reach the highest point of this castle, which would most likely be one of the towers on each of the four corners of this tall, square structure. We’d find our way there, raise the Equestrian flag for all to see, and then hopefully I could call it a day and see about finding what passed for a louche bar around these parts in which to drown my sorrows -- the Changelings had to do something for fun around here, and I’d hoped that part of it intersected with my libatory interests.

“Fine,” she hissed, apparently having failed to come up with a better idea. “Lead the way.”

I did, and at my insistence our going was slow and deliberate. Fer-de-Lance was impatient to raise her bloody flag on the roof of this building, and no doubt the personal glory and a story to add to her aristocratic family’s long and distinguished military history was merely an added bonus for her, but I, in a rare moment of showing actual backbone for once, overruled her. I’d been in this sort of thing before, and the sense of deja vu was most distressing; stalking through an ancient fortress crawling with Changelings was an experience that I had not wished to repeat any time soon, or at all, and yet again I found myself doing just that. This time, however, it was we who were the invading force, pushing forth into the unknown where every door, corridor, room, and even the walls themselves could portend certain, grisly death.

The hallway was a uniform path of stone and light. We followed that to its terminus at a set of double doors, which I pushed open with a gentle shove of magic. From here, we plunged deeper into the bowels of the fortress, through twisting and turning corridors, all far from light, that felt more like the burrows and warrens of some underground-dwelling creature. I lit my horn with a faint golden glow, which illuminated little more than the stones at my hooves, but I daren’t shine it much brighter than that. The seemingly endless stones receded into darkness. The corridors were quite tight, but Fer-de-Lance insisted on sticking by my side as though to keep an eye on me. The both of us being rather tall, and dare I say ‘big’, ponies and the original inhabitants of this castle apparently being stunted midgets meant that we were often wedged together uncomfortably. The soldiers behind us, however, were content to follow in single file.

[Ponies were even shorter on average a thousand years ago, due to problems with maintaining a well-balanced diet in that era. I have wondered if the tight corridors that Blueblood describes were designed to keep alicorns such as me out.]

We trudged through those corridors, twisting and turning, sometimes doubling back on itself before veering off into a seemingly random direction. The sound of laboured breathing, muffled and distorted by gas masks, of iron-shod hooves tramping on ancient stone, and of armour rattling was almost deafening. Here, the air was even more stale and warm, and the cacophony sounded murky as though the noise had to force its way through the soupy atmosphere. A thin, faint draft that stirred and chilled the coat on my neck where it was exposed guided me through this labyrinth, past branches and offshoots that descended into near total darkness, as the tingle in my cutie marks told me that this was, despite looking precisely like every other corridor that we had passed, the right way to go.

After an interminable amount of walking that my watch insisted only lasted ten minutes, the maze of corridors opened up into a large, open hall. We emerged blinking into a dreary, bleak green glow emanating from some sort of pulsating orb hanging by a chain from the ceiling. This brought scant illumination to this chamber, being about the size of a modest ballroom in one of the smaller of the mansions in Canterlot. Our intrepid little group fanned out in the room, the soldiers clearly grateful for the space to stretch their limbs and the modestly clearer air to breath.

“It’s a dead end,” said Fer-de-Lance.

I looked around, following her gaze over the walls of the chamber; there were indeed no doors that I could see. However, portions of the ancient walls had been knocked through and sealed up with more chrysalite. Ignoring Fer-de-Lance’s tirade in her native tongue about how I had doomed her and her ‘enfants’ to wander around this miserable Changeling-infested nightmare, I walked a path around the perimeter of the room and traced along the wall with my magic. The golden aura slid easily across the stones, but where the wall turned to the chrysalite, the cold, firm sensation gave way to a warmer, more organic feel, as though I was dipping my aura into lukewarm porridge.

“That’s interesting,” I said, watching as my aura sank through the Changeling-stuff. A familiar tingle tickled my cutie marks.

“What is?” snapped Fer-de-Lance, as she marched on over.

“I think there’s a room behind this.” I demonstrated by slipping my aura in and out of this large patch of chrysalite.

“Did your special talent tell you this?” Her tone was not so much dripping in sarcasm as it was luxuriating in a bath of it. Nevertheless, she hissed out a sigh and peered at this area of the wall, squinting through her fogging-up eyepieces. “Well? How are we supposed to get through it, then?”

“The Changelings must have a way,” I said. Lifting a hoof, I touched the wall there, and though my magic slipped through it with only some resistance, I found that against my hoof the surface was much firmer, like, well, a wall. There was, however, a little bit of ‘give’ in it, having a somewhat spongy texture, but the more pressure that I applied with my hoof the more it seemed to push back, until I might as well have been trying to force my hoof through solid steel. When I pulled my hoof away, I saw the indentation of my horseshoe imprinted in the wall, and watched with faint amusement as the congealing slime coating it crawled on over to cover the mark -- just as Maud Pie had said, this chrysalite thing was reacting to what was being done to it like a living thing. It was quite unsettling to watch.

As I was doing that, however, Fer-de-Lance had come up with a much more direct solution. “Step aside, sir,” she said, just as I saw her horn ignite with a sharp, blindingly bright crimson aura. I didn’t have time to tell her to stop; in fact, I barely had time to scramble back before she discharged her shot in a single, overdriven blast of magic. It was like looking into the bright flash of a camera in a dark room; gone in an instant, leaving bright spots swirling before my eyes and a sharp pain in my forehead. There was the shrill screech of the blunt-force use of magic, followed very quickly by what must have been the peculiar sound of chrysalite disintegrating. Blinking away the glare, once the dancing spots faded I saw that she had simply blasted a hole in the wall.

Whatever is the technical term for what happens when chrysalite is subjected to a magic blast, it stank to high heaven. The smell of ozone that normally accompanies such a discharge was overwhelmed, even through the mask, by an acrid, chemical odour that instantly conjured images of gas in my mind. [It is likely that by this point the neutralising chemicals the gas mask had been soaked in had dried, which was a common problem with these early designs. More effective masks with filters would become more widespread later, by which point the regular use of gas had diminished with the resumption of mobile warfare, with the exception of sieges on hive cities. Until then, gas masks looted from Changelings became a valuable commodity with Equestrian soldiers.] A roughly pony-sized hole was blasted into the wall there. The edges had melted under the heat of Fer-de-Lance’s magic, flowing and dripping like hot candle wax to pool at the now-exposed floor to slowly solidify. Black, acrid smoke rose from the gap.

Fer-de-Lance looked very pleased with herself as she examined her handiwork, letting out a quiet, self-satisfied hum of approval as though she was looking at a work of art. I suppose in her mind, it was. She stepped through the hole she had made, taking care not to step in the congealing, smouldering puddles of molten chrysalite, with a deceptively cheery “Come along!”

I followed, though after a number of our soldiers had passed through so that I wouldn’t be up at the front should we walk straight into a waiting horde of Changelings. As it happened, however, this next hall was once again devoid of any ravenous, love-hungry drones wanting to rend me limb from limb and drain my body for food for their hive. Their continued absence, while initially a relief, was unsettling, as it was merely a matter of when we would run into further resistance than if.

This particular chamber was similar in size to the previous one, but where there had been stone walls built long before Discord’s first rampage across Equestria, now it was coated or replaced wholesale with chrysalite, such that it resembled a natural cavern more than a room constructed by hooves and magic. Half a dozen crates were piled up on the left wall, with a few full sacks leaning against them. Looking up at the high ceiling, one could even discern stalactites made of the very same Changeling-stuff pointing down at us like spearheads. The floor, however, was flat and smooth tiles, and descended via a series of steps into a small depression about half the size of a badminton court. At the very centre was a tall, irregular column like the trunk of a great tree, reaching the ceiling. From it, about a quarter of the way up from the base, hung a series of five large pods the size of coffins. One was filled with a sickly green translucent fluid, and through the clear film that held its contents inside the distinct shape of a pony could be seen floating within.

We crept inside, the soldiers fanning out with swords and bayonet-tipped muskets to form a sort of defensive perimeter. Fer-de-Lance and I stepped down to the lower portion and approached the pod. There was no gas here, so I gratefully removed my mask again and sucked in the stagnant, damp air of this place; it seemed as though this room had been deliberately sealed from the rest of the castle.

“Auntie ‘Tia was in one of these things in Canterlot,” I said, peering at the peculiar pod-thing. The fluid inside was the colour of absinthe only just about starting to acquire its louche. Inside, in this milky fluid, the pony inside floated upside down with his eyes closed. The other pods were empty, each with their bottom lid hanging open.

“You mean Princess Celestia,” said Fer-de-Lance. She leaned in close enough that had the pod been made of glass, her breath would have misted on it. “Poor thing, he’s only a colt. I wonder how we get him out.”

While we were busy peering at the trapped pony, a few of the soldiers had drifted away to investigate the incongruous collection of boxes and sacks. They appeared to be having difficulty trying to open the crates, as the lids seemed to be very firmly nailed shut and with no obvious method of opening them. One suggested prying them open with a bayonet or a sword, having got it into his head that the Changelings must be keeping gold and treasure inside if they made them nearly impossible to open. While I paid them little attention, instead peering at the strange sight of a colt floating upside down in the cylinder before me, something scratched at the back of my mind. We had seen such wooden boxes and sacks in a number of the otherwise empty rooms we had passed through on our way here, and although they were perfectly innocuous and unremarkable, the fact that I had seen so many of them seemingly everywhere was starting to make my hooves itch.

I wasn’t paying complete attention when it happened, but I found out the precise sequence of events later. One soldier had allowed his curiosity to get the better of him and decided that he would use the tip of his bayonet to poke a small hole in one of the sacks to see what was inside. The sack, however, had other ideas and attacked him with fangs that, by all accounts, sacks should not have. It leapt into the air, propelled somehow, opened a fang-filled cavity around its midsection and clamped around the curious soldier’s foreleg. His scream of pain was what finally alerted me to the trap we had just allowed ourselves to walk into.

A green flame flashed, briefly bathing the room in its malignant glow, and seemingly consumed the sack to reveal the Changeling biting into the poor stallion’s leg. To their credit, his comrades reacted quickly, and promptly skewered the beast with their bayonets and swords. However, just as the wild thrashing of the drone began to die down, more green fire erupted from that same corner. The half-dozen or so drones that had disguised themselves as simple wooden boxes and sacks of grain were revealed, and hurled themselves at the section of guardsponies.

One drone threw itself into the air on buzzing wings, rising above the chaotic, desperate fight. Our eyes connected across the room, and in its vacant stare I saw a glimmer of recognition. The Changeling rushed forth, forehooves outstretched, and, before I even had a chance to draw upon enough magic to unsheathe my sword, had closed the distance and was upon me. Cold, chitinous hooves struck my chest and I was shoved backwards, rearing up on my hindlegs, then falling right on my back with a painful jolt that reverberated up my spine and aggravated those old flogging scars.

Those deceptively fragile-looking hooves pinned me to the ground. The drone stood atop me and bared its sharp, glistening fangs, glinting in the dim light of this place. The forked tongue flickered in the air as it hissed, as though tasting my fear. I desperately summoned magic into my horn just as the Changeling dipped its head to clamp its jaws around my neck, and whatever scant amount I could manage in that time I hurled at its face in a rough, unfocused blast.

The drone shrieked. My blast had struck its cheek, scorching the chitin but only inflicting superficial pain. It was enough. I lashed out wildly with my hooves, forcing it to stumble backwards. Just as I was about to draw my sword and run it through, I heard the staccato of rapid-fire blasts of magic from my right and above. One bolt ripped straight through the Changeling’s head, blasting a ragged, smoking hole on either side of its malformed cranium and ejecting a yellow-green mist from the opposite side. Stinking, smouldering brains splattered on my chest and in my face, and the drone slumped to the side, dead.

Fer-de-Lance lifted me to my hooves, and none too gently either; for a supposedly refined Prench lady she was very strong, though her musculature was more of the cultivated, elegant type that is as much aesthetically pleasing as it is effective, compared with Square Basher’s raw brute strength that is merely a side effect of pure hard work. The fight, however, was over as suddenly as it had started -- the Changelings were all dead, while three of our ponies suffered injuries that would now put them out of any fights for the day. The stallion who tried to stab the ‘sack’ had his foreleg brutally mangled by the drone’s fangs and could barely walk; the second had a broken foreleg and would have to hobble on a crutch made out of bayonet scabbards; and the third had suffered repeated blows to the head and was suffering from a concussion. They would have to come with us, thus slowing us down, until we could find another group of ponies to escort them to the casualty clearing station, wherever that was. To leave them behind or to send them to make their own way back, even under escort, was to condemn them to another ambush.

“I think I hit the pod-thing when I saved your life,” said Fer-de-Lance once all of that had been taken care of. I thought about retorting that I had the situation all in hoof and didn’t need her help, but decided to let her bruised ego have this one.

The base of the pod had indeed been struck by Fer-de-Lance’s fusilade. A bolt had grazed it there, leaving cracks through which the murky fluid within dribbled like a leaky tap. The colt’s eyes opened, wide with shock and fright as he looked at us through the film. He writhed about in the pod, his body twisting and turning. Fer-de-Lance stepped back in alarm, just as the lower half of the pod tore open, decanting this foul-smelling amniotic slime at our hooves. The colt dropped to the ground. Shocked, the two of us merely watched as he curled up on the ground in a foetal position and shivered.

He was a young pegasus, probably in his mid-teens judging by his youthful features and lanky stature. Puberty had stretched his bones but his flesh had yet to catch up. His bottle-green coat and blond mane and tail were drenched in this peculiar, lime green fluid. In between coughing and gagging for air, he wailed and sobbed pathetically, and babbled in that bastardised version of Old Ponish their sort speak.

“What’s he complaining about?” said a sergeant. He was about to poke the colt with the blunt end of his halberd, but I shoved it away with a burst of magic.

My grasp of their tongue was still loose, as it appeared that each individual tribe, clan, group or whatever had their own specific dialects that were only mostly mutually intelligible. However, since I understood their root language better than most ponies outside of tired old academics who only learnt it from reading books, I was able to understand most of what this colt was upset about. “He wants us to put him back in,” I said. “He said he was happy in there.”

“Whatever for?” asked Fer-de-Lance. She kicked at the congealing slime and pulled a disgusted face as it stuck to her hoof.

I listened to the colt’s whining for a little while longer, and then when I managed to piece together the meaning from the few words I could understand and that all-important context, I translated for the benefit of everypony else present: “He says the Changelings put ponies in these pods if they can’t or won’t pay the love tax, or just when they need more of it. It puts ponies into a deep sleep and they dream of somepony they love, and the Changelings can extract the love that way.”

Fer-de-Lance squinted at the colt, who curled up tighter into a ball and shivered with wretched sobbing, and shook her head dismissively. “So we’ve rescued him from this horrible fate,” she said. “But he looks very unhappy about it, no?”

“These ponies have lived under Changeling occupation for a hundred years, it’s all he knows,” I said. The colt continued his pained ranting, in between spluttering coughs and bouts of incoherent wailing. “Now he’s saying his mother died when he was a foal, but the Changelings brought her back in the dream. He wants to go back.”

“But it wasn’t real,” said Fer-de-Lance, her voice hushed now as even the cold, dismissive mare was moved to some semblance of sympathy.

“I expect it felt real to him, the poor chap.”

[The fluid is a sort of nutrient slime that keeps captured ponies and other creatures alive for extended periods of time, though not indefinitely. This allows not only the extraction of a more concentrated form of love than by conventional means, but also made governing populations of the enslaved much easier, both as a means to keep ponies sedate but also as a reward system. The exact process by which Changelings could induce unconsciousness and dreams of loved ones has been lost, but it is believed to have been an intrinsic part of Purestrain magic. Princess Luna has a number of theories on this.]

There was nothing I could do about it now, stuck inside this fortress with the deranged Fer-de-Lance and her frankly murderous obsession with flying a sheet of coloured cloth from the highest point of the castle. So I was more than a little surprised when she approached the sobbing colt, unfastened the armour on her right hoof and stepped out of it, and stroked the side of his head tenderly. It seemed to soothe him a little, and he fell quiet and rather still, though panting for breath.

“Give him food and water,” ordered Fer-de-Lance. “And wipe that filth off of him.”

Her sergeant retrieved a ration bar, an oat and chocolate flavour one that tasted of neither if I remember correctly, and a water canteen from his saddle bags, then knelt down next to the colt to deal with that. With the colt distracted with the treats the sergeant took the opportunity to hit him with the Changeling reveal spell, which revealed nothing but a very hungry teenager. As that business was going on, Fer-de-Lance stepped away, re-buckling her lower hoof armour with her magic as she did so.

“He doesn’t have his cutie mark,” she said, shaking her head. I peered around her to see that his flanks were indeed as blank as a newborn’s.

“I doubt many ponies living under Changeling rule have the chance to find that which makes them unique and special,” I said. “What are we going to do with him?”

Fer-de-Lance shrugged, and watched her sergeant trying in vain to wipe the gunk out of the colt’s fur with a hoofkerchief while muttering to himself in Prench. “It does not feel right to leave him here alone, but we can’t bring him with us and we can’t spare anypony to stay and look after him.”

I might have volunteered to stay behind and look after the colt if it meant excusing myself from the pursuit of Fer-de-Lance’s flag-based scheme, but with the frontlines reduced to mere rooms and corridors in this castle and the indeterminate number of Changelings hiding within them like beasts in a cave, on balance I decided that I was probably better off accompanying the modest number of heavily armed and armoured soldiers even if it did mean plunging deeper into this deadly maze. With the colt fed, watered, and calmed down to the point of being capable of almost rational and coherent speech, as far as their pidgin language would allow at least, our intrepid little group readied itself to make a move on. Another area of chrysalite was identified, and the faint tingle in my cutie marks seemed to indicate that was the right way to go.

While Fer-de-Lance was busy blasting another hole in the wall, and taking rather too much glee in the process, I sat down with the colt. Mercifully, he crawled out of the pool of slime on the floor, though his coat was still covered in it, and was sitting on the steps around the central depression. The sergeant had wiped the colt’s face dry with a rag, which had done little to stop the tears from flowing from his eyes. He chewed noisily on the ration bar, spilling crumbs everywhere and smearing chocolate on his lips; if he had been trapped inside that pod for so long then I imagine that this was the first time he had eaten something real for quite a while. If nothing else, his table manners left much to be desired.

I first inquired after his name, being a good place to start as any, which he said was ‘Saguaro’. Explaining who I am was a bit more of a challenge, as his uneducated mind and the aforementioned language issue made explaining the complex matter of what a prince is exactly and why very difficult, and I’m not certain that he fully understood it all. He worked out, however, that I am somepony of some reasonable importance, though I made great pains to point out that there are ponies above me in the grand national pecking order.

I tried to explain to him that he was to stay there until we could come back from whatever it was we were doing or another group of Equestrian soldiers found him, however, the language issue again made this rather difficult. After all, how was I supposed to explain the complexities of the political situation that had led to an army of thousands of ponies from a nation he hadn’t heard of to come marching into his home and start butchering the Changelings that he and his tribe had called overlords for the past century? The answer was I did so poorly, or rather, he seemed to be in possession of enough of his faculties to realise that, like me, his best bet of survival might be with the group of armoured ponies who gave him food.

“I want to go with you.” Even by the standards of these peasants his pronunciation sounded sloppy. “I will go with you.”

“It will be dangerous,” I said. “Lots of, ah…” The natives’ word for the Changelings eluded me for the moment, so I attempted to cross that language barrier by pointing at the remains of the pod he had just crawled out of, which was hanging limply from the pillar and dripping viscous fluid on the floor. The dead drones had been dragged to the corner of the room and covered with a cloth, and I didn’t particularly feel like drawing the attention of a foal to them. “The ones who change?” I posited.

The colt squinted at me, tilting his head to one side with one ear pricked and the other tilted down like a confused puppy. “The Mothers?”

It was my turn to pull the silly face; I thought I had misheard him, but when learning a new language, somewhere after how to say one’s own name but before how to order a martini with three olives at one’s preferred ratio of gin to vermouth (six to one, obviously) is identifying members of one’s own family, and I liked to think that I had picked up enough of their various dialects to correctly identify their word for ‘mother’. “No, Changelings.”

He shrugged, took another bite of his ration bar, and said, with his mouth full, “They made my real mother live again.”

I would definitely have to work on his manners, and if I could teach Blitzkrieg of all ponies the importance of dining etiquette then I should have no trouble with this one. “But we are fighting them, yes? Why do you want to follow us? Big danger.”

“You are winning? You are here, that means you are winning.”

That remained to be seen, but for now I nodded in the affirmative.

“Then I will go with you because you are winning, and you are somepony important. I live here, I can show you where to go!”

For a pony who had just crawled out of a Changeling pod-thing he was quite astute, and I have to admit that upon hearing that little bit of self-serving cynicism that I took a modest liking to the colt. He reminded me of me when I was around that age, though without the added sense of entitlement that comes with being a prince of the realm on top of that which being fourteen years old already bestows. Somepony had to keep an eye on him lest he come into trouble, his instincts being untempered by experience. Besides, if and when we did run into some drones in this wretched place, I was willing to take the risk that they would be reluctant to harm a source of food.

Our intrepid little team marched on through the hole the Colonel had made in the wall, and I took my previous position near the front with her, albeit this time with the colt taking up the spot where my aide would normally be. Though it was a meagre, inadequate substitute for Cannon Fodder’s reassuring presence just behind my left shoulder, it was some minor comfort at least.

Corridors and hallways all merged into one seemingly endless maze, but I felt the subtle tug of my special talent pulling me down certain corridors, through particular doors, and occasionally through the walls of chrysalite. Saguaro pointed these out too, but I couldn't help but think that he was watching me very closely and picking up on whatever subtle signals that I was betraying each time my special talent pointed something out to me, and then pointing and babbling something before I could say anything. That Fer-de-Lance was quite willing to take Saguaro’s assertion that he could navigate the rats’ nest of corridors and halls with greater credulity than my special talent was somewhat insulting, but I held my tongue. We found a set of spiral stairs leading up, but after a few flights it terminated in yet another hall. However, in ascending for the first time we felt as though we were getting closer to our goal.

We encountered a few of our own soldiers along the way, remnants of sections who had gotten lost in this maze. Some had fought with Changelings, losing a few of their number to ambushes along the way, but from all accounts the greatest threat seemed to come not from the drones inside the fortress concealing themselves as furniture, but from the simple act of getting lost here. If the enemy’s plan was for the great Equestrian Army to become hopelessly bogged down simply trying to navigate this infernal place until we gave up then it seemed to be working beautifully for them.

“Or into an even bigger ambush,” said Fer-de-Lance when one of her officers pointed out that we had seen markedly fewer Changelings than he had anticipated. I wish she hadn’t, for every subsequent room, hall, corridor, chamber, antechamber, compartment, cubicle, cabin, cavern, and so on that was devoid of the defenders of this castle simply narrowed down the possible number of areas where they would be lying in wait for us. Our soldiers, not wanting to fall into that same mistake again, took it upon themselves to cast the Changeling-reveal spell on each and every box and sack they came across, and then stab and/or shoot just to make sure. While it slowed our progress and after that previous incident none of them were revealed to be Changelings in disguise, their thoroughness did grant me some minor measure of relief from the constant paranoia. Opening a door or blasting through a wall to find only furniture, empty pods, or boxes of supplies that were then smashed to pieces brought no relief, and only twisted that knot of anxiety ever tighter.

As we pushed further up the castle we ran into fewer Equestrian soldiers and found more evidence of Changeling and native pony habitation. In one room, which disarmingly resembled a conventional office with a desk, cushions, and a few boxes filled with documents, we found a lone soldier huddled up in one corner. I shall never forget the haunted, drawn, empty expression on this stallion’s face for as long as I live, however much longer I have left.

In the opposite corner, which he was staring at even as I pushed my way in to take a look, was what I thought was a large bundle of sacks at first glance. When I brightened the light of my horn to banish the gloom, I saw that they were in fact the bodies of two native ponies lying so dreadfully still in pools of their own blood. They were a stallion and a mare, huddled together in a final embrace.

“I thought they were Changelings, sir,” said the guardspony, his voice breaking. Tears streamed down his face, carving clean channels in the dusty fur. A bloody bayonet was on the floor by his hooves. “Celestia forgive me, I thought they were Changelings.”

We could get nothing more out of him, not the location of his unit, what happened to them, or even his name, though we found the latter on the tags he still wore under his armour - Star Bright. Fer-de-Lance’s sergeant major tried to bully, coax, and then bribe the stallion to come with us, but the horror of what he had committed rendered him thoroughly incapable of doing much else except repeat his mantra. At the time and given the circumstances we had little choice but to leave him there and deal with that mess later. Experience told me that I would have to deal with quite a few such messes in the near future, should I survive long enough to see them.

Saguaro wanted to see what the fuss was about, and was weaving around to try and see past me at the door. A foal shouldn’t have to see that, and neither should an adult pony either, so I barked at him to keep out of our way as I had instructed before. Ears wilting and eyes tearing up pathetically at being admonished he slinked away, while one of the other soldiers tried to keep him distracted.

A dark shadow had fallen over Fer-de-Lance’s features as she watched, and I could almost see the turmoil taking place behind her cold eyes. We did what we could, making sure he had food and water, but otherwise were powerless here. Nopony wanted to talk about this, but the grim, resigned expressions of a horror that was all too inevitable said more than what mere words could convey. Going into a populated city filled with civilians, we all knew that this sort of deadly mistake was a distinct possibility, especially with an enemy able to blend in with them. How many more times this scene was repeated throughout the castle and in the streets beyond we had no way of knowing, and it was best not thought about.

Corridor after corridor, room after room, floor after floor. Our gallant little expedition crawled through this fortress, inching closer and closer to our goal, whatever that was. By this point it barely seemed to matter. As we delved deeper we encountered more native ponies, who unsurprisingly fled from the armoured contingent of foreigners invading their home. No amount of announcing that our intentions were to liberate them from the yoke of Changeling oppression seemed to dissuade them from fleeing, and the sight of us so heavily armed and armoured storming through their halls hardly led credulity to our claim. However, there were at least a few who were too old and slow to escape and were thus easily and quickly subdued.

Understandably frightened of the tall, scarred stallion in a dusty, brain-splattered black uniform replete with skulls, the natives, also lacking cutie marks, we did manage to capture were not exactly keen to talk with me. Saguaro, being quite eager to help the ponies he boldly assumed to be winning this infernal war, tried to help a little with some of the more complex words and ideas I was trying to convey. When that failed, bribing them with more chocolate ration bars encouraged them to share information.

“They’re just clerks,” I explained to Fer-de-Lance after I had dragged as much information out of them as I possibly could. She eyed the ponies stuffing their faces with her battalion’s chocolate bar rations warily, as though they might turn into the Changelings even though they had been struck with the reveal spell (which, not understanding what was happening to them, caused one to faint and the rest to cry). “This part of the castle is also the administrative centre of the city, so these ponies deal with record-keeping, tax-collecting, censuses, and all of the other bureaucracy on behalf of their overlords. Apparently, the Changelings like to appoint pony administrators to run their occupied cities. Something about helping to keep the enslaved population in line by offering a chance of preferential treatment in return for service, I expect.”

“Collaborators,” hissed Fer-de-Lance, shooting the cowering ponies a glare that could sour an entire bushel of Sweet Apple Acres apples.

“They didn’t have much of a choice,” I said, shrugging. In truth, I couldn’t say for certain that I would not have done the same thing in that situation, but I kept that thought to myself.

This area of the keep was certainly more ‘lived-in’ than the mostly-empty rooms and halls that we had moved through thus far. These were disarmingly conventional offices, meeting rooms, archives and the like, and it all resembled the interior of the various ministry buildings that I have had the misfortune of visiting in Canterlot. That said, amidst the desks and cubicles, break rooms and the like, we found very few instances of the sort of personal expression that bored office drones like to exert as a way of combating the soul-crushing effects of bureaucratic work. There were no ‘#1 Boss’ mugs on desks, no pictures of families pinned to the wall, and no saccharine motivational posters to stimulate the workers; the absence of such things was unsettling in a rather subtle way, like meeting a foal who is being just a little too polite so as to trigger an unconscious thought in one’s mind that something disturbing lies hidden beneath a benign exterior.

Most ponies scattered before our advance, while others hid under desks or tried to conceal themselves in cupboards. How much they understood of what was happening to them and their city was anypony’s guess, but I hardly imagined that the Changelings would be entirely forthright with their food source about the reality of a war that had now battered down their front door and making itself at home on their favourite armchair next to the fire. There were no mobs of pretty, eager mares wanting to thank their noble liberators in the only way they knew how; there was only the fear in their eyes as they cowered from a force that was both shockingly familiar and so thoroughly alien in shape, appearance, and temperament. With that in mind, terror seemed like the perfectly rational response.

There were no Changelings in the offices, or, to be more accurate, no Changelings that we could find. How many of the cowering, running, crying ponies we encountered as our little contingent rampaged through their home and workplace, preemptively smashing furniture along the way, were actually drones in disguise, either spying on us or waiting for an opportunity to flee themselves, it is impossible to say for certain. Our group numbered nine ponies now (including me and the colt I was now foal-sitting, which really meant that it was a group of seven useful ponies), and we had neither the ponypower nor the patience to spare to properly process every single pony we came across, especially if many of them kept running away at the mere sight of us. I didn’t like it; the thought that every equine we passed could be a drone quietly observing and plotting our demise behind their convincingly fear-filled eyes was a disquieting one, and above all I feared a repeat of what that poor stallion we left alone had done.

“The city will already be taken by the time we get to the top,” sneered Fer-de-Lance when we stopped for a short break. Wandering around this castle, following the faint tug of my cutie mark, felt as though it had taken long hours, though my watch told me that, despite the leaden feeling of exhaustion deep within me, only one had passed.

This place appeared to have been a dormitory of sorts. It was a long hall positively filled with roughly-made bunk beds arranged in a multitude of tight rows. The space between each of these primitive things was narrow, and barely wide enough to allow a stallion of my modest girth to walk through without scraping his shoulders and flanks on jutting pieces of wood. To say nothing for the ponies in armour, who were forced to squeeze past. After a few experimental jabs with bayonets and swords confirmed that these were harmless beds, the eleven soldiers [We can assume more ponies had joined their party] who were still with us took it in turns to rest on them while the others stood guard.

An incredibly tall ceiling stretched into darkness, through which a pillar of light descended from a square hole. So we were close to the roof after all, and if we had a pegasus or a unicorn who could self-levitate amongst our number we could finally be done with this silly venture. The ceiling surrounding this patch of light, so tantalisingly out of reach, was immersed in pitch-black darkness in a manner that did not seem entirely natural. Light at ground level, however, was provided for by peculiar glowing growths stuck to the walls with more of that chrysalite slime. Everything around us, therefore, was bathed in that horrid green glow, save for our small island of golden light provided by my horn.

Looking around, however, amidst the rotting wood and unwashed sheets, while I could see signs of equine habitation in the form of unmade beds and, as one of the soldiers loudly pointed out, the odour here, there were still no personal effects. Though it was evident that ponies lived here and have done so for a long time, what was conspicuously absent was that elusive, undefinable feature that might be described as the ‘soul’ of this place. As we rested, I thought to press this further with Saguaro.

“What do you like to do for fun?”

He was eating another ration bar when I asked him, apparently having taken a liking to them. I suppose if one had never experienced chocolate before, the substitute the military used must have tasted heavenly. “Fun?”

“Yes. I like” - Drinking? Whoring? Naughty books? - “reading.”

Saguaro stared at me, obviously thinking hard about this strange concept that he hadn’t encountered and internalised before, then giving up with a shrug and saying that he liked the ration bars we gave him. It was a start, at least, and though it was rather premature to think about these things when it was still very unsure that I would live long enough to see them, I wondered just what in blazes we were going to do with the two thousand odd ponies in this city, or however many of them were left after the Equestrian Army had finished with it.

The rows of beds terminated abruptly at the far end of the hall, leaving a relatively open space sparsely populated by a few rough tables and chairs to form what I assumed was some sort of communal area. There were fewer chairs than beds, I noted. They were all in some state of disarray, clearly having been abandoned very quickly and without care at all; chairs were left askew or knocked over and plates with congealing cold gruel and hard bread remained on tables. It was likely the enslaved ponies left them in their panic to flee from our advance, I thought, or clearing a space for an ambush…

That intrusive little thought and the subsequent tingling in my hooves prompted me to look up, and I immediately wished that I hadn’t. Changelings, about a dozen of them, had descended unseen from the hole in the ceiling or through some other secret passage, hidden amidst the all-consuming darkness there, and clung to the walls by their hooves like the insects they resembled. They perched like gargoyles, and stared as silently as we passed below them. Only the casual flicker of insectoid wings or the quiver in an alien compound eye demonstrated that they were not incredibly realistic carvings of drones.

I stopped, and the stallion behind me bumped into my rear. His complaints barely registered as I was transfixed by the sight above, my legs turning to quivering jelly. The Changelings knew that I had seen them, that much was clear as, despite the thoroughly unsettling compound eyes that each drone possessed, I had made definite eye contact with a number of them, yet they did not descend in a storm of buzzing wings and gnashing fangs to tear us all into thin ribbons despite our very clear vulnerability. Somehow, that they were merely observing in plain sight, un-hidden and un-disguised as one might expect of their kind, was all the more unsettling for that most primal of questions - why? Whatever it was, it just had to lead to some horrific fate for Yours Truly, as always.

My shout of alarm came out as a shrill yelp, but that and the frantic pointing upwards with a hoof was enough to alert the distracted ponies around me to the new threat. Pegasi, particularly Blitzkrieg, will sometimes point out that we ground-bound ponies tend to neglect what’s above us, thinking that our pegasi cousins will always be there to deal with whatever threats would fall from the skies. That none of our number, aside from me, had thought to look up after our initial search of the room implied a certain level of credence to that belief.

“Form square!” shouted Fer-de-Lance. The effect was instantaneous -- our loose formation snapped together quickly, forming a tight, if rather small, square with her, Saguaro, and me relatively safe in its centre. Shoulder to shoulder, our unicorns harnessed their magic and aimed heavenwards, ready to fire upon the enemy should their quiet observation turn to violence. And should any make it through the hail of fire, which was more than likely given our scant numbers, our earth ponies brandished their bayonet-tipped muskets to impale them.

Yet they did not come. The enemy drones remained perched on the walls, with perhaps the only reaction being a few more excitable flickers of shimmering wings. I heard chittering, which sounded disconcertingly like laughter.

Fer-de-Lance had raised her hoof, almost ready to give the order to fire, yet as she looked up and around at the drones, who stared back with those coldly vacant expressions, she did not. Tense seconds ticked by, and all I could hear was the low, heavy breathing of ponies in anticipation of violence and the faint susurration of flickering Changeling wings. Saguaro curled up in a foetal position on the floor by my hooves and shivered.

“What are they doing?” said Fer-de-Lance, hissing through set teeth. Neither pony nor drone seemed to want to be the first to blink; the first to shatter this strange, unspoken, and fragile truce. “Why are they just staring at us? Why don’t they attack?”

“They’re waiting,” I posited. Damnation, I almost sympathised with Fer-de-Lance; the incessant, unblinking staring was almost worse than the violence itself.

Fer-de-Lance scoffed. “What for?”

The door ahead of us lurched open, shoved by a hoof, and swung wide in a grand sweeping arc to reveal a grotesquely tall figure standing behind it. There was a clattering of armour as our ponies reacted, those at the side of the square facing the door adjusting their stance to meet this potential new threat. The creature almost matched Princess Celestia in terms of stature, but by comparison to her slender physique appeared thin and emaciated. One hindleg was visible from the front, bent as it was at a slightly awkward and unnatural angle as it must have broken and then set by an unskilled surgeon.

The thick chitin, like rigid plate armour, seemed almost a little too big for the creature, whose withered flesh beneath it was visible through a number of thin cracks that weaved across the once lacquer-like surface like a cracked glass window. Its wings were broken slivers of gossamer that hanged loosely from its sides, and, at least according to my thoroughly uneducated views on Changeling physiognomy, should probably have been removed after having been rendered useless. Save for a thin scar on the right side of its exposed neck, where a year ago the blade of a friend of mine had inflicted a wound that sliced open an artery and should have killed it, its face was untouched by the deprivations that had been inflicted upon its once-powerful frame. The thick chitin that covered the head like a helmet and the peculiar crest-like shape of the horn was instantly recognisable, as was the expression of cold, sneering nobility that would not have been out of place in Canterlot high society.

“General Odonata,” I said.

“Hello, darling,” said Odonata, grinning directly at me. It guided a hole-ridden, withered hoof up to the large slab of chitin that covered its chest like a breastplate, where I saw a curious, jagged insignia that resembled a green flame branded there. “It’s Hive Marshal Odonata now, as of one hour ago. Her Majesty Chrysalis, Queen of All Hives saw fit to grant me a promotion; she thought that it might encourage me to fight harder.” Her laughter was low and melodious, but devoid of any emotion akin to joy.

“You know this creature?” blurted out Fer-de-Lance.

Hive Marshal Odonata stepped into the hall, dragging its damaged and apparently useless hindleg. “It’s been a very long time since that wonderful morning we spent together, hasn’t it, Blueblood? Have you missed me?”

Fer-de-Lance arched an eyebrow so high that it threatened to leave her face entirely. “You and this creature have, uh- how you say it?”

“Nous avons baisé,” I said. [Translated from Prench, this means ‘We had relations of an intimate nature with one another’.] Fer-de-Lance’s eyebrow returned to its normal position, which is to say she frowned deeply. Though her aristocratic detachment held strong, I could sense disgust a mile away and she was radiating it like a strong perfume.

“C’est compliqué,” I added with a shrug, and she decided that it was best left at that.

Odonata took a few steps further into the room and stopped a scant dozen yards away, and those soldiers on the side facing her flinched, armour plates rattling, with each step. She seemed to notice this, and smiled with mock-innocence.

“Steady, mes enfants,” said Fer-de-Lance, her voice dry and hoarse but with an undercurrent of steel. “You are soldiers of Prance!”

There were none among them who hadn’t heard of the stories of the abominations that led the vast armies of monsters they fought. The somewhat fanciful tales told by veteran sergeants to terrify their meek recruits into obedience held at least some core of truth within them; a Purestrain’s war magic was crude but immensely powerful, their skill in shape-changing was second only to their dark Queen herself, and through them a vast army of creatures so fanatical in their devotion that they could scarcely be considered sapient was hurled in our direction with no fear or concern for losses. The callous evil of Chrysalis’ regime was personified entirely in the figure standing there, a mere dozen yards away, and it was smiling.

In the right forehoof, the Purestrain held up a stick about as long as a rolled umbrella, and a sheet that looked so crisp and white that it just had to be unnatural was tied to its top to form a primitive white flag.

“I think it’s time that we discussed terms of surrender.”

“The Prism Guard dies before it surrenders!” roared Fer-de-Lance, her voice filling the hall and echoing off the walls.

Odonata arched an eyebrow. Well, Changelings don’t have eyebrows per se, but her face pulled an expression that, had she an eyebrow, it would have arched. “Ah, yes. Your precious Princess Twilight Sparkle was too queasy to come here herself, so she sent you instead.”

Fer-de-Lance made a deep, bear-like growling noise in her throat.

Surrounded on all sides, and with possibly even more drones lurking unseen elsewhere, not to mention a Purestrain among them, it was unlikely we’d all survive. I had no intention of ending my career in a suicidal blaze of glory, and while it might make a very exciting anecdote for officer cadets to share by a roaring fireplace in the mess as they sip their evening drinks, I’d at least like to be alive to enjoy it too.

“Let’s talk about this first,” I said. The expression of subtle disgust that Fer-de-Lance pulled was much more severe than when she learnt of my indiscretion.

“Idiots,” spat Odonata. The creature waved the flag, the cloth wafting limply in the hot, stagnant air. “I meant my surrender. Although-” the flag stopped waving, and the grin grew unnaturally wide to show far too many yellowed fangs “-if you are offering to surrender to me, I would be willing to consider it.”

“This is a trap!” Fer-de-Lance shouted from behind her wall of armoured ponies. “More Changeling trickery!”

“This could very well be,” said Odonata with an all-too-casual shrug. The end of the flagpole was placed on the ground and the shaft rested against the Purestrain’s broad, armoured shoulder, with the white cloth draping down over its back like a cape. “But you are Equestrian soldiers and you have rules to follow. You even write them down in a big book for everypony and everyling to read and enjoy, and we distinctly remember the part that frowns on abusing surrendering enemy combatants. If you want to kill me, then I shan’t try to stop you, for it will be a more merciful end than what the Queen will exact upon me for failing her for a third time. The question, ponies, is can you live with yourselves?”

Fer-de-Lance was silent as she stared hard at Odonata. Her powerfully-built frame was tense, muscles tight under her armour, as though she might at any moment leap over her troops in front of her and tear the Changeling’s head off with her bare hooves. She would, of course, be dead before she crossed the halfway point between us and the newly-minted Hive Marshal, either blasted to ashes by the Purestrain’s magic or ripped to shreds by drones. Her jaw worked, and I could see the muscles in her cheek bulging as she clenched and unclenched. I could have said something, and I probably should have, but somehow it felt more appropriate that the Colonel here make the necessary call. If I didn’t like her decision, which would be whatever would lead to further violence, I could always overrule her. In fact, I was entirely prepared to when she said the precise opposite of what I was expecting to say.

“Merde,” she snapped. “Fine. Hive Marshal Odonata, I accept your honourable surrender.”

“Most gracious of you.” Odonata dipped her head slightly in a sort of bow. “However, my offer of surrender is only to the Black Prince.”

There was only one prince here, unless Saguaro turned out to be descended from some sort of native chieftain, but ‘black’ eluded me until I realised that it was in reference to this ghoulish uniform instead of the colour, or lack thereof, of my fur. But there was still that unanswered question - why me in particular?

Of all the sobriquets that I have accumulated over the years - ‘Blue Balls’, ‘Mr Blue-Buddy’, and ‘coward-cad-bully-and-thief’ to name a few - the Black Prince has probably been the most enduring of them all, probably because it was bestowed by the enemy and thus held an aura of mystique. The term seemed to carry with it an undercurrent of fear and respect, in contrast to the other nicknames that I have picked up over the years. For Odonata, I could only imagine that surrendering to me as opposed to Fer-de-Lance, who was just yet another Equestrian officer but with an amusing accent as far as the enemy was concerned, held some sort of symbolic weight. We had something of a history, after all, and, if anything, I could look forward to having some questions that had been playing on the back of my mind finally answered.

I can’t say that this nickname ever truly sat right with me, really, for I much preferred that ponies referred to me by my name and title, or merely ‘Your Highness’ and ‘Sir’, but when voiced by our adversary there, it implied a certain sense of recognition that extended beyond the increasingly anonymised approach to warfare. It meant that I had earned a reputation even within the enemy’s hierarchy and thus singled out for special attention, which was never, ever a good thing when it came to war.

“I accept your surrender,” I said, at length.

“Thank you.” Relief was evident even in that cold, autocratic voice. Odonata placed the white flag gingerly on the ground, whereupon it flashed briefly with a startling green flame as the Changeling that had been forced into such indignity returned to its original form. It looked almost embarrassed, if drones were capable of feeling such a thing.

“Is that it?” said Fer-de-Lance, sounding almost disappointed. “It’s over? We won?”

Odonata pulled a face that I took to be an attempt at an apologetic expression, but it certainly didn’t come off that way on a Changeling’s face. Any sense of relief that I felt at ‘it’ being ‘over’ was instantly and thoroughly crushed into atoms.

“I said my surrender.” Odonata swept a hoof in the direction of the drones still clinging to the walls above us. “And my staff, too, but the Changelings formerly under my command-” the hoof was pointed in the general direction of the row of windows to our right, through which I saw black pillars of smoke rising from a city on fire “-may not.”

Author's Note

Please excuse my atrocious French.

Chapter 20

[Following the capture of Hive Marshal Odonata, Prince Blueblood’s direct personal involvement with the continued fighting in the city had come to an end. While the events of the battle are generally well-known, it is necessary to place my nephew’s highly personal account into the wider picture. Accordingly, I have appended an extract from Paperweight’s ‘A Concise History of the Changeling Wars’.]

The storming of Virion Hive was the single bloodiest day in Equestrian military history since the Nightmare Heresy.

A total of six breaches had been made in the city walls, and four of them had been deemed practicable by the Equestrian Army’s specialist Maud Pie. The tunneling operation, performed jointly by the Horsetrailian engineers and a team of geomancers from the Rat Pony Tribe, beneath the castle keep had been completed and the mine laid. Aware of a Changeling war swarm marching to reinforce, Market Garden ordered I Corps to storm the city in the early morning of the 9th.

Two breaches were to be attacked by the 5th and 12th Divisions respectively, and the castle and the breach in the wall next to it was to be stormed by the 2nd Brigade with the Two Sisters Brigade as reserve. The 7th Division was to be held back as a tactical reserve to exploit a successful breach.

At dawn, the mine beneath the castle was detonated, blowing a large hole in the side of the keep, killing and wounding a large number of the defenders and civilians. Equestrian artillery fired gas shells into each of the breaches. The infantry, donning new gas masks that were little more than cloth bags soaked in neutralising chemicals, climbed out of the trenches, the pegasi and griffons took to the air, and the assault began.

However, as the Changelings had discovered with their first use of poison gas, this was not the war-winning weapon that the Equestrian general staff believed it would be. The Changelings, having correctly anticipated that their own innovations would be used against them, had developed effective countermeasures against poison gas. Gas masks with filters ensured that most of the defenders at the walls and in the castle could survive the chlorine gas, though their pony slaves had not been issued with them and many died as a result.

In addition to using gas masks, as chlorine gas is heavier than air the Changelings went against their usual tactics and placed the majority of their forces in the skies. While out-matched in speed and stamina in the air compared with pegasi and griffons on an individual level, en masse they overwhelmed the Equestrian airborne and kept them from neutralising the Changeling defences on the walls. The result was a massacre.

At the castle, the defenders waited until the Prism Guards descended into the crater before opening fire, subjecting them to a murderous hail of musket fire and close-range canister shot that inflicted heavy casualties. Elsewhere, the Equestrian units attacking the breaches came under devastating barrages that hurled back their repeated assaults. Despite this, Equestrian soldiers continued to make frontal attacks against these fortified positions only to be cut down again and again and pushed back. It appeared that the attack was failing, and the losses were so severe on all breaches that Market Garden considered halting the assault without committing the 7th and settling in for the long siege she and the Equestrian general staff had been keen to avoid.

The breakthrough came through the castle breach, where Commissar-Prince Blueblood personally led a Prism Guard assault that captured the Changelings’ cannons and allowed the battalion to enter the keep. From there, they penetrated the city via the castle gates and cleared the adjacent breach of defenders, allowing the battered remainder of the Guards Division to take the breach and enter the city. As this was happening, elements of the Prism Guards cleared the fortress, capturing Odonata, who Chrysalis had promoted to Hive Marshal less than an hour before her surrender. The standard of the Prism Guards was raised on the castle’s roof in triumph. However, though their commander had surrendered, the Changelings defending the city continued to fiercely resist.

When Market Garden committed the fresh 7th Division to the breaches taken by the Guards Division, the fate of the city was sealed. The 7th and the Guards Divisions poured into the city streets, linking up with the 5th and 12th Divisions along the way. The fighting then became confused in the streets and hovels of Virion Hive. It is still contested who started the fires that would consume a third of the city north of the River Vir, whether by Changeling defenders out of spite when they realised their position was hopeless or, as some revisionists say, Equestrian soldiers who had become maddened by the slaughter in the breaches. That wanton looting and destruction of property took place on a limited scale is known, but it is unlikely that those perpetrators who had succumbed to bloodlust were organised enough to start such a conflagration. Indeed, where officers and commissars could maintain order, the Equestrian Army worked to control the fire where possible and evacuate the civilians. Without waiting for orders, the MWC immediately deployed rain clouds to put out the fires despite the considerable presence of Changelings still in the air. For this heroic action, ten Rockhoof Stars were awarded, four of which were posthumous.

[The Meteorological Warfare Corps, despite its name, was made up of volunteer civilian weather specialists from Cloudsdale. The Cloudsdale Assembly had raised the MWC under the strict assurance from the Ministry of War that they were not to be deployed ‘in the face of the enemy’. However, this action and the previous action Blueblood described during the gas attack demonstrates that the volunteers themselves took this edict as a mere suggestion.]

The worst was over, but the fighting dragged on into the late afternoon. Isolated pockets of Changelings would continue to hold out for two days as the Equestrian Army secured aerial superiority and closed off avenues of retreat. Even then, hundreds of drones had escaped to the south where they hoped to link up with the relief column. Yet more Changelings simply melted into the civilian population, taking advantage of the chaos and confusion to prepare for their secret war against the occupiers.

Market Garden declared victory that same afternoon. Indeed, the Equestrian Army had won a victory: Virion Hive and with it nearly two thousand native ponies had been taken from the enemy, cutting off a vital source of food, and with it vindicating Princess Twilight Sparkle’s reforms. However, it came at a steep cost. I Corps had suffered a total of 2,723 casualties in a single morning, more than the total losses taken in the entire war prior to the siege. Major-General Garnet, upon surveying the piles of dead in the breaches, remarked to his aide, “One more victory like this and we shall lose this war.”

***

“I am appointing you to the post of Provisional Military Governor of Virion Hive,” said General Market Garden. Few statements have inspired more dread in me than this one (except, perhaps, ‘your Aunt Luna is coming to visit’).

I was in a field hospital for the fourth time this campaign, and I was getting rather tired of it all; not of seeing the pretty nurses in their uniforms and the brief respite from the drudgery of bureaucratic military work and the mortal terror of frontline combat, but from the circumstances that kept sending me there in the first place. This time it was for some light burns I had suffered when a large portion of Virion Hive went up in flames and I, an officer, was expected to pitch in and help organise the evacuation and rescue of ungrateful civilians. The alternative for me was to take part in the brutal street-to-street and house-to-house fighting that was still raging elsewhere, and at the time this seemed like the least dangerous of the two. As the Prism Guards were busy dragging the native ponies out of their burning hovels, almost as scared of the soldiers trying to help them as they were of the flames, a length of burning timber fell and struck me square on the flanks like a paddle, setting my tail and coat alight in the process.

A very pretty nurse whose curves filled out her uniform quite nicely was rubbing salve into my flanks when Market Garden came to tell me the good news. I had been doing my damnedest to think of something boring - the weekend sermons in the family chapel; lectures from my physician about appropriate levels of alcohol consumption; an elderly uncle updating me on the latest developments in his prostate - as the nurse massaged her hooves into my rear, before moving to my inner hindlegs where sparks and embers had likewise singed me there. It was very fortunate, therefore, that being told of my unexpected and unwanted promotion thoroughly killed any feelings of arousal, thus saving me from embarrassing myself in front of the nurse and the general.

“Thank you,” I said, being rather stunned but not so much that I had forgotten my manners. “But why?”

“I have to plan our next move,” said Market Garden. “The enemy won’t just stand back. She’ll have no choice but to react, and I must be ready for her.”

“I meant why me?”

“You’re a prince, aren’t you?” Market Garden shrugged. “Telling other ponies what to do is your thing. Besides, you’ve worked with the native ponies before; out of everypony I can spare right now you’re the best one for the job.”

I begged to differ; my previous ‘work’ with the natives ended up with me getting flogged, so I’d hardly call that a success. Market Garden continued: “I don’t want to be distracted looking after an entire city of these ponies while I continue the prosecution of this war. This will be until Canterlot can work out what to do with the occupied territories, then you can go back to your regiment.”

Not that there was much further prosecution of the war that any of us could do in the immediate aftermath of our glorious victory, given that I Corps had suffered what military historians like to euphemistically call a ‘rough handling’, and it would be some time before the yawning gaps in each battalion’s roster would be filled with hordes of volunteers eagerly awaiting their turn for martyrdom. Nevertheless, Market Garden had plenty of ‘consolidating’ to do, as they call it, and thus I was lumped with the job of working out just what we were supposed to do with all of these ponies we had just liberated.

My first thought was to likewise place this immense burden of responsibility onto another more willing pony, and it seemed that Commissar-General Second Fiddle was the perfect choice for such a thing. I say that with the utmost sincerity, for once, as while I have disparaged his qualities as a leader in the field, I truly must admit that his capacity for the tedium of administration, assuming that what he had told me of his prior work with Princess Luna and his continuing staff work with Market Garden was accurate, was where his true strengths lay. He just failed to see it, of course, and kept up his ridiculous lust for glory instead.

Second Fiddle had survived his first encounter with the enemy, I should also point out, by failing to encounter the enemy at all. I had found him again after I had overseen the necessities to put Odonata under secure lock and key, or as secure as one can make a Purestrain, and, having judged that my work was done, retired to wait out the rest of the battle (which didn’t happen, of course, as when the city caught fire I was expected to do something about it).

He had, as I had correctly assumed, simply stood still, paralysed with terror, as I and the subsequent wave of Prism Guard troops stormed the breach, and having been left alone there he slithered off to hide somewhere. Once the dust had settled, the gas had cleared, and the blood on the stones dried in the hot sun, he emerged and told the first lot of soldiers he found, who were stretcher-bearers carrying the wounded to surgery, that he had led the glorious charge into the breach. Unfortunately for him, those ponies possessed working eyes that are connected to brains capable of interpreting the visual stimulus they receive, and they clearly saw Yours Truly leaping over the barricade first as they carried ponies with limbs mangled by shrapnel to face the amputator’s saw. And regardless of that, how he expected anypony to believe him when his uniform was still clean perplexes me to this day.

“You won’t tell anypony I ran, will you?” he said, once he had managed to pull me away from the throng of Prism Guard soldiers arguing about what they were supposed to do with their new prisoner.

I was more than a little dazed by that point, having pushed myself past the point of physical, mental, and emotional exhaustion merely to survive yet another gruesome fight. My mind was still distracted by trying to organise the events of the past day, like an exasperated clerk trying to file papers written in Neighponese. So I stared dumbly at him, standing there in his absurd little uniform, looking so damned pathetic with that embarrassed expression on his face, like a foal caught with his hoof stuck in the cookie jar. Both hooves, actually. With crumbs and chocolate all over his face.

“I won’t,” was all that I could say.

Second Fiddle sighed in relief and offered a weak smile. “You’re a true friend,” he said, and he trotted off to annoy somepony else. As I watched him, weaving around the soldiers before he was subsumed by the crowd, I wondered if he would ever reciprocate that notion.

I could have blackmailed him by demanding he take this onerous job, or sent a letter to Auntie Luna explaining that her little rising star in the Commissariat is little more than a rank coward. Common blackmail was beneath even me, though I’m not adverse to using it to get myself out of a truly sticky situation, but therein lay the risk of my own hypocrisy being exposed and the risk simply felt too great. I would have to save it for when a dire need arose. Besides, in light of what happened later, which perhaps I should have seen coming, it was probably for the best.

I had inherited quite the mess, frankly, and it’s still a struggle to describe where to begin with all of it. To summarise it all in a single sentence, I was now responsible for the physical, mental, and emotional well-being of some two-thousand odd ponies. That was not necessarily how General Market Garden described it, being simply in terms of making sure that the newly-occupied territory doesn’t become a hindrance in the continued prosecution of the war, whatever on Equus that was supposed to mean. However, looking at the emaciated, tired, and frightened mass of ponies, many of whom also lacked cutie marks, huddling together and shrinking away from the sight of Yours Truly, even when I tried approaching them without wearing that hateful uniform, pushed even selfish old me to realise that something had to be done to lift them out of this poverty. Besides, a happy, healthy population is a sedate one, and looking after their basic needs would ensure that the Equestrian Army wouldn’t have to worry about any nasty surprises taking place in its rear.

That defying all expectations, especially my own, and actually doing a good job of this could mean a nice, safe desk job a reasonable distance away from the front did occur to me. However, if there is one thing that I dread almost as much as a violent, glorious death for Princesses and Country, it is responsibility.

The task was daunting in the extreme. About a third of the newly-liberated ponies had lost their homes when the Changelings, being poor losers, spitefully started a fire that consumed a large portion of the city. To say nothing of the utterly disgraceful behaviour demonstrated by certain Equestrian soldiers whose looting and mistreatment of those natives had only compounded the problems we faced. Now rendered homeless, that portion of the city south of the river that had been left relatively unscathed (and rather too conveniently I might add), was now overcrowded as those refugees sought shelter in already-occupied hovels. Others, apparently rendered incapable of independent initiative, simply huddled in the burned-out remains of their meagre homes.

With much of the city rendered unfit for equine habitation thanks to the fires and the remainder not much better, a series of small shanty towns, little more than collections of tents and the odd wooden structure, was set up beyond the city walls here and there. Most were behind the ridge, offering some measure of cover from possible Changeling counter-attack, while a few more were dotted around the southern slope where a few ponies had taken up residence in those bunkers that had been vacated by the Army. Most of the population of Virion Hive was evacuated to this sprawling tent city, being much more sanitary than their previous homes even before the Equestrian Army kicked down their front door. That at least solved one issue, and from there the rest would follow.

Then there was the problem of their overall health. Their Changeling overlords seemed to be ignorant of the basics of healthy nutrition for equines, and thus raised their sources of food on a monotonous diet of hay and very little else, and in some cases not enough of it. The average Equestrian subject would stand about a head taller than most of these poor wretches. Thin-limbed, gaunt, and dull-coated, they were a desperately sorry sight to behold. Upon seeing them for the first time, a few massed together and staring at the devastation that had come to their homes and the ponies who had brought it, their eyes wide and seeming to almost pop out of their sunken sockets, was enough to move one to despair. These were the massed wretches, largely ignored by the Changelings until it was time to extract love, and who lived apart from those selected for administrative work in the castle like Saguaro, whose collaboration was rewarded with more rations.

“Chronic malnutrition, resulting in cases of scurvy and rickets and t’ like,” Doctor Surgical Steel explained to me that same evening. The old stallion looked exhausted, having pushed himself into working overtime not only to cope with fixing the horrendous injuries suffered by our soldiers in the siege but also in tending to the native ponies. “And their living conditions aren’t helping, either. A lot of them have fleas. Diseases we’ve all but stamped out in modern Equestria are thriving here. It’s like the Changelings just didn’t know or didn’t care.”

“I think they did care,” I said. “Just in the same way a farmer cares about the well-being of his crops before the harvest.”

“Aye. And tha’s got to stop t’ soldiers from giving them chocolate. They just aren’t used to that and it’s playing havoc on their digestive systems.”

Not only that, their mental development appeared to be just as stunted as their bodies. Only those selected to be administrators could read and write, but even they seemed to be completely lacking in individual initiative and drive. They were all listless and uncommunicative for the most part even without the language barrier between us, and when left to their own devices they would simply stand or sit silently, staring anywhere except into the eyes of another pony. Only the foals seemed to possess any form of vital energy, and as I made my rounds through the burned-out remains of the northern districts I would see a number of them playing little games with the soldiers, who all, despite or because of the hell they had been forced through, seemed drawn to indulging them. I could only assume that this spark within them had not yet been crushed by a lifetime of Changeling oppression.

I had thought to find one of their number in a position of authority with whom I could speak, but I found that the highest level one could aspire to be appointed to while under Changeling rule was merely the head of one’s own household. The administrators were little more than office drones, having been taught only what was necessary for them to complete their tasks and nothing else. The population was entirely dependent upon the Changelings for every essential need, and now that Equestria had rightfully ousted the oppressors we found ourselves in that position of responsibility, albeit with the justified expectation that we do a damned sight better.

There were other minor problems for me to deal with, too, but these were the ones that occupied the majority of my attention at the time. I knew what had to be done in the abstract, but the specifics of how to achieve the goal of lifting these ponies out of their poverty escaped me.

In the short-term, however, the Guards Division, having been mauled severely by being thrust into the worst fighting throughout this campaign, had been granted the temporary reprieve of garrison duty in the city while they wait for the new recruits to fill in the gaps before it’s time to be hurled again into the hellfire of war. They, at least, could be trusted to maintain order in the city, so that was one weight off my mind for now.

Later, as I lay in my cot and stared up at the ceiling of my new quarters, being a small former office in the castle keep, unable to sleep as usual for all the horror that replayed in my mind, it struck me like a sonic rainboom.

Delegation.

That was the key -- why push this job onto one single pony when I could divy out bits and pieces to lots of ponies? That way, I could still claim much of the credit for any successes but remain distant enough to avoid being blamed should it all go horribly wrong. The system of aristocratic power relies entirely upon this concept of delegation. From the highest prince (me) to the lowliest baron, each parcels out the divine authority granted to them by Faust to a chosen set of experts and administrators as and when the need arises. At no point should a noblepony actually be involved in the business of ruling, as that tends to incur personal responsibility and that way violent peasant revolts lie.

The next morning, after I had drunk my breakfast martini and deciphered the scribbled note I’d left myself following my insomnia-induced inspiration, I set about recruiting a team of experts from Canterlot and beyond to do this job for me. That is to say, I’d gotten Cannon Fodder to do it; apparently feeling rather guilty for not being by my side during the storming of Virion Hive as he was still recovering from the gas, he seemed to be trying to make it up for me by throwing himself into his work as my aide. In fact, I had to order him to stop and take breaks at times, usually enticing him with slop from the canteen and those vulgar magazines he’s so fond of. Nevertheless, through him and a few contacts that Drape Cut had dutifully provided for me, the call had gone out to a select civic-minded few in the higher echelons of government - an invitation, as it were, for those who had wormed their way out of volunteering for fighting to still contribute in some way to the all-important war effort.

They arrived in dribs and drabs over the course of the following week, but as I put them to work doing my job for me, the effect was measurable and almost instantaneous. They first set about organising a clean-up of the city and the tent villages around it, using a few volunteers and the now-idle soldiers as labour, then building proper infrastructure so the place could be considered worthy of being inhabited by ponies. And as each one arrived and assumed their duties they identified other deficiencies and called upon yet more of their ilk to take those roles - medical personnel to treat physical ailments; logisticians to bring in much-needed supplies; educators to undo the mental retardation and indoctrination brought about by generations of Changeling oppression; civil managers to organise all of this; and so on.

I had, through sheer laziness and a base refusal to take responsibility, inadvertently created the foundations of a civilian framework with which to administer the conquered territories. That nopony else in Canterlot had considered this, or merely thought that the already over-stretched Army could do it through martial law, was something of a shock to me. This was one of the very few occasions I had done good in the world, and it was motivated by idleness and cowardice.

[Policies had been put in place by the Ministry of War to maintain martial law in occupied territory, but these were often ignored as they were inadequate for the difficulties and complexities of maintaining order in a foreign land. Occupation policies varied greatly between different fronts at this point in the war, according to the measures set up on an ad hoc basis by commissars on the ground in response to the increasingly complex needs of maintaining security. However, as more territory was liberated from the Changelings, Canterlot saw the need for effective civilian oversight and would take direct rule, using Blueblood’s administration of Virion Hive as a guide.]

For the most part I simply left them to it; I find that clerks and ‘professionals’ tend to work best without somepony else in a position of authority breathing down their necks, and I barely understood what it was they were doing anyway. All that was usually required of me was my signature on their proposals, which had been processed and vetted by Cannon Fodder anyway.

Not to paint too rosy a picture here, as it was all rather stressful even at the best of times; as much as I could parcel out the grave responsibility over the lives of the two thousand ponies that Market Garden had unceremoniously dumped on my head, by dint of my undeserved reputation for fairness and my royal title, by avoiding my job I like to think that I had, in fact, done rather a good one, and I believe history has vindicated me on this. Very occasionally, however, I would have to resolve some sort of dispute about the allocation of the scant resources that Canterlot and the Ministry of War had allocated us, but as ever, the stallions in suits and the mares with tiaras provided suitable enough scapegoats for me to avoid taking much in the way of blame for most of the difficulties we faced. A few gentle words and the phrase ‘I’m sorry, but my hooves are tied’ helped ease things along.

There was also the small matter of the small number of Changelings who surrendered. Most were sent north to wait out the rest of the war in camps, and were therefore no longer under my meagre, unwanted remit. [Equestrian prisoner-of-war camps were situated in isolated, sparsely-populated locations far north of the frontline, with the furthest near our border with the Crystal Empire. The number of prisoners taken at the start of the war was low, as most Changeling drones preferred to fight to the death than surrender. Conditions in the camps were initially dire, as volunteers offering love to the prisoners were too few in number to keep them all fed. Using distilled love harnessed from the Crystal Heart remained a deeply controversial issue until the end of the war, but it did allow these conditions to improve.]

Hive Marshal Odonata, however, was another matter entirely. We have rules, she said when we captured her, and those laws enshrined in the Convocation of the Creatures constrained what we could do; though I had fantasised at length about having her beheaded, the fact that she was following our rules ensured that we too were honour-bound to reciprocate (incumbent upon her continued good behaviour, of course). She was an enemy officer who was now my prisoner, and with that came certain expectations of treatment, especially when she saw fit to invoke the old notion of parole - in essence, she promised not to escape and to cooperate fully with the Equestrian military in return for preferential treatment. Being a prince, and therefore subject to those damned iron laws of tradition more than most officers, I had little option but to accept her on her word of honour, whatever that meant to a Changeling. That said, I wasn’t about to let my guard down around her at all.

Odonata was kept under watch at all times in a spacious and comfortable cell in the castle within a few minutes’ walk from my own quarters. The frail wooden door, rotted by age and neglect, had been replaced by one of heavy, reinforced steel that was barred from the outside, with a letterbox at roughly eye-height to make sure she wasn’t up to something in there. The corridor itself was patrolled constantly by unicorn guards, should she somehow remove the nullifier ring I’d placed on her horn and blast down the door. However, she seemed singularly uninterested in escaping, which only led me to believe that she was plotting something.

I could stand Market Garden’s constant reminders no longer, and a couple of days after her capture I finally sat down with Odonata to conduct a proper interrogation. To be frank, I’d also been putting it off simply due to sheer nervous anxiety; the prospect of merely speaking with her, even with armed guards for company, filled me with just as much dread as charging into battle. Given our history, I liked to think I was justified in that feeling.

The room was plain, yet comfortable. There was a military cot that looked too small for the cell’s occupant in one corner and a desk and a chair in the other. A few books that Odonata requested were piled up on the floor around the desk’s legs. A small window would have provided the sort of view of the heights north of the city a middling hotel would advertise on a brochure, were it not for sturdy iron bars installed and the force field that filled the space between them.

“Because I want to live,” she said, when I asked her why she surrendered when she clearly had ample opportunity to reduce me to ash.

The two of us sat on lumpy, hard cushions facing one another around a coffee table, steam rising from the two enamel mugs filled with hot lapsang placed atop its surface. It all seemed very civilised, except for the monster sitting before me. Odonata sat on her haunches, rigid and upright, with a modest smile on her thin lips. It was a look that I had seen before, that of an old aristocratic pony trying, and largely succeeding, on suppressing whatever mental turmoil and pain they are suffering. I should know, I’ve done it for most of my life.

“Chrysalis is not a particularly tolerant ruler,” Odonata continued. “I have failed her three times now: my failure to incite a war between Equestria and the Badlands natives; my failure to kill you; and my failure to defend Virion Hive.”

“What will she do now?” I asked.

Odonata scoffed. She wrapped her hoof around the mug’s handle, her telekinesis blocked by the silver ring on her horn, and lifted it to her face so that the steam rising from it resembled wisps of the gas that had nearly choked the life out of me. “That’s all you ponies want out of me, ‘what is Chrysalis’ next move?’. Market Garden insisted I tell her, Second Fiddle tried to threaten me into telling him, and that pony from S.M.I.L.E. tried to cut a deal with me.”

“Wait,” I said. The Purestrain smiled as she sipped her tea. “There was a pony from S.M.I.L.E. here?”

“Yes, she pretended to be from the Ministry of War, but let’s just say that your kind are nowhere near as good at disguises as Changelings.” Odonata grinned wider, showing off rows of razor-sharp fangs. “She was very boring, but I’ll tell you, though” -she then nodded to the two guards standing by the door behind me- “and your friends.

“The very first thing Queen Chrysalis will do is fly into a rage. She will rant and scream about how I betrayed her by failing to die defending her city and how she can’t trust even her most loyal Purestrains. She will immediately order the relief column to retake the city as fast as they can. However, when she has calmed down, usually having the closest general executed, she will realise two things. The first is that her warswarms cannot afford a lengthy battle of attrition, and now that you’re in Virion Hive it’ll be almost impossible to remove you from it. You ponies struggle with offensive action, but you’re damned tenacious in defence. The second is that Equestria now has two thousand former livestock to look after. She will instead try to contain your advance, by stopping you from breaking out of the city or crossing the River Vir elsewhere.”

It was impossible to hide my genuine feeling of revulsion at the term ‘livestock’ to describe my fellow ponies, especially after I had seen the effects of the Changeling occupation on the inhabitants of this city. Odonata shrugged her shoulders, the plates of her armour-like chitin shifting with the slim, withered musculature beneath them.

“The Queen is nothing if not adaptable,” she continued. “Losing Virion Hive and the ponies in it when the Hives are starving is a setback, but she will turn this to her advantage.”

“How so?” I asked. “If the Hives are starving, Chrysalis must be forced into committing to open battle to retake the city.”

“Two years of war and you still fail to comprehend the lesson,” said Odonata. “You must understand that you cannot expect Chrysalis to fight by your rules; she will not engage in open battle unless forced, and she is willing to play the long game. She is planning something, and with each pony you liberate from her clutches, she will be pushed that little bit further to the point where she must accelerate her plans.”

“And what would those plans be?”

“I don’t know the full details. If she told me, then she wouldn’t have risked my capture by appointing me to the frontline.” Odonata placed her now empty mug back on the table with a ‘thud’, and leaned back in a sort of relaxed, louche pose on her cushion. “But I am surprised that you haven’t worked this out for yourselves. She seeks to drag you into an extended conflict; a military quagmire from which your damned sense of pride and honour will forbid you from abandoning. That is why she avoids decisive battles and how she can afford to trade land and drones for time and opportunity, which she will use to infiltrate Equestria. In taking Virion Hive, you have given her one such opportunity in the form of the thousands of ponies you must now look after and the unaccounted-for drones hiding among them.”

My tea grew cold as I sat there dumbly with my mind frantically turning over the implications of what Odonata just said. It was so obvious, but we, by which I mean the Equestrian general staff, had carried on this war under the assumption that the Changelings would fight us on what our generals would consider to be ‘conventional’ terms. Odonata was right, damn her, Equestria had committed to this unwinnable war and no politician or general was going to advocate withdrawal now that we had gone too far. Then there were the native ponies themselves; how many of the thin, emaciated wretches I had seen were Changelings in disguise? We might have had the ability to dispel their illusions, but to process two thousand natives all spread out in the tent settlements and in their hovels with the meagre resources that I had been allocated was another matter entirely.

White Hall’s grim warning that ‘the Changeling will always get through’ no longer felt quite so darkly apocalyptic.

[White Hall was a prominent Equestrian statespony who served as prime minister on three separate occasions. This phrase was part of a speech given to Parliament in support for the Twilight Sparkle Reforms. In isolation, the phrase has been taken to illustrate the futility of defending against Changeling infiltration of Equestria. However, the speech as a whole advocates embracing the reforms and defeating the enemy as quickly as possible as the only means to protect the realm.]

“You’re being very forthcoming with this information,” I noted, once I’d recovered enough of my wits to speak. “But why should we trust a word you say?”

“Because it is now within my best interest that Equestria wins this war,” said Odonata. “Like I said, I want to live.”

“And you’re willing to betray your Queen and your entire race to survive?”

“Chrysalis has dragged the Changelings onto the path of self-destruction. In attacking Canterlot she has awoken a sleeping dragon, and though its waking is slow and ponderous it will be filled with a terrible wrath that will rain down upon our hives. To save my race, we must abandon her folly. And yet…” She sighed, her thin black lips setting into a flat line across the aquiline curve of her long snout. Her eyes were still narrowed at me, but the sneering sense of superiority and arrogance had been washed away to leave something within them that could be taken as vulnerability. “Our race starves, Blueblood. It’s impossible for you to understand the hunger of the Changelings. In five years we will be completely unable to support our population- ah, four and a half years, now that we’ve lost Virion Hive. What other choice did we have but to attack Canterlot?”

“You could have asked!” I blurted out.

And there it was. Odonata was apparently struck dumb by that statement. Her jaw hung loose, as though the musculature holding it shut had suddenly been severed. I could see behind her eyes that cunning and malevolent mind of hers, capable of weaving together the intricate plots of ponies and Changelings, tribes and kingdoms together, struggling to grasp the basic simplicity of what I had just said. In the end, after about thirty seconds of her gazing right through me, she could only say, “What?”

“The Changelings could have asked us for help with the food crisis,” I said.

She seemed to recover from her shock, and adopted her usual cold sneer, as though I had mocked her with a cruel joke. I suppose to her, this bewilderingly simple solution to their little problem must have sounded like one. “I sincerely doubt that ponies would be willing to give up their love to help us.”

The Purestrain had me there, of course, and I was about to concede defeat when I remembered that I was hardly representative of all ponies. The old Equestria that I knew, of cold, distant aristocrats obsessed with the mere appearance of honour and duty while they indulged in every debauchery known to ponykind behind closed doors, would not have lifted a hoof to save these foreign creatures. That Equestria, however, was fading away in favour of the new, its decline accelerated by the conduct of its ruling class in this pestilential war that stripped bare that facade and revealed the truth beneath it. Except me, of course, my tendency to be situated near something genuinely heroic happening and getting credit for it gave me some sort of shield against that sort of criticism.

“Princess Twilight Sparkle would have found a way,” I said, and I found myself almost believing it. “This war was not inevitable. It could have been avoided if Chrysalis had just asked for help.”

“If Chrysalis was the sort to ask ponies for help then she would not be the Queen of the Changelings!” snapped Odonata. “To rule the Hives demands a leader with the strength of will to understand the one core truth of this world!”

Throughout her tirade, the two guards by the door behind me had advanced one step closer, wrapping their magic around the hilts of their sheathed sabres. I raised a hoof, halting them mid-stride, but still they stood, ready to come to my rescue. “And what would that be?”

The Changeling grinned horribly, unnaturally wide for such a slender and disconcertingly elegant face. Her yellowed fangs glinted in the tinted sunlight cast from the tiny window, mirroring the malevolent, cruel glimmer in her eyes. She leaned forward as though she was about to impart some dark secret to me, and it was all that I could do to keep my composure and not leap behind the cushion and cower like cornered prey. Continuing her insane screed, her tone was calmer, though fervour of the fanatic lay as an undercurrent in her hateful words.

“That life means struggle. The strong must dominate the weak or they will be destroyed. We Changelings have survived, thrived even, in the Badlands because we accept this fundamental law of nature -- the strong survive and the weak perish. To pretend otherwise would be to invite weakness into our midst and allow ourselves to be destroyed from within by the inferior and the deviant. That is why we would not ask for Equestrian help with our food crisis, because the strong need not ask, they simply take what is rightfully theirs.”

“And you think that this gives you the right to make war on ponies and enslave them?”

Odonata shook her head. “Not the right, but the obligation. The alternative is our decline and destruction.”

“And your drones willingly follow this?”

“That is what separates the Changeling from the pony. A drone is not after the same comfort, safety, and security that a pony uses to hide themselves from that universal truth. A drone knows that there is only the Hive and the Queen who leads it, and each knows that their lives are worth nothing except in service to both.”

I, as you are no doubt well aware by now, dear reader, am hardly what one would call a deep thinker, especially when it comes to the matter of politics and ideology; I quite like the way things are, or were, rather, because they benefited me and my privileged ilk, and should I need to justify that arrangement I would merely direct others to either Princess Celestia or somepony paid to think so I would be left alone to carry on in idleness and indolence. However, even one such as I could see that what Odonata had just espoused was, philosophically speaking, a load of old crock of the highest order - the mere atavistic justification of a bully, which had led to a self-perpetuating cycle of violence that must inevitably culminate in self-destruction. Yet more than that, it offered nothing but a hard life of struggle, danger, and death, with little in the way of recompense to the average drone save for the delusion that their futile life, devoid of harmony and pleasure and all that made life worth living, would serve the Hive. Even my backwards views on the world offered job security and safety in a nicely-ordered social structure, plus an interesting chap at the top whose antics are reported in the tabloid press for the amusement of the peasants.

[By this point, enough Changeling PoWs had been captured and interrogated to disprove the hive mind hypothesis. This ideological framework, the brutal living conditions in the Hives, and what sociologists call the ‘Cult of Heroic Sacrifice’ engendered fanatical loyalty to Chrysalis and a chilling lack of regard for one’s own life that Equestrian military analysts could only explain by way of a hive mind theory. However, as the war developed and the casualties mounted, the Changelings modernised their military to match the Twilight Sparkle Reforms and thus tempered their fanaticism with discipline.]

None of this needed to happen. Few things truly move me to anger, and by ‘anger’ I mean genuine fury rather than the sort of petulant tantrums I was somewhat infamous for. If the Changelings had just spoken to us then this horrid war could have been avoided, but this kind of thought, this so-called ‘truth’, had blinded them to the one very obvious solution to their problems. For that, thousands would have to die.

“That doesn’t sound like much fun,” I sneered, not really knowing where to begin after hearing that nonsense.

“I wouldn’t expect you to understand, yet,” said Odonata. “A thousand years of peace has made ponies forget this truth, and as you eliminated each hardship from the lives of your ponies you made them soft and decadent. Yet the old blood that conquered Equestria still flows even in your ethanol-soaked veins, waiting to be unleashed again. In fact, it has already begun; I must admit that I was surprised when you reciprocated with poison gas.”

“I made my protest very clear,” I snapped. “General Market Garden did, too. We can win this without compromising our ideals.”

“Can you?” Odonata leaned closer, so that I could smell her stinking breath and feel its sickening warmth on my muzzle. I heard two sabres unsheathed from their scabbards behind me. Despite the primitive hindbrain screaming that I am prey and this is a predator, I held her stare as best as I could without blinking; those foalhood hours spent being forced to learn to adopt a cold and distant demeanour befitting a prince of the most noble line in Equestria had finally paid off. “When you stand victorious in the gas-soaked ashes of the Queen’s Hive, surrounded by the dead in the shadow of your Princesses’ Royal Standard fluttering in the smoke-filled breeze, will you turn and look at your comrades and still recognise them as the same ponies they were before the war?”

That was it. There was no witty retort that I could think of, and it would be wasted on one as closed-minded as Odonata. Not that I didn’t try, of course, as old habits die hard, but pointing out that I would likely be dead before that happens simply felt more like a prediction than a quip. In the end, I could only settle for saying in as level and flat a voice as I could manage, “Thank you, this has been most enlightening.”

With that, I stood up to leave, not having touched my tea but very much looking forward to something far, far stronger back in my office. There was no arguing with a mind that had been already closed by propaganda and trite slogans, but it did occur to me that she would have made an excellent commissar. I reached about halfway to the door, where the two guards had advanced closer, when Odonata suddenly cried out, “Wait!”

I stopped, thinking about just walking straight out to my quarters where Granny Smith’s bottle and the comfort therein waited for me under the cot, when curiosity got the better of me. Not bothering to turn myself fully around, I merely looked over my shoulder and waited for her.

There was an odd look on her face; Changeling face structures might have mirrored that of ponies, but there was always something quite off about it all. Granted, I had only ever seen perhaps three emotions expressed on such a visage - murderous rage, arrogance, and, quite rarely, fear. Odonata’s expression there was approximating in its own crude manner, as though it lacked the necessary muscles and tendons for anything besides those three aforementioned emotions, what I took to be anxiety. The mouth, so used to its superior smirk or snarl of anger, was clenched shut and tight, while her eyes flitted across the room at everything except me and the two guards. Despite everything, it made me curious.

“I am a busy prince,” I said, “and I have a city to run.”

The carapace on her back split apart and stretched wide, like a beetle extending its wings. Hers, however, were broken and useless, and thus fell as limp strands of gossamer by her side. From some sort of strange pouch hidden there, she retrieved what I first took to be a small black cat, but when she held it up I saw that it was in fact a miniature, doll-sized Changeling. I didn’t know what they called their foals, ‘nymphs’ I believe is the modern term, but for some reason my mind settled on ‘larvae’, and I realised I was staring at one. The infant squirmed in its mother’s embrace, held against the cold, unfeeling chitin, then opened its oversized eyes and stared seemingly at me -- eyes that were disconcertingly pony-like.

“Her name is Elytra,” said Odonata, smiling down at her spawn.

“It’s not mine, is it?” I asked. Ice water seemed to trickle down my spine; a paternity scare over a bloody Changeling would be just the sweetest cherry atop this appalling cake of misery I had just been served. I think I’d have rather fathered a mule instead.

“She could be.” Odonata shrugged and began rocking the nymph in her hooves back to sleep. I couldn’t see the family resemblance, myself. “I slept with a lot of stallions when I was undercover.”

“Well, how in blazes did that happen?”

Odonata covered her nymph’s ears with her hooves, lifted her head, and grinned slyly, “When a stallion and a Changeling love each other- wait, that’s not it. When a stallion is tricked by a Changeling disguised as a pretty mare he starts to get certain urges, and-”

“It’s impossible!” To my surprise she actually stopped and allowed me to interrupt. I jabbed a hoof at the tiny, curled-up thing innocently nuzzling into her chest. “Ponies and Changelings can’t… can’t do that!”

“Let’s just say that we’re very adaptable.” Her hoof stroked the infant Changeling’s head affectionately in an almost perfect imitation, I thought, of a mother with her daughter, yet the sight here made me feel repulsed to the core after that appalling speech earlier. “The Queen doesn’t approve of the results of such unions. There’s barely enough love to go around as it is and it can’t be wasted on mixed, inferior drones. But after I crawled out of that ravine and limped back to the Hives and begged Queen Chrysalis for one more chance, after everything I had endured just to survive, I could not do what was required of me and destroy my daughter. That is why I surrendered to you, specifically -- as your prisoner you are bound by your word of honour to protect me and my daughter.”

I stood there digesting this for a moment. “You really thought I would believe all of that,” I said, at length, “didn’t you?”

Odonata was silent and still, staring back at me still with that peculiar imitation of equine emotion on her malformed face. Somehow, the notion, however unlikely, that she was being genuine for once was a damned sight more unsettling than the more probable scenario that this was all deception to serve some greater plot to... well, Faust only knows what goes on in the sick, labyrinthine mind of a Purestrain. I ought to have just damned tradition to Tartarus and shipped her off to one of those camps to freeze and starve, but no, Market Garden wanted her close by for ‘intelligence’ purposes.

I was finished, both with life in general and with this interrogation, such as it was, and there was a cold, sick feeling roiling in the pit of my stomach, a sensation that had always been there since I’d returned to the front but had only grown worse after that little interview, as I stormed out of the door and wondered how in blazes was Cannon Fodder going to write all of this up in an official report for me. Even in victory, things only seemed to grow more complicated.

Chapter 21

I have a healthy suspicion of ponies who volunteer for things unasked for; it might just be my own habitual paranoia, but any individual willing to give up their own time, effort, money, or even life for something without being prompted for it must invariably be up to something. In my experience nopony offers anything without seeking some sort of recompense for it, even if what they get out of it is entirely incomprehensible to someone as self-centred as I. Of course, I have been proven wrong by a tiny number of outliers before, though I still remain somewhat suspicious of a few individuals (who know who they are and what they did), but in this particular case that unfolded over the course of the weeks following my sudden and unexpected success in ruling Virion Hive, my suspicions proved to be vindicated once more. It was a shame that by that time, it was too late to do much about it.

My interrogation of Odonata, such as it was, proved to be of at least some material worth. Though Market Garden was quite sceptical of her assurance that Chrysalis would not make a move to retake Virion Hive from us, the massed hordes of Changelings consistently failed to materialise outside the southern wall of the city. This left our General scratching her head for some time, as her strategy thus far had, as the Purestrain pointed out, sought to entice the enemy into a crushing battle of annihilation.

At any rate, what Market Garden was plotting next was nothing for me to worry about, for as long as I remained the ‘Provisional Governor of Virion Hive’ (with aims to have the ‘provisional’ part discretely excised from that job title, and, if I was truly fortunate, turned into a barony) I could almost guarantee that whatever her peculiar little mind could come up with next would not involve me. Besides, I had to keep two thousand ponies from starving, so what the generals were up to was the absolute least of my concerns. What was foremost on my list of worries, however, was Odonata’s grim warning about the unaccounted-for Changeling drones possibly secreted amongst the population. The notion that this was a clever ruse to waste our time and resources on a futile Great Seedling hunt had occurred to me, being the sort of rather petty trick a Purestrain would pull just to annoy me, but if there was one thing that two years of this damned war has taught me it is that an over-abundance of caution and paranoia is nowhere near enough where Changelings are concerned.

The revelation that there could be any number of infiltrators hiding amongst the ponies we had liberated had sent everypony into the sort of panic that comes with realising what was in hindsight very obvious, like a pony who just remembered they forgot to lock the front door of their home before leaving three hours ago. Thus far the Changelings, if there were any, had remained quiet, but this only made me feel more unhappy, as no doubt they were taking the time to regroup, re-establish contact with one another, and plan Faust-knows what havoc to wage behind our frontlines. The memory of my near-assassination at the Ministry of War was still fresh in my mind, and only scarcely outshined by the more recent horrors I had been through. Each day that passed without something exploding only added to my anxiety that tomorrow would be the day.

That was when Second Fiddle volunteered his services. I had merely issued orders for systematic patrols of our territory and routine checkpoints at important areas to be set up, all conducted by the Guards Division. It was not without its flaws, as even if it was fully up to operational strength the division alone would not be sufficient to cover both the city with its hovels and alleys and the sprawling mass of tents around it. There was still ample opportunity for any Changelings hiding out there to slip through the great, yawning gaps in our net, and either carry on to Equestria proper or remain here and cause yet more grief for me.

“I am about to make work a lot easier for you,” said Second Fiddle one evening in the officers’ mess, which had been relocated from a tent to one of the more spacious and attractively furnished rooms in the castle keep. If I didn’t know any better, I would have said that the Changelings might have used this same space for that exact same purpose, though it was hard to imagine Odonata sitting on a plush armchair with fine cognac and a smouldering cigar, regaling her officers with witty anecdotes about Queen Chrysalis’ last garden party.

“Are you now?” I said, not bothering to hide my irritation at my ‘friend’s’ violation of the old club rule about not talking shop within the sanctity of the officers’ mess.

“I’ve been corresponding with our comrades in the Commissariat,” he continued, oblivious as ever, “and we have a proposal.”

I nursed my glass of armagnac as he droned on, watching as the amber liquid swirled inside the deep bowl of the snifter. Elsewhere, the conversation was hushed, as it often was this early in the evening before most officers clocked off for the day and sought to relax. The staff here had a job on their hooves to turn this place into the sort of warm, welcoming, and refined gentlecolt’s sanctuary their clientele expected, and I might have discreetly used my influence to bump outfitting the mess higher up the list of priorities than it probably deserved to be. The dense clouds of cigar and pipe smoke rose and clung to the ancient stone ceiling, and though the heady scent called to me, ever since I had my throat and lungs burned out by gas the art of smoking had suddenly lost its appeal. No doubt my physician would rejoice that just one of my very many vices no longer held quite so tight a grip over me, and perhaps give him some false hope that the others might soon be on their way out.

“We don’t have the ponypower to run a proper search of Virion Hive and carry on this war,” he said. “We have to keep moving; onto the next battle, and the next one, and so on, until we win. The Commissariat has authorised me to set up a new security organisation, separate from the Ministry of War and civilian security services. That way, we won’t be constrained by rules and regulations from doing the job of rooting out the spies and saboteurs hiding under our muzzles. This is where you come in, Blueblood.”

I was afraid of that, having to do something; I was rather hoping that whatever mad scheme he and his desk-bound chums in Canterlot could be accomplished without my muddy hoofprints on it, but if it meant less work for me in the long run I was at least open to the suggestion.

“I haven’t agreed to anything yet,” I said, wondering if it would be rude of me to wave over one of the staff and ask him to eject this interloper violating the sacred edict, when I remembered that this was most certainly not the Imperial Club back at Canterlot, no matter how much I fantasised about being in that perfect little grotto of refined civilisation. “It sounds like you have everything organised already, and I’m only the provisional governor here. I’m sure Canterlot will send a more suitable pony to replace me soon.”

Not if I could bloody help it, I added to myself.

“And you’re doing a great job of it!” he said, and I scanned his words for any sign of sarcasm and could detect none. While I polished off my drink and contemplated another one before retiring for the night, he carried on: “This group will need to gather intelligence about any infiltrators lurking among the civilian population. Civil authorities in Equestria rely on tips from a network of trusted informants and members of the general public, though between you and me, friend, we think some of them are using it to settle old grudges.”

“Which is damned unsporting of them.”

“Quite. But we don’t have that here, not yet, anyway. You have ponies working to tidy this place up and make it fit for ponies again, so you make sure you impress upon the native heathens that if they want to carry on living in the Princesses’ Harmony, they need to report any suspicious activity to us.”

“I’m not sure they want to live in the ‘Princesses’ Harmony’,” I said; most of them didn’t even know of the existence of the Princesses in the first place. “That’s what makes them ‘heathen’.”

Second Fiddle squinted at me, and I returned that suspicious look with a smirk and the sort of casual, vague shrug that seemed to annoy him. “Of course they do,” he spat, “they just don’t know it yet.

“You sort out their education -- remind them who saved them from the hated Changelings. I’ll even send a few commissars to keep an eye on your ponies, just to make sure. They’ll pass on any leads to me. With commissarial authority I can then requisition whatever I need from the garrison to deal with any possible threats for you.”

At the very least, that little speech helped me come to a decision about my course for the rest of the evening, and thus I waved down one of the liveried staff for another glass of brandy - a double this time, but I think I could be excused the vulgarity in this case - while Second Fiddle was still rambling on. By the time he had finished, the glass was delicately placed on the table between us, and I immediately embarked upon drinking it.

“We’re calling this organisation RAID,” he said. “That’s R-A-I-D. RAID.”

He seemed rather proud of that name, and I imagine that he worked very hard to make it spell out ‘RAID’. That is, until I had to ruin it for him and ask what those letters actually stood for.

“Response Action: Infiltration and- um…” He trailed off, stared blankly into the space between us, and chewed on his lower lip. By the time he spoke again in a coherent sentence, which was admittedly quite a while but I enjoyed the pleasant if awkward silence, I had finished my drink. “I’ll have to get back to you on the ‘D’.”

[The meaning of the letter ‘D’ in RAID has been lost, owing to the intense secrecy around the founding of this organisation and the subsequent destruction of records. There has been a lot of speculation about what it could be, with suggestions posited by military historians encompassing almost the entire D section of the dictionary, including ‘deception’, ‘drones’, ‘deviants’, and so on. Others, including myself, believe that it doesn’t really stand for anything, and that its founders started with the four letters, tried to work backwards to find words that matched, and then gave up.]

***

In the end, I largely ignored what Second Fiddle had said and left him to it; as far as I was concerned I merely had to sit back and let the great machinery of administration that I had set up carry on running, and, like an airship mechanic, only directly interfere to maintain its smooth running. Despite the unnecessarily annoying way in which he explained it to me, when I was not in the best frame of mind (which is to say, more drunk than usual) to accept the torrent of information he spewed forth, this RAID-thing meant that the largest and heaviest thing weighing on my mind had been lifted and the burden taken by other ponies. Should Changeling drones start crawling out of the woodwork and start making a nuisance, I could at least blame him. It was at that moment when I learnt that having somepony above me in terms of rank could actually be something of a blessing.

However, the Changelings, if there were any, were still being much too quiet, and for the time being things merely proceeded as I had set out. Earning the trust of the natives would remain a difficult task as long as they continued to associate their former masters with the safety and security they claimed to provide. We would have to do better, which one would think was rather a low bar to clear, really.

There was a certain horror in the daily mundanity of Changeling oppression. The propaganda spewed out by the Ministry of Misinformation at the time would focus on lurid and attention-grabbing tales of violence, torture, and murder of helpless ponies by the enemy, and while that did indeed happen in places, the fact is that, for the most part, the lives of their slaves were ones of dull and closely-monitored tedium. After all, the Changelings needed them alive to continue harvesting and for forced labour.

In a twisted way, I found that daily banality to be more disturbing than those atrocities best remembered by the general public. Theirs was an existence for which there was no escape and no distraction from the heavy hoof of the Changeling oppressor, save for a premature death by illness or one’s own hoof. In their short lives there was no art, no songs, no pleasures, and no stories except for furtive little snippets of what freedoms their ancestors enjoyed. Odonata and her ilk had seen fit to stamp out whatever indigenous culture existed prior to their arrival, all to serve a greed perpetuated by their hateful ideology. Only traces remained, to be scavenged and re-assembled by Equestrian academics.

Day and night their lives were monitored by their overlords, their words and deeds watched for any trace of defiance. This had been going on for over a hundred years, and now the ponies knew nothing but the lies their masters had taught them. No wonder they had no idea what to do with themselves once liberated.

“We treat our ponies very well,” said Odonata during another one of our little chats. I nearly choked on my tea when she said that, for just that morning I had signed off a requisition form from our medical experts asking for more emergency vitamin tablets. “Before we took Virion Hive, the city was in an almost constant state of war with its neighbours and itself. The Changelings brought peace and order, and purpose to their lives in serving stronger creatures.”

For all their supposed ‘strength’ the Changelings were parasites wholly dependent upon ‘weak’ ponies for their continued existence, and this irony was apparently lost on her.

We continued having our little heart-to-hearts. These rarely lasted more than an hour, as I could hardly stand to be in her presence for much longer than that, and I think I would have enjoyed General Market Garden’s company far better than Odonata’s. At least the former didn’t keep a half-breed foal on her lap throughout the conversation, such as it was.

Invariably, however, the one question that had been nibbling away at the back of my mind eventually pushed its way to the fore and demanded that I ask it: “Just why are you still alive?”

I remember it clearly: it was a late afternoon, and one of the rare moments of free time that I had during the day before I clocked off duty and slipped off to the mess or found somewhere quiet to read. The ponies I had hired to turn Virion Hive into a productive little settlement had tried to re-introduce the concept of farming to the earth ponies living among them, and despite their natural talent for growing crops, as is their place in society, the arid conditions made that quite tricky. Therefore, it had been turned into a dual lesson, whereby the pegasi were being taught to make rain. Although it was little more than a lacklustre drizzle dribbling past the thin slit of a window, it was a start at least.

What drew me to seeing Odonata again when I was at liberty to do almost anything else, however, was less clear. Under normal circumstances I think I would have rather spent time with an enraged manticore instead, and the conversation would have been far more entertaining. The question of her survival had nagged at the back of my mind ever since Market Garden revealed it to me in what felt like an age ago, but I couldn’t say that I felt particularly desperate to have that answered. No, there was something else that compelled me to see her, and as much as I tried to deny it to myself at the time, the mere, slim chance that her mutant offspring was also mine was what drew me. And if it was, the question of what in blazes I was supposed to do about it likewise reared its head and bit me on the nose. There was the question of succession, as I wasn’t sure if the system of primogeniture covered Changelings, but in theory I would have to be dead before that became an issue and therefore none of my concern. More immediately, however, if I was to take complete leave of my senses and acknowledge the spawn as my own in the absence of definitive proof (and where would one even begin to find that? Besides waiting two decades to see if the creature develops the characteristic Canterlot unicorn build and a keen touch with the opposite sex), then was I expected to take any particular role in raising the poor thing?

There were too many questions all at once, and I was far too young at the time to even consider them. The only thought that I had given that topic, in spite of my nigh-constant philandering, was that should the almost-inevitable results of such activity finally bear fruit, that I would give fatherhood a much better stab than my own father did. That is to say, I planned to write a few cheques to the lucky mother and keep actual contact with the bastard(s) to an absolute minimum. Simply not being involved at all in the business of raising a foal would be an immeasurable improvement on my own upbringing.

We sat at our usual positions on either side of the coffee table, with the habitual mugs of hot tea steaming away atop its chipped surface. Odonata, however, appeared not to have heard the question, and indeed she had barely acknowledged me when I entered and took my seat on the cushion. The nymph was curled up on her lap, silent and still -- Elytra, unlike most infants, tended not to make much noise, though it would squirm and fidget relentlessly, but this time it was clear even to me that something was wrong.

“I said, just why are you still alive?” I repeated, a little more firmly this time. Odonata finally looked up from her daughter on her lap.

“Do you mean, ‘how did I survive the fall?’” she said, apparently trying to mock me but I could tell that this time her heart, if Changelings have them, wasn’t in it. “It’s what Changelings do; we always survive, one way or another. You and that stupid filly Rainbow Dash didn’t bother to check. I landed on a ledge and broke my hindleg. Your pretty little rapier only nicked my artery but I still lost a lot of blood. I stopped the bleeding by clamping down on the artery itself with magic - the benefits of Purestrain adaptation. My wings were broken, so I tried to climb my way out. I lost count of how many times I fell before I remembered I can turn into a bird; I must have been delirious with the blood loss. Then I simply flew out and tried to reach the Queen’s Hive. I must have passed out, because the next thing I remember was seeing Chrysalis standing over me with her hoof stamping on my head, demanding that I beg for forgiveness for failing her.”

I suppose making sure that a dead Purestrain is really dead is a lesson I should have learnt much earlier, but if all went according to plan then it would be one I wouldn’t have to put into practice ever again. At the time we were hardly in the best position to be as thorough as we should have, considering that I was being held over that same deadly drop by Rainbow Dash, whose strength had been slowly fading with the brutal aerial duel we had fought.

As soon as Odonata finished telling her story, albeit in a sort of listless and distracted manner as though she was merely going through the motions, she lost all interest in me, her guest, and turned her concerned gaze back to her foal resting on her lap. She raised a hoof, as wide as a dinner plate and fashioned more like some sort of tool for bludgeoning whales, and, with a delicacy that belied the brutish mass and shape of the appendage and its wielder, gently nudged the nymph to try and elicit some sort of reaction out of it. Where an ordinary, healthy pony foal would have immediately started voicing its complaint at being woken with intense screaming, this creature merely opened its eyes, huge against the gaunt, withered sockets, and stared back at the concerned face of its mother, but otherwise remained still.

Despite me having little actual knowledge on how to care for foals in general, let alone Changeling ones, I understood that they should be at least somewhat more animated than that. The creature looked like a lifeless doll. As I sat there, leaning forward on my cushion over the little coffee table, I suddenly felt as though I was intruding on a private moment and that I ought to leave. Yet I found that I could not, perhaps arrested by that slim chance that this thing could be mine, and my concern was evidently betrayed by some quirk of body language.

“She’s dying,” said Odonata, her voice deliberately flat and level.

“Why?” I asked.

“Starving.” The Purestrain stroked her hoof delicately over the nymph’s head. “She needs love or she will die.”

I chewed on my lower lip, watching the two intently and my hangover-numbed mind looking for any sign that this was some sort of elaborate ploy. Odonata stared back, her face a blank masque as devoid of emotion as her voice.

“How long does it have left?”

A crack formed in her masque - a tiny, hairline fracture snaking its way across an otherwise flawless porcelain surface. It was a faint quiver of her lips, followed by the powerful muscles in her oversized jaw visibly tensing under the skin.

“Days,” she said. “Her last feeding was before the battle.”

“Then feed it,” I snapped, and I was rather surprised at just how urgent I sounded.

“I have no love to spare.” The ice in her eyes chilled me to the core, and in spite of myself I shuddered. “Your army saw to that. Without our source of food - the ponies - we will starve. You know this.”

“And what about you?” I asked, trying to meet her gaze. “How long do you have left now?”

“A few months, or longer if I conserve energy.” Her voice was quiet now, and lacked that sneering, mocking tone it had in our previous chats. I felt, in some odd way, to have found the ‘pony’, as it were, within the Changeling - something vulnerable, relatable even, that was common to all creatures that might be called a ‘soul’. If, and as far as ‘ifs’ go this was a fairly large one that made the Crystal Tower look like a toothpick, this was all true, that is, then what I held before me as I sat across from her on a lumpy old cushion was truly a mother in fear of losing her foal, yet trapped, broken, and beaten by a cruel system that gloried in struggle and hardship and cared nothing for the tiny, weak thing on her lap.

There remained, however, the bigger, unanswered question - can a race that feeds off love to survive express that emotion? Such questions were better left to philosophers, I thought, not a shallow noblepony simply trying to drift through life with as little fuss as possible and still failing on that.

“Purestrains receive priority rations,” she added. “Chrysalis first, then her Attendants, then we Purestrains, then soldiers, workers, and drones, and so on, all according to their position in the hierarchy. Nymphs of mixed parentage are at the very bottom. The strong survive, and the weak perish.”

There it was -- the naked, ugly reality behind the ideology that made the Changelings ‘strong’ was one that allowed foals to die because they were judged to be weak and a burden upon the Hive. It was all well and good for Odonata to rant and rave about how the strong must dominate the weak and all that rot as she had done before to an irritating degree, but, as ever, when theory collides with the real world, experience itself must inevitably batter down those meaningless thoughts and words and reveal the truth. This clash was laid bare in the foal slowly starving to death before me.

What I did next was not out of altruism, as some of my fans and apologists like to espouse in years following the end of the war, and they often forget that this act was extremely controversial once it was revealed to the general public. No, in some way I was motivated by a foalish desire to prove this mad ideologue wrong, and, by helping her, place her more in my debt than before and thus ensure some kind of dependent loyalty. In truth, in the ten seconds it took for me to come to that decision I was absolutely agonising over it, and not least because it required some small sacrifice on my part.

I held out my hooves, pointed at the nymph with my muzzle, and said, “Give her to me and she can feed off my love. Just tell me what to do.”

Odonata’s hooves wrapped tighter around the frail body of her daughter. The raw incredulity plastered over the rigid, armoured contours of her face was most evident in her eyes -- they boggled, and I could almost see the well-oiled gears of that sharp, cunning mind of hers turning, trying to sift through my display of kindness for the golden specks of self-interest. If she knew me, and she did in more than one sense of the word, then those ulterior motives would be positively glittering amongst the filth. Yet those cold calculations were nothing against the equally cold fact that she needed my help and I was offering it freely, at least at face value.

“Odonata,” I said. “I am offering help. If it makes you feel better, I can order you to take it.”

She sighed, her shoulders slumping in what was another unsettlingly equine gesture, and placed her infant in my hooves. I had never held a pony foal before, let alone a Changeling nymph, but I’d seen my governess hold a few newborns years ago and it didn’t seem all that complicated. However, Elytra was surprisingly heavy for a newly-hatched nymph and I damn near dropped the poor thing on the table.

The creature felt cold and slimy in my hooves, as one would probably expect from an oversized bug. My instinct to pull my hooves back might not have been entirely to do with her unexpected weight, perhaps. Her head was limp, lolling on a neck too thin to support it, so I held it up with my hoof as I pulled Elytra onto my lap. Her eyes, disconcertingly pony-like, stared directly into mine with that strange, unblinking manner foals do when they stare at ponies. Yet these were pale, watery, and stark against the slick black chitin. They were, to my sinking horror, pale blue, like mine.

“Think of the ponies you love and who love you,” said Odonata. She perched on the edge of her cushion like a gargoyle, her tall, broad form dwarfing mine as Celestia’s would but without the motherly warmth. “It won’t work if you only think of yourself.”

Even when I was trying to help her starving infant she couldn’t resist trying to mock me, but that she still seemed not to know that I was the very last pony who I loved and who reciprocated was something of a reassurance. There were still some things that I could keep to myself, at least. However, trying to think of a pony who fulfilled that criteria proved to be rather more difficult than I imagine it would be for most normal ponies.

A commoner would pick an immediate family member first, if he was a bachelor like me, but a family such as mine is not sustained by filial affection for one another -- the parents’ union is born of dynastic manoeuvring; the eldest-born foal is groomed from birth merely to be the next link in the great chain; and the siblings wallow in the jealousy that comes with not being born first. As for friends, I had my little gang of sycophants and hangers-on growing up, Second Fiddle among them, but there was no affection between us, save for a few individuals whom I have not seen in years. Today there were merely associates, work colleagues, and fellow nobles with whom I was expected to exchange witty badinage with in the club and at events in the Canterlot season - enjoyable company perhaps, but certainly nothing approaching love.

That narrowed it down to two candidates, which was a depressing prospect whichever way one looks at it. The first was Princess Twilight Sparkle. Lust was certainly present as far as she was concerned, but any prospect of romantic love had been thoroughly extinguished. However, I think it was safe to say that there remained at least some sort of friendship between us, albeit one that had taken something of a beating in the aftermath of our drunken liaison. She was, after all, one of very few ponies who would speak with me on an almost even level, without the awareness of the gulf between the common ponies and me granted by my regal title. That, I thought, had to count for something.

The other was Princess Celestia. The figurative mother of all ponykind, she certainly enjoyed the love of almost all of her subjects, and she was still more of a mother to me than my actual mother. The all-too brief holidays spent in Canterlot Castle were the closest that I might have had to what one might call a ‘normal’ foalhood, albeit one still largely isolated from my fellow scamps, but at least I could explore, play, and learn without the expectations forced upon me by others. Though she could do little about the deficiencies in my soul that made me grow up to be the stallion I am now, I like to think that had it not been for her intervention I might have turned out far worse. Those brief memories, both faded by time and polished by it, were treasured.

Imagine, what it might feel like to be a tube of toothpaste squeezed when one’s valet prepares one’s toothbrush in the morning, and that might come close to the sensation of being fed upon by a Changeling. It was a tightening sensation all over, as though the air itself wrapped around my entire body and began to very gradually strangle the life out of me. A snake had slithered inside my rib cage, wrapped its length around my rapidly-beating heart, and sunk its fangs into the straining flesh. The ends of my hooves tingled with pins and needles, my vision swam and golden stars danced before my eyes. I was distantly aware of the guards rushing to my side, and the sound of them arguing with Odonata registered as though my ears were stuffed with cotton wool. The pain faded, taking with it the horror of what I had lived through these past years, and everything felt delightfully numb, comfortable even. Perhaps, I thought in an abstracted manner, I could merely surrender to this oblivion and never feel a thing again.

Then it was over. Whatever it was released its grip upon me and I slumped into the cushion as though I had been dropped onto it, letting its plush softness absorb my battered frame. The sensation of something being drawn out of me had gone, but now there was a strange lack of a feeling within me, noticeable only for its absence. Nevertheless I was back, and awareness flooded into my being like a champagne poured into a flute.

The two guards were on either side of me, swords drawn and aimed at Odonata, who sat and almost dared the two to strike her with that arrogant sneer on her face. She might be unable to harness magic and her body might be damaged, but I was absolutely not about to assume that she had truly been rendered harmless. So, for their own safety I raised a hoof and waved them off, and they reluctantly complied, sheathing their swords.

Elytra wriggled in my hooves, flailing her tiny limbs to grasp at nothing. Life returned into her tiny form -- she giggled and babbled the usual nonsense that pony foals do, but it was interspersed with a thoroughly alien-sounding chittering and the odd high-pitched squeak. Her ice-blue eyes were fixated upon mine, and I found myself staring back. The sinking feeling that this infant might somehow be mine returned, and with it the normal emotions that an ordinary pony feels when presented with an adorable newborn of any race or species was quite rudely shoved out by that familiar sense of revulsion.

I looked up, tearing my gaze from what I was starting to suspect might be my daughter, to see Odonata watching in a state of complete utter incomprehension. She had perched so far forward on her seat that she might fall off her cushion and flatten the coffee table between us. Her eyes were as wide as saucers, vast black pits a particularly slim mare might lose a hoof in, and her heavy-set chest was panting with short, sharp breaths.

Odonata took her daughter from my proffered hooves, her own trembling, and held the tiny thing tightly to her broad, armoured chest. “I…” She looked at her foal, who giggled and chittered away as she drummed her small hooves against heavy chitin, then back at me. Her thin, lipless mouth gaped open, and her eyes became rimmed with- were those tears? The maw closed and she swallowed hard. “I don’t understand.”

“What’s there to understand?” My voice sounded dry and strained as though I had been shouting at a gaggle of slovenly soldiers who dared to turn up to parade with bits of uniform missing. “I couldn’t bear to see a foal starve to death.”

“You just sacrificed a part of yourself to help a Changeling for no benefit or advantage.” Odonata squinted her eyes at me. “None that I can see.”

I rose to my hooves, though a sudden rush of vertigo threatened to send me crashing into the coffee table. Whatever part of myself I had ‘sacrificed’ appeared to have been much greater than I had anticipated, and I cursed myself for not asking about side effects first.

“You spoke about strength and weakness earlier,” I said, once I’d straightened myself up and the room stopped lurching like a ship’s cabin in a storm. “Equestria’s strength, its true strength, is friendship. That is what allows those whom you call ‘weak’ to stand up together and fight Chrysalis’ tyranny, and what will allow us to prevail without succumbing to your barbarism.”

“Tell that to the Changelings and ponies you gassed,” she said, her sharp, clipped voice regaining its domineering tone as before. “Such ideals are inevitable casualties of war. Each time you put them aside in the name of victory you will find it becomes that much easier to do it again, and again, until you have abandoned them without even knowing it.”

With that, the glimpse of vulnerability, that crack in Odonata’s masque was smoothed over and repaired with the work of a skilled restorationist. Nevertheless, beneath it all that crack remained.

“You started it,” I snapped, tiring of hearing the same old nonsense from her, or perhaps, deep down, I feared that she could be right. I remembered that moment at Twilight Sparkle’s party, which now felt like a lifetime away, and her words rang clearly through my thoughts like a bell - ‘But what use is friendship in war? How can it survive against all this hate?’.

“I never thought this would happen to me,” she said, shaking her head. “I’m ‘going pastel’.”

“What?” I blurted out.

“Drones, ones with weak wills, who spend too long undercover sometimes forget their duty to the Queen and the Hives and bond with the ponies they feed off. Gradually they become more and more pony-like in thought -- it’s like an infection. They call it ‘going pastel’, but the official term is ‘sympathising’. Either way, Chrysalis calls it treason.”

“Perhaps it’s just the Magic of Friendship,” I said. “Besides, I think the ship has already sailed and docked at Port Treason now, if you’re truly helping us.”

“Like I said, me and my daughter’s survival is now dependent on Equestria winning this war,” said Odonata. “And the Changelings as a race. Whatever it takes.”

We stared at one another across the coffee table in uncomfortable silence, and I was suddenly aware of just how tired I was. Lack of sleep, my habitual drinking, and frequent nightmares meant that I felt tired for most of the day, except for those brief moments of being shoved into mortal terror where adrenaline invigorated both body and mind. This, however, felt rather worse, like the aftermath of an all-night cruise through the more lascivious districts of Canterlot when one was woken by the delicate birdsong from just outside the police cell window. I would feel better with some strong Trottingham tea, I thought, and failing that I might send Cannon Fodder to scrounge some decent coffee.

“I have things to do,” I said, leaning on the most basic of excuses. “This war won’t win itself.”

Odonata sighed, nodded, and turned her head to look out of the miserable excuse for a window in this cell, where the faint drizzle had turned earnestly into rain. “Thank you,” she said, apparently unable to meet my gaze, “for helping me.”

“I did it for your foal,” I said. “Any pony would have done that.”

I turned to leave, and as I crossed the short distance to the door where the two guards stood they watched me warily. They exchanged a glance, silently daring one another to be the first to say something. The one on the left proved to be the braver of the two; he gave me a concerned look and said quietly, “Sir?”

“I’m quite alright.” I was about to leave when a thought abruptly pushed its way through the mental fog -- soldiers will gossip, and what I had just done would spread through the fortress and across the camps like a case of the Trots. I dreaded reading the tabloid headlines for this fiasco. Taking a technique from Auntie Luna’s book, I made a show of reading the names on their tags. “You two are the only ponies who saw this. Am I correct?”

They exchanged a sideways glance with one another and nodded fiercely.

“Excellent,” I continued. “So, if what you just saw gets out I’ll know exactly which two ponies told everypony else. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir!” they chorused together, saluting with impeccable precision.

Satisfied that they wouldn’t dare risk the wrath of the one commissar with the reputation for being both fair and reasonable, I trotted straight out of the room with a mind to go to my office and sleep for the rest of the afternoon.

One of the first orders I had given after the battle, after a double gin and tonic from the officer’s mess, was the installation of lights inside the castle, as part of the general cleaning-up process to make this place worthy enough to accommodate a prince of the realm. The formerly dark and gloomy corridor that stretched along much of the length of the outer wall was now softly lit by ceiling lamps at regular intervals, though the cold, bleak stonework would have to remain until I could scrounge enough from the budget to afford carpets and tasteful wall decorations. This allowed me, however, to see the pony leaning against the wall just outside my office door, apparently waiting for me.

Beige. The stallion was beige in every sense of the word, both in appearance and temperament. One’s eyes almost seemed to slide off of him, so entirely non-descript and dull he was -- the very metaphysical ideal of the sort of middle-aged white collar worker who has just worked through his mid-life crisis and has settled in for a lifetime of managerial mediocrity. He was slightly overweight and wore a dark suit that was still too baggy for him. Small but intelligent eyes peered through thick, square spectacles as he watched me walk through the corridor. A worn briefcase was on the floor by his hooves.

“Your Highness?” he asked, standing straighter and away from the wall he was leaning on. I nodded and he smiled. “I’m from the Ministry of War.”

“You mean S.M.I.L.E.?” I said.

“That is a sub-department of the Ministry of War, yes.” He extended his hoof for me to shake, which I did so hesitantly. Odonata had said one of those secret squirrels had asked her questions, and here he was apparently taking an interest in me. I wouldn’t normally be afraid of a fat, middle-aged stallion with creaky joints, but here standing before me was the rare exception. “You were expecting a handsome young stallion in a tuxedo?”

“Of course not.” I checked my watch. “It’s not after six o’clock yet.”

He chuckled, and even that sounded beige. “And you needn’t worry, sir, you aren’t the subject of an investigation.”

Yet. I like to think that I’d become rather skilled at masking my true emotions behind either aristocratic coldness or heroic bravado depending on the circumstance, so when this pony who hadn’t even given me his name (and I didn’t want to know it, for the less I had to do with an organisation like S.M.I.L.E. the better) appeared to have picked up on the knot of anxiety I had been trying to suppress was more than a little alarming. Then again, I was rather tired after having been fed upon just a few minutes earlier. Even then, I wondered if this was just a stock phrase he used to unnerve whomever he spoke to, and in this case it was certainly working. At least this damned spook here gave me a newfound appreciation for General Market Garden’s bluntness -- one was always assured that she truly spoke her mind.

“That’s reassuring,” I said, feeling anything but reassured. “Apologies, I assume you’ve been waiting to see me? Shall we go into my office?”

“Oh no, I wouldn’t want to impose. I know you’re very busy.” The beige stallion picked up his briefcase, and even his magic aura was a rather dull shade of beige. It clicked open and he picked out a small manila file stuffed with papers. “I only wanted to give you this.”

I accepted the proffered envelope. It clearly had seen some use in its short life, with the flimsy cardboard frayed in the edges and the distinctive ring-shape of a coffee mug stain almost in the middle of it. The label in the upper right corner stated in fading printed letters ‘Dossier - The Black Prince’.

“What is this?” I asked.

“It’s you,” said the beige stallion as he closed up his briefcase, struggling a little with one of the clasps that had been bent out of shape from use. “The Changelings have been keeping files on prominent Equestrian figures to help with their infiltration schemes. They probably started after Queen Chrysalis was almost exposed by Princess Twilight Sparkle when she was pretending to be Princess Mi Amore Cadenza. I thought you might find it an interesting read, sir.”

[The Changeling reforms to their military also extended to their infiltrator corps. While cells tended to operate independently of one another, the sharing of information was centralised by the Queen’s Hive. Dossiers were kept on a wide range of individuals, not just ‘prominent Equestrian figures’; files on griffons, donkeys, and seemingly random ponies from all over Equestria and beyond were discovered in the Changeling archives. These dossiers had an idiosyncratic naming system, which was a colour associated with the subject followed by an identifying characteristic. Surviving dossiers are held in the Canterlot archives and access is heavily restricted.]

They could have at least used my actual name and title. I was both rather curious and a little afraid to see what information the Changelings held on me, and for whatever reason I hoped that there were certain large gaps in their records. If anything, the contents therein would give a potential enemy of mine ample material for blackmail.

“We’re also curious to see how accurate their intelligence is,” the beige stallion carried on. “If you could give that a read and point out any mistakes or omissions then that should give us a good idea of the quality of their sources.”

I thanked him and he went on his way, lumbering down the corridor with an awkward gait. Though I had thought to spend the rest of the afternoon napping, the contents of this folder intrigued me. That I was a ‘prominent Equestrian figure’ as the beige stallion had put it was a given, but having been accidentally catapulted into the public eye as some sort of bally hero I had also earned the unwelcome attention of the enemy and their Queen herself. A nap could wait, as my curiosity was stronger. Well, a certain saying involving the death of cats comes to mind.

The office I had procured was small and modest, as befitting a prince of the realm who had graciously given up on some luxuries for the benefit of the war effort. Not all luxuries of course, mind you; I made a detour to the drinks cabinet on the way to the desk to pour myself a glass of vintage port. There were a few messages and letters for me waiting on the desk, and most of it was drivel that I could allow Cannon Fodder, who occupied the office next door, to sort out on my behalf. One letter came from an unexpected source, Rarity, who thanked me both for advising Sweetie Belle to settle her problems with one of her bullying school chums by challenging her to a duel and for the sword I had sent her, but informed me that she will be returning the deadly weapon and dealing with the issue by speaking with the teacher. How in Equestria was that young unicorn filly going to learn how to defend her honour without duelling?

First, I popped next door to see how Cannon Fodder and Saguaro were getting on with the day’s paperwork. The latter proved rather difficult to get rid of, frankly, having imprinted on me like a baby bird after being flushed from his cocoon, and so I decided that if he was going to take up space here and occasionally follow me around, asking inane questions about basic Equestrian life along the way, that I might as well put him to work with my aide. Cannon Fodder seemed to derive some measure of enjoyment out of having somepony to boss around for once, and put him to use delivering messages on my behalf. That at least kept him out of my business for hours at a time and would go some way to satisfying his newfound curiosity about the strange ponies from the north.

My aide was stuffing his face with biscuits between reading requisition reports when I left him instructions that I was not to be disturbed for the rest of the evening (I intended to nap after reading the document, but I didn’t tell him that). Saguaro had arranged wooden boxes in the corner to the height of a pony, and he would climb this tower and then leap off, wings flapping frantically but to no avail, and he plummeted to the ground. I watched him try to teach himself to fly three more times before leaving him to it; the Changelings had clipped his wings but that didn’t discourage him.

It was with some trepidation that I opened the folder, feeling rather wary of its contents. Inside was, as expected, a series of papers. What was surprising, however, was that the text on these was clearly typed with typewriters, and the image of an office of Changeling typists hammering away at the keys to produce these dossiers brought me some amusement.

A photograph of me was pinned to the first page by a paperclip. It was an older photo, before Auntie Luna had forced me into this damned uniform and sent me to the front with little more than a lacklustre pep-talk. If I remember correctly, I was at a gala and, being in a good mood, I flashed the paparazzi a charming grin, instead of taking his camera and attempting to insert it lengthwise in an orifice that is often mistaken for his mouth. There was a small standing mirror on the desk, which I used to make sure that I looked the best I possibly could before attending meetings or hurling myself into mortal peril again. Curious, I held up the photograph to the mirror and adjusted myself in the seat until my face was fully visible.

I tried to replicate the grin, and though the muscles in my face eased into that familiar expression as naturally as can be, there seemed to be some unidentifiable quality that the photo possessed that my reflection lacked. It was a sense of innocence, if one could call anything I had done as a youth ‘innocent’, but the younger-me had no inkling that this would be as good as it would get, and that everything was largely downhill from there on. That photo must have been taken no more than four years ago, but judging by my reflection I appeared to have aged at least ten. The photo and the thoughts that it had conjured were making me feel depressed, so I put it down and turned my attention to the document itself.

The first few pages contained basic facts that were merely a matter of public record: name, titles (that one took up a good few paragraphs), date of birth, and so on. As far as I could tell it was all correct with the exception of my weight, as after getting gassed I had lost a not-insignificant number of pounds. A family tree was included, albeit truncated and it only extended back half a dozen generations.

The next page was a series of tables of statistics titled Abilities, Skills, Equipment, and Spells, among a great many other things. Some of the entries in these tables had seemingly arbitrary numbers assigned to them, and none of them made any sense to me at all. According to the Changelings I possessed seventeen ‘charisma’, whatever in Tartarus that was supposed to mean. I only wasted about half a minute trying to decipher it all before giving up -- it was probably something best left to the secret squirrels in Canterlot. What little I could comprehend mentioned a ‘truly singular’ skill with fencing, with a horn-written note advising that to engage Yours Truly in single combat with a sword was to invite certain defeat, which I thought was over-selling it a little. A portion about magical ability noted that I seemed to have the potential for developing ‘above average’ magical power, but that I was much too ‘lazy’ to put in the effort to learn. I don’t know about ‘above average’, but even if I could I’d say I simply don’t have much cause to; it was all rather boring anyway.

The next few sheafs contained a written summary of my life thus far, from a rather uneventful birth to just after I had presented myself to Market Garden and almost everything in between. It was in places quite vague but in others incredibly detailed; for example, a foalhood spent travelling with my father through Coltcutta, Griffonstone, and Zebrica was concluded in a single sentence, but an incident when I was seven years old that resulted in the hospitalisation of my then prep school music teacher was described in striking detail. I could only assume that the Changelings had somehow gained access to my academic record, likely had a good laugh at the vast sea of F’s in everything besides fencing and baking, and picked out a few things that they thought I might use as anecdotes. From there it went on: the disappearance of my father; my mother’s deterioration; living with Auntie Celestia; brief military career (the first time around, where I did nothing of note); and so on and so forth.

The very last entry, however, caused me some alarm. I sat very still and very silent there until flank-cramp made it necessary to move, as my overactive anxiety presented each and every one of the possible consequences of the Changelings, S.M.I.L.E., and Faust-knows who else out there having read this. And that was before I could get to the equally disturbing question of how such information was acquired. Right at the bottom, written in shockingly neat and precise horn-writing in green ink as a new addition to the file, was the following:

“Friday 13th April - The subject engaged in sexual intercourse with Princess Twilight Sparkle (see Dossier: Purple Smart) at a party. Potential for royal scandal - high. Suggest coordination with media infiltration teams for maximum effect - allegations of impropriety i.e coercion, pregnancy, etc. need not be true, but the accusation alone may be sufficiently damaging to the subject’s reputation.”

Chapter 22

The problem with success is that ponies start to take notice, and while the praise helped to bolster my efforts in making my temporary desk assignment permanent, the increased scrutiny did not. The very last thing that I needed to cement my position was for some inquisitive little busybody with nothing better to do to say ‘hold on there, this Prince Blueblood chap isn’t actually doing an awful lot there’, thus bringing this precarious little house of cards crashing down on itself and setting it on fire. One should instead aim for a certain level of mediocrity that rises just above the base minimum to accomplish the job in hoof, but not so much that other government ponies start poking around. Being a prince of the realm hardly helped matters on that front either.

I was able to keep these organisations at an appropriate distance through Cannon Fodder, as his peculiar literal-mindedness and unappealing aroma strong enough to linger on any correspondence ensured that any civilian or military official eventually ran out of patience and gave up on their inquiry. Those few who were under the delusion that whatever it was they were worried about was more important than my coasting along could just as easily be diverted with a few agreeable words from my desk; after all, I was merely the pony who brought this team together and any inquiries were best directed towards those relevant ponies. Thus I was able to keep this racket going, by putting in the effort that some would say might have been better employed in performing the job I was getting rather desperate to keep. Or rather, protecting my dedicated employees from undue scrutiny, as I publicly put it in a pre-written press release conjured up by a publicist I’d already hired.

We were getting results, and that’s what truly mattered. The basic physical needs - food, water, and shelter - of these ponies were being met, and exceeded even, in the space of a few weeks. Their medical state was improving day by day, and as I wandered around the tent cities, making my usual public appearance so that everypony knew that all of this was my idea, I did notice markedly fewer visible ribs in the natives that I saw.

There was, however, one department of state that I simply could not divert or ignore: the EEA. They felt they had a vested interest in what I had arranged to be done here in the Badlands, education of all types being their entire remit, and the seemingly disproportionate fiscal, material, and magical wealth bestowed upon the Association meant that they, unlike the departments of health, foreign affairs, magic, and so on, had the capacity to circumvent my bureaucratic stalling. Not that I didn’t try, of course. I had received a curtly-worded letter, written on premium parchment with an embossed watermark bearing the EEA’s great seal, informing me that as I had set up (or arranged to be set up, as it was actual educational staff who did the work I was taking credit for) a new institution for the purpose of educating ponies, that we were to be subjected to the usual inspection process.

I had Cannon Fodder craft the usual vacuous response letter; that we would be all too happy to accommodate their queries but given our proximity to the frontline, the very real threat of Changeling infiltration, and the rather dire state of the native ponies themselves that we had rather more pressing priorities occupying our collective attentions. Most reasonable bureaucrats would understand this, or would simply realise that perhaps what they wanted out of us was not worth the time, effort, and risk to travel to here, when my aide could just as easily order copies of the relevant, and sometimes irrelevant, paperwork to be mailed north to Canterlot. With that, and the fact that our courses were largely being administered by EEA-approved staff anyway, I was quite satisfied that this would be the very last time I would have to deal with them directly.

Or so I thought, up until later in the afternoon of that same day in fact, I heard a knock on my office door and a severe-looking stallion in a luxurious burgundy robe stormed in before I had even had the chance to get off of my bed, conceal the lingerie catalogue that I was absently flicking through under a pillow, and invite him in. He stood there at the doorway, flanked by two guardsponies who wore the all-too-familiar expressions of soldiers who had been yanked from a cushy, comfortable duty to escort this supposedly very important pony through security checkpoints and across the entire encampment, through the city, and up the several flights of stairs to my office. When he arched his eyebrow imperiously at the sight of me, lying on my bed ‘reading’ a glossy magazine with its lurid cover of a mare presenting her silk-clad rear, a sudden strike of recognition took me. I was unable to place it until I imagined the stallion there perhaps a decade or two younger, with a much happier expression, wearing a rowing club blazer and a striped repp bow tie.

“Professor Nosey?” I said, sliding off the bed and placing the magazine neatly on my pillow, arranged so that he could see it just past me. “Is that you?”

His left eye twitched fiercely, and his lips drew back like a snarling tiger. “Neighsay,” he said in a voice that was somewhere between a snake-like hiss and a growl. “Chancellor Neighsay, of the Equestrian Education Association. I am here to inspect your educational facilities.”

“Oh.” Oh dear.

I had a sudden and unwelcome flashback to being seven years old, standing up in a gloomy classroom with this stallion trying to impress upon me that, although I was a prince and would never have to work a day in my life, it was still important that I have a fully-rounded education. This stallion, you see, had the misfortune to be my prep school teacher, until a particular incident that I now felt more than a little guilty about had encouraged him to leave the profession for a more administrative role. However, it hadn’t put that much of a damper on his career, being the Chancellor of the EEA and all that.

“What do you mean, ‘oh’?”

“I’m afraid I’m terribly busy right now,” I said, just about stopping myself from adding ‘professor’ to the end of that. “There’s a war on, after all.”

Neighsay looked at the lovely pair of flanks on the cover of the magazine I’d left on the bed and then back at me.

“Clearly.” He had one of those voices, peculiar to ponies from certain strata of old Pranceton alumni, where it was nigh-impossible to detect sarcasm as everything they said sounded as though it was soaked in it. “Well, Your Highness, I shan’t take up too much of your precious time, but the EEA did notify you of our inspection.”

“You mean that letter I received this morning?” I asked. “How in blazes did you get here so quickly?”

When I say that he ‘smiled’ I mean that the muscles in his face pulled his features into something approximating a smile, but was about as friendly as that of a timberwolf. He tapped the golden medallion on his chest, emblazoned with that rather pompous symbol of the EEA, and said, “A simple matter of portal magic. I could explain it, but having written your third grade report I know that I would be wasting my time.”

I have to admit, that did sting a little. “Am I to take it that you’re still upset with me for that little thing with the ukulele? That was years ago!”

“That ‘little thing with the ukulele’ put me in a coma for a week!” he snapped, stamping a hoof. His left eye twitched harder, then, closing the both of them, he sucked in a deep breath, held it for precisely ten seconds, and exhaled. That calmed him down slightly, just enough for him to carry a conversation. “It took another week for me to re-learn how to walk, something foals do straight out of the womb! Thanks to you I never taught in a school again.”

And foals everywhere should be thanking me.

“I am sorry about all of that,” I said, while making a mental note that should this inspection not go the way that I’d hoped, which was scraping away with a ‘pass’ so I could be left in peace, to appeal that decision by claiming that the undue bias of Chancellor Neighsay here had affected his professional decision. Knowing full well, having done this myself when I ‘worked’ in Supply, that such things invariably fail as it’s tantamount to marking one’s own homework.

It was quite clear that he didn’t want to be here any more than I did, and having gotten the pleasantries over with, he declared that he would like to view one of the classes and peruse some of the teaching material. If it was any other petty bureaucrat I would have sent him on his way with the guards and gone back to bed to leer at the silk-clad mares in the catalogue, but owing to his position and our prior history, I felt it best not to leave him out of my sight, despite being rather tedious company. In fact, it was most unusual that the head of such a prestigious organisation as the EEA, which enjoyed the highest level of royal patronage from Princess Celestia herself, would come out here, mere miles from enemy territory, when they could have sent any number of expendable underlings instead. As we made our way under guard escort to the closest classroom, which was little more than a large marquee out in the desert, I questioned Neighsay on just that topic.

“I insist on conducting all inspections personally where possible,” he said. “The business of educating Equestria’s future is much too important to be left to just anypony. Not even Princess Celestia’s School for Gifted Unicorns is beyond my remit.”

“I see,” I said, wondering if he was as curt and ill-mannered to my dear divine Aunt as he was to me. “Forgive me, I didn’t think what we did here warranted the personal attention of the Chancellor of the EEA.”

“Your work here has attracted the attention of prominent ponies in the government.” Neighsay shot me a look, arching his eyebrow again. “I’d have thought you would be aware of that by now.”

“I haven’t had much of an opportunity to return to Canterlot,” I said; feigning complete ignorance works wonders when the other pony assumes one is a simpleton.

“Canterlot has invested a lot of money in your efforts here, taxpayers’ money, and a not-insignificant proportion of that comes from the EEA.” And judging by his fancy robe and fancy magic medallion I was sure Neighsay’s organisation could afford it, I thought to myself as he carried on. “And from what we’ve been able to ascertain from reports you’ve mainly spent it on these native heathens.”

We came to the ‘classroom’, where about two dozen ponies of all three tribes and of varying ages, from small foals through young ponies and up to the elderly, were being led slowly through a foal’s picture book. An old, kindly-looking mare with half-moon spectacles and a knitted jumper despite the heat stood before them, encouraging each of her students, young and old, to stumble their way through a sentence or two of that unassailable classic of Equestrian literature Clipboard the Big Redwood Timberwolf. There was another such marquee just beyond this one, a little further out into the desert but closer to one of the tent encampments, where I could see that a more advanced lesson consisting of the former clerk class of native ponies and a couple griffons of the PGL was being held under the tutelage of an officer in the dress uniform of RASEC. [The Royal Armed Services Educational Corps, which provides for the general education of enlisted personnel and officers in all branches of the Equestrian military as well as more specialised military training, is under the authority of the Ministry of War. However, its general education materials and staff are required to be approved by the EEA, making the Corps subject to EEA regulations.]

“Just what is your intention with these classes?” asked Neighsay. A few of the students turned to see the odd stallion watching them, but the teacher managed to draw their attention back to the book.

I shrugged; one of the ponies I’d hired to fix Virion Hive and the ponies in it had suggested that we ought to educate the locals, and I’d signed off on the proposal thinking it was what was expected of me. “Educating ponies, I’d say.”

Neighsay rolled his eyes and shook his head, and his slicked-back mane slithered like oil down his neck. “To what end, sir?” he said, turning to face me. At least he still had some manners. “The only possible reason we would have to educate them is if Equestria was to annex this land and bring these ponies under the rule of Harmony.”

“That’s the first I’ve heard of this,” I said, shrugging again. Annexation -- I didn’t much like the sound of that. Colouring bits and pieces of a map could only lead to more trouble with the natives, I thought. “I don’t know what the suits and tiaras in Canterlot are discussing, and I don’t much care to, frankly. I’m a soldier, not a politician.”

“You’re a political officer, sir.” Neighsay glared daggers at me; this feigning idiocy business had the added effect of annoying him, which, I’m sure readers who might have had the misfortune of meeting this dour old stallion before will appreciate, only encouraged me further. “And a prince, too. What is the purpose of expending the money and effort in civilising these ponies if they’re not going to become productive subjects of Equestria? Education is an investment, sir, on the future of our great country, and we will not see a return on that investment if it is spent on these foreign heathens. What’s to stop them from using what your ponies have taught them against us?”

I looked past him to watch an older stallion awkwardly sound out the letters to make out the word ‘tree’, for which he received a gold star sticker on his exercise book. He seemed very proud of himself for that.

“We won’t teach them the letter ‘Q’ then,” I said. “That’s the most dangerous letter in the alphabet.”

Neighsay stood silent for a moment, his eyes narrowed and his sharp, beak-like muzzle pointed at me like a knife, and I imagined that he was trying to work out if he could still put me in detention. “I shouldn’t be surprised that you fail to see the big picture,” he carried on. “However, everything appears to be according to reg-”

He stopped, squinted at something in the next marquee over. “Prince Blueblood,” he snarled, “are those griffons attending classes?”

I followed his gaze to where there were indeed a couple of the aforementioned lion/eagle hybrids attending a lecture of some sort, but I couldn’t make out the subject from over there. “Ah, so they are,” I said.

“Need I remind you that ‘EEA’ stands for the Equestrian Education Association?”

“They are soldiers of Equestria, yes.” Neighsay opened his mouth to speak, but I held up a hoof, interrupting him. “They’ve fought and bled for Equestria as much as any pony in this war, so I don’t think it’s too much to allow them the same opportunity to learn something as their equine comrades.”

“Very well,” scoffed Neighsay, his snarl turning into the sort of grin that made me wonder just how this pony was ever allowed near schoolfoals in the first place. “I believe I’ve seen enough, thank you. You’ll be hearing from me soon.”

In fact I never did hear from him again, at least not in this capacity. I imagine he rose a stink back in Canterlot and somepony, perhaps Luna I’d like to think, told him where to get off and the matter was quietly dropped as it should be. I would have loved to have been there to see it. At any rate, the guards who had accompanied us escorted him back to wherever he needed to go to use his portal magic medallion thing to go home. I didn’t quite understand it, but from what I could gather this enchanted lump of inanimate gold had a memory of sorts and could only send ponies between places it ‘remembered’. Otherwise, we could have used this thing to send an assassin, if Equestria still had them lying around somewhere, straight to Chrysalis and end this war in a matter of minutes. He took one of the supply airships back to Dodge Junction, and from there zapped himself home to waste somepony else’s time.

Speaking of airships, the burden of logistics restrains an army as a leash with a dog, and both will strain against that lead to reach their objective, be it the opposing army or a squirrel. The railway that served as the vital artery through which food, water, arms, ammunition, armour, mail, and all the myriad things that are required to sustain the increasingly vast numbers of troops at the front (that could not be scavenged from the land), had only extended as far as Fort E-5150, and from there on it was a matter of pony-drawn wagons and airships.

I’ll give General Market Garden due credit here; other generals might have become over-confident with our admittedly-costly success at Virion Hive and pushed onwards, and indeed a number of her generals of division were chomping at the bit to advance deeper into enemy territory in search of the next battle, but she insisted on not only allowing her army time to recuperate but to also ensure that when the time came for another offensive that her ponies were well-prepared and equipped for it. It was not the sort of flashy manoeuvre and tactical sleight-of-hoof that gets armchair generals all hot and bothered, but I could appreciate this cautious, business-like approach, if only as the lesser of two evils. Even then, she was not about to sit and wait for the railway extension to be built.

It was on one such airship that this quiet respite was ultimately shattered. The lack of any appreciable Changeling activity behind our lines had lulled us into a false sense of security of sorts, though Second Fiddle was busy throwing his weight around with his RAID-thing going on and getting into other ponies’ business with little to show for it. In hindsight, the Changelings were likely waiting for such a relaxing of our guard for the prime opportunity to strike, which they did in spectacular fashion.

The folks at RASEA had decided to organise an extravagant show for the troops at Virion Hive, and instead of the usual assortment of failed comedians, tone-deaf singers, and psychotic stage magicians with delusions of grandeur (I had dismissed the Great and Powerful Trixie’s request to have her ban rescinded), they had somehow acquired the one and only Countess Coloratura.

In contrast to the usual flamboyant manner she usually arrived in, the singer and a tiny fraction of her usual entourage of dancers, roadies, and hangers-on were forced to hitch rides on a convoy of airships bringing all sorts of stuff to Virion Hive. I, being the gracious host that I am, accompanied the star in the hold of one such cargo airship, just to make sure that she was comfortable, of course. We’d found a nice, relatively secluded spot on the starboard side, by a large window that commanded a lovely view of the Badlands, surrounded by a number of wooden crates filled with Faust-knows what. The engines droned on in a continuous, monotonous hum that one could almost get used to, were it not for the occasional sputtering misfire.

While I dislike flying (for if unicorns were meant to fly, Celestia would have made us all alicorns), having spent the pre-flight checking time reading the safety instructions on the emergency parachutes, I have to admit that the view from a thousand feet up in the air made the otherwise drab, dreary, monotone landscape of the Badlands look rather pretty. I might go as far as calling it ‘majestic’, with the wide open plains and rugged hills as far as the eye could see.

That sight paled in magnificence compared to the lady who stood by that window and stared out at it. The mare whose image adorned the bedchamber walls of adolescent colts across Equestria was right there, close enough to touch. She was tall, but quite slim for an earth pony mare, but delightfully plump where it counted. Though Coloratura was known in those days for elaborate outfits, she had wisely toned down her dress for the climate with a more suitable and tasteful black top and a veil draped over her flanks. Her mane and tail were still made up with sweeping, cascading curls, dyed with a streak of striking opal. It occurred to me then and there that the only mares that I had seen for the past month or so were soldiers, impoverished natives, and prostitutes. She was the first ‘real’ mare I had seen since, and if you, dear reader, imagine that I was about to let her slip through my hooves then I can’t imagine how much my reputation has been warped beyond all recognition in the intervening time.

“I’m sorry that we could not provide for all of your requirements,” I said, easing my way next to her by the window. Her staff had sent a list of things, a ‘rider’ as I believe is the correct industry term, and the mind boggled to think how one could possibly accommodate such demands even if there wasn’t a war on.

“Oh!” She seemed a little startled, as though she hadn’t heard me approach. In person, her whole demeanour was quite far removed from the confident image projected on stage, being somewhat shy and quiet. “It’s fine, really. This is for our brave ponies at the front, after all.”

“They’re all looking forward to the show,” I said, and then, with what I hoped was a charming, dashing grin, “as am I. If there’s anything else I can do to accommodate your-”

Her manager, a pony wearing a slim three-piece suit of fine worsted wool that he was already starting to sweat through (apparently he had yet to hear of linen suiting), somehow wedged himself between us. “It most certainly is not fine!” Svengallop shouted, a mere few inches from my face. “This is Countess Coloratura for pony’s sake, and you’ve put her inside a cargo ship!”

It’s quite rare that I take such an instant and intense dislike to another pony. The unreasonable demands were a part of it, yes, but more than that was his entire demeanour - haughty, with nothing at all to warrant it besides being the manager of a highly successful popular singer. I can deal with true haughty, in fact, I’ve ‘haughted’ with the best of them, but this I found especially galling.

“Yes, I read your stipulation that we must charter a luxury private yacht, amongst other things,” I said blithely. “The Equestrian Army lacks such yachts in its airship fleets, and it was impossible to find a company willing to lease such an expensive airship to somewhere mere miles from Changeling territory, much less a crew willing to pilot it too.”

And there was no way I was about to risk losing the Sunfish in a like manner, thought I, and given what happened next I’ve been more than vindicated on that account. [The Sunfish was Prince Blueblood’s personal yacht, though he rarely used it owing to his aversion to flying. It is currently on display in the Aeronautical Museum in Canterlot.]

“I could look past the airship issue if you had fulfilled the rest of the list,” said Svengallop, stamping his hoof with the petulance of a foal who has been forced to admit that his position is irrational. “Where are the cherries I requested for Countess Coloratura?”

I nodded in the direction of the offending bowl of cherries, which had been placed atop a crate of oat rations draped over with a sheet of off-white cloth. My aide, Cannon Fodder, might have had a knack for scrounging things that would have been otherwise impossible for me to acquire through the official channels, namely fine liquor, literature, and eau de cologne, to help make life somewhat bearable at the front, but even he struggled with the list. Not that I told him to put much effort into fulfilling it, mind you, but I think he did as good a job with it as one could possibly hope for. In addition to the aforementioned cherries, he had requisitioned, through whatever arcane means he uses to acquire such things, bottles of spring water, eclairs, a collection of gems, and a rather tasteful flower arrangement. Whether or not they were exactly what Coloratura wanted was another matter, but I doubted she or anypony else would be able to tell otherwise.

“You know,” I said, stepping around Svengallop and turning my attention back to the lovely mare before me, “I’ve always wanted to attend one of your concerts, but-”

Svengallop, however, persisted. “And did I not specifically ask that they be separated red from yellow?”

“You did.” When I saw that he was not about to let this go, I called out to the cavernous cargo hold around us, “Cannon Fodder!”

My call was responded to with an atrocious noise that sounded somewhere between a cat being strangled and a large balloon being deflated. From that direction, I saw a pair of hooves emerge over the top of a nearby crate, shortly followed by my aide’s head slowly rising from behind it like some sort of deep sea creature. He looked far worse than usual; being carried by Rainbow Dash in flight before had demonstrated that his physiology had as much a disagreement about flight as I did philosophically, but somehow this airship, flying quite steadily as it lumbered through the heavens like a skyborne whale, had a worse effect upon him than that stunt flyer. The skin under his grubby, stained coat had turned a distinct shade of green, and his lips were tightly shut as he tried to hold down the urge to vomit.

“Sir?” he said, halfway between a coherent word and a belch. His unique aroma had only ripened with his air sickness.

“Would you mind separating out the cherries for our guests, please?”

Cannon Fodder slowly rotated his head to look at the cherries, then back at me. There was no room in his simple mind for even the slightest notion of questioning me, but the look he gave implied that he was at least starting to get the germ of the idea. He briefly disappeared behind the crate, and then stumbled out, staggering as if drunk, to the cherries, where he started to bend his head down to pick them up with his mouth.

“On second thought, don’t bother,” said Svengallop. My aide gratefully disappeared from view behind the crate, and the only indication of his presence there was the occasional sound of dry heaving.

I pulled an apologetic sort of face, but that didn’t seem to help matters. Svengallop glared at me as only Purestrains have dared to before. “Can I have a word with you, Prince Blueblood?”

Saying ‘no’ was always an option, but if I didn’t put this windbag in his place now then I would have to put up with this sort of thing for the duration, which would invariably scupper my chances with the Countess here. So I went along with him, past the crate topped with refreshments where Cannon Fodder curled up in a foetal position clutching his stomach.

“This is completely unacceptable!” said Svengallop, as he rounded on me abruptly. “Booking the one-and-only Countess Coloratura for your little show comes with certain requirements that must be fulfilled. Now, I can overlook some of these, but I insist that at the very least our accommodations are sufficiently elegant and well-stocked as I have already requested.”

I glanced behind me, where Coloratura seemed quite happy gazing out of the window, and it occurred to me that not once had she made any of these demanding requests herself. They had all come from this Svengallop chap, and if anything the supposed diva had been rather shy, retiring, and perfectly reasonable in managing her expectations of performing in what was only a few weeks ago the site of a horrendous battle.

“You and the Countess have a room each in the castle,” I said, “and I have secured additional rooms for your dancers and crew, when they arrive.”

“And they better be up to her exacting standards!” he continued. “It’s bad enough that we’ve had to come all this way to this dirty, smelly part of Equestria just so Countess Coloratura can perform for a bunch of soldiers. Because if it isn’t, then I will have no choice but to pull our star performer from your little show, and we wouldn’t want that, would we?”

I smiled, which seemed to unnerve him a little. “Fine.”

Svengallop squinted at me through his slim pince-nez. “Fine? What do you mean ‘fine’?”

“I simply mean to say that if you choose to withdraw Countess Coloratura from the show then that is your prerogative as her manager. However, I must inform you that it will leave a significant gap in our schedule of events, which I intend upon filling by forcing you on stage in front of hundreds of bored soldiers at sword point.” I grasped the handle of my sabre with my magic and tugged it out with a steely rasp, just enough for him to see a few inches of polished Trottingham steel. “Either way, our brave stallions and mares are getting a show.”

“Oh!” Svengallop stared up at his reflection in that glimpse of steel, before I slid the blade fully back into its sheath again. “When you put it that way, sir, I’m sure I... I mean, Countess Coloratura and I can suffer this arrangement just this once. For our troops, of course.”

“Jolly good, then,” I said, patting him on the shoulder. Sometimes ponies just needed a small reminder of their manners, I find. With that sorted, at least for now as I fully expected to be assaulted with more irritating demands when we landed, I trotted merrily back to Coloratura’s side by the window. Still, at least it beat being shot at by a wide margin, thought I, as I took up my position leaning nonchalantly with my elbow up on the windowsill.

“If you don’t mind me asking,” I said, leaning in a little closer to Coloratura and getting the faintest scent of a light perfume, “what are you the Countess of?”

She smiled, mirroring my stance as she too leaned against the windowsill, as the vast stretches of the Badlands, with its wide open plains and craggy hills and ridges receding seemingly into infinity beyond. “Glitz, glamour, the spectacle,” she said, in a stilted, rehearsed manner. Her hoof raised, frog facing inwards, and dramatically pulled over her face as though bringing down a veil. “It must look silly to a prince, but it’s all part of the image -- the mysterious Countess of Pop.”

We all have our masques, and few ever get to see the pony beneath. At least the one I was wearing there and then, in the company of an attractive mare, was the rather more comfortable one of the young, dashing, debonair prince with a playfully caddish streak. I dared to lean in a little closer still, and said softly, “I could make you a real countess.”

“Sir!” Svengallop’s voice demolished the mood like a cannonball tearing through a birthday cake.

“What is it now?” I snapped my head round with no attempt to disguise my irritation at having my advances interrupted so, all but growling like a teased cat, to see him pointing out the window with a hoof. There, slightly below us, the city of Virion Hive continued to drift by. That was when I felt the frogs of my forehooves start to itch, signifying my hindbrain had picked up on something that my forebrain had yet to piece together properly.

“Shouldn’t we have stopped at the city already?” He squinted down at his wristwatch. “At this rate I won’t have time for a spa treatment!”

He was right, as much as I hated to admit it; we were drifting straight past the city and heading south, directly towards enemy territory. That all-too-familiar sensation of my stomach plummeting through the floor was back. There was very likely a perfectly rational explanation for this, and given the sheer number of airships that floated on their merry way to and from Virion Hive each day, it was entirely possible that ours had been ordered into some sort of holding pattern to stop the strip from being overwhelmed. Still, now that the thought had been firmly implanted in my mind and had started to grow roots, the only way to kill that weed before it fully took over was to go up and check with the crew, of whom I had seen precious little on this airship. [Cargo transports typically operate with minimal crew, with the loading and unloading duties managed by the ground crews.]

“I’ll have a word with the Captain,” I said. “I’ll be back shortly, Countess.”

We were in the hold, and the deck where the Captain and crew were presumably engaged in the job of ensuring we don’t fall out of the sky or crash into the side of a mountain was up top. Two sets of stairs connected the hold to the deck at either end of the gondola. There was also a cargo lift intended for moving the heavy boxes of supplies between the hold and the deck, but as neither Twilight Sparkle nor Starswirl the Bearded were on hoof to work out how to operate the exceedingly complex array of buttons, toggles, switches, and dials on the control panel where a simple ‘up’ and ‘down’ ought to have sufficed, I elected not to risk meddling with technology I barely understood. That meant crawling up three or four flights of stairs from the base of this cargo hold, located at the front, right up to the very top, which I tell you was a damned tiring task even with Doctor Breathe Easy’s alleged miracle cure for being gassed.

I emerged through a door onto the top deck, and instantly the wind at this altitude plucked at my sweat-soaked jacket and blew my blond mop in something that might look very dramatic if it didn’t cover my eyes. My hat nearly flew away too. The deck stretched out before me, and this being a simple, utilitarian design intended purely for transporting vast amounts of things from one place to another meant it was quite a barren and unattractive place, as opposed to the more glamorous and well-apportioned cruise liners I had been on before. The floor was plain wood, with a raised platform at the back where the wheel and other bits and pieces that controlled the ship were. The engines were at the back, spinning the propellers that thrust this ship forward through the sky. The scant crew were lingering around at first, but the moment I stepped out on the deck they instantly jumped into frantic activity - scrubbing the floor, fiddling with the mass of ropes and chains that held the gondola attached to the big bag-thing that held the gas-bags that kept us afloat, and peering out into the distance on watch - which I found very strange and only heightened my anxiety.

The captain would be at the wheel, I assumed. I have to confess that most of what I knew about airships largely came from stories about pirates I used to read as a foal, which, after having spent time with these skyborne criminals later in my career, I now know to be severely over-romanticised. As I trotted on in that direction, I could not shake the sensation that I was being watched rather more closely than is usual for me, as the airship crew quickly averted their eyes when I glanced in their direction in a manner that felt decidedly conspicuous.

Directly above the gondola, the vast grey structure of the ‘envelope’, as my valet has just told me is the technical term for it as I write this, loomed like an enormous, skyborne whale, about to belly flop directly on top of our ship. Unlike the pretty, elegant designs typically seen in pleasure craft and cruise liners across Equestria, as a mere cargo vessel commandeered by the military it was a drab and grey oval. What little actual knowledge I had picked up about airships from those silly pirate stories told me that the structure roughly the size of the east wing of my summer mansion was filled with highly flammable gas, for no such adventure story was complete without at least one of these going down in flames. Now, as much as ponies in the industry like to explain that one is more likely to die choking on breakfast than in an airship accident, the fact that there was what amounted to an enormous bag or collection of bags containing a substance known to burst into flames at the slightest spark trumped all of the statistics they could present before me.

The Captain, identifiable by the cap worn at a jaunty angle, was indeed at the wheel. He held onto it with his hooves, with a look of steely determination that never left the southern horizon to which we were headed.

“I say!” I said, shouting above the roar of the engines and wind. The Captain didn’t look at me, but grunted to show he’d heard. “Far be it from me to tell you how to do your job, but don’t you think you’ve overshot our destination?”

There was a pause before he responded. “Passengers are to remain below deck, sir.”

Every ‘pony’ had stopped working and stared at me. One did not need to be a master detective to work out exactly what was going on, but out here on the deck I was alone and surrounded, with no clear avenue of escape but to leap over the side and hope a passing patrol of pegasi could catch me before I smeared myself on the ground like strawberry jam on toast.

“Well,” I said, doing my utmost not to squeal in terror in the face of dawning realisation. “I’ll just head back down there, shall I?”

The Captain nodded his head robotically, and I turned on my hooves and marched unsteadily back towards the door I came out of. I knew the Changelings would strike eventually, but I’d hoped that when it did that it would happen to somepony else. Having two high profile ponies on board a single airship drifting unescorted through the sky was simply too big an opportunity for the Changelings to miss. We had tried to be discreet with this, but, as I had learned quite recently, secrets are almost impossible to keep out here.

I reached the door and stopped to think, pretending to look as though I was admiring the scenery. We were still quite close to Virion Hive, I thought, though I couldn’t see it for it must have been somewhat below us, and still within sight of our airborne patrols. They must have noticed that we were wildly off course by now, drifting straight into enemy territory, and dispatching at least a company’s worth of pegasi and/or griffons to assist, I hoped. But by the time that any spotters realised that anything was wrong and organised our rescue, it could be too late. There was only one thing for it, and that was to do one of the few things that I actually excel in -- attracting attention. It was a damned risky thing, as there was a member of the ship’s ‘crew’ standing by the door and observing me with an unblinking stare, but I was not about to let myself become a source of food for love-starved Changelings; I didn’t much like the process the last time, and it was only with an infant.

I summoned a burst of magic in my horn and aimed over the side of the ship -- a little trick that I’d picked up from the unicorn companies for signalling purposes. The ‘pony’ by the door stretched his mouth unnaturally wide in a snarl, bearing sharp fangs, and the cruel hiss that rose from his throat was the one that had haunted my nightmares since I first heard it in the catacombs under Canterlot. That it came from an otherwise normal-appearing ‘pony’ only made it more disturbing. He leapt forth, shoving me forcefully in the shoulder, but I discharged the flare. I had aimed out over the side, but being pushed had caused me to snap my head up.

The Changeling and I watched with a mutual sense of helpless dread as the bright red flare, trailing smoke, rose upwards like a rocket, and struck the underside of the airship’s envelope above us. The burning charge seemed to stick to the fabric there, and for a moment I hoped that I had been exceptionally lucky. Of course not. It seemed to sink, or rise, rather, through the fabric, which smoked and smouldered, and then caught alight. Small orange and yellow flames licked the sides of the crater, which slowly expanded across the fabric. It was rather slower than I expected, having previously thought that such a discharge would have caused an immediate and terrifying explosion, but the growing ring of fire and the roiling black smoke emanating from it was nevertheless very alarming.

[Contrary to popular belief, specific design features including compartmentalised cells, anti-flash screens, and fire retardant materials prevent the sort of massive explosion ponies imagine when they think of airship accidents. At first, Blueblood had only set fire to the outer membrane, but the fire would spread to the gas cells if not extinguished.]

“Oops.”

Even the Changeling looked shocked at this sudden turn of events, and stared at me with the sort of expression of disgust and disbelief a pony might give if they saw me kick their dog across the park. Feeling somewhat embarrassed I could only give an apologetic grin before the full gravity of the situation re-asserted itself, and so I turned on my forehooves and lashed out with my hindlegs. My hooves connected with the drone’s barrel with a hefty, satisfying ‘thud’, and it sailed backwards through the air and disappeared over the safety railing. A second later, just enough for me to feel satisfied at getting the bastard, the drone, having shed its disguise, rose back up on buzzing insectoid wings. It grinned horribly.

I darted through the door and slammed it shut behind me with a burst of magic. It rammed into place with a loud, resonant crash that echoed in the cavernous hold. There was no bar or locking mechanism on this side, so I stood there on my hindlegs and pressed my scarred back against it. With my heart pounding away in my chest like those Prench war drums, I remained there, forcing my back against the rough metal surface of the door, expecting the pounding of hooves against it as the drones tried to force it open. I was under no illusion that my failing strength would be insufficient to hold them, but under the influence of adrenaline I thought I ought to at least make an effort.

Due to the awkward way I was positioned, my sabre’s guard jabbed into my side quite painfully. It did, however, make me consider using it to jam the door shut, but given the circumstances I’d rather not lose my only weapon. Besides, I’d probably make a mess of it anyway.

There was a minute of nothing, except the drone of the engines, my panicked breathing, and the pounding of blood in my ears. It at least gave me time to think, not least trying to work out why I wasn’t having to fend off a small horde of Changelings by myself, and I remembered the emergency parachutes in the hold. I’d read the safety pamphlet a few times over already, and once again it appeared that my habitual paranoia had paid off again.

I tentatively stepped away from the door, charging my horn with lethal magic for when the first love-starved drone burst through. Still nothing happened, which only heightened my worry, and I cautiously made my way backwards down the stairs, stumbling a few times, to the bottom as I never took my eyes off that door.

When I reached the bottom I was alarmed to find that the floor was tilted slightly down in the direction of the front of the airship, where the fire was spreading. That quickened my blood, and I all but galloped around the labyrinth of boxes, each of which was much too heavy to start sliding around the gradually sloping floor just yet, to where I’d left the two passengers and my aide.

Needless to say, Coloratura and Svengallop were somewhat alarmed when I rounded the corner, skidding on flailing hooves. I immediately threw open the overhead compartment to grab the packed parachutes. Cannon Fodder greeted my arrival by lifting his head from the floor and suppressing a loud belch.

“Sir!” shouted Svengallop, as I frantically counted those life-saving bundles of silk cloth. There were enough for each of us, thank Faust. “What’s going on?”

“Changelings,” I said breathlessly, tossing a parachute bundle at Svengallop, which he skillfully caught with his face.

“What?” blurted out Coloratura, rushing to my side.

“They’ve replaced the crew,” I said, as I more gently gave her the second parachute bundle. Then, just to make sure I got my side of the story straight before anypony else could say otherwise, “And they have set fire to the airship. It’s going down in flames.”

That was enough to spur everypony into frantic action. Svengallop was in hysterics, struggling with the straps on his parachute until Coloratura had to swat his hooves and mouth out of the way and do it for him. I gave the third one to Cannon Fodder, who appeared to have overcome the worst of his air-sickness with the news, and I took the fourth for myself.

As I prepared to strap the bundle to my back, a paranoid hunch told me to check it first. I undid the various latches and opened up the bundle like a backpack. It took a bit of tugging, but I managed to pull the white silk sheet out. Huge rents had been torn in the fabric. I was no expert on these things, not being the sort of pony who would do this for fun, but one did not need to be to see that if I was to leap out of the window with this on my back then I would drop to the ground like a lead balloon. Holding up the ribbons of silk, my fellow passengers did the same to their parachutes and discovered that they too had been likewise sabotaged.

The Changelings had clearly planned this; it was not a spur-of-the-moment thing, but they knew that we would be on this airship and therefore ripe for the taking. That also explained why they didn’t rush in after me through the door, now in the hold with ripped parachutes we had nowhere to go.

“Now what are we going to do?” Svengallop shrieked, voicing my own thoughts and feelings on the matter in a way propriety and reputation forbade. He turned on Countess Coloratura. “I told you this charity show was a mistake!”

“I just wanted to do something nice for our ponies at the front!” shouted Coloratura. She seemed to be holding herself together much better than her manager, though the quiver in her voice and her ears pinned back betrayed her fear.

Svengallop let out a frustrated snort and stamped his hoof, then rounded on me, thrusting his face towards mine. “Prince Blueblood, do something!”

Heaven forbid other ponies take the initiative for once, and I could not help but wonder what they would be doing if I had been absent for this. Perhaps the Changelings would have ignored this flight if I’d stayed in the castle, but no, I wanted to meet Coloratura and see how receptive she was to tall, dashing, and sensitive military types in sharp uniforms. I had spent the past minute or so wracking my brain for some sort of way out of this, and the only plan I could cobble together that didn’t involve giving up and hoping the Changelings were feeling merciful after I’d set fire to the ship was so absurd that I knew I would feel embarrassed if I pulled it off.

“The gasbags,” I said, merely repeating the thought running through my head.

“What?” Svengallop exclaimed.

“We can use one of the gasbags to float down to the ground.”

Svengallop exchanged a worried glance with Coloratura. “You’re a gasbag, they’re called cells!” he shouted, at length. “And that’s a stupid plan, you said the airship’s on fire!”

In truth I couldn’t disagree with that assessment of the plan, but it was the only chance we had that didn’t involve either burning to death or being captured, which, after having seen first-hoof how the enemy treated their prisoners, seemed almost as bad a fate as the former. By now, the tilt of the floor had become impossible to ignore. Further away, I could hear the sound of lighter and smaller crates and barrels sliding on the wooden surface. It might have been fear, but I could almost certainly feel the sensation of falling in the pit of my stomach.

“If you have a better idea, I’d like to hear it,” I said tersely. None were forthcoming. “Only the front of the airship is burning, the ‘cells’ at the rear might still be intact, for now at least. We’re wasting time arguing about this.”

“What about the Changelings?” asked Coloratura.

“They’re fanatics, but I don’t think they’ll hang around on a burning airship for long. With a bit of luck they’ll have buzzed off by now. If not, Cannon Fodder and I will protect you.” I looked Svengallop and Coloratura up and down, appraising the two of them. The former, despite being an earth pony, was a thin, wiry sort who probably lifted nothing heavier than the clothes on his back, while the latter seemed to have a bit more of the traditional earth pony physique under her make-up and dress. “You may have to fight.”

Coloratura nodded grimly. “A friend taught me how to buck apples out of trees.”

“Hopefully it won’t come to that,” I said. “We’ll do our damnedest to get the two of you out in one piece, so stick with me and we’ll all have a good chance of doing just that.”

I was babbling, but somehow I managed to project it as the sort of brash, military confidence ponies expected of me. Even Svengallop’s hysterics had calmed down. Inwardly, however, I was positively shaking with fear. Faust, if I do get out of this alive, I thought, I will never fly on an airship again.

With not a moment to waste, we pushed on up the sloping floor around the cargo. Some had crashed into one another, having slid as the airship continued to tilt nose-down, necessitating us to clamber awkwardly over the piles of smashed boxes and crates of oats and grain to get to the other side. It was damned awkward going, and by the time we’d reached the stairs at the rear of the gondola I was already feeling the strain. Fear and adrenaline, however, continued to be powerful motivators, at least as far as Yours Truly was concerned. As for my companions, they mostly seemed to be under the delusion that I had everything under control. Even Cannon Fodder seemed to have gotten over his crippling air-sickness, as the prospect of more Changelings to kill seemed to thoroughly invigorate him. Only the pale green tinge around his neck and cheeks and his more frequent belching indicated his discomfort.

We trotted up the stairs as fast as we could manage. The smell of burning became thoroughly apparent, and if I strained my ears to hear past the noise of our hooves hammering on the metal steps I could make out the too-familiar roar of flames. When we reached the top, panting for breath and my muscles aching, I still wasted no time in bucking the door down.

A wave of heat rushed in, stinging my face and bringing tears to my eyes, as though the door I had kicked down had been to a kiln. What had been a small but spreading fire when I fled earlier had grown into a vast, consuming inferno that swallowed up almost the entire front third of the envelope, the membrane peeling back like burning skin. Sheets of yellow and orange flame danced and writhed over the twisted steel skeleton, licked up alongside the sleek length of the envelope to stain it, and a churning column of black, oily smoke poured blasphemously forth into the heavens. I stared, dumbfounded, as my mind was pulled backwards to when I stood in the burning hall of a fortress, and I saw dark figures writhing in a macabre dance in the flames, and one reaching out to pull me in...

“Sir!” Cannon Fodder shoved me into the side of the doorway, and the jab of pain in my ribs broke me out of my stupor.

A Changeling drone had lunged towards me, fangs bared for my throat. My aide thrust his spear forwards, impaling the creature mid-leap. The momentum of its charge forced it a good few feet down the length of the spear, where it then twitched horribly, bleeding ichor down the shaft, and fell limp. Behind me, I heard a thud as Svengallop fainted, which was the most useful thing he could do in this situation.

Two others came on. Acting on instinct, I fired a magic shot into the first one’s face. Its entire visage imploded, leaving a horrid, smouldering crater. The creature continued to gallop two more steps before collapsing in a heap. With the second one I made the mistake of trying to aim first, and the drone nimbly dodged it with a side-step. With it directly upon us, I had no time to draw my sword and Cannon Fodder was still trying to extricate his spear from the dead drone.

Coloratura pushed her way forwards, then turned and struck out with her hindlegs, and her hooves landed squarely on the drone’s head. With the force of an earth pony buck and the momentum of the Changeling’s charge, its neck was twisted to an angle not intended by its creator and snapped with a sound like a wet bundle of sticks breaking. Its body arced gracefully through the air and landed a few yards from us on the deck, dead.

There were still more Changelings standing around on this side of the deck, and much fewer in number than the ‘crew’ I had seen there earlier. I imagine most had wisely escaped the doomed airship and this was merely a sort of rearguard. There couldn’t be more than half a dozen of them, I thought, but I was hardly in the best frame of mind to give an accurate count, and none of them seemed particularly enthused by the thought of fighting. Even a brainwashed drone who had been indoctrinated from hatching that their lives meant nothing except in service to the Hive held some iota of self-preservation, and the threshold appeared to be somewhere below a burning airship.

The remaining drones all took to the air, and at first I thought they were fleeing, but instead they merely lingered in mid-air away from the burning airship. They probably thought we’d see sense and surrender. A slim chance of success is better than none, so at my frantic instruction the three of us picked up the unconscious Svengallop, loosening his tie and shirt top button, and with Cannon Fodder and I taking his forelegs and Coloratura his hindlegs we proceeded towards the rigging. The Changelings must have thought us mad, because they took no action to stop us.

Even with the three of us, carrying a fully-unconscious pony was difficult. Dragging him up the netting would have been damned near impossible if I did not have magic to take much of the burden of his weight. From there it was a matter of placing one hoof after another on each ascending strip of rope and pulling my lumpen, ungainly frame upwards, one at a time. Cannon Fodder was by my side, as always, pulling up the dead weight by his forehoof and phlegmatically enduring the ordeal as usual. Coloratura lagged behind, alternating between pushing the unconscious Svengallop upwards and climbing, but she did so with minimal complaining -- would that all RASEA entertainers were as tough as her.

The heat from the flames was unbearable. With my back to it, the skin there stung painfully, and sweat poured over my body. My lungs burned with every breath, where I could take one without coughing. My eyes were stinging, but each time I tried to blink away the sweat and the smoke I caught glimpses of that gas-soaked hellscape in my mind. Coloratura’s make-up had melted and sloughed down her face like candle wax. It was only by single-mindedly focusing on the need to put one hoof in front of the other and climb that we could carry on.

I avoided looking up or down, so I only knew I had reached the top when the peak of my cap struck the trap door above. Cannon Fodder shoved it open with his nose, and with little cause for delicacy or refinement we simply hurled the limp form of Svengallop inside before following. Inside the envelope was curiously cooler than the outside, and though not by much it was at least enough to be noticeable and to clear my head somewhat. Looking back at the front of the airship, the inferno raged with the fury of the sun. The roiling flames seemed almost hypnotic to watch. Then I saw about equidistant from us and the fire itself the air shimmered with a pale blue glow, and I remembered reading something in the safety pamphlet earlier about anti-flash magic fields separating the different compartments of the envelope in the case of a fire. It would buy us time, but it would inevitably fail and collapse with the intense heat.

We could at least take stock now. The trap door had deposited us on a walkway that ran across the entire length of the bottom of the envelope. All around we were surrounded by these gas cells -- huge grey sacks inflated like balloons, each roughly the size of a large wagon. These were lashed into place by ‘cages’ of netting and straps.

It was then that Svengallop came to. “Oh Tartarus, am I still here?” he whined, before a look from Coloratura shut him up.

I set Cannon Fodder and the newly-roused Svengallop to cut one of the gas cells free from its mooring, which really meant that my aide had to do most of the work while the manager ‘managed’ him by shouting pointless platitudes that were ignored. That left Coloratura and me to rip a hole in the side of the envelope in order to provide a means of egress. We found a gap in there between the compartments, and so at the popstar’s direction I focused a beam of magic to slice through the fabric there like a knife. I tried not to think about what might happen if I jerked my head and struck one of the nearby gas cells by accident, but intrusive thoughts have a tendency to stick where they’re not wanted. But before long Cannon Fodder and Svengallop were dragging a full gas cell behind them, the vast balloon wobbling like a jelly behind them, and a hole in the envelope was big enough for it to slip through.

[Blueblood does not give the precise model of the airship here, but from these descriptions we can infer that it was a semi-rigid construction, in which only the keel or truss of the airship is rigid and supports the envelope. This would likely be the ‘walkway’ that Blueblood described earlier. We can narrow down the possibilities to either the Beluga-class, Humpback-class or the Sperm-class cargo airship, which were in use by the Equestrian Army for supply. However, knowing my nephew he would not have been able to resist commenting on the name of the latter.]

That the gas cell was fully intact and still covered in netting that we might easily cling onto might be taken as proof that there is a benevolent Faust looking out for me, but I would counter that such a purportedly kind deity would not have allowed such a useful substance as airship gas to be so damned flammable in the first place. With our escape prepared, we set about wrapping our limbs around the tough netting as tightly as we could manage, and with the four of us so bound, we propelled our intrepid bag of gas towards the hole by means of awkward, restrained jumping. It took a few tries, but after bouncing off the adjacent cells a few times, we lucked out and our gas cell, with us still clinging to it, slipped through the gap like a coin through a worn pocket.

I felt a sudden lurch in my stomach and the sensation of falling, but it was rapidly arrested and I found myself facing the ground. A pony shrieked, and I can’t be certain that it wasn’t me. With four adult ponies, one in heavy armour and me still in need of a diet, tethered in place close together, gravity asserted itself and the gas cell rolled in the air until we were at the bottom, facing the dizzying drop hundreds, perhaps thousands, of feet to the earth.

My vision swam, as the landscape below seemed to spin and rotate with the churning in my gut. I lifted my head with great difficulty to try and find the horizon, expecting to see the Changeling drones hovering to watch us drift helplessly to the ground with faint amusement. Instead, the skies were clear as far as I could see, except for a few clouds and the burning airship, of course; the enemy must have thought that capturing us was no longer worth the effort and retreated before our pegasi could come to our rescue.

Speaking of which, I don’t know for certain how much time had passed in that ordeal, but I would have assumed that an airship catching fire, vomiting bright flame and black clouds of smoke into the sky, must have attracted at least some attention from our patrols. Even then, given the sheer number of ponies who lived and worked nearby, one must have looked up at the sky to see that something was clearly amiss and warranted extra attention. Unless, that is, something else was going on at the same time.

I didn’t know that at the time. In fact, I had very little capacity to think except to consider that it was a terribly long way to fall, and if I did I could only hope that I might pass out before striking the ground. All four legs were burning in agony, not to mention my ruined back and my shoulders for good measure. Even Cannon Fodder, whose facial expressions scarcely expressed more than an admirably stoic resolve, had clenched his jaw in pain. Our two civilians still held on, having entwined their limbs tightly through the netting so that dropping was impossible but merely staying there was still painful. That Svengallop had given up on complaining was enough to tell me that he was truly struggling.

It didn’t help either that our descent was agonisingly slow, which, on balance, was immeasurably preferable to the alternative. There was nothing that could be done except to cling on for dear life and watch the barren, pale ground of the Badlands, being a simple flat plain out here interspersed with the odd shrubbery and patch of grass eking out a miserable existence.

When the ground finally rushed up to greet us like an overbearing aunt it was something of a surprise, and not least because we were about to do so face-first. I bruised my snout when we impacted, and earned a few scuffs there and on the front of my uniform when the bag was dragged across the ground by the wind. Once I wriggled my limbs free of the netting I fell in a battered heap on the dusty ground. Cannon Fodder was next to liberate himself, followed by Coloratura and finally Svengallop, whose nice suit was utterly ruined by the experience. Our intrepid gas cell continued to drag along the ground a few more feet, and then, having accomplished its purpose, deflated.

I sat there, dazed and confused. Coloratura all but collapsed next to me, and I held her in something of an embrace as we watched the airship continue to burn high above. There was a peculiar sort of majesty to the spectacle, as the loosely whale-shaped envelope tilted further and further onto its nose, then, at a forty-five degree angle, the anti-flash screens inside failed to hold back the fire, and flames blossomed at the very tip of the tail. That spelt the final end of our gallant airship, as the remaining gas cells were consumed in the conflagration, the withered husk dropped out of the sky, trailing choking black columns of smoke, to crash into a ruin of steel upon the ground some distance away.

Virion Hive was a large, dark mound on the horizon. At the altitude we fell from and with the wind we must have drifted quite far, and by my guess it would take much of the afternoon to walk back even if we weren’t so exhausted by our ordeal. Yet I saw the silhouettes of pegasi high in the air drawing closer, the sunlight glinting brightly off their silver armour. I was about to curse them for taking so long, when I looked past them and noticed for the first time since landing, that amidst the silhouette of the walls and towers of Virion Hive, here and there, sparse but noticeable and certainly worrying, dark smoke rose like the leafless tree branches of midwinter. The Changelings had certainly been busy that day.

Cannon Fodder summed up the feeling better than I could with words, by finally vomiting on Svengallop.

Chapter 23

I should have known it was too good to last; nothing positive in my life ever really endures, as everything tends to settle into a sort of equilibrium of mediocrity, but I had hoped that this short period of peace would last more than a few weeks. The pegasi who escorted us back to Virion Hive after our little problem with the airship, its steel skeleton still smouldering away behind us as we trudged on through the desert, had done their best to fill me in on the big picture, but being a single squadron led by a corporal I did not receive much in the way of new information that I had not already worked out for myself.

“It all happened at once, sir,” said the corporal, flying by my side about three feet off the ground. “More or less. It was just a normal day around here, then suddenly the Bugs were everywhere setting fires and attacking us. They hit the ammunition stores and the airship port. They also got into the castle, so I heard.” Then, holding out his forelegs invitingly, “Are you sure you don’t want a lift?”

“No, thanks, I could do with the walk,” I said. After that reminder of why I avoid airship travel wherever possible I never wanted to leave the safety and security of the groundever again. The sensation of the sun-baked, dry, solid earth beneath my tired hooves was most reassuring, and short of a lengthy soak in a warm, pleasantly-scented bath and a massage to follow it was impossible to think of anything that I wanted more than to throw myself upon the comforting embrace of terra firma like a demented earth pony.

The corporal shrugged and carried on lazily drifting alongside me with slow, lazy flaps of his wings, knowing better than to question an officer, much less a commissar, even if he was being irrational. For a pegasus it must have been mildly infuriating to have to restrain one’s own natural speed to keep pace with us ground-bound ponies, but given what I had been through I think I can be excused this indulgence, amongst others.

Cannon Fodder, too, had declined the polite offer for a lift, having an even greater desire to keep all four hooves on the ground than even I did, given that he had lost part of his lunch in the immediate aftermath of the escape. In his case, with vomit still stuck in his unkempt beard and his distinctive bouquet barely improved for having finally reached safety, it could only have been a relief to the poor, luckless pegasus who would otherwise have to carry him. As for our guests, Svengallop and Coloratura, they readily accepted the pegasi’s generosity, and were carried by a pegasus soldier each; the former initially expressed a desire for a chariot, but a few ‘slips’ of the hooves of his ride soon shut him up, while the latter seemed to enjoy being held in the strong hooves of a burly guardspony.

There was some method to my madness, however. The information the corporal gave me was vague, and for all I knew there could still be Changelings causing all manner of mayhem in and around Virion Hive. The plumes of dark smoke still rose in the distance from fires still burning, and I wanted to make as sure as possible that by the time we returned that every last cowardly infiltrator had been hunted down and destroyed, as Second Fiddle’s RAID-thing was supposed to be doing. That way I could return to a hero’s welcome for having saved our very important pony, and to a lesser extent her manager, and carry on long enough to enjoy the praise heaped upon me. If I was truly lucky, then I would arrive late enough to hopefully postpone the inevitable crisis meetings and such until the next day, and could thus spend the intervening time helping Coloratura settle into her new quarters for the duration.

I couldn’t have it all my way, of course, for if I did then I’d still be in Canterlot shuffling papers around and retiring to the Imperial Club every evening (and the Tartarus Club on Fridays). When we did inevitably arrive at the great fortress-city, my hooves dragging as though my horseshoes had been made of lead, Second Fiddle, apparently having waited in ambush after presumably hearing that I was on my way, just about pounced on me as I half-stumbled, half-fell through the city gates.

“Just where in Tartarus have you be-” He stopped himself, looked me up and down and, apparently seeing the rather dire state that I could only assume I was in, not having access to a mirror, pulled an apologetic face and sucked air through his teeth. “What happened?”

“Changelings,” I said flatly.

I looked around and saw that the street, a broad thoroughfare that once directed travellers straight into the markets, was absolutely teeming with soldiers of the Prism Guards. Most appeared to be lingering around in their sections waiting for orders, and every so often an officer would gallop up to them, relay a few terse orders scribbled on a sheet of parchment, and they would trot off at the double down the street. Occasionally, I would see a flash of coloured light somewhere in the crowd and hear the distinctive ‘snap-pop’ of a unicorn teleporting. The air was filled with an electric sensation of anticipation, for this many soldiers packed into such a small area would normally generate a total saturation of unrelenting noise: chatter, banter, laughter, games, teasing, and everything else bored young stallions and mares do to while away the dull monotony of military life. It was like the few quiet moments before the start of a pegasus-scheduled storm that had been delayed for several hours.

The rebuilding of the city after the Changelings had torched much of it was slow going; most of the hovels here made the dingiest slums of Trottingham look like my mansion by comparison, so it was not a matter of merely restoring the burned-out mud brick buildings, but improving them as homes fit for ponies. Southern Cross, whose efforts had previously been directed at tearing down parts of the city to facilitate its capture, had declared that he didn’t ‘half-arse’ jobs upon accepting an advisory role in organising the rebuilding efforts. Therefore, looking past the soldiers performing the age-old ‘hurry up and wait’ routine familiar to all who have served, though the ashes had been cleared those buildings that had not been demolished remained blackened, empty husks.

“What happened here?” I asked.

“Changelings,” Second Fiddle repeated. Though he looked tired with the dark rings around his eyes and the dry strain in his voice, there was a peculiar sort of manic energy to him, as he could hardly keep himself still. He barely made eye contact with me, as his attention was directed more at the activity all around us, as though waiting for a pony to emerge from the mob and ask for his orders. “Come on, Market Garden’s been waiting for you. Celestia knows why, though.”

It might have something to do with Luna appointing me her special liaison if I had to hazard a guess, but I ignored the instinct to snap back at his snippy comment. Then again, Market Garden seemed to be under the delusion that my input was both welcome and useful. I indicated to the bewildered and exhausted Countess Coloratura and Svengallop standing around looking lost behind me. “What about our guests?”

“Ah.” Apparently noticing the two civilians with me for the first time, Commissar-General Second Fiddle sucked in air between clenched teeth. “Sorry, but I don’t think the RASEA show will be going ahead. We’ll sort it out later when things aren’t on fire.”

“Well, what are we supposed to do now?” exclaimed Svengallop petulantly, and in his defence he had been through quite a lot in the past few hours. That, and I thought seeing the two argue might be funny, so I let him. “You can’t just leave us here!”

Second Fiddle shrugged his shoulders with just enough casualness to be very irritating to certain high-strung ponies. “I have bigger problems to deal with,” he said, and for once I agreed with him. “Blueblood, you can sort this out later, whatever it is, but Market Garden wants to see you now.”

I pulled a suitably apologetic face to Coloratura and Svengallop, both of whom I could not help but feel some degree of sympathy for even in the latter’s case. “Cannon Fodder will escort you to my quarters for the time being, if there’s anything you require just ask him. I’m very sorry about this mess.”

“It’s fine,” said Coloratura, her voice hushed and strained. “I was just looking forward to singing for the troops. We’ll stay out of everypony’s way.”

Svengallop, however, perked up at that. He had been thoroughly miserable throughout the trudge back here, so much so that for most of the journey he could barely articulate more than one complaint in a coherent manner to all of our collective relief. His fine suit, torn and smothered in dust, soot, and my aide’s expression of gastric discontent, had been peeled off of his body and was carried in a bundle draped over his back, apparently under the delusion that a crack team of exceptionally skilled dry cleaners and tailors might be able to repair it. The transformation back to his old self was astounding, as though he had been discreetly injected with a stimulant.

“A prince’s quarters!” he exclaimed at a weary Coloratura, almost prancing on the spot. “I could do with a nice bath after that horrid experience. It’s going to take so much to get the smell of smoke and vomit out of my coat. Oh, horseapples, my soaps and shampoo were left on the airship, but I’m sure His Royal Highness won’t mind me borrowing his.”

He was in for yet another round of disappointment when he would find out that not only do I not have a bath - the castle and the entire city not exactly having a modern plumbing system installed, so he would have to use the communal bathing areas as I was forced to - but with supply airships given over to such necessities of war as rations, water, weapons, and so on, I also had to make do with basic soap for daily (if that) abutions. Still, as I pulled Cannon Fodder aside to instruct him to look after our guests, I made sure to stipulate that while Coloratura was free to make use of my own personal, very limited, and secret stock of grooming products, fine food, and finer liquor as she desired, Svengallop was most certainly not to be let loose with what took my aide considerable effort on his part to procure for me.

Cannon Fodder escorted our guests away, and so Second Fiddle dragged me to where Market Garden had set up. Her fondness for large marquees persisted, as despite the availability of the castle nearby, she had set up her temporary headquarters under the cover of canvas in the courtyard instead. I would find out later that she was intending on moving it as the frontline advanced, so that she could continue to micro-manage what her generals and officers were doing with greater ease. As with the main thoroughfare beyond, the courtyard too was a veritable hive of frantic activity, with the main difference being that most ponies here wore the dress uniforms of staff officers and commissars rather than the armour of line infantry. While the crowds of ponies rushing across the courtyard ferrying orders clenched tightly in their mouths, tucked under wings, or floating alongside in auras, had the presence of mind to make way for me, I noticed that Second Fiddle had to almost barge his way through them, scattering frustrated office drones and papers in his wake.

We found Market Garden adopting her usual position at the map table, resting her forelegs on the edge and hunched over maps and papers. At once she looked both tired and energised, with dark rings around her eyes and dark sweat stains under her armpits, but still intently fixated on the job at hoof. If I didn’t know any better, I’d have said she used the damned thing for eating off and sleeping on too, using that enormous map of the Badlands as a combination table cloth and blanket. This time, however, she was pouring over a map of Virion Hive and its environs, while staff officers lingered around nearby in anticipation of curt, barked orders. As I approached, I could see that this map was marked with little red crosses within the city walls and without.

“I’m sorry I’m late,” I said, affecting an air of mild annoyance at a minor inconvenience, “I had a bit of trouble with the airship. The Changelings blew it up.” I removed my cap, which had somehow remained attached to my head through the aforementioned ordeal, and placed it on the table.

Market Garden looked up from the map and glared at me. She looked rather surprised at my sudden presence, and, though I have no way of proving it, I strongly suspected that she hadn’t sent for me at all, and that Second Fiddle wanted me around only as somepony to deflect the inevitable blame from him.

“The reason I put you in charge of this city is to stop this exact thing from happening,” she said, “and instead I find you playing around with public works schemes, as though you’re a mayor, not a military governor.”

I was a little put off by that remark and the lack of concern about my well-being, but when I noticed Second Fiddle smirking there by her side, I managed to work out the obvious and realised that he must have blamed me for this debacle while I was busy fighting for my life. Well, I was not about to let him get away with that -- I might be a knave and a cad, but even I have certain expectations of honour and throwing an apparent ‘friend’ in the path of metaphorical stampeding yaks like that crossed a line whose sanctity even I dared not violate (if the yaks were literal then I would have to re-think that). That might seem hypocritical when one remembers that I had left him unconscious in a Canterlot alleyway with pitch painted on his flanks, but that was a harmless bit of fun, whereas this was rather more serious. As far as I was concerned now, after all I had been through and not just on that day, the socks were well and truly off.

“General, you ordered me to look after the city you have conquered so that you might focus on the next battle,” I said. She was always amenable to having her ego stroked.

“Yes, but I must have a firm base from which to launch that offensive,” she said, tapping her hoof on the table for emphasis. “A firm base.”

“I knew he would be too soft,” said Second Fiddle, shaking his head in mock disappointment. “He coddles the natives, you see. We can’t trust them. They must have been helping the enemy; it’s the only way they could have organised all of these attacks to happen at the same time. And he’s been spending far too much time with that Purestrain of his.”

That little twist of the dagger at least made me feel considerably less guilty about what I was about to say next. “I would have thought that RAID would stop an enemy operation of this magnitude,” I said. “Forgive me, I've been a bit out of sorts after the incident with the airship and nopony has properly filled me in, but perhaps Commissar-General Second Fiddle can explain how that many Changelings slipped through RAID’s sights?”

“RAID depends on informants to provide us with leads.” He pointed a hoof rudely at me. “Your heathen natives have provided us with no such leads, so we can only conclude that they’re working with the Changelings. It’s the only explanation.”

“How in blazes can you say that?” I snapped. “They are victims of the Changelings! The enemy has oppressed these ponies for more than a hundred years, and now we’ve brought a war that they never wanted straight onto their doorstep. If you want them to cooperate with our occupation then we must work to earn that trust -- that is the end I have been working towards all this time.”

Market Garden tapped her hoof on the table noisily again, as she does when ponies haven’t paid enough attention to her lately. “I don’t particularly care how it is done,” she said snippily. Then, taking a sheet of parchment scribbled with notes, “If I don’t have that firm base behind me then my army can’t advance. The infiltrators attacked our means of supply. Stocks of food, water, and ammunition were destroyed in raids on depots. The mooring towers, hangars, and offloading facilities at the airship port were badly damaged, but they will be repaired within the week. They demolished a few bridges too.” She frowned at the map. “I could never get the hang of bridges.”

“That doesn’t sound too bad,” I said. “No lasting damage, I take it?”

“Stocks can be replenished, airship ports can be repaired, and casualties can be replaced for now,” said Market Garden. “But the further we advance, the greater the strain on our logistics, and these attacks will make a difficult situation even worse. Without a functioning logistical framework to sustain it, 1st Army will wither on the vine and die out in the Badlands. We have seized the initiative, and every delay will see it slip through our hooves.”

“Have there been any civilian casualties?” I asked, peering over at the map. I recognised the airship port, now marked with the largest of the red crosses, and only a few of the other marked locations as places where supply stores were located both within the emptier, burned-out portions of the city and out into the desert.

“None,” said Market Garden. “They’ve exclusively targeted our means of supply. Blast it all, we’ll have to rely on more pony-drawn wagons until the airship port can be repaired. They’ll need escorts, too.”

A dry, sarcastic chuckle rose from Second Fiddle’s sneering lips. “More proof that the heathens are in league with the enemy.”

“The Changelings regarded these ponies as food,” I said, wondering if my friend and superior officer had ever paid attention to anything that I’d said or had Cannon Fodder write reports for on my behalf. “Mere ‘livestock’, Hive Marshal Odonata called them. They won’t want to harm their only potential source of sustenance, not while their entire race faces a slow extinction by starvation. It stands to reason they’ll want to avoid civilian casualties.”

“Oh, how so very noble of them.” Second Fiddle laughed mockingly, shaking his head with a sarcastic grin that made me want to leap across the table and remove it by way of repeated slaps with my right forehoof. “Prince Blueblood, you have spent far too much time with that Purestrain whore of yours. It’s starting to make me wonder just whose side you’re on.”

I didn’t respond, not immediately at least; I had duelled ponies for far lesser insults in my time, but Twilight Sparkle’s new regulations forbade us settling this matter on the field of honour as a thousand years of royal blood in my veins demanded of me. Perhaps I was merely tired, or perhaps more than two years of this infernal war had altered my perspective somewhat, putting things into focus amidst the grand scheme of things, as it were, and whatever part of my biology that cried out for satisfaction was hushed with the assurance that his inevitable downfall would, must, come eventually.

“If we are to defeat the Changelings then we must understand them,” I said, dredging up and then mangling a quote from some long-dead pony whose utterances were nevertheless deemed important enough by others to be worthy of remembrance. “It would be a betrayal of my duties as a commissar not to take advantage of this gift that has just fallen into our collective laps.”

“The enemy understands only violence and force,” said Second Fiddle. “We don’t need to understand more than that in order to kill them.”

“Then kill them,” said Market Garden with a flippant wave of her hoof. “That is your job, Second Fiddle. And I expect the two of you to work together on this, instead of passing the blame around like a tennis match.”

As I stood there, my aching limbs insisting that I lie down and let them finally rest, looking at the general and the commissar-general and the uniformed ponies all around, Odonata’s grim warning, which had sounded so ridiculously fatalistic when I had first heard it, echoed like the clanging of a great cathedral bell in my head. As much as I did not want to admit it, the war was changing the natures of those who fought it -- it could do no less with us, and not for the better. Second Fiddle was not the same pony I had run into in Canterlot just a few months before, and I started to wonder just how much I had changed, too.

“I’ve mobilised the Guards Division,” Second Fiddle continued, heedless of the minor crisis of philosophy I was still working through. “The Changelings who did not die in skirmishes will have gone to ground. Our fillies and colts are sweeping across the entire city as we speak, going door to door, hovel to hovel. Once every area of the city has been checked we’ll expand our search to the surrounding shanty villages. RAID will leave no stone unturned -- we will find the cowards who did this and they will be destroyed, as will any native found to be aiding the enemy.”

“So much for due process,” I muttered, vocalising a thought I had not intended to sound out.

Second Fiddle boggled at me, “Says the commissar who executed an officer without a court-martial.”

Major-General Garnet, who had hitherto remained silent at the table and was therefore unnoticed until he deigned to draw attention to himself, cleared his throat. I was more than grateful for the interruption. “I would like to know when I can expect to have command of my division returned to me,” he asked with the air of a pony politely requesting the use of his croquet set after loaning it to a stingy neighbour.

“When we have purged Virion Hive of Changelings and traitors,” said Second Fiddle.

“I see. I will be a general of division sans division for some time now.”

Market Garden did not look up from her map, and instead her whole attention seemed to be absorbed entirely inwards on her own thoughts. I couldn’t blame her, if that was truly the case, sometimes the best one could do was simply withdraw from reality. However, her ears twitching in the general direction of Second Fiddle showed that she was actually paying him at least some attention.

“I need the Guards Division for my offensive,” she said finally. “They’re a damned good division. Damned good. They’ll be needed.”

“RAID are organising a special task force for the occupied territories to take over anti-infiltrator duties,” said Second Fiddle. He then looked at me with a glare that I expect he intended to be taken as a warning. “Until then, we’ll need to borrow the Guards Division for a while longer as we carry out our searches, which I will be leading personally.”

And will be personally accepting the responsibilities and consequences that come with it, I mentally added. For his sake, I hoped that he was prepared to deal with those when they were finally dropped onto his lap. Unlike Yours Truly, he still had yet to discover the merits of delegation as a means to diffuse blame, as I had clumsily done here with Market Garden, and instead his desire for all of that hard work that he liked to say he had put in to be rewarded would be his downfall. I just didn’t expect it to come in quite the manner it did, but I’m getting ahead of myself here -- one thing at a time.

“Very well.” Market Garden pushed the map of Virion Hive away, apparently done with this whole affair, and sighed, rubbing her forehead with a hoof. “Nothing else I can do about it just now. But remember what I said, Second Fiddle, Virion Hive is to be our staging post for future offensives into the Badlands, so it is vital to our final victory in this war that our store of provisions here is kept safe. The enemy is still out there in force, and I intend on forcing her into battle -- a proper army battle too, with none of this beastly deception and manoeuvring business getting in the way of it all.”

Then, she looked at me and cast her eye up and down over my sagging form, which I had to prop up by leaning on the sturdy map table. “You need a bath, sir. You smell like an ashtray, more than you usually do, and you look like a Diamond Dog. I can’t win a war with my staff running around looking like tramps.”

Having my appearance and fragrance suitably admonished by a mare who clearly cared nothing about hers, I was dismissed and free to slink off in search of a bath. As ever, I judged that I would only get in the way of the ponies here actually doing their jobs, and so I could quietly disappear without much guilt on my part, not that I ever really felt guilty about skiving off as I remained confident that my presence was only a burden unless I was getting shot at, kicked, or bitten. That said, I did not feel particularly up for a dip in the communal bath in the officers’ mess, no matter how much sweat, filth, dust, and smoke was clogging up my once-white coat, as I felt I the solitude required to fully process all that had happened was more necessary to my well-being than to have to make small talk with whatever off-duty officers were already making use of the facilities. Nevertheless, a surreptitious sniff under my foreleg told me that Market Garden’s assessment was actually very generous, and if I still wanted to keep Coloratura company then I ought to fix that pronto. I could have taken a dip in the River Vir, perhaps, but I recalled a certain cultural taboo amongst some of the native pony tribes that forbade immersing oneself in one of the rare sources of freshwater around; after all, nopony would want to drink it after I’ve been swimming in it.

I was about to stumble off in the direction of the officers’ bath when I spotted Second Fiddle standing off to the side, apparently taking a moment to himself. He sheltered behind a row of filing cabinets as though he was taking cover from a storm, and as I observed the staff officers and soldiers coming and going in this courtyard I found that metaphor to be particularly apt. Leaning against the unforgiving metal, he clutched at his stomach with his hoof and coughed and wretched uselessly at the ground. When he looked up and saw me staring at him, guilt fell across his face like a veil. I was probably the last pony he wanted to see him like that, so I trotted on over anyway.

“Have you eaten anything?” I asked, acting on a hunch.

“There hasn’t been time,” said Second Fiddle, wiping the spittle off his lips with the back of his hoof. His head hung low to the ground, but he tilted his eyes up at me. “How in Tartarus do you do it, Blueblood?”

“My aide always leaves a few ration bars in my pockets, just in case.” I retrieved them from my inside breast pocket and offered them to him.

Second Fiddle looked at the three ration bars floating before him, the light of my aura glinting off the wrappers, and I could almost see in his eyes the argument between his sense of pride forbidding him from accepting and the more immediate feelings of hunger. A loud rumble from his stomach, enough to make him wince with the accompanying pain, prompted him to make a decision; he grabbed one, ripped the wrapper into glittering shreds in his aura, and tore a bite out of it with relish. I did the same with the other, albeit with a slightly greater sense of refinement.

“Thank you,” he said, spraying crumbs everywhere within a few inches of his mouth. “I mean, how do you do this?” He swept his hoof out to point behind me, where Market Garden was still holding court with her advisors and generals. “How do you make those decisions that affect the lives of so many ponies and just carry on? It was so much easier when I worked in Canterlot with Princess Luna.”

“You mean you didn’t have to see the consequences of those decisions?” I posited.

In truth, I can’t remember why I thought to give Second Fiddle that sort of attention when he had just tried to direct the blame for these Changeling attacks onto me; perhaps Twilight Sparkle had rubbed off on me in a way that was more than just physical, or I sought merely to hold onto the scant few positive things left in this increasingly barren existence, or, as is more likely, I cynically thought that keeping Second Fiddle somewhat sane and balanced would ensure my survival in the long run. Taking the high road, despite requiring a greater degree of effort and sacrifice on my part, had the benefit of deflecting the usual pointing of hooves when things invariably go wrong.

“There were always consequences,” he continued. “Princess Luna has no tolerance for fools, and she expected the very best out of all of us. It was difficult, but I could manage it; I learnt what she wanted to hear and how to deliver. But here…” Second Fiddle paused, then breathed the deep, exasperated sigh of a pony relieving pent-up stress like a boiler. “You’re right. You have an annoying tendency to be right about these things. Back in Canterlot we made decisions that affected thousands of ponies and set policies that would affect thousands more in the future, but we never saw it. It’s one thing to read about it in a report, but to see it all unravel before my eyes and know that so many ponies are depending on me making the right call is something else. How do you do it?”

I wasn’t sure that I did ‘it’ in the first place; everything that I had done thus far and would continue to do was a matter of bumbling my way forward and hoping for the best, while trying to make sure that I looked good in the process and had a way out on the very likely chance that it all went to Tartarus in a hoofbasket. That was the manner in which I approached most things in life and it largely paid off quite well for me. Perhaps, I started to consider, that was the secret behind it; that all of us, even Princess Celestia herself, likewise bumbled through life while trying to make the best of the awful situations we found ourselves in. It was quite liberating to think of it in such terms, in a way.

“I just do,” I said, rather unhelpfully. “Everypony has their part to play for victory, and they’re all depending on everypony else to do theirs. Do your duty, and that will be enough.”

Useless platitudes as usual, but I find that most ponies have already made up their minds and just need an authority figure like Yours Truly here to validate it. These tended to be vague enough that said ponies could easily project their thoughts and feelings onto those empty words quite easily.

“But it isn’t enough,” said Second Fiddle. “Not for me. They’re all counting on me to stop this happening again.”

“Nopony expects you to do this by yourself,” I said, while Second Fiddle carried on wolfing down his ration bar. “No war can be won by just one pony. When I stormed the breach at Virion Hive, I did so with dozens of ponies at my back. So it is with this. Trust in the ponies in RAID, as I must trust the ponies by my side in battle.”

He winced when I mentioned that little incident, where he had hidden himself away as any rational, sensible pony would. Nevertheless, I knew the memory of it would sting, and the reminder that I knew the truth of what had happened then. That’s why I mentioned it.

“Dammit if you aren’t right,” he said, greedily swallowing the last of his ration bar. “But it’s not just that. I requested a frontline post to gain some of the glory for myself, like you. There’s none to be found behind a desk in Canterlot and I still can’t find it shackled to Market Garden’s map table!”

“I never really wanted-”

He carried on in a stream of thoughts, ignoring my half-hearted interjection. “The RAID task force will take time to set up, and it may be too late and the war will be won. But I can accompany the requisitioned Guards Division raiding parties, and then ponies can see that I’m taking an active role here. Who knows, I might even run a Changeling through myself!”

“But what I mean to say is-”

Second Fiddle clapped me on the shoulder, which released a small cloud of ash that had become embedded in the wool there. “You’ve been a great help to me,” he said. “I can see why Princess Luna chose you to be the first regimental commissar. Heavens, I should start preparing now if I’m going out in the field! I think my sword will need a sharper edge for cleaving Changeling skulls.”

[The Commissariat was slow in adopting ‘hot weather’ service uniforms for commissars, even though the Ministry of War had already developed service uniforms for staff officers at the front made of a lightweight cotton drill. Though cotton drill was judged to be too informal, increasingly high cases of heatstroke amongst commissars prompted the Commissariat to allow cotton uniforms. These, however, were still black.]

He patted me on the shoulder again and trotted off into the crowd, disappearing into the mass of uniformed ponies. I had wanted to explain that his work with the Princess in setting up her Royal Commissariat was honourable enough, and that he shouldn’t throw away a perfectly good, if very boring, career in the pursuit of some vague, ephemeral concept that, ultimately, mattered little in the grand scheme of things. It might not be glamorous, but he would at least be able to hold court in a gentlecolts’ club or a royal party and explain how he had helped Luna set up the organisation that ‘won the war’, or some such rot like that.

I stood there, somewhat bewildered, but I quickly concluded that he would either grow bored of following a section of soldiers around as they searched hovels and failed to find anything, or they’d tire of the commissar getting in the way of their jobs and tell him politely to leave and let them get on with it, or he would finally find the ‘glory’ he sought and therefore put an end to this nonsense. Yet ponies have a tendency to be stubborn when they have set their minds on things, and whatever his very obvious shortcomings were as a field officer, Second Fiddle was not the sort to give up easily. He would ‘work’, as he had put it earlier to me in the mess, as he has always done, except the madness of war was not one that rewarded merit in the way high-minded philosophers and other drains on society believed life should. A setback was not a warning that perhaps this was not the right path to take, as I would have seen it, but an obstacle to be overcome and conquered. And should he finally soak his blade in Changeling ichor, he might find the ‘thrill’ of battle to be as intoxicating as a fine and experienced mare and thus seek it out again and again.

That was a problem for another day, and one, I hoped to Faust, that I would not have to deal with personally. As far as I was concerned, however, I was finished, and the only duties I had left to perform, having performed my part for Princesses and Country already in that damned airship, was to have a bath and then make sure that Countess Coloratura was suitably well-looked after. Therefore, seeing that I would be about as much use to the ponies here actually working as a hole in a parachute, I resolved that the best thing that I could do for everypony else’s sake was to go away.

I had the communal bath all to myself, as most of the officers were otherwise on duty. The soldier-servant on hoof seemed somewhat put out that I had interrupted an usually quiet afternoon for him, necessitating a break in reading the latest Daring Do novel to draw me a bath. However, a lengthy soak in warm, soapy water did much to alleviate the aches and pains in my limbs and clear the fog from my mind. When I finally emerged from the water, I found that my coat had been restored almost to its once-ivory colour, and the water itself had turned a rather unpleasant grey-brown shade.

On the way back to my quarters, my dirty uniform in a bundle so it could be cleaned, I decided to stop by Odonata and check on her; as my prisoner, I was beholden to those ancient laws of parole to keep her safe, assuming that she had not used the chaos to escape. Being on the same corridor as my own humble dwelling, it was not too much of a diversion at least. Two guards stood outside, clutching their bayonet-tipped muskets a little tighter than usual, and as I approached they assured me that while the prisoner and her spawn were safe, they were still ‘cleaning up’ inside.

With that ominously vague warning in mind, I slipped inside through the door. The first thing that caught my attention were two more soldiers scrubbing the floor, sponging away furiously at large dark green stains that were smeared over a good portion of the stone tiles there and across some of the walls and furnishings. Odonata was in the corner of the room, lying on her back on the undersized military cot and playing some sort of game with Elytra that involved tossing her into the air and catching her. With each upwards launch, the nymph’s back plates opened and her wings buzzed, slowing her descent back to her mother only slightly. The high-pitched chirping seemed to imply she was enjoying it.

I stepped around the stains and the ponies wiping them off the floor, and up close I saw that the smears had a gritty, viscous texture to them. One of the soldiers confirmed my suspicions when I heard him grumble to himself as he dipped his sponge back into the bucket of soapy water, “Join the Army, they said. You’ll get a Guards regiment, they said. See the world and defend Equestria, they said. Nothing about mopping up entrails.”

“Looks like the guards arrived just in time,” I said.

Odonata caught Elytra for the last time, and let the tiny thing rest on her armoured chest. She lifted her head up as I approached. “I killed them myself,” she said. “They disguised themselves as the books I requested, and attacked when your guards delivered them and left. I knew Queen Chrysalis would order my assassination after my surrender, but I didn’t think her pawns would be quite so bold or foolish to face me directly. By the time the guards came to my rescue I had already dispensed with the assassins.”

That explained the mess; even the most violent soldier of the Equestrian Army was not capable of the pure savagery that had coated the floor, walls, furniture, and even the ceiling with blood. “How did you kill them without magic?” I asked, tapping my horn with a hoof.

Odonata touched hers, where the nullifier ring still sat, and grinned broadly to show rows of razor-sharp fangs, like a shark. “I used my hooves,” she said, and went back to playing with her infant daughter, who, with the enviable innocence that comes with a foal having no concept of what was going on around her aside from her mother and the potential source of food standing nearby, giggled and waved her tiny, stubby little hooves in my direction.

I beat a hasty retreat through the door, and did my best not to think about how Odonata could probably have made a decent and bloody attempt at escaping even without her powerful magic already. Even if she was captured, subdued, or killed in the process, the fact that my quarters were rather close by would likely mean that she could come for me first. It was not beyond the realms of possibility that she was, in spite of all of my previous dealings with her kind, being completely honest with me when she said that her best stab at survival was indeed cooperating fully with both myself and the Equestrian military. Had our situations been reversed, while I would like to say that I would have given the ‘name, rank, and serial number’ routine and immediately plotted a gallant escape attempt involving digging a hole through the cell wall with a spoon, it’s more likely that I would immediately start spilling every secret that I knew, from Market Garden’s strategy to Celestia’s choice of mane dye. That, of course, would be put to the test much later.

[Prince Blueblood was indeed captured and held in a Changeling prisoner of war camp later in his career, however, the details of this are not pertinent to the events at Virion Hive. Furthermore, I do not use mane dye. It is impossible for my mane to take dye at all.]

When I arrived at my quarters, I found Svengallop had already helped himself to a glass of rye whiskey of middling quality and price, which I reserved for guests of suitably middling quality anyway. Cannon Fodder had positioned himself between my guest and my drinks cabinet, and though he flicked through another one of his favourite magazines with his usual brazen lack of care of what anypony present thought of it, he had, as always, taken my orders literally and warded off this upstart manager with a series of blank stares.

Coloratura had left, and had either taken Saguaro with her or he, an adolescent colt, followed the first attractive mare he had ever seen. Nevertheless, she was kind enough to have informed my aide that she had intended on performing an impromptu recital in the castle’s main hall, and under armed escort to my relief. Cannon Fodder further explained that she had also requested a guitar, which he had somehow provided for her using means that I didn’t bother inquiring about. I’d quite looked forward to a quiet evening with her, and was feeling somewhat put out by this. Still, it was only late afternoon, and there was time enough for that later. The very least that I could do, I thought, was attend this little concert and, I hoped, pounce on her when she had finished, after I had changed into a fresh uniform, of course.

What had been a large banquet hall, once used by a nameless dynasty of long-dead kings and queens forgotten by all except perhaps Twilight Sparkle and a few other such academics, was now a makeshift barracks and accommodated some hundred or so soldiers in rows upon rows of bunks. I could hear the music as I stumbled through the corridor approaching the hall, muffled by the thick stone walls and the newly-installed wooden doors; the strum of simple guitar chords provided the slow and sonorous rhythm, and on top of that, sharpening acutely like an image coming into focus as I nudged open the door and slipped inside, was her voice.

Coloratura was at the far end, sitting on the dais where the lord of this place would have sat. She strummed a beaten old guitar on her lap, while Saguaro stood nearby and tapped out some sort of primitive rhythm on a drum. The rest of the hall was packed with off-duty soldiers, some having just come back from their raids, and they sat on bunks and in the aisles between them to watch the performance.

The song itself escapes me, but I think it was some earth pony folk thing. The lyrics were probably about soil or plants or getting their land back from the unicorns, as they usually tended to be, but that wasn’t important. It was strong, defiant, and melodic, and with it seemed to carry certain emotions within that I had done my best to suppress for much of my life -- of loss, solitude, and longing. The off-duty soldiers in the hall and the few natives who had taken it upon themselves to perform menial tasks for our army were transfixed by the song, as I was. Rarely had I seen troops on their own free time sit quietly for any length of time, for even those few good RASEA shows still tended to get somewhat boisterous. Though I felt as though I was intruding on the scene, I quietly shut the door behind me and took a position out of the way at the back of the crowd.

It was not the loud spectacle ponies had expected, with costumes and lights and energetic music, but out here, on the frontline of an Equestria slowly slipping into the sort of barbarism Princess Celestia had spent a thousand years dragging it kicking and screaming away from, this was what was needed. In some way, and I don’t know if Coloratura had truly intended this, it was a reminder of what we were all out here fighting for, through this shared experience that reconnected each and everypony here with the thoughts of the land we came from and the ponies we left behind. What that bath had done for my body, this performance had done for what passed for my soul.

This wouldn’t last, of course, but I had to accept whatever respite I could get.

Chapter 24

It didn’t take long at all for Second Fiddle to blooden his sword in Changeling blood. The very next day, in fact, when he pranced into the officers’ mess gleefully brandishing a sabre encrusted with green, stinking ichor along much of its length like a four year-old showing off a hoof painting to delighted parents, to the confusion and horror of the guests and staff.

I had been enjoying a rather pleasant late lunch of cauliflower marsala with Colonel Sunshine Smiles, with a delightful bottle or two of an agreeable Gewurztraminer to pair. Though the former still preferred to eat out of the same troughs as the common soldiery, I had managed to twist his foreleg a little to get him to visit the officers' mess once in a while and at least indulge in a pantomime of the gentlecoltly pursuits of fine food, fine wine, and fine company we both sorely missed. Besides, after two years of war and the honour of the Night Guards proved in battle, the exclusion he and his fellows had been subjected to by the now disgraced or deceased officers of the old-fashioned sort had become thoroughly non-existent. Indeed, if Captain Blitzkrieg could suffer to attend without incident, employing what I had previously taught him about table manners and appropriate topics of conversation over dinner and cocktails, then certainly the Colonel could too.

Ponies reading this might consider it odd, or even flippant, that I and other officers would enjoy a relatively luxurious lunch the day after a series of disastrous attacks that had, momentarily, crippled our supply line (and at least the Changelings had the manners not to strike at our mess supplies). I, after all, had yet another all-too-close brush with death and was more than a little on edge. Life, however, goes on in spite of the multitude of miseries inflicted upon us, and ponies take solace wherever they can find it. Even a common soldier might see Prince Blueblood acting pretty much the way he always does, hiding the fact that he’s quickly going to pieces inside, and conclude that it must mean everything is fine. With the delightful Countess Coloratura having returned to Equestria, taking her manager with her in a move that made up for her early absence, things once again began to settle into a sort of stable, but precarious and fragile, equilibrium once more.

Lunch being a rather less formal affair than dinner, which on the frontline had lost much of its stilted formality anyway, we were joined by Fer-de-Lance, who had been grumbling away at the bar about how Second Fiddle had been taking far too many of her ‘enfants’ away for his raids. While at first I feared having to make tedious small talk with this uptight Prench lady, she soon bonded with Sunshine Smiles over a shared interest in wine, as her family, like most of the Prench aristocracy who managed to survive that unpleasant experiment in republican government a thousand years ago, owned a vineyard or two in Prance. Whereas Sunshine Smiles expressed a genuine but amateurish interest in some of the finer details of viticulture, and was content to allow her to ramble on at length about climate and soil and the perils of mildew with the sort of depth of knowledge I’d expect from an earth pony than a unicorn. That must have been how he managed to keep up, I thought.

I, on the other hoof, was one of those ponies content to simply enjoy wine for what it is with no interest in how it is produced. It was important for any prince to be able to carry a basic conversation on the topic with other nobleponies whose knowledge on the subject was just as broad and shallow as mine, of course, in order to carry on the facade that aristocrats are truly as well-read and refined as we would like other ponies to think we are. Despite learning more about soil aeration than any unicorn has any right to, I was at least grateful for the opportunity to take part in a conversation, however one-sided, that did not involve the war at all. I could even contribute with a few anecdotes about the vineyards owned by my brothers-in-law.

“The summer of ‘08 was unbearably hot,” I said. “Almost drought conditions. The poor winemakers were moved to tears, trying to produce drinkable wine from raisins.”

“That would be Coteaux de le Sang?” Fer-de-Lance was barely capable of hiding her dismissive sneer. “As you say, raisins would be a better use of those grapes than the ‘vinegar’ they produce.”

“Doesn’t that vineyard belong to your sisters’ husbands?” asked Sunshine Smiles. I could not remember if I had volunteered that information before or if that was simply common knowledge now; anypony could pick up various details about myself and members of my extended family from a variety of sources, legitimate and illegitimate.

“Yes.” I nodded. “Which means I have to drink that ‘vinegar’ and eat those raisins each time I visit them.”

Fer-de-Lance raised her glass in a sort of salute. “My sincere condolences,” she said, and then took a delicate sip.

“The ‘92 receives the most praise,” said Sunshine Smiles, turning the half-empty bottle at the table to present the attractive label. “Unfairly, I believe. The ‘93 is a more refined vintage with a more complex profile, due to a summer with longer spells of consistent sunshine.”

“I agree.” Fer-de-Lance, contemplatively swirled her glass of wine around. “Alas, we cannot dictate to the pegasi in the weather teams precisely how much sunshine and rain our grapes require, no?”

“If we could then we wouldn’t be able to have discussions such as this.” The right side of Sunshine Smile’s mouth mirrored the scarred left in a grin. “All wine everywhere would taste the same.”

“Parties would be ruined forever,” I said. “Imagine a party where one cannot criticise the host’s choice of wine!”

[Records of duty rosters uncovered by Princess Twilight Sparkle, whose research work in the archives has been invaluable in this project, show that both Sunshine Smiles and Fer-de-Lance were off-duty at the time, hence their drinking alcohol. Prince Blueblood, however, was still on duty, and was therefore in breach of new regulations by drinking on the job. It appears that this behaviour was largely accepted due to his royal title, reputation, and remarkable tolerance for drink.]

It was at that point, while I was quietly listening to the conversation and contemplating whether to indulge in pudding before having to crawl back to whatever duties I hadn’t been able to distribute to other more competent ponies, when Second Fiddle made his rude interruption. As the conversation was meandering this way and that like Yours Truly on the way home from the Tartarus Club, he had blundered in, sword drawn, and advanced on our table by the side of the room. I recall hearing some sort of commotion as my two companions indulged in idle chatter, of shocked gasps and mutterings and even a monocle popping out of an eye socket and shattering, but I’d assumed that some other younger officer had slipped past the limits of acceptable alcohol consumption for a late lunch and disgraced himself in front of his peers.

“Hi, Blueblood!” The sudden sound of Second Fiddle’s voice from behind gave me a start, and I received a second one when I turned and saw an ichor-stained blade about two feet away from my nose.

“What in Tartarus do you think you’re playing at?” I hissed under my breath, aware that ponies were watching. A waiter in formalwear hovered at the adjacent table, ready to pounce and throw him out if given the word, which I was sorely tempted to do.

Second Fiddle’s face fell. Dictionaries don’t have pictures in them, unless it is one intended for five year olds, but the entry for the term ‘disappointment’ would have matched his expression perfectly. He stood there, shocked at how this clearly did not go the way he had fantasised about since first donning the uniform, and was silent for what felt like an age.

“I got one!” he finally said. “Ran him through.”

I looked to my other guests and saw that Fer-de-Lance was shaking with silent rage, and Sunshine Smiles was pretending to read the blurb on the back of the wine bottle as though it contained ancient wisdom on the meaning of life.

“I’m very proud of you,” I said, at a loss at how else I was supposed to deal with this diplomatically. “But will you put that away before you have somepony’s eye out?”

Second Fiddle’s cheeks flushed a peculiar shade of crimson and he swallowed hard. “Oh, sorry.” He awkwardly rammed his bloodied sabre back into its scabbard. It took him a few tries, struggling to find the opening like a virgin’s first time with a mare, but he eventually succeeded.

“Look, you can tell me all about it later,” I said, “but for the love of Celestia don’t go waving that around in the officers' mess. And get it cleaned too, before you ruin your sword.”

[Blood, both pony and the changeling equivalent, is corrosive to steel and can cause rust if it is not wiped off and the blade is re-oiled.]

He mumbled another apology and cantered off with his tail between his legs, ponies watching and whispering to one another as he passed them. Embarrassment, I had just learnt, can be contagious, and I was feeling some sort of secondary attack of it by merely being involved with that insane display. The awkward silence as my two lunch companions digested what they had just seen carried on for what felt like an eternity, leaving me to stew in the awkward, cloying sensation that seemed to smother me from within. Mercifully, Fer-de-Lance put me out of my misery with her characteristic bluntness:

“Mes princesses, where do they find idiots like that?”

I didn’t know, but there seemed to be plenty of them these days, or perhaps the ratio of ‘idiots’ to competent ponies has actually been fairly stable through history and it was only now that I found myself in a situation where such idiocy would lead to consequences far more severe than mild annoyance on my part.

When I saw him next I resisted the overwhelming urge to tease him about brandishing a bloodstained sword around while ponies were trying to eat lunch. It would have livened up another one of his tedious meetings, certainly, but I was sure that his fragile ego would take what was intended as light-hearted ribbing as a serious attempt to undermine his authority. Still, for those curious, the best joke that I could think of was asking if we should still be paying our mess fees if their food was so tough one needed a heavy infantry sabre to cut it.

“So far we’ve uncovered three cells of infiltrators,” he said, pacing about the floor in my office with sufficient force that he might make a groove in the ancient stonework. “They were all hiding among the native ponies, just like I said they would. We’ve killed seven Changelings, captured five, and three got away.”

It was a late afternoon, a few days after that incident in the mess, and ostensibly this was supposed to be a social call, except that he invariably brought the conversation back to his work. I made a non-committal sort of noise to show that I was still listening to his rambling, though I was quietly thinking of ways to get him to leave without forcibly throwing him through the door.

“The heathens are hiding more of them, I’m sure of it,” he said, and that made me consider throwing him out of the window instead.

“Or they’re being used as shields,” I posited, hoping that I might be able to get him to use the brain Faust had gifted him. “We have ‘rules’, after all. If I was a Changeling and I wanted to hide, hiding amongst the civilians would be my first choice.”

Second Fiddle finally stopped pacing to glower at me. “It would be easier,” he hissed, “if we didn’t have to follow those rules.”

“You don’t really mean that.”

“It would be easier,” he repeated. “If a rule stands between us and victory then we should ignore it.”

I decided very quickly that this was not a route of conversation that I wanted to travel down to its logical conclusion, especially on what was supposed to be a quiet evening for me, so I quickly abandoned it. Coming up with something else, however, was rather trickier, as all he ever seemed to want to talk about these days was this infernal war. It was always there, hovering over my head like a mischievous pegasus with a small thundercloud, ready to ruin any polite conversation. Failing as I’d always done, for the only other topic he could speak at any length about was our school days and I was getting quite bored of reminiscing about things that happened years ago (and being reminded of how I failed to achieve a high school diploma), I asked him if there had been any more attacks lately.

“No,” he answered. “Chameel’s been quiet for the past few days. It’s very odd; I expected more.”

[‘Chameel’ was another attempt by the writers employed by the Ministry of Information to come up with another nickname for the Changelings, after ‘Changeling Charlie’ failed to supplant the slur ‘bugs’ that Equestria soldiers tended to use. The character appeared in a number of pamphlets and short animated films intended to instruct frontline troops on identifying infiltrators hiding in civilian populations. These were not well-received and the character was quietly dropped from subsequent information media. The name, a portmanteau of the words ‘chameleon’ and ‘eel’, was considered too much of an abstraction to truly connect with soldiers.]

“It makes sense.” I shrugged. “With RAID running around, well… raiding just about everywhere, any Changelings still left behind would have gone to ground, so to speak, if you haven’t gotten them all by now.”

“There are more,” he said, and he seemed very certain of that without much in the way of proof to back it up. “I just have to dig them out.”

I sat back on my seat, which was really just an old office chair Cannon Fodder had procured for me, and poured myself another glass of brandy as I came upon a thought that I probably would not have vocalised aloud were I sober. “What if some of the Changelings don’t want to fight?”

Second Fiddle’s eyes looked as though they might burst out of their sockets. “What in blazes are you on about now?” he snapped. His nose wrinkled in disgust and he shook his head. “You’re drunk again.”

“Probably,” I said. “I’m off-duty this time.”

He snorted, but otherwise said nothing, so I carried on.

“It’s just what they call a ‘thought experiment’.” I think I once heard Twilight Sparkle use that term before. “What if some of the Changelings hiding amongst the native population don’t want to fight and would rather we leave them alone? There might even be Changelings in the Hive who don’t agree with this war Chrysalis started. They could become allies.”

“Now see here,” he said, approaching my desk and tapping on it forcefully with his hoof. I stared up at him and drank my brandy as he started espousing his nonsense propaganda once more, in lieu of actually confronting the rather salient point that I had made. “You’ve spent far too much time with that Changeling whore of a prisoner of yours. If I had my way she would have been lined up against the wall in the courtyard and… and shot along with every other bug that surrendered, instead of being allowed to whisper her poison in your ear. Every Changeling wants to see Equestria destroyed and its ponies enslaved, you hear? I can’t allow that kind of… that kind of softness to keep us from carrying out the ruthless prosecution of this war.”

“That,” I said, swirling my brandy thoughtfully, “would make us no better than the enemy.”

“We don’t have the luxury of the moral high ground in this sort of war.” Second Fiddle turned on his hooves and marched out of the door, slamming it behind him with a heavy ‘thud’ that was sure to wake Elytra from her nap in the room down the corridor. I was left alone again, and feeling rather unhappy about it too.

He never did recount the epic tale of how he lost his battlefield virginity to me, but, as ever, I had heard off-hoof from another pony who had taken part in that gallant mission, a young corporal of the Prism Guards who was very impressed that I could converse with him in his native Prench, that it was not quite the heroic saga for the ages. I had run into him while he was providing me with temporary bodyguard duty (which Cannon Fodder seemed to think he could handle by himself, but after that whole unpleasant thing with the airship and all of those other attacks I was not about to take any more chances) as I attended a meeting a few days later with a number of the local elders of Virion Hive and the other native tribes.

“We had a tip from one of your natives,” he said, while we were standing around waiting for everypony else to show up to the meeting. “The Changelings were hiding out in one of the abandoned bunkers, so we raided it. We took them by surprise, but they fought hard, sir, so we had to kill them all.” The Corporal glanced around us to see if anypony was eavesdropping; they probably were, but he carried on anyway. “The Commissar was at the back giving the orders, and when he thought we weren’t looking he stabbed one of the dead Changelings and trotted away.”

There it was, the truth, and I filed that neatly away in the great binder in the library of my mind titled ‘blackmail material’. Just in case, of course; one could never have too much information on other ponies to exploit, I find, as they’re more than likely doing the exact same thing themselves.

As for the meeting, the city might have been under the even tighter grip of martial law following the Changeling attacks, but the necessary business of governing the damned place could not stop. I had a theory, and it was largely based on observing my father’s failed attempts to get the natives of Coltcutta on his side during his disastrous stint as viceroy there, which I was rather desperate to avoid as food riots can get quite ugly for all involved, that getting the locals at least somewhat included in the tedious job of governance instead of shutting them out would help keep them all nice, sedate, and immensely grateful to Equestria. It was more for show than anything, as I’d learnt that allowing the commoners at least a pantomime of having a say in how their lives are governed, while I and my ilk cling on to the last vestiges of regal power through more subtle means, works wonders for their well-being without letting them loose with political power.

The natives of Virion Hive still lacked initiative, having had it more or less eliminated from them by a century of Changeling occupation, but with a bit of gentle nudging from the few politicos I’d brought in just for this purpose, they had organised themselves into constituencies, which were formed out of districts of the still-inhabited parts of the city and the shanty towns around it, and elected representatives from their number. These formed a small parliament of sorts, so that they could represent their interests in dealings with the Equestrian government as represented by Yours Truly. Thus far, however, their interests lay predominantly in both surviving this war and hoping that the Changelings did not return to reassert their cruel tyranny upon them now that they had tasted freedom and harmony. That those two things aligned perfectly with my own aims in this war, moreso the former, certainly helped in my dealings with them, and anything else was merely a case of them muddling through this new and terrifying prospect of (limited) autonomy.

In addition to these representatives, under the stipulations of the treaty Princess Celestia had hashed out with the other Badlands pony tribes, Earthshaker of the Rat Pony Tribe and Bitter Salt of the Agave Tribe would often make appearances. That day was no different, and as my entourage and I filed into the marquee set out for this meeting, I could tell by the glare he gave us, the representatives of the Twin Crowns of Equestria, that Earthshaker was going to make this meeting a particularly difficult one, again.

[Blueblood does not seem to think it is important to mention, but after the Changeling attacks the location of this Council’s meetings changed with each session to maintain security. Most were held in random locations under a portable marquee out in the desert.]

Most of the Council, as it grandiloquently called itself, had already arrived, either taking up their spaces on the large set of tables in the middle or taking advantage of the refreshments. I was under the suspicion that most bothered to turn up only because of the offer of free food. Before I could take my seat at the head of the table I was subjected to the usual battery of counter-illusory spells and tests, as the one hit with the now ubiquitous Changeling reveal spell was no longer considered sufficient after this latest spate of attacks.

Now that I was here and everypony present was satisfied that I was not a Changeling we could proceed. However, when the attendees took their positions I noticed a couple of empty seats in the corner, and when I inquired about them with one of the guards I was informed that the delegates of the Medusita clan, as they had started calling themselves after one of the types of cacti that grow here, were nowhere to be found. Be that as it may, I was in no mood to wait, and as far as I was concerned, if they didn’t want to express enough of an interest in how I was running their city, then they had no right to complain if I decided on something that they then disagreed with. It was not as though much came out of these meetings anyway.

I asked the Corporal if he could send a pony to deliver a message, and after too much time going back and forth with his commanding officer, concluded that they simply couldn’t spare anypony from their all-important duty of guarding this meeting.

“Saguaro!” I called out, and the young colt, who had hitherto been sitting out in the desert and drawing pictures in the sand with the tips of his wing feathers, trotted on over with his usual damned eagerness to please. “I need you to go and find the Medusita clan, there’s a good chap.”

He saluted in a clumsy imitation of the soldiers he’d been observing marching in the castle courtyard and trotted off merrily out into the desert with his task. One might think that it was a risk to send a colt out on his own like that with the recent attacks, but thanks to those same attacks the entire area was positively crawling with soldiers on Second Fiddle’s RAID duty. If Saguaro was smart enough, which he wasn’t, he could have invoked my authority and politely asked one of the patrolling soldiers to go and find the Medusita clan for him.

We proceeded - the initial welcome, a heathen prayer to the spirits led by Bitter Salt that I went along with out of politeness, a recap of the previous meeting we had, and then the business at hoof. I won’t bore whoever reads this document with the details, because not only was it tedious and dull in the extreme, but I have largely forgotten the vast majority of what was discussed. None of it was particularly worth remembering, really, and would only be of interest to the sorts of ponies who also think that the collecting of stamps or the spotting of trains are worthwhile hobbies. For the most part, the representatives of each district, clan, or whatever group of natives would voice their petty concerns, worries, complaints, and so on, and I would make some noise about how we would find a way to deal with it. Cannon Fodder would then take a note in the minutes and it would be filed away somewhere for somepony else to deal with later. All of this served the illusion that I was actually taking my appointed job of governing this place seriously, and would, in theory, plant me in good stead with the ponies back in Canterlot -- the more paperwork I generated for them, the better.

That is, with the exception of Chieftain Earthshaker, whose suspicion of Equestria, being somewhat justified in light of subsequent events I might add, had hardly abated with the raising of our flag above Virion Hive. In fact, that flag itself still fluttering in the hot, languid breeze from the castle spires still remained a significant point of contention for him.

“You said you come as liberators,” he said, standing with his forehooves up on the table and glowering at me from across the marquee. He projected his voice well, and despite the distance I heard it quite clearly. “But you come as conquerors instead. Your flag with your Tyrants of the Sun and Moon still flies from the castle. Your soldiers spend more time harassing our brothers and sisters in Virion Hive than fighting the Changelings. You teach these ponies your ideals and customs, turning them into subjects of Equestria. When this war is over I fear you will not leave.”

I was starting to feel that way too, to a lesser extent of course, but my fear that the decisions of some ponies in distant Canterlot, who were rather keen on colouring a new bit of the world map that pleasing green colour, would end up causing even more pain and misery had only grown stronger with that visit from Chancellor Neighsay. Perhaps a year ago I would have agreed with them in their belief that all ponies everywhere really wanted to live under the enlightened, divine rule of the Princesses, they only had to overcome their foalish pride and realise it, but experience has a way of changing one’s perspective on things, for if it didn’t then one was more a hollow shell than a living pony. The scars on my back had taught me that some groups of ponies were best left to their own devices after all - ‘Harmony’s Burden’ be damned.

[‘Harmony’s Burden’ was a term coined by advocates of Equestrian imperialism, who had taken Princess Twilight Sparkle’s message of spreading the Magic of Friendship as a justification to expand Equestria’s borders. Though the son of an arch-imperialist, Prince Blueblood would oppose this view, famously stating that ‘one cannot make friends at the point of a bayonet’.]

The other ponies around the room remained in a sort of awkward hush and stared at me expectantly as though I might have something to say about this. They were new to this whole ‘autonomy’ thing, and even when I asked for their opinions on minor topics such as favourite colours or taxation policies they would still defer to me.

“I’ve explained this before,” I said, “Their Highnesses’ government has no intentions on formally annexing the Badlands.”

“At this time,” he said, completing that oft-repeated statement.

“We have a treaty,” I said, and I could not resist adding, “which you were personally present for and signed.”

“Treaties are little more than words on parchment, and words can be ignored. One day your war with the Changelings will end, and when it does will you and your flag finally leave us in peace? Your treaty was with seven pony tribes of the Badlands, the descendents of those your Princesses cast out a thousand years ago for refusing to kneel before them. But what of this city? Equestria has tasted victory and conquest, and in this war there will be more of that to come. In the end you may decide to hold onto these conquests, and the ponies here will have exchanged one tyrant for two.”

I wanted a quick end to all of this fighting so I could go home and try to claw back some semblance of a normal, regal life, not have it dragged out because a few ponies in Canterlot thought they would like to be remembered for making Equestria slightly bigger than it was before. Those ponies, however, were the ones who potentially held the keys to my continued safety as the governor of Virion Hive, so I could hardly say as much, as holding onto the position I had been desperate to keep meant that I had to be uncharacteristically careful in what I said. This was not the same as drunkenly ranting to a journalist that if common ponies were to get the vote then we might as well extend the franchise to cats, geese, and donkeys -- this mattered.

It was Bitter Salt, the elderly and allegedly wise leader of the Agave Tribe who was once again the quiet voice of reason here.

“The sands have drunk deeply of Equestrian blood,” she said, her voice deep and sonorous, and even a blowhard like Earthshaker clammed up and listened when she spoke. Hers was a voice that demanded attention; she could have been speaking utter nonsense and ponies would still listen as though it was divinely-inspired wisdom. “So soon have you forgotten the meaning of their sacrifice. The Changelings are our true enemy, not our fellow ponies from the north. It is inevitable that Queen Chrysalis would have moved to enslave our tribes, and yours and mine would have gone the same way as this once-great city. Our fate, our survival, as free ponies is now inextricably linked to Equestria’s victory in this war.”

Earthshaker glared, his eyes like burning coals and his jaw clenched tightly. “Equestria started this war,” he snarled.

“Chrysalis started this war.” Bitter Salt’s voice never wavered from its calm, melodic tone. “And when she casts her hungry eyes on your tribe, would you rather face the Changeling hordes alone or with Equestrian steel by your side?” She then looked at me, who was sitting awkwardly at the table and fiddling with a quill while she spoke. “The Prince is a peacemaker; it was he who uncovered the spy within your tribe, and it was he who stopped a needless war that neither you nor Equestria could afford. Whatever stories of the Tyrants of the Sun and Moon you tell your foals to keep them obedient are now just stories. After more than a thousand years, how can either of them still be the same monsters that drove our ancestors from their homes? Think of how much a pony changes through their lifetime, and consider how much an immortal must change through eternity.”

‘Peacemaker’ might have been a bit of a stretch, especially when it was Princess Celestia who had done the actual work in sorting out that treaty, and I dreaded to think how tense and awkward those negotiations must have been between her and Earthshaker. [Chieftain Earthshaker was actually very polite during those negotiations, even a little shy and quiet. For all of his complaints about the ‘Tyrant of the Sun’ to everypony else, finally meeting me in the flesh was another matter entirely.]

“These are discussions for after the war, not during it,” I said, knowing that in reality the debates in Canterlot were still raging, which was why I kept receiving conflicting reports from various government ministries, which I largely ignored anyway.

“What you intend to do after this war will affect how you fight it,” said Bitter Salt, turning that age-old wisdom on me. I could not help but wonder if she was just making it all up as she went along, and it only sounded profound coming from a mare that old with that accent.

“And as that treaty states, we fight this war to protect all ponies from the tyranny of Queen Chrysalis. I will do all that I can to see to it that Equestria honours that.”

It was short of giving my word as a prince of the realm, and I had to be very careful about using those exact words lest I find myself honour-bound to do something I didn’t want to do again, but it seemed to be enough to get Earthshaker to shut up for now so we could carry on with the rest of the meeting. Those sorts of conversations always happened whenever he deigned to turn up, and I made a mental note to ask Cannon Fodder to think up some ways of encouraging him to avoid attending so we could wrap these up sooner in time for tea. I imagine that he did this not out of any genuine concern about the pony inhabitants of Virion Hive, but out of a self-aggrandising scheme to ensure that I, and by extension Equestria, continued to think of his tribe as some sort of regional power that needed to be respected. There had to be ways he could do that without wasting my time, I thought.

We wrapped up very quickly, around mid-to-late afternoon, and I had planned on beating a hasty retreat back to Virion Hive before the other ponies decided that they wanted to speak with me about something private when Cannon Fodder cleared his throat noisily, drawing the attention of everypony else still in the marquee, and said, “The Medusita didn’t turn up, sir.”

And neither did Saguaro. I assumed that he must have been distracted from his task and wandered off again; he was an eager young colt, yes, and very keen on serving his new overlords, but being fourteen years old meant that he was not terribly reliable. He liked to explore, which I imagined was him taking advantage of a level of freedom that he was not quite used to. That was why I only gave him those tasks that I, in truth, would not feel particularly put out if he did find himself lost along the way and therefore failed to complete. Whether or not the Medusita did turn up was immaterial as far as I was concerned, for they rarely had anything of worth to contribute, except to ask when they could finally see the Princesses apparently responsible for their liberation (as if the soldiers all around them had nothing to do with it).

With all of the chaos of the past few days I started to fear the worst, and that sending him out alone was a mistake. Usually, I trusted that he would either turn up of his own accord when he got bored and hungry or when one of the soldiers would catch him trying to explore somewhere where he shouldn’t. However, that the delegates from the Medusita clan did not arrive either was disquieting, and, knowing that I only had more paperwork and bureaucracy to look forward to back at the castle, I could afford a little detour to their collection of tents and hovels along the way.

The shanty towns were quite well spaced out, so it was a bit of a walk to get there. Even though the Changelings had done their damnedest to stamp out all that was equine within them, the apparent need to divide themselves up into herds seems to be thoroughly innate with ponies. To my right were the towering city walls, with the large gaps pummelled into it by Equestrian artillery still yet to be filled, and to my left was the ridge, criss-crossed with trench lines and pock-marked with those stubby little grey blockhouses. Where Cannon Fodder and I walked along had been No Mare’s Land not too long ago, and were I in the mood I could have looked up to my left and spotted the place where I’d come the closest so far to the sort of martyrdom certain ponies expect of me. The land itself seemed wounded by the gas attack and had still yet to recover; the birds and animals avoided it as though they knew what had happened there, and hardy grasses and shrubs present everywhere in the Badlands failed to reclaim their hold upon the slopes.

It was a hot day too, though it was going to get a little cooler as the afternoon turned into evening, so we stopped off at a few of the shanty towns along the way for a few quick rests and some water. The whole ‘sharing water’ business was one of the first traditions, apparently one of the few common to all of the disparate tribes here, that we had sought to re-introduce to the Virion Hive ponies. Walking across a barren desert under the hot sun had demonstrated to me perfectly just why this tradition was so ubiquitous, and I was thankful that they had taken to it whole-heartedly.

The ponies there said that they hadn’t heard from the Medusita recently, but they rarely had many dealings beyond their little groups anyway besides the Council. They tended to stick to their own for the most part, in spite of our efforts to encourage them to open up. They had, however, seen a group of Equestrian soldiers led by a ‘stallion in black and red’ marching in that direction, and some had seen a teenaged colt making his way there not too long before them. These ponies couldn’t tell me exactly how long ago that was, lacking any means of measuring the inexorable passage of time more advanced than looking at the position of Celestia’s sun and making a guess, but it seemed like I wasn’t too far behind them.

We carried on with a renewed sense of urgency. It was probably nothing, I told myself; Second Fiddle might have been an ass, but the soldiers he had been ‘borrowing’ from the Guards Division were consummate professionals who served with honour and dedication, so they would never have allowed him to do something daft under their watch. Still, the anxiety that Saguaro had been caught up in that damned glory-seeking peacock’s increasingly desperate and unhinged plans to prove to everypony that he could be a hero still lingered, and when I spotted the black columns of smoke rising from precisely the direction we were headed it appeared that my worst fears had been all but confirmed. It would turn out, however, to be far worse.

Cannon Fodder and I broke into a half-trot. There were no other shanty towns in the vicinity, save the one we had just passed behind us. It felt too damned exposed and isolated out there, as the gaps between these settlements were much wider than they appeared on the map. However, as we neared the smoking tents and primitive mud-brick houses, I spotted a group of ponies making their way from there to Virion Hive. They were off in the distance, but with the dry earth here any sufficiently large group of ponies would kick up a whole lot of dust, especially if they were in a bit of a hurry. As we neared them, I saw the bright sunlight glinting off their highly-polished armour, though one figure, apparently leading them, was dressed in black and red. The group, seeming to notice us approaching them, stopped in their tracks, the dust cloud temporarily obscuring them all from view. They crowded around one another, and what looked like a heated argument broke out. I could even hear their voices, muffled by the distance and my hearing damage, that quickly died away as soon as I’d come close enough to have a chance at understanding their words more clearly.

“What-ho!” I called out to them as I approached. “Second Fiddle! Is that you?”

Second Fiddle stood there with his mouth agape in shock, as though I was the very last pony he had hoped to see out here. Indeed, he stumbled backwards on his hooves as I trotted on over. His once-pristine uniform, with its pressed tunic and shining gold and silver baubles, had become covered in a thin layer of that grey-yellow dust. Here and there were small rips and tears in the woollen fabric, a piece of braiding had been ripped loose and dangled from his cuff, and his hat had been knocked askew from its usual position dead-straight on his head. Sweat had soaked into his uniform, forming dark half-moons under his armpits and slicking down his fur. He held his blood-stained sabre in his aura, and had apparently been brandishing it at the other ponies for whatever reason.

A section of ten unicorns of the Prism Guards stood around in a sort-of loose huddle. They too had just seen battle, that much was certain, as their armour, though still shining in the light thanks to Fer-de-Lance’s insistence on maintaining the highest standards of uniform, was tarnished in places with scuffs, dust, and splatters of blood that had already been baked on by the hot sun. None appeared to have suffered injuries more severe than light scratches and bruises. A few turned to watch me approach, while the rest continued to mill about aimlessly and seemed to be doing their very best to avoid meeting my gaze. This was not unusual behaviour on its own, as most of the common soldiery do their utmost to avoid drawing the attention of a commissar in case they found something to complain about, but instead of doing the usual thing of staring into space, at their hooves, or up at an interestingly-shaped cloud, these ponies turned away completely from me. They were all clearly agitated, pacing around with raised tails and pricked ears, and some with their heads low and staring into nothing with glazed-over eyes.

“What happened here?” I asked. The quick back and forth with the Changeling-reveal spell ‘hoofshake’ assuaged the most obvious of my fears.

“More Changelings,” said Second Fiddle, pointing at the ruins burning away behind us. His ears were tucked back and down, and his eyes looked just about everywhere except at mine. “They attacked that shanty town over there and killed all of the ponies. We were too late to stop them, but we avenged them.”

My mouth went dry all of a sudden, and it wasn’t due to the heat or the trotting I’d done. “Did you happen to see Saguaro?”

“That colt who hangs around with you?” Second Fiddle shook his head. “Sorry, no. Didn’t see him.” He then took a furtive glance at the soldiers gathered behind him, lingering on the Corporal of the section, who returned the look with a curious glare of pure, unfiltered poison. “We have to get back to Virion Hive now.”

The frogs of my hooves itched. My eyes were drawn to his sabre, which still floated by his head in his pale aura. I knew his knowledge of weapon safety was lacking, since he mainly treated it as a fashion accessory instead, but after that incident in the mess he should have known better than to wave it around like that, especially in front of a group of soldiers who were obviously very upset about something. The blade itself was drenched in blood as he clearly hadn’t listened to my earlier advice to wipe it down after use, and some of it was congealing and drying into dark rusty stains already-

“Why is the blood on your sword red?” I blurted out, pointing at it.

Second Fiddle dropped his sword and stared at it on the ground as though it had turned into a venomous snake, the Corporal muttered a litany of expletives under his breath, and one of the soldiers broke down and started sobbing. The Commissar-General tried to say something, still not meeting my gaze, but though his mouth moved only queer choking sounds that were stillborn excuses came out. Try as I might to find the hope that there was an innocent explanation for this, there was none to be found - only one possibility, so disturbing that my mind fought to keep it unacknowledged, remained. With this revelation came a wave of nausea and utter dread; I felt as though the blood had fled my body in horror, leaving me weak and dazed. I took a few unsteady steps towards Second Fiddle, who trembled in his horseshoes as I approached.

“What have you done?” I demanded, hissing through set teeth.

Chapter 25

The silence of the guilty reigned over the scene. Even the soldier bawling his eyes out had turned himself over to quieter sobs as he buried his face in his forehooves. The sound of crackling fire behind me as the home of the Medusita clan burned was faint and almost overwhelmed by the whisper of the faint breeze stirring the grasses by our hooves, but it only added to the sharp, tense atmosphere that had descended. I cast my eyes over the party, and few could return my gaze; I don’t know what face I pulled, but I believe it was likely one of pure shock, not anger or even disappointment. In truth, I ought to have seen this coming, but at the time I was thoroughly blind-sided by this revelation that somehow Second Fiddle had found a new depth to sink to in violating civilisation’s oldest and most sacred law. Each pony bore the signs of being culpable in this too, whether it was the crimson red that seemed to sparkle like dark rubies in the harsh sunlight on their armour and weapons, or merely the unmistakable look of shame carved onto their faces like marble statues.

The sobbing pony continued to weep.

Second Fiddle recovered his wits and was suddenly alive with nervous, frantic energy. He turned on his hooves, violently so, and the pale, drawn ponies with haunted expressions around him scattered as though he were a leper, except for the crying soldier.

“Will you stop that!” he snarled. Second Fiddle raised a hoof to strike the pony, but the anguished voice of the Corporal caused him to stop.

“We followed orders!” he roared suddenly. [Prince Blueblood does not give his name, presumably because he never asked, but archive research indicates that this was Corporal Quick Step of the Prism Guards.]

Everypony turned to look at the Corporal. He stood there, chest heaving not with exertion but with barely-constrained anger. Tears rimmed his wide, bloodshot eyes.

“Shut up,” snarled Second Fiddle.

I stepped forward, and the ponies stepped back. “What orders?” I asked, trying to keep my voice hushed and level with a super-equine effort. “Whose orders?”

“Don’t answer him!” Second Fiddle’s voice was louder, and he trembled in his boots.

The Corporal pointed his muzzle at the Commissar-General. “His.”

“He’ll send us all to the gallows!” shouted Second Fiddle with a petulant stomp of his hoof. His voice reached the shrill crescendo of a pony trying to ignore the sight of his life crumbling into ruin before his eyes.

“Do you think I can live with myself after what you made us do?” The Corporal swung his hoof at the ponies around him in a wide arc. “Can any of us?”

The sword stained with pony blood was by my hooves, so I picked it up. Blood soaked almost over the entire length of the heavy blade and ran down the fuller to smother the handle itself, and where it had fallen on the ground the grey and pale yellow dust clung to its congealing surface. It felt repulsive to hold even with magic, as though that drying blood was coating my horn instead.

“I want to know,” I said, turning this tainted weapon over in my magic. “I want to know now why there is pony blood on your sword, Second Fiddle.”

I was met with that guilty silence once again, though punctuated with the sharp sound of Second Fiddle’s increasingly panicked breathing. The Corporal looked as though he might say something, and despite an encouraging few nods from Yours Truly, he clenched his jaw shut tightly and looked at his forehooves instead. The others glanced around, hoping that another one of their number would be the one to puncture this conspiratorial veil and allow the truth to be revealed, if only to alleviate the weight of sin in their souls, but nothing was forthcoming. I suppose most ponies say that they would always do the right thing in such a situation, but the fact of the matter is that all but a tiny minority of souls rational enough to realise that admitting fault might lead to a lighter sentence will invariably cling to the fantasy that silence will make it all go away.

“If you won’t tell me now, then I’ll take a look over there myself.” I took about three steps before Second Fiddle called out after me.

“We did what was necessary!” he yelled.

“For Faust’s sake, tell me what orders involve killing ponies?”

“We had to find Changelings!” His voice was becoming shrill, and as he continued his excuse for what he had done he turned to address the ponies under his command, as though trying to convince them as much as me. “They resisted! It was self-defence! We had to do it!”

The Corporal spat on the ground and rubbed the wasted moisture away with his hoof. “They were unarmed,” he said.

“They resisted.”

“They were civilians. You made us kill them all.”

“They were collaborators, working with the enemy!”

“That colt - his blood is on your sword - was he a collaborator?”

“I-” The words choked and died in Second Fiddle’s throat. His face was pale, and wracked with the dawning, sickening terror of a pony slowly realising that they have just slipped past a point of no return. A pony has a choice upon reaching that point; the Corporal had chosen to accept it and whatever consequences would come, and it seemed that the rest of his section had likewise resigned themselves to whatever fate the inevitable court martial will bestow upon them.

Commissar-General Second Fiddle, however, chose not to, and with that decision he seemed to draw a degree of strength from it. He stood up straighter, swallowed hard, and strode on over to me with defiant strides. His blade was seized out of my aura, though I let him take the offending article, and he brandished the disgusting thing in my face as he attempted to explain himself:

“An informant tipped us off that a Changeling was hiding in that little shanty town over there -- some young colt by the name of Bright Spark who lives with his family. They said he’d been complaining about us, the Equestrians I mean, about how we should go back to where we came from.”

“That hardly seems like adequate grounds to do that,” I interjected, waving a hoof at the ruins behind me.

“I’m getting to it, damn you,” he spat, and I fought down the urge to admonish him for his rudeness. “We watched the clan. There’s only a few dozen of them that live there, and they keep to themselves far too much according to our informant. The other groups say they’re secretive and act strangely, like they’re hiding something. It turns out they were. We went in and found Bright Spark hiding in one of the tents, so we dragged him out kicking and screaming. I hit him with the reveal spell and there, he was a damned Changeling! The heathens kicked up a fuss, Faust knows what they were saying, but one of them hit me. We fought back. They were knowingly hiding an enemy of Equestria, so we had to set an example.”

“By murdering them all in cold blood?”

“It’s about sending a message.” Second Fiddle breathed a deep, frustrated sigh, as though I was a foal failing to understand the very basic concept he was trying to explain. “We’re at war, for pony’s sake. If you don’t have the stomach for this then you shouldn’t be here -- leave the fighting for the stallions with the strength of will to do what is necessary to achieve victory.”

I was at a loss for words, which is quite unusual for a skilled dissembler such as myself, yet this was unlike any situation that I had been in before. Odonata was right, damn her, and if anything her grim prophecy that we too shall descend into atavistic barbarism in the pursuit of victory was a little conservative in its estimate of how long it would take. And yet, though the soldiers there had followed Second Fiddle’s orders, the very obvious guilt and trauma of what they had done was, in its own twisted way, a faint light of hope that there remained some glimmers of civilisation even out here at its moral and physical edge.

“If this is what you think it takes to win,” I said at length, “then we have already lost.”

It sounded better in my head, as it only elicited a confused look from Second Fiddle, but I think I can be excused this muddling of words. Besides, if he either failed, whether earnestly or by choice, to understand the true implications of what he had done, then nothing I could say then and there would make him see otherwise. He had committed to this delusion that anything could justify the wilful and deliberate slaughter of the very ponies we had been fighting to protect and liberate, and there was no going back for him.

“I’m going to go over there and take a look for myself,” I said, hoping that they had been careless, or prescient from a certain point of view, enough to leave surviving witnesses behind. “Then I will write a report directly to the Ministry of War about this.”

“No,” he said, which was so strikingly plain and blunt that I could only dumbly echo it.

“No?”

“No.” He advanced until he was almost nose-to-nose with me. “I won’t let you tear down everything that I’ve so worked hard to build, out of… out of what? You couldn’t stand to see me, your high school bootlicker, succeed?”

Second Fiddle’s voice became shriller with the raw desperation of a pony trying to hold together the torn shreds that his career had become. I pitied him, which is certainly not to say that I felt any sympathy for what he had just done, but more of a sense of shame at just how far he had fallen, and indeed when ponies in Canterlot would read my report, preferably in a room without anything breakable in it, how far his career would continue to plummet into the depths of ignominy and disgrace. He would have only himself to blame for it, and even then he wouldn’t.

“You still haven’t moved past bloody high school,” I muttered aloud, partially to myself. And then, louder and addressing the wretch before me directly: “If you truly believe you are innocent then you’ll have nothing to fear from my report.”

I turned to leave once again, but this time made it no further than a single step in the direction of the smouldering tents and homes before Second Fiddle tried one last, futile ploy to worm his way out of the utter mess that his lust for glory had created for him. “Corporal!” he shouted, his voice cracking with the strain. “Arrest Blueblood! Take him into custody! If he files his report we’ll all be hanged.”

The Corporal didn’t move, though by the way he was looking at me with his face screwed up in mental anguish I could tell that he was sincerely contemplating following that order. Even if he did, the word must still get out, as it always does; arresting a prince of the realm, while not exactly uncommon as I had spent more than a few nights in my youth in a cell for being drunk and disorderly, would at least generate enough attention that other ponies would start asking the sorts of questions that unravel hastily slapped-together cover-ups.

Still, I wanted to put Second Fiddle in his place, so I looked the Corporal directly in his tear-rimmed eyes and said, “You were there at the breach, weren’t you?”

“Yes,” he said with a hushed voice. I had no way of knowing for certain, of course, but given he was of the Prism Guards regiment and clearly a veteran thereof it was all but inevitable that he had faced the storm of shot and shell that was the breach at Virion Hive’s castle. “You were there, too, sir. I saw you take the breach.”

“I had a little help with that.” More than a little help, really.

The Corporal chewed on his lower lip, and held his breath before releasing it in a slow, heavy sigh. “I’m sorry, sir.” Then, turning to Second Fiddle, who continued to stand there with his limbs shaking with rage: “I cannot comply with your order.”

“I will have you shot for this,” snarled Second Fiddle. “You too, Blueblood.”

I didn’t bother dignifying that useless comment with a response; clearly nopony thought that he could possibly follow through with that threat, though I would have liked to see him try, and we had wasted far too much time bickering out here. So I turned and trotted off towards the burning shanty town and left the guilty party to their own devices. Perhaps I ought to have dragged them all back to Virion Hive, but in truth I was at such a complete and total loss as to what I was supposed to do there. Though I had bumbled my way through being a regimental commissar and then a military governor with just enough success to hide the fact I had no idea what I was doing, this was so far beyond any frame of reference I had. Yet, given what happened later, I cannot see how anything else I could have done there would have changed things for the better. Hindsight, it seems, is not as perfect as ponies say it is, and if anything can be even murkier than the tunnel vision of the here and now.

The stench of blood and smoke was overwhelming even to my ruined sense of smell, such that I found myself lingering closer to Cannon Fodder’s more familiar, earthy aroma to alleviate it. The tents had ceased burning, leaving only smoking piles of blackened ash and the charred, broken remains of what little furnishings and personal possessions these ponies kept. There was one more permanent structure that was still smouldering -- a small, squat little building made of mud bricks, and through an empty window black smoke poured out heavenwards. I could see no bodies yet, so I approached the building, nudged open the door, and peered inside. Instantly I regretted it and slammed the door shut. The image I had seen of burning corpses, stacked like wood in a campfire and set alight, was fleeting, but it stuck in my mind and wouldn’t go away. The fire had died away to embers dancing across the blackened, bubbling flesh of the dead, each curled up and shrivelled in the heat. The image still hasn’t left me.

I leaned against the sun-baked wall, fighting the urge to vomit, swallowing down the foul-tasting bile until I could stand it no longer and my lunch splattered on the ground by my hooves. When I heard Cannon Fodder call my name he sounded very distant and remote, even though he was standing not more than half a dozen paces from me.

Lifting my head helped to clear it a little, but where I expected to see him as his usual pillar of stoic, unflappable strength, I was stunned by the expression of shock on his usually blank face. Eyes wide, mouth agape, ears pinned back, and even the skin under his grubby coat had become deathly pale.

“Sir, you should see this,” he said. “It’s… it’s awful, sir.”

The sound of the buzzing of flies gave me a clue as to what he had found, but nothing could have prepared me for it.

He led me behind the building to a sort of clearing in the middle of the shanty town, which I assumed had previously been used as some sort of communal square like a piazza. Bodies were piled up in the centre, and their blood had spread out in a rough circle as it soaked into the dry earth. In the pile I could make out faces, limbs, cutie marks, and so on, in dusty yellows and blues and pinks, all streaked with red. It was impossible to count them, as I could hardly tell where one blood-drenched corpse started and another ended, but I could assume that most of the population of the town, however tiny, was either lying before me, deathly still and eyes gazing out into nothing, with the remainder in that building.

The ground was covered with hoofprints and shallow furrows. Streaks of dark crimson-brown led from this pile to the burning building behind us. If one had to hazard a guess, the soldiers had attempted to dispose of the evidence of their crime by dragging the bodies into the building and burning it, but had given up on that venture for one reason or another, most likely to maintain the illusion that the Changelings had committed this atrocity.

The body of a dead Changeling drone was sprawled out and crudely staked to the ground with bayonets a little bit away from the main pile. It appeared to be on display, as it were, as though Second Fiddle had dragged it there to make sure that anypony who stumbled across this place would see it. So, there was some truth to what he had said about a Changeling hiding amongst them, but even then it was nowhere near enough to justify the pile of pony corpses before us.

I had seen death before, but the old cliche trotted out by tired old soldiers that it ‘gets easier’ was nothing more than a comforting lie. One merely finds a way to cope with it or simply go mad, and in the case of the former it merely feels like delaying the latter. This war had consistently found new ways to disgust and horrify me, and I dreaded to think just how much it could possibly escalate from here.

“There’s something moving in there!” exclaimed Cannon Fodder, pointing at the morbid heap before us.

There, at the base, I saw one of the bodies, this one of an older mare with a kindly face twisted in shock, shift and jerk spasmodically. The thin, slender body rolled away, her limbs flopping lifelessly like a ragdoll, and she tumbled onto the ground in a heap. Another pony, his face a mask of blood but very definitely alive, pushed his head through the resulting gap and gasped in great lungfuls of the foul, stinking air. He then strained against the bodies above him pinning him down, jaw clenched in a rictus of desperate exertion until he managed to pull one hoof free, which stretched out to the ground and dragged along it, forming increasingly deeper furrows, as he tried to pull himself free.

“Saguaro!” I shouted. The wave of relief I felt was palpable.

His head turned towards the sound of my voice, but the expression he pulled was one of utter fear. I broke into a gallop and Cannon Fodder followed. The blood-soaked sand squelched appallingly under my hooves like wet mud. My aide pushed the limp bodies up, groaning with the effort, with some assistance with my magic, while I grabbed Saguaro’s free hoof and dragged him out. He rolled into the muddy dirt and lay there in a curled-up foetal position, shivering like a leaf in a gale and whimpering quietly and pathetically with his face buried in his forehooves. His body was covered in blood and gore, and as I pulled him free my white fur became streaked with that warm dark slime.

Cannon Fodder stepped back, allowing the bodies to fall once again. The empty, soulless face of the old mare stared directly at me with her hollow eyes; I imagined her once being full of life, the sort of mother that common ponies usually have, doting over foals and all that. What was left now was a mockery. She had been stabbed in the neck with a bayonet, while others bore the cauterised craters in their flesh that were the hallmark of magic blasts. I swore that Second Fiddle was going to damn well pay for this, not just for this crime against all that was equine but for making common soldiers complicit in his sins, and unlike with Scarlet Letter I was not about to make that same mistake of trusting Equestrian military justice to damn well do what it’s supposed to.

I lifted Saguaro up, and he just sat on his haunches and stared out into the middle distance. His gangly frame shivered in spite of the heat. He didn’t seem to see or recognise either of us, as the poor thing must have been in a state of shock. A once-over revealed him to be unharmed, at least physically, and I did my best to clean away the filth that covered his coat with my hoofkerchief and water canteen.

“Come on,” I said. “Let’s go home.”

Saguaro was still unresponsive, so I picked him up and draped him over my back as we embarked upon the long walk back to Virion Hive. He neither resisted nor helped, but still being on the slender side and seemingly incapable of independent movement he was hardly much of a burden. There was nothing else to do there, so we left the pile of corpses where they lay amid the ashes of their meagre homes, with Cannon Fodder’s usual vacant silence replaced by one of grim despair and Yours Truly seething with thoughts of rage and revenge. It had been one thing to hear of it from Second Fiddle, or even to see the effects it had on those battle-hardened professional soldiers, but to see the grisly aftermath with my own eyes, to have their blood staining my coat, made me truly understand that this was not something that I could quietly foist on another pony to deal with.

I thought of the Corporal and his section who took part in that massacre, and pondered that eternal question: why in Faust's name did they not refuse to carry out those obviously illegal orders? The walk back was a long one and nopony was in the mood for conversation, so I had more time than I would have liked to consider the issue. I would wager that most ponies reading this might say that they would never have followed an order that contravened the most basic rules of war and even mere basic equine decency, and that they would sooner have run Second Fiddle through with his own damned sabre before committing such a grotesque act. Most ponies, however, would go their entire lives without having their sense of honour and duty put to the test like that, and it is impossible to say how one would really act. I am all but certain that each of the ten ponies in that section would have stated that they would never knowingly harm a civilian pony had I asked them long before that massacre, and I would have believed them.

A soldier, after all, is trained from the second they are measured for a suit of armour to sublimate their own will and even identity in favour of the rigid discipline and unthinking obedience necessary for them to execute their orders quickly and efficiently. While that has meant that the Equestrian soldier is the best fighter in the civilised world, it all hinges on the ponies issuing those orders to be of sound mind and calm disposition, both qualities that Second Fiddle lacked. The compulsion for mindless obedience even in the face of such irrational and immoral orders is so intrinsic to how these stallions and mares are trained, and that is why, even as I think about this decades later, I cannot blame them. They had done merely what was expected of them, and though this does not completely erase their own personal guilt, to live out the rest of their lives with what they had done might just be punishment enough. I know it is for me, for not having stopped Second Fiddle in the first place.

This was one of those dilemmas that simply did not have a neat and clear answer, and I, an indolent prince who once got lost in his own palace, was hardly the one to swan onto the academic scene and settle it for them. However, we trudged on slowly, the experience having seemingly drained us of energy. Second Fiddle and the soldiers had gone by the time we reached where they had stopped to argue, which meant that he had opened a lead on me in getting back and telling his side of this sordid story. It would do him no good, for once I was there to strip away the layers of lies he would spin to reveal the truth like wallpaper over a severe structural fault, then he was finally completely and utterly finished.

After an interminable amount of walking Saguaro started to come out of his daze. I felt him shift on my back, lifting his head to look around as though he had only just woken up from a deep sleep. We stopped and I let him down, and he sat there on the dusty ground. The shock still hadn’t worn off yet, but he seemed to indicate that he wanted to walk back instead of being carried.

“Do you want to tell me what happened?” I asked.

Saguaro stared silently, then bowed his head and shook it no.

He was the only witness to the massacre, aside from the perpetrators themselves, and given Second Fiddle’s apparent desperation to avoid the legal and moral consequences for his orders I could not trust them to give an honest account of what exactly had happened. I feared that it would all hinge on coaxing the truth out of this young colt.

“Very well,” I said. “You can tell me about it when we get back.”

We carried on in silence. I don’t know how long the rest of the journey took, but the sun was noticeably lower in the sky when we slipped through one of the breaches into the city. The dull, tedious mundanity of native ponies going about their day, albeit under the ever-present supervision of our troops, was striking in its contrast to the horror we had just witnessed. I envied their ignorance as I passed them by to the castle.

I immediately led Saguaro and Cannon Fodder to my office, turning away the many officers, bureaucrats, factotums, and fans along the way with a few polite and curt words that I was very sorry but I had something of the utmost importance to deal with right now, and for the first time I was not lying. Upon arrival, and after dismissing the small queue of petitioners lingering outside my door in the hope that I might sign off on one of their proposals, I shut the door behind me and beckoned Saguaro to sit on one of the comfortable cushions I reserved for guests.

It was getting a little darker now, light enough to still see for the most part, but I lit a few candles with my horn anyway and brought them with me as I sat next to Saguaro. I bade Cannon Fodder to attend to the door and turn away anypony short of Princess Celestia herself while I dealt with the matter at hoof.

“I need you to tell me exactly what you saw,” I said, taking off and discarding that awful hat I had to wear.

The young cold stared at the ground in silence, shivering slightly. Damnation, I wasn’t very good at this sort of thing, but some instinct told me to place my hoof on his shoulder so I did, and that seemed to loosen him from his fugue state a little. I wished Auntie ‘Tia was here; she’d have had no trouble at all. He lifted his head and looked up at me, the breath caught in his throat, and then he shook his head as he had before.

“He’s here,” he said in a whimpering sort of voice. “The pony in black and red.”

“And I’m going to get that bastard for what he did, but I need your help. Please.”

Saguaro swallowed, and then, without raising his gaze from the patch of bare stone on the floor, began: “I try to hide but he goes from tent to tent, dragging ponies out. They try to fight back but it’s useless. I hear them screaming. I smear blood on myself and lie very still, then a pony drags me out and puts me with the others. He looks at me and I think he knows I am pretending to be dead but he says nothing and he goes. I wait until you come.”

“That was very brave and clever of you,” I said, rubbing his shoulder and pressing him against my chest in a sort of hug. “I need you to be brave again for me, please. Can you tell me about the Changeling?”

Saguaro didn’t answer, and just looked away and stared at the floor again. I considered trying to push him further, but it felt like the wrong thing to do there. Although I was certain that I had more than enough evidence to render Second Fiddle an eternal pariah from Equestrian society at best, it was all but certain that he would take immediate steps to salvage the tattered remnants of his career and try to stitch them together again. In this young colt I had a witness that he could not bully, threaten, dismiss, or otherwise do away with, unlike those soldiers he had dragged along for this, as long as I could keep him safe.

The door to my office opened and I saw Field Marshal Iron Hoof’s moustachioed face emerge through the gap. Cannon Fodder moved to intercept him like a griffon on a pigeon.

“Commissar Blueblood is very busy and-”

“This is more important,” the Field Marshal snapped, pushing the door open forcefully.

Cannon Fodder made a step to obstruct him. “The Commissar said he mustn’t be disturbed.”

Iron Hoof brandished his enormous moustache at Cannon Fodder and glowered. “I need to speak with him now.”

“It’s alright Cannon Fodder,” I said, getting the sense that neither of them were going to give up any time soon. “Let him in.”

My aide stepped out of the way and returned to his corner of the office, either ignorant of or expertly ignoring the death glare he was receiving from Iron Hoof.

“What’s the matter with him?” asked Iron Hoof, pointing at the sullen Saguaro.

“He still misses his mother,” I said, and was relieved that my knack for improvised lying remained undimmed through this ordeal. However, the look that I received was not an encouraging one. “What is it?”

“It’s very important.” Iron Hoof leered at Saguaro and Cannon Fodder. “And top secret, too. I must speak with you alone.”

There were no prizes for guessing what it was about; in the time it had taken for us to finish poking around in the smoking remains of the Medusita’s village and then trudge on back to Virion Hive, Second Fiddle must have gone straight to one of the very few ponies out here who might have been willing to protect him. It was just like him to do that, always hiding behind those superior to him in any social hierarchy, thinking that he could escape the consequences of his actions. He had done quite enough of that lately and it was about time that he stopped getting away with it. I was somewhat curious to learn if he told Field Marshal Iron Hoof the whole unvarnished truth or, as was more likely, some ridiculous lie; either way, it would avail him none once my regal aunts knew what was being done in their name.

I ordered Cannon Fodder to take Saguaro to the officer’s mess, cite my name should the staff there raise any objections to their presence, and use my tab to buy anything the young colt wanted (I had heard the staff had somehow procured ice cream). It did not feel right to leave him, but I felt he was in capable hooves with my aide and Iron Hoof seemed adamant that whatever it was he wanted to discuss could not be delayed. With the two of us alone, and I acutely aware and wishing I had a witness for what came next, I went to my drinks cabinet and poured two glasses of a twenty-five year old Glenmareangie for my guest and me. I had intended on saving that for when I had my provisional job confirmed, but after the day’s events that seemed rather less likely, so I might as well use it as a gentlecolt’s bracer for what would come next.

“I had a…” Iron Hoof began, but trailed off as he watched me place the two glasses on my desk, one for him and one for me. He took a seat on the cushion opposite without my invitation, which irritated me more than it should. “...an interesting conversation with Commissar-General Second Fiddle.”

“I see.” I sat down behind my desk and took a big gulp of my drink, and wondered if the earth pony peasants who tended to the grains that would make this whisky knew how much comfort their hard work would bring to a tired prince.

“Nasty business, that,” he said, bowing his head and shaking it. “Still, these things happen in war, don’t they? There’s really no need for you to go spreading it around.”

I took a second gulp, which left a third of the glass left. “What in blazes are you on about?” I snapped.

“I know you’re thinking of writing to the Ministry of War about this,” he said, nursing his drink. “I understand that you are upset by what you saw, but think about this logically for a moment, sir. The Equestrian Army has just won a great victory here, the first of many, I’m sure, so why ruin the first bit of good news for over a year for everypony at home?”

“You weren’t there, you didn’t see it,” I said. “Second Fiddle has tarnished the honour and traditions of the old Royal Guard and he must be brought to account.”

“Come now, Prince Blueblood, I’m trying to help you to see the bigger picture here; that’s what a commissar is supposed to do. How do you think all of the ponies in Equestria are going to feel if they find out about what happened? Civilians will never understand that it takes ponies like you and Second Fiddle to do the unpleasant things necessary to keep them all safe. It’s better that they don’t know, don’t you think? The last thing our next offensive needs is civilians sticking their noses in and getting in our way.”

I snorted contemptuously. “Are you afraid of what else they might find?”

The Field Marshal sighed and shook his head. “This is disappointing, sir. I might as well come out and say it bluntly -- I know you and Commissar-General Second Fiddle have clashed recently, and over what I don’t know and don’t care to, but it’s unbecoming of you to use this incident to ruin the career of a promising young officer for your own gain and hide it behind a show of sentimentality.”

“That ‘promising young officer’ is a coward,” I said, without the slightest hint of irony. “He ran and hid when we stormed Virion Hive, did you know that? Now he’s a coward and a murderer -- his career isn’t worth protecting.”

“You must know that this sort of thing will reflect poorly on all of us,” said Iron Hoof. “It’s not just his career that will be at risk.”

“Ponies died,” I hissed, planting my glass down on the wooden desk with a heavy thud. Its contents nearly sloshed over the side. “Murdered by Equestrian soldiers on Second Fiddle’s orders. And do you honestly think that this can be kept quiet? One of them will crack, and Faust knows how many ponies saw the fires there. Sooner or later, this will get out.”

“Heavens, you really do care about those heathens, don’t you?” Iron Hoof arched an eyebrow. “You truly aren’t trying to ruin Second Fiddle’s reputation so you can take his job?”

“The thought hadn’t even occurred to me.”

“Then I pity you even more for your romanticism,” said Iron Hoof. “We’re fighting a war, sir, and if that means telling a few white lies in the name of victory then so be it. The official story is that Changelings wiped out the town and RAID was just too late to stop them. That is what has already been reported in official dispatches, and tomorrow’s newspaper headlines will read ‘Cowardly Changelings Massacre Innocent Ponies’. If anything, that will help us more than the ‘truth’ ever could. We will have no shortage of new recruits now.”

“Based on a damned lie.” That might have seemed hypocritical, but my own self-serving lies were never employed to cover up something as monstrous as the murder of innocent ponies. I would never have to put myself in that situation in the first place, of course, but one had to consider the fact that it was me of all ponies taking a moral stand, which said more about Field Marshal Iron Hoof here.

He held my gaze for a moment, then placed his unappreciated glass of whisky on the desk between us without breaking his stare. “I hoped that it wouldn’t come to this, but you have forced my hoof,” he said. “I know about you and Princess Twilight Sparkle.”

I took the final gulp of my drink to still the worm of anxiety knotting in my guts. “How did you find out, and what in blazes does that have to do with anything?”

“You weren’t the only pony to read the file the Changelings kept on you. Your reputation as a cad and a bounder might provide some light entertainment for the sorts of ponies who read the society gossip columns in the papers, but when the filly you’ve been fooling around with is our Princess of Friendship, and in her own home too, then this will be a scandal you won’t just brush off like the rest. It’s not a good look for you, sir, especially after you might have fathered a Changeling foal with a high-ranking enemy officer. And poor Princess Twilight, just a year as a princess and she’ll be embroiled in her first royal scandal.”

“That’s blackmail, you beast,” I snapped.

“Yes, it is.” I could just about picture the smug grin hidden by his enormous moustache. “Besides,” he continued, “you are no doubt aware that all outgoing correspondence is reviewed by the censor to avoid leaking anything that might damage morale at home. The soldiers who took part in today’s action have already been re-assigned to the colonies. RAID is already on the scene too to make sure the evidence fits the official line, so don’t bother inviting anypony to take a look either.”

“Do you really think you know better than the Princesses?” I asked.

Iron Hoof was silent for a moment, apparently in contemplation that maybe, for once, I had a salient point. “That doesn’t matter,” he said, finally. “Victory is my sole concern, and I shan’t allow you, politicians, or even the Princesses themselves to stand in the way of that. When we have won, none of this will matter.”

He stood up from his seat, and all I could do was sit there and seeth silently at him, shocked and angered by his unbelievable arrogance. To think that he could dismiss the Royal Pony Sisters in the same breath as politicians and Yours Truly.

“One last thing,” he said. “You were in charge of Virion Hive when this unpleasantness happened, so I doubt that it would reflect well upon your leadership. Good night, sir.”

With that he left, shutting the door behind him and leaving me feeling more alone than ever before. He had left his glass of whisky, unsullied, on the table. I snatched it up, brought it to my lips, and then in a fit of anger and frustration I hurled it at the wall whereupon it shattered into glittering fragments of glass.

It wasn’t bloody fair. As always, just as I start to think that I have my life sorted out, where I have arranged to have myself taken out of the hell of frontline combat so I might stay somewhere relatively safe, this had to come along and ruin it for me. That I would have to do it to myself made it hurt even more.

I had thought I had done a rather good job of taking the credit for other ponies’ work in running Virion Hive, so I was a little too confident that my reputation and I would be able to weather whatever difficulties this damned war might throw at me. However, I hadn’t considered the possibility of something this appalling, this contrary to all that was Harmonious, would happen under my watch. I should have seen it coming, really, Odonata had warned me that it is the nature of wars to escalate in brutality, and I could only curse myself for not having done more to stop Second Fiddle before he could cross that line into barbarism.

“What am I going to do?” I said out loud.

I spotted Slab on my desk, leaning casually against a small pile of books. It felt absurd, but so was the situation I now found myself trapped in, and so I carried on talking to an inanimate sheet of slate.

“This can’t remain a secret forever,” I continued. “Sooner or later somepony will say something -- those soldiers, or one of the natives might have seen it, or even Saguaro. Or if I don’t say something now it might happen again and they won’t be able to cover it up. Either way, ponies will want to know why I did nothing.”

Slab maintained a stony but respectable silence as I carried on. The walls were thick here, so I could count on nopony overhearing me complain about life to a rock, but even though I felt a little silly, I found that it helped to put some order to the chaos of thoughts in my head.

“And then there’s Twilight Sparkle.” Somehow, the thought of putting her through a royal scandal, thoroughly unprepared as she was for the sort of intrusive evisceration from the national press that I had grown used to over the years, would hurt me more than whatever slings and arrows they would direct towards me. Yet it was the price one paid for the privileges of royalty. Scandals always passed, regardless of how ruinous they might appear at the time, and perhaps a hundred years from now when my bones are entombed within the family mausoleum she, the immortal alicorn princess, might think back on it fondly, one hoped.

“She would understand,” I said, and Slab silently agreed with me. “The common ponies too; what would they be more upset about, that Equestrian soldiers murdered civilians at the orders of a commissar or that I’ve rogered a princess?”

That was where Iron Hoof had made his blunder. I recalled the morning after that little affair, and how even Shining Armour of all ponies seemed to be perfectly content with the knowledge of what I had done with his sister. The old Equestria that the Field Marshal and I had grown up with would not have cared for the lives of foreign ponies over the perceived violation of the sanctity of a princess, but in an age where a common pony such as Twilight Sparkle could become an alicorn princess and be celebrated for it, our kind were fast becoming old relics. He had failed to understand that, and in trying to cling onto the last vestiges of the old ways of doing things, of running an army and waging war, had blinded himself to the reality that he simply couldn’t expect to sweep this under the rug and that the ponies back home would quietly ignore it.

Yet that old fool was right on one thing; I would not escape this affair entirely unscathed, as though I had made pains to spread out the responsibility of administering Virion Hive to as many ponies as possible to avoid taking it myself, this was simply too big a storm for me to hide from. The axe would still fall the hardest upon Second Fiddle and Iron Hoof, now that the latter had wedded himself to covering this up, but there was every chance that my neck would be on the metaphorical chopping block too. There would be an inquiry, and once the ponies from Canterlot would start poking their noses into this sordid little affair they would find it very difficult to stop until every sin was laid bare for judgement. Even then, though I was very confident that whatever impropriety they might find or conjure up on my part absolutely paled in comparison to the vast dragon taking up all the space in the room that was Second Fiddle’s appalling lack of judgement, there was no way that I was getting out of this affair without yet more scars, of the invisible and insidious kind. Not to mention that he would use every damned dirty trick he could think of to cast doubt upon my testimony.

Either way, it was unlikely that I would be able to cling onto this job at Virion Hive for much longer. I tried to avoid taking part in the grisly business of politics back in Canterlot as a matter of principle, but I had picked up enough from other ponies to learn that for senior ministers and high-ranking civil servants there existed some sort of code -- that to be sacked from the job was shameful, but to resign was honourable. Returning to the position of a regimental commissar would allow me to escape whatever reprisals Second Fiddle, Iron Hoof, and anypony else caught up in this conspiracy might decide to inflict upon me, by mere virtue of the fact that I would be out on the frontline where, according to some ponies, I belonged. I hated the very idea of giving up all that I had worked for to secure my own safety here, but as with a game of cards one must play with the hoof one is dealt, and when one has run out of aces up one’s Prench cuffs it is often better to cut one’s losses and leave the table than to suffer the indignity of losing it all.

“This is not what Red Coat died for,” I said, and my mind was finally made up.

Therefore, while I waited for Cannon Fodder and Saguaro to return from the mess, and by the dying light of the setting sun and warm glow of candles and my own horn, I set about writing two letters. The first was addressed to the Ministry of War, stating that due to irreconcilable professional differences with RAID that I would resign immediately as the provisional military governor of Virion Hive and retake my post as the regimental commissar for the Night Guards. The second was to be sent directly to Princess Luna herself, and was merely a frank description of the facts thus far, including my conversation with Iron Hoof. Before sealing it, I added a postscript asking her if she could check on Saguaro’s dreams, should he be capable of sleeping after his ordeal.

As to how I would circumvent the censor with the second letter I already had some inkling of a cunning plan, but once Auntie Luna broke the wax seal bearing my family’s crest and read my letter then all things were, quite literally, in the hooves of the gods.

Chapter 26

The solution to my problem of getting my letter to Luna past the censors eventually presented itself in its fullness the following morning. I had first intended upon attempting to find her in the dream realm, but that plan was contingent upon me actually falling asleep in the first place and having a nightmare disturbing enough to warrant her attention. Considering the amount of misery this war had brought to countless ponies everywhere, from those of us here at the frontlines to families back at home, it was unlikely that I would have attracted her attention that night anyway. As ever, desperately wanting to sleep seemed to make it thoroughly impossible, and I spent much of the night staring up at the dark, high ceiling and struggling to think of another solution.

With that a miserable failure and few other solutions presenting themselves, the following morning I sat at my desk, nursing a mug of hot Trottingham tea the consistency of mud, trying to determine the appropriate donation in bits to give to the censor to ease the passage of my letter un-molested. That, however, was a risky business, as while office clerks as a class tend to be a rather venal lot who are eager to spice up the mundanity of their daily lives with a modest amount of corruption, it would be just my luck to find one of the few who took his job seriously. Another idea was for me to go to Canterlot directly and speak with the Princesses myself, and any one of the four would do, but I could depend upon Princess Luna to reach an appropriate level of indignant outrage that she would be incapable of remaining quiet. This plan depended upon me being approved for leave, which, if this cover-up went as far as I suspected that it did, was unlikely, which left deserting and risking arrest and court martial.

That left one other option - Saguaro. I could send him back to Canterlot, and I would have been well within my right to allow a refugee from Changeling oppression to live within the vast confines of my palace under the care of my staff who were probably getting quite bored without me around to look after. In addition to removing him from the frontline where Second Fiddle might discover him, I would also receive a modest amount of praise for rescuing the young colt at my own personal expense. Of course, that was not without risk by itself; he could not be sent alone, and if I could not accompany him personally then I would have to find a chaperone whom I could trust and who was also approved for leave to Canterlot; the number of such suitable ponies in the former category within easy reach were so vanishingly small as to be non-existent in the first place.

Speaking of Saguaro, as to be expected he got no sleep that night either, though it seemed to be out of choice in spite of bodily necessity. One could hardly blame him after what he had been through. From what I could gather he had spent the better part of the night pacing around restlessly in the small bedroom he had previously insisted upon having (having discovered this new concept of privacy from his Equestrian liberators and being a teenaged colt of a certain age he was keen to try it out himself, so he had taken to sleeping in a cramped and under-used storeroom along the same corridor as my office, apparently curled up between the crates of tinned hay). I did not see him in the morning, thinking that the last thing he needed was another interrogation from Yours Truly; he would come and speak with me when he was ready, I assumed. Cannon Fodder, before he attended to his duties, reported that Saguaro had spent much of the night attempting to teach himself to fly again by jumping off boxes with his continued lack of success in the matter. It was a more productive method than my usual palliatives to deal with the misery of war, I considered, as I decanted a few glugs of brandy from my new hipflask into the tea to try and make it somewhat palatable.

I would have to get used to hot tea in a desert again, I thought, once my transfer back to the Night Guards had wormed its way through the paperwork-clogged halls of the Commissariat’s offices in Canterlot and was made official. The letter had only just been dropped off at the post by Cannon Fodder that same morning, and it would take a day or two to arrive in the relevant pony’s inbox and a few more to receive the appropriate signatures. Nevertheless, I decided to keep the news to myself until it had been approved, to better keep Iron Hoof believing that I had reluctantly agreed to stay quiet about this entire sordid affair.

I was still ruminating on this conundrum when Corporal Derpy Hooves politely knocked on my office door and entered with the morning’s mail delivery. She trotted in with her usual big smile on her face and the pack of letters for me tucked neatly under her left wing. Ordinarily, I would have been annoyed at the interruption, but after a full morning of achieving bugger all with this problem I was grateful for the distraction.

“Good morning, sir!” she said cheerfully, saluting in that peculiar way pegasi do with the larger feathers on her right wing instead of her hoof. I responded with a mumbled ‘morning’ and with a vague gesture around the vicinity of my forehead, while the mail-mare attended to the business of figuring out which of the letters were addressed to me. She had to close one eye to get the other to focus on the names, but her strabismus barely slowed her down.

Though Corporal Hooves only ever seemed to bring me tedious reports from the Commissariat, poorly-written pamphlets from the Ministry of Information that made one wonder if the entire department was some sort of cruel, elaborate joke on the Equestrian taxpayer, and the odd letter from a distant family member requesting an inheritance should I valiantly fall in battle, she was a welcome sight even though my mood was most terribly black. Her relentless cheerfulness, whether a result of a suspected diminished mental capacity as some callous ponies suspected or a deliberately-chosen outlook on life, was not exactly infectious, but it did serve as a reminder that at the very least there remained something that was still good and equine about our race that the barbarism of war could not completely stamp out.

“Oh!” she exclaimed, and produced a small envelope that likely came from Rarity’s personal stationery judging by the tasteful ivory colour and subtle diamond watermark. The foalish scrawl of the address in the distinct hoof-writing and the drawings of three shield-shaped cutie marks in the corner next to the crookedly-placed stamp made the identity of its senders obvious before Corporal Hooves announced it: “Another letter from the Cutie Mark Crusaders!”

“Do you know them?” I asked, taking the envelope and opening it carefully. Corporal Hooves was of that small minority of ponies in the Night Guards who were recruited from Ponyville, in order to make up for the shortfall in recruits from Trottingham, if I remembered correctly. She did not have the distinctive accent and certainly not the sense of intense personal reservation that the natives of that rain-soaked, cloud-smothered island possess.

[Though the Night Guards initially recruited from Trottingham and the Griffish Isles, Ponyville was added as a recruitment area to make up the numbers. Following the Twilight Sparkle Reforms, the four new Royal Guards regiments formed out of the 1st Solar Guard and the 1st Night Guards had dropped the requirement for specific recruiting areas and were open to all subjects of Equestria regardless of place of residence, while maintaining the unique traditions of the regimental system. In practice, however, traditionally-minded officers and the ‘friendship regiments’ recruiting campaign meant that soldiers of the four regiments still tended to be drawn from the same communities as before, though this too began to break down alongside the regimental system in general as the war went on and the system could not cope with replacing losses.]

“My daughter Dinky goes to the same school as them,” said the mail-mare. “She writes to me about the silly things they get up to. Everypony thought they’d calm down after getting their cutie marks, but now they’re helping other colts and fillies get theirs with even crazier schemes.”

“Sounds delightful,” I said. As Corporal Hooves was speaking, the seed of a cunning plan had been planted in my brain and was there finding fertile soil. I urgently grabbed a blank scrap of parchment and a quill and began scribbling down a quick note. “When was the last time you visited home, Corporal?”

She hummed thoughtfully and tapped her chin with her long wing feathers. “Must have been when the battalion was back in Canterlot for re-training,” she said.

“That’s a long time to go without seeing your daughter.”

I signed the note with a hasty signature, not bothering with the official wax seal as befitting a prince of the realm but it would have to do. The letter I had written for Princess Luna in a drunken, spite-fueled haze the night before had been folded clumsily and stuffed inside a nondescript envelope, upon which I had made a crude drawing of a crescent moon with an overfilled quill. I found the stapler hiding on my desk amidst the stacks of reports, a broken antique typewriter that I thought might grant my office a greater air of refinement, and assorted pens (a messy desk implied that I was much too busy to tidy it, thus giving visitors the impression that I actually performed work on it), and used it to affix the note to the envelope.

“Oh it is,” said Corporal Hooves. “I miss her every day.”

“You’ve been working very hard here, and I think you deserve some time off to see your daughter.” I turned the letter over in my magic carefully. “How would you like a week of leave to see her again?”

Her ever-present smile grew even wider and she nodded enthusiastically. “I’d like that a lot, sir! But I don’t think Captain Pencil Pusher would appreciate losing me for a week.”

“Don’t worry about Pencil Pusher,” I said, waving my hoof dismissively; that irritating little stallion would raise hell for losing his assistant just as the battalion’s stores were being restocked in preparation for yet another ‘Big Push’ from Market Garden, and while there were any number of bored, idle soldiers who would appreciate the break from mindless drill and monotonous duties for the opportunity to do something new for a bit, the officious little bureaucrat in incongruous armour would be more upset that I’d gone over his head. “I’ll work things out with him, you just look forward to a nice holiday with Dinky.”

“Thank you, sir!”

“There is just one little favour I need you to do for me,” I continued, and held out the letter with the stapled note. “When you get to Ponyville, I need you to give this letter with this note directly to the Cutie Mark Crusaders.”

The thought of entrusting the foals with this vital thing did not sit right with me at all, but at the time I felt I had very little choice in the matter -- I simply had to get the news out there, even if it meant exposing them once again to the horrors of modern warfare in the process, for I knew that at least one of them would be more than tempted to read a top-secret letter to a princess, but I was safe in justifying myself as merely reacting to Iron Hoof’s cover-up. Besides, the more ponies who found out about this outrage the better, from my point of view. From our mutual correspondence I discovered that they were, being siblings of the Bearers of the Elements of Harmony, on direct speaking terms with Princess Twilight Sparkle and even Princess Luna through their not-infrequent nightmares about the uncomfortable process of growing up. It would be simple enough for them to pass the letter along to either of them.

Corporal Hooves took the letter in her wing. The big, earnestly cheerful smile did not leave her face, though her chirpy voice dropped an octave or two to take on a more serious tone, when she said, “Is this about the thing with Commissar-General Second Fiddle yesterday?”

Her right eye looked at the envelope held by her wing and her left looked at me, who sat there in a dumb sort of daze, and then she tucked the most vital piece of correspondence that I had penned thus far for safe-keeping in one of the many pouches strapped over her armour. Her smile did not wane, but there was now a certain sense of sly cunning to it as she correctly deciphered and then answered the most obvious question that had formed in my head but had gotten lost somewhere along the way to my throat.

“I see lots of ponies as mailmare,” she said, her voice hushed now. “My job takes me all over Virion Hive, delivering things for soldiers. But sometimes they don’t see me, or they don’t think I’m paying attention. Sometimes it’s like they think I won’t understand what they’re saying or doing because of my eyes. It’s silly. I was doing my mail rounds yesterday and I saw Commissar-General Second Fiddle and those soldiers coming back from patrol. He looked very, very angry about something, and the soldiers were very upset too. I saw blood on the ponies’ clothes. He had the provosts arrest them.”

I leaned over my desk and folded my forehooves together, and asked with my voice hushed conspiratorially, “What else do you know?” The walls might have been thick here, but that little paranoid voice in my head told me that it never hurt to be too careful; a pony like Second Fiddle would be desperate enough to do just about anything to save his own hide, and I should know.

Corporal Hooves shook her head, which made her non-regulation fringe flop over her mismatched eyes. “That’s all, sir,” she said. “Everypony’s gossiping about it.”

She was smarter than she looked, and certainly smart enough to use that perception to her advantage where it counted. If I was going to use her as a pawn to expose this bloody conspiracy then I at least owed her some explanation, if not the full story, which would all become very readily apparent should this cunning plan of mine actually pull off in the way I hoped. I beckoned her closer, and she leaned in so that we could whisper to one another. The inexplicable scent of freshly baked chocolate chip muffins wafting from her was a welcome relief from the more usual aromas of sweat and burnt gunpowder that everypony else reeked of.

“Yes, it’s about that,” I said, sotto voce. “That’s why I need your help; this letter contains the whole unvarnished truth about what happened, and it simply must get out there as soon as possible. I cannot get it past the censors and nor can I just go to Canterlot myself without arousing suspicion.”

Corporal Hooves was silent for a spell, one eye tilted to the table between us and the other looking into mine. She then nodded her head and said, “You can rely on me sir, the mail-mare always gets through!”

Relief washed over me like the oncoming tide. “Thank you. And make sure you spend some quality time with Dinky.”

Nevertheless, it still took two more days before I saw the results of the plan, and those were amongst the tensest and most stressful that I have experienced to date. It was not awful in the same way that being gassed was, of course, but more in the way that waiting to undergo some sort of life-saving but dangerous medical procedure feels. Throughout those two days I had no possible way of knowing if Corporal Derpy Hooves was successful or not, and indeed my overactive imagination conjured up all sorts of obstacles that might be in her way: the train delayed due to sheep on the line, or a dragon attack, or Changelings had gotten to her, and so on. The worst, however, was the intrusive thought that the intrepid little mail-mare and the three fillies might be successful in delivering the fateful letter to Princess Luna, only for her to read it and arrive at the same conclusion that Field Marshal Iron Hoof had come to -- that this sort of bad news was best left suppressed for the good of the war effort.

I largely kept to myself, Cannon Fodder, and Saguaro in that time, leaving the confines of the office only to attend important meetings to remind ponies that I was still alive. Iron Hoof was easily avoided, not being a particularly outgoing and sociable stallion, but I seemed to encounter Second Fiddle far too frequently for it to be entirely coincidental -- in the corridors on the way to somewhere, on the next table over in the mess during meals, in meetings, or just out and about. We never spoke, but I could see and feel him staring daggers into me, as though to silently remind me of what he had gotten the Field Marshal to tell me on his behalf. That the castle was positively heaving with ponies meant that should his fear and guilt get the better of his weak will, the presence of countless witnesses should stop him from ensuring my eternal silence. The hope that he would receive his just reward far sooner than he would ever realise was the fuel that sustained me during that horrid period of purgatory, or I might have succumbed fully to despair.

The denouement finally came in the early morning, when I had been lying awake on my cot after yet another night of fitful, broken, dreamless sleep. It wasn’t quite dawn yet, but the faint light of early twilight seeped through the pale, thin cloth that covered the gaping open windows, which cast the room in an eerie glow. The chair, the desk, and the mess of things on it were outlined in soft blue. It was around this time, in that odd moment between night and dawn that always felt a little strange and unreal, that I heard the sound of muffled raised voices from the corridor beyond the heavy wooden door. I could not make out the words exactly, but that combination of the sheer volume necessary to be audible through both stone and wood plus the distinctive accent made it very clear who the louder of the ponies arguing just outside my office was.

I could not get back to sleep anyway, but I thought getting up to tell them to be quiet might at least help me feel better about it. So, I crawled out of the cot, trotted on over, affected a particularly grumpy expression as though I had just been woken up, and threw open the door.

“You made my soldiers into murderers!” roared Lieutenant-Colonel Fer-de-Lance. Second Fiddle flinched from the big, angry mare. The two were standing in the dark corridor directly in front of my door, but Second Fiddle was closer with his rear turned slightly towards me, and I assumed that he had been trying to stop her from barging into my room.

“How dare you speak to me like that!” he snapped back, when he recovered. “Who do you believe, me or that tabloid scum? I did my duty, and so did your soldiers. If there was any justice I’d have had a medal for this!”

“Not only have you dishonoured yourself with this atrocity but you drag ponies of my regiment down into your filth! You have just wiped your arse with our Colours and you expect me to applaud it!” Fer-de-Lance snapped her head to look at me, standing there at the door and blinking gormlessly, and she thrust a newspaper held aloft in her magic at my face. The headline, when I pulled my head back so I could actually read it in its entirety, was ‘Equestrian Soldiers Accused of Village Massacre’.

“Prince Blueblood,” she began, her voice dropping back down from intense screaming to just at the upper level of merely ‘loud’, “is this true?”

I quickly skim-read the article and gathered that the newspaper, which I now saw was a copy of the Foal Free Press of all publications, had gained exclusive access to a letter sent from Yours Truly to Princess Luna implicating senior Equestrian Army officers, including a certain Commissar-General and the Field Marshal himself, in not only perpetrating the atrocity but also attempting to cover it up via blackmail. From what I could see it was light on the specific details, but I imagined that was a necessity for a paper run by foals, who had somehow found the time to pivot away from scandalous gossip to hard-hitting investigative journalism.

“He’s lying too,” said Second Fiddle. “He’s just trying to sabotage my career; he’s jealous that a common pony outranks him.”

“Be silent and let him speak,” hissed Fer-de-Lance with sufficient venom to silence the stallion. She looked at me and repeated her question, almost with hope that the answer would somehow be ‘no’ -- “Is this true, sir?”

Before I could answer, I felt a sudden chill in the air, as the ambient temperature had plummeted from a sweltering early morning to what is ideal for a champagne bucket filled with ice. The corridor in which we stood receded into an impenetrable gloom at either end, as though the sun that was just starting to rise had been snuffed out. The candles on the walls had become clouded in mist, and the warm yellow light they provided cooled to a dim, icy blue; water condensed on the stones surrounding us and glistened in what little pale light remained, giving the walls and floor an unpleasantly slick, oily look. The darkness behind Fer-de-Lance and Second Fiddle coagulated, becoming a shifting and roiling morass of shadow creeping along the floor and leaving wisps and tendrils of itself lingering in the dark recesses of the hall. The two confirmed that I had not lost my mind and had started hallucinating when they turned around and stared, transfixed, into this crawling abyss. It took on the rough shape of a huge, dark pony with outstretched wings, filling the entire width of the corridor. There came the sound of silver horseshoes on cold stone, and with each sharp, echoing ‘tap’ the shadow became more defined, more ‘real’.

Princess Luna emerged from the black and stepped into the corridor. Her mouth was a thin line against her muzzle, slightly downturned at the edges, and her eyes narrowed into slits as she peered down her sharp, aquiline nose at the three mortal ponies quivering before her. Her horn shone with the icy glow of the full moon on a cloudless December morning, and she presented a neatly folded sheet of parchment - my letter. Ever the one for theatrics, she indulged in a few moments of silence, through which I could only hear the elevated breathing of three ponies including myself as though we had all been suddenly encased in a bubble, before speaking in a measured, calm voice:

“Answer her question, Blueblood, if you would.”

Second Fiddle stepped forwards before I could, and pleaded in a quivering voice, “Princess! I can explain!”

She did not seem to see or hear him, and merely unfolded the sheet of parchment as though it was an old and sacred text. “Please answer Lieutenant-Colonel Fer-de-Lance’s question, Commissar Blueblood.”

At the mention of her name, Fer-de-Lance immediately dropped to her front to prostrate herself in the old manner before the Princess of the Night, pressing her nose into the slick stones. Luna raised her hoof, cupped it around the mare’s cheek, and with a few encouraging nudges managed to slowly coax her back into standing. Fer-de-Lance had always carried herself with the intense arrogance of a Prench noblemare who had not only been brought up to think that she is always right, but continued to believe it in all evidence to the contrary, but here, now that her rage, justified this time, had faded, I saw not fear as with Second Fiddle but an expression of anxiety that was still alien to her.

Something in Luna’s voice compelled me to respond immediately. “It is,” I said, and swallowed hard despite my mouth being curiously dry. “I saw it.”

Fer-de-Lance breathed a dejected sigh, then turned her head away as though to hide her face, cheeks glistening with tears, and muttered ‘merde’ under her breath.

“I see,” said Luna, and the temperature dropped another couple of degrees until I could see my breath fog before my eyes. “Second Fiddle, a word in private. Now.”

“Your Highness!” Second Fiddle shouted, stumbling forwards onto his hooves to throw himself at Princess Luna’s silver sabatons. She made a small step back away from him, and her cheeks became tinted red with embarrassment. “Please, I did everything the way you wanted!” he begged.

“Second Fiddle, this is…” She trailed off and took a moment to compose herself again. “I am offering you the dignity of conducting this privately. It may be the last one I will offer you.”

He apparently did not hear her, because he carried on with his pathetic babbling, and even I was catching second-hoof embarrassment as a result of all of this. Though I had fantasised about this moment after I stumbled across that ghastly scene in the Medusita clan’s home, I could not have pictured it developing quite like this. As before, Second Fiddle would not, or simply lacked the mental capacity to, accept the consequences of his sins, and just like a foal, he could only fire off excuses like shrapnel from a cannon in the hope that one of them would either lessen or erase whatever consequences my dear Aunt Luna was planning on inflicting upon him. It was always somepony’s else’s fault, and I realised that it happened to be me for much of his life. Now, however, it was Princess Luna’s.

“You said it yourself that war is hard and cruel!” he continued. “That we must do our utmost to ensure a quick and crushing victory over the enemy, so ponies must be hard and cruel in order to win. I did what you have always demanded of your Commissariat, Princess; I discovered a threat to ponykind and I destroyed it.”

I could only exchange an awkward look with Fer-de-Lance, who quietly whispered to nopony in particular that she had some very important duties to attend to, made a quick bow before the Princess who had already forgotten about her presence, and cantered off into the darkness. As I watched her disappear down the shrouded corridor, the darkness disturbed by her passing like smoke, through the gloom I could just about make out the shapes of more ponies, whom I assumed to be soldiers and clerks drawn to this rather loud disturbance.

Second Fiddle pulled himself up clumsily, but his strength seemed to be failing him and his limbs quivered as he stood. Towering over him, Princess Luna was motionless, save for the gentle wafting of her mane on unseen winds, and was perfectly silent. In this stillness I could hear only the blood throbbing in my ears and my own shallow breathing. Though one might think that this unnatural cold was a relief in this muggy and stifling climate, a sharp pain in my chest accompanied every breath, my body was wracked with shivers, and my horn was turning curiously numb. The hush dragged on, interrupted sporadically by the quiet whispers of the ponies just beyond the scant light, until Second Fiddle scraped together what little courage remained at the bottom of his psyche.

“I did everything right!” he shouted, looking around as though ponies might rush to support him. They did not, so the excuses continued to flow. “I helped you set up the Commissariat -- regulations, rules, policies, ethos, and even the uniforms! All I did was put all of that into practice out here on the front. Those ponies were hiding an enemy of Equestria and I did what was necessary.”

One of the stars in Luna’s mane flared in a bright nova and then vanished. “Leave,” she said in a voice that was quiet but held within it the power and authority of thousands of years of alicorn rule.

Though the order was not directed at me, I felt a subconscious compulsion to slip backwards through the door of my office. It was only that my hooves had become rooted to the spot, as though my horseshoes had melted into the stone, that I did not obey immediately.

“But Princess,” said Second Fiddle, reaching out towards her with his hoof, “I-”

“Leave.” A constellation in her mane erupted in bright flashes and died.

Second Fiddle did not need to be told a third time. Apparently realising that the hole he had dug for himself was much too deep to climb out of, he took a few stumbling steps backwards, his hooves slipping on the icy, damp stone, before he violated the old etiquette about not presenting one’s rear on royalty, turning himself around with all of the grace of a devastatingly drunk diamond dog, and galloped off down the corridor with his shortly-cropped tail tucked between his hindlegs. The rapport of his horseshoes striking the stone lingered long after the darkness swallowed him.

The murmurings of gossip and chatter continued, and as the ice-cold veil of darkness began to lift by degrees and the sultry heat of the morning returned, I could see the uniformed staff officers and ponies in collars and neckties congregating around either end of the corridor. Though they kept their voices reverentially hushed in the presence of the Princess, I could make out that most were speculating wildly on what they had just witnessed. Most were unaware of the specifics, as unlike Colonel Fer-de-Lance they did not wake up at frankly absurd times in the morning to read the newspaper before everypony else could, but rumours invariably spread, and what Corporal Derpy Hooves had seen of Second Fiddle must have been witnessed by other ponies and discussed around campfires and mess tins.

Princess Luna was a statue, save for her mane and tail swept along by cosmic winds that seemed a little more turbulent than usual. Her cold, hard eyes, burning like alchemical fire from within, stared like a panther stalking prey into the darkness through which Second Fiddle had fled. The steely, lean musculature under her coat was tense, as though she might at any moment bolt at any moment, catch up with the pony who dared to drag her Commissariat’s name into the mud, and stomp his head into pulp beneath her dinner plate-sized hooves.

The urge to break the awkward silence had become overwhelming. “Well,” I said, nudging my backside against the door to open it, “I don’t think you’ve seen my new office, Auntie. Why don’t I show you in?”

Her gaze slowly slid onto me, her mask-like expression not changing, but as I held the door open and then scrambled out of the way Luna silently stepped inside. When I shut the door firmly behind me, hopefully to block out what we might discuss from the ponies still lingering outside, she lit her horn with a soft, soothing glow, like the moon reflected off a still pond, that was bright enough for me to see but not so much that it would hurt my eyes. She stood there in the middle of the room, and away from the prying eyes of the common ponies her posture relaxed from the rigid, upright, towering demeanour she usually carried herself in; her shoulders slumped, her head dropped, and her back was no longer ramrod-straight. Now, I could see that she looked tired, exhausted even, with even darker rings around her dark eyes, and her scowl was not the practiced look of aloofness she often affected, but one merely from lacking the energy or will to maintain even a neutral expression.

“Please, take a seat,” I said, pointing to the soft cushions by my desk. As she sank down into them, I trotted over to my drinks cabinet. “You look like you need a drink.”

“It’s five in the morning, Blueblood,” she said wearily. I poured her a snifter of brandy and a weak whisky and soda for me, so that she would not feel left out, of course.

“Yes, but you’ve been up all night.” Her role as Celestia’s night-shift cover was well-known, of course, but it looked as though it was having much the same effect on her as it did with ordinary, mortal ponies.

“There are more and more nightmares each night.” She took the snifter of brandy from my aura and drank it a little too quickly, for she screwed up her face and coughed. I couldn’t help but smile at that as I took my seat not behind the desk as was usual for me but on the cushion next to her. “As the war worsens so do the nightmares; they find fertile soil in the minds of soldiers and civilians caught up in this to take root in, and I cannot help everypony alone. These are horrors that cannot be purged in a single night, so many nights I find myself helping the same pony again. One Princess of the Night is not enough.”

“So why do you do it?” I asked.

Auntie Luna looked up from her glass, looking now more like a pony than an immortal alicorn goddess, with all of the vulnerability and flaws that come with mere mortality. “Because it is my duty,” she said firmly. “The same reason you sent me that letter. You could have remained silent and allowed Second Fiddle and Iron Hoof to get away with this, and there would have been no risk to you, but you did not. I see that my trust in you is not misplaced.”

Her words made me feel a little uncomfortable, causing me to sink down in my seat and look away from her eyes; my reasons, as you, dear reader, have already discovered, were not quite as altruistic as ponies like to think. Yet they continued to project those expectations upon me, justifying my actions for me after the fact because the belief in the great Commissar Blueblood was of more comfort than a neurotic little princeling merely doing his best to survive.

“What’s going to happen to Second Fiddle?” I said, nursing my ‘mouthwash’. “I’m surprised you let him go.”

“I wanted to kill him,” growled Luna, and she placed her now empty glass on the desk next to us amidst the piles of papers and folders. “I trusted him, and he betrayed that trust. A thousand years ago I would have strangled him with my own magic and left his corpse out for the sport of the vultures who followed him. However, though my honour calls for his blood I will do this the way my sister would want it to be done; he will be suspended from duties immediately, then the Commissariat will conduct a full investigation for a court martial. This time, there will be no repeat of what happened with Scarlet Letter.”

“Still, you let him run away.”

“Where will he go? There is nowhere he can run to where we will not find him, and even if he flees into the desert he will find no safe haven there. Who will want to protect him now?”

I nodded gratefully. “And what of Iron Hoof?”

Princess Luna sighed, pursing her lips as she seemed to be mulling over just how much she could tell me. “The conduct of the war on this front has suffered under his incompetent leadership for far too long. A replacement will be found.”

“I can’t imagine Parliament will like the two of you interfering in military affairs again.” Especially after the last time, I mentally added.

“The law states that an alicorn princess cannot lead ponies-in-arms into battle,” said Luna with a sneer. “Under Twilight Sparkle’s advice, Celestia and I have chosen to interpret that edict in its strictest possible sense; directions, orders, and advice given from behind the safety of a desk in Canterlot do not count as ‘into battle’.”

Luna stopped, paused, and looked out at the dim light of dawn filtering through the dingy cloth curtains, steadily growing brighter with each minute. Halfway across the continent, Princess Celestia was raising the sun as she did for every morning. “I blame myself for this,” she said, not turning her gaze away from the window.

“In Faust’s name, why?”

“Second Fiddle approached his work with such zeal and fanaticism that I could not help but be taken in by it; he speaks no hyperbole when he says that he helped to build up the Royal Commissariat from almost nothing. In fact, I was so impressed by his relentless drive that I could not see the rot developing before my eyes, and only now has that veil been lifted.”

“Don’t feel too bad about it,” I said. “That’s what he does. He clings to the tails of other ponies, and they will drag him along because he tells them what they want to hear in the hopes that they will reward him with the attention and prestige he craves. And yet, I think he hates that he must do this, that he cannot stand on his own four hooves like a stallion should. Whatever success he does achieve he will always be reflected from a greater pony, forever the second fiddle, which is a damned shame because he’s really a bloody good violinist. If only somepony had told him what his cutie mark truly represented, then perhaps this appalling mess could have been avoided.”

Luna finally took her gaze from the faint disc of Celestia’s sun visible through the thin curtains, just nudging its way over the city skyline silhouetted as a rippling dark line at the lower end of the fabric. She tapped her chin thoughtfully, and made a cryptic smile with her lips that her eyes did not follow. In spite of my words, it was her fault, at least partially, and I did want her to feel at least a little bit bad about her role in enabling Second Fiddle. It was the nature of an organisation like the Royal Commissariat, so very tied up in what one moody, mercurial little pony wanted, that allowed and downright encouraged ambitious, petty, and militarily incompetent individuals like Second Fiddle to slip in and cause problems. The organisation had been set up to watch over the Royal Guard, but who was watching over the commissars? The Princess seemed to think it was her peering over their shoulders, but she could not be everywhere at once and she was especially amenable to arse-covering lies dressed up as flattery (which I myself had taken advantage of). She was good at hiding it behind her cold and distant demeanour, but even she could not conceal it from me -- this affair had shaken her more than she was letting on, for why else would she come to me of all ponies to discuss a matter this sensitive?

“You’re quite perceptive, Blueblood,” she said, interrupting my idle musings. Then, with her voice dropped to a more sombre timbre, “He reminded me of myself a thousand years ago, wilting in Celestia’s shadow, at once dependent upon her for everything and hating her and myself for it. She was right, and she is always right in the end; this base militarism is unbecoming of modern ponies, and I fear that my words have only encouraged the likes of Second Fiddle and Iron Hoof to justify their own failures.”

With that, she rose elegantly to her hooves, and I followed suit clumsily. In that moment the warmth and the vulnerability of Luna the Pony who had sat across from me on a cushion and lay bare a portion of her soul had been covered up by the cold steel armour of Luna the Princess. The transformation in how she carried herself, merely a reversal of that when she had entered my office, was instant and startling. Even her voice, when she spoke again, became the soft, measured, authoritative one that commanded the attention and lives of her countless subjects.

“I will return to Canterlot,” she said. “Twilight Sparkle’s reforms were only the beginning, and there is still much work left to be done before the sword of Equestria is reforged.” She took a few long strides to the door, almost gliding over the rough and uneven stonework, then paused. “I heard that you are returning to frontline duties with my Night Guards, is that true?”

Blast, I had almost forgotten about that. The small sense of triumph that I had felt in outwitting Iron Hoof had just been crushed under her gilded hoof. “Yes,” I said, trying to hide the growing fear inside of me. “I didn’t think it was appropriate for me to remain at this post, given what happened under my watch.”

Her knowing smile returned. “Would that all of my officers show such integrity. Besides, I thought your talents were wasted behind a desk. Good day, my nephew.”

She moved to open the door, but I called out after her and she paused, a quizzical expression on her sharp features. “Saguaro,” I said. “The only surviving witness to the crime, I can’t exactly take him with me. Would you take him back to Canterlot with you?”

“I think I can do one better.” Her smile became genuine, rather than almost painted on. “I remember you mentioned that he still lacks a cutie mark. There are three fillies in Ponyville I know who specialise in helping ponies find their marks.” I apparently had not hidden my expression well enough, because she added, “He will be allocated to appropriate, adult foster parents, and given the education he needs, as well as access to the same therapy services as returning veterans.”

[Social services and state welfare were expanded over the course of the Changeling War to support families who had lost breadwinners and provide for the growing influx of refugees seeking refuge from the war to Equestria. This formed the framework of further social reforms following the end of the war.]

“Thank you.” That was one thing off my mind, but that still left one other, or two, rather. “And Hive Marshal Odonata? She has a daughter.”

Luna’s smile faded. “Do you believe the nymph is yours?”

“There’s no way of knowing for certain,” I said, omitting the fact that Elytra had my eyes (which still left sufficient doubt in my mind to allow me to dismiss the threat of a possible succession crisis once I finally kicked the bucket, not that I would have to worry about that after said bucket-kicking). “Odonata has been a very cooperative prisoner and has not once violated her parole. Her insight into the workings of Chrysalis’ inner circle could prove invaluable in the right hooves, far better served in Canterlot than out here.”

“She and her nymph are also at risk of assassination here,” said Luna thoughtfully. “Very well, though the presence of a Changeling Purestrain in Canterlot unsettles me, perhaps it is best I keep her where I can keep a close eye on her. She is your prisoner, Blueblood, so I shall trust your judgement on this matter.”

I barely trusted my judgement on any matters, personally, but at least with her and her daughter out of the way I could better concentrate on the grim business of trying to keep myself alive. The remainder of Luna’s stay was brief -- only long enough to convey her instructions that Second Fiddle was to be arrested and held in Dodge Junction pending the investigation and court martial, and for me to collect Saguaro, Odonata, and Elytra. Of course, the presence of a Princess arriving unannounced in the early hours of the morning in which no gentlecolt should be up and about, even only for a few hours, caused all sorts of panic amongst the officers here.

I went to find Saguaro first, while Luna was in the courtyard where she had parked her chariot and was chatting with Market Garden. When I found him, he was still throwing himself off of the top of the stacked boxes in the storeroom he called home. He had improved somewhat, as the enthusiastic but clumsy flapping of his wings arrested his descent just enough for him to land delicately upon the cobbled stone floor, but still not enough to become truly airborne. I am no expert in such things, but I wondered if perhaps another approach might help.

[For the benefit of creatures without wings reading this, young pegasi and griffons typically learn to fly naturally at around the start of adolescence as their wings and magic grow to support them in flight. Ancient pegasi of the warrior castes would throw their foals off of clouds to try and accelerate this process, which might be the origin of the myth that jumping off high things helps. Blueblood doesn’t say, but it’s probable that Saguaro picked this up from somewhere and had been using this repetitive task to help himself process the trauma he had just experienced.]

“Saguaro!” I called out to him, just as he was climbing up the crates of canned apples to make yet another futile attempt. He had arranged these boxes into something resembling a bisected step pyramid about three times the height of an average pony, so that he might be able to climb up them more easily. Halfway up, he stopped and looked at me with the usual sullen expression of a teenager being interrupted by an adult. “Come down from there and follow me. Princess Luna is going to take you to your new home.”

“I don’t want to,” he said. Saguaro had become moody and irritable since the incident, and his keen sense of curiosity about a whole world that had been opened up for him by his liberation from the Changelings had been crushed by what he had witnessed. It was gut-wrenching to see, truly, and it felt like nothing I could do would help him. Of course, it wouldn’t; there’s no quick fix for this sort of thing, no magic words that will erase from his young, impressionable mind the horror he had witnessed.

“If you ask her nicely she might teach you how to fly.”

He stared, mulling it over, and then hopped down the crates to the floor. Some measure of the precocious young colt seemed to seep back into his personality, for as we made our way to the courtyard where I imagined Market Garden was still squirming with Princess Luna’s surprise visit he suddenly, after a lengthy period of silence, asked, “Does she really make the moon go up and down?”

“Yes, of course,” I said.

“Oh.” He paused to think. “The Changelings said Queen Chrysalis did that.”

“And they lied, remember?” I chuckled. “When this unpleasantness is all over you can go and watch her raise the moon in the Winter Moon Festival.” The first one had taken place in Ponyville just the previous year, and, from what I had read in the society papers and heard off-hoof from others who were there, had very nearly been a disaster, which seemed to be a common theme with my dear Auntie Luna and important social events. Unlike her more experienced sister, she was still ill at ease with the sorts of public engagements expected of royalty these days.

As it happened, he was much too star-struck to ask Princess Luna for flying lessons; when I left him in the courtyard with her, Saguaro was still staring up at the alicorn in a stunned silence, with his jaw hanging open, his cheeks flushed red, and his wings spread to their fullest extent. My Auntie made a valiant attempt at small talk, now that all avenues for conversation that did not involve self-aggrandisement with Market Garden had been exhausted, but could only coax stammering replies of one syllable or fewer out of him and settled for the occasional polite smile, while the guards she had brought with her kept a wary eye on him.

I then set off to retrieve Odonata separately, having reasoned that it would be much easier to bring them one at a time rather than try to corral a moody teenager and a captured enemy general at the same time on my own. I found the former Hive Marshal exactly where she had been in the weeks since her capture -- in her room, still under the watch of two guards, who were by now bleary-eyed, leaning on their muskets, and awaiting the end of their shift, where she had made something of a home out of what had been a bare and spartan little chamber. The few small items that she had requested, and that I had approved, were arranged neatly around the room; most of which were books, having few other ways of passing the time stuck trapped inside. Elytra was in a cot that I had Cannon Fodder procure for her, snoozing happily with one hoof in her mouth and the other wrapped around a stuffed ursa minor doll.

“Prince Blueblood!” greeted Odonata, rising from her bed and tossing aside the small paperback novel she had been reading. “I thought you had forgotten all about me. It’s only been Market Garden visiting me lately, asking all sorts of questions about swarm tactics and logistics and it’s all so boring.”

She was still tall, towering, and intimidating, but her frame seemed to have lost much of its imposing bulk. The slightly emaciated, cadaverous look only made her appear more threatening, however, and I wondered how much longer she could go on without having to feed off a pony before starvation invariably takes its toll.

“I’ve been busy,” I said, “with the war and all that. You’re being taken to Canterlot for safekeeping.”

“For more stupid questions from more boring ponies: ‘how many drones does Chrysalis have in her army?’, ‘where is she getting all of those muskets from?’, ‘how do Changelings breed?’.” Odonata grinned inanely at that last one. “I suppose I ought to pack then. I’ll miss our little talks, Prince; perhaps when this war is over and I have to find something new to do with my life, since conquering defenceless pony tribes for Queen and Hive will no longer be a viable career option, we should see if we can’t rekindle what we once had?”

“You mean the time you tried to get me flogged to death?” I said -- my back would still ache at inopportune moments as a result of that particular incident. “I think I’ll give that a miss, thank you.”

Odonata smirked at me. “And here I thought we shared something together,” she said as she started collecting her meagre possessions around the room. “However, I mustn’t keep the Princess waiting. At least I shall have a royal escort when I am dragged through your streets in chains. It’s not quite the triumphant march into Canterlot that I had dreamt of, but I’ll take what I can get.”

“How did you know the Princess is here?” I blurted out. The tiny barred window in the room was too high up and did not afford a view of the courtyard that would allow her to see Luna’s absurdly pointy royal chariot parked there, I assumed.

“I heard her outside the door,” said Odonata with a casual shrug, as she placed the books on her bed and arranged them into a bundle, “and that Second Fiddle, too. Then your guards graciously filled me in on all of the details, and I must say, ‘I told you so’ just doesn’t seem enough.”

I looked behind me where the two guards were suddenly finding the floor and ceiling much more interesting than our conversation, and though I took a moment to memorise their faces just in case I felt like marking them down for some sort of onerous duty, it was inevitable that Odonata would find out about this anyway. My hope, now dashed, had been that I would be far enough away so I wouldn’t have to listen to her smug comments about this entire awful affair.

“It was an aberration,” I said flatly. “Not to be repeated.”

“It was an escalation,” she sneered, turning to face me fully now that she had finished collecting her things and tied them up in a neat bundle. “Don’t be naive. Once the gates of Tartarus have been opened and the monsters within are set free, it is very difficult to round them up and force them back inside their cages. Second Fiddle was not the first weak-willed officer to snap under the pressure of command and resort to such extreme measures, nor will he be the last. Each time the public outrage will fade, until it merely becomes acceptable in your pursuit of final victory.”

“No,” I snapped. The indignation rose up within me unbidden, fueled by the memories of what I had seen amidst the burning tents. “Only if we let that happen, which I won’t. I’m not ‘naive’ enough to think that this won’t happen again, but punishing Second Fiddle and Iron Hoof will at least set the precedent that this is not acceptable and will have consequences.”

Odonata fixed me with one of her knowing stares, one I knew by now to be less cold and contemptuous than it was probing. Still, she surprised me with the directness of her words: “Do you truly believe that?”

What I truly believed was not as important as what ponies thought I believed, but her question forced me to consider just how fragile the truth, the real truth, ugly and unvarnished, really was; almost as bad as the lies that held together my shuffling, ignoble career. “I couldn’t have done this alone,” I insisted, meeting her gaze. “Equestria as a whole will have to confront this horror head-on and reckon with what it wants to be, now that it knows what lengths its own kind will go to -- the Magic of Friendship has brought us so far and yet we’re still capable of sinking to the depths of barbarism. We are more than this,” I added, just as Odonata was about to interrupt. “Just as you believe the Changelings are, and what they could be without Chrysalis’ grotesque excuse of a philosophy.”

“If you say so,” said Odonata. “I believe other ponies have said such things before, Princess Celestia amongst them. When you see her again, perhaps you should ask if there’s any truth to what the ponies in the Badlands say about her. Better yet, I might ask her myself.”

I snorted and shook my head. “Are Purestrains capable of having conversations that don’t turn into ridiculous mind games?”

Odonata paused thoughtfully, and then said, “Chrysalis encourages it; her underlings wasting time trying to undermine one another means we have no chance of organising any real, coordinated opposition to her rule. It means only the strongest and most cunning of Changelings can succeed, or the ones who can make the Queen happy, at least. She thinks it's the same thing. Now, it’s become instinct, and I just can’t help it.”

She had mercifully finished packing, which was picked up by one of the ponies on guard, and after collecting Elytra delicately with her hooves and storing her safely in that odd little pouch under her wing carapace, Odonata was finally ready to leave. I escorted her in a merciful, contemplative silence through the corridors under the watchful gaze of the armed guard, past the bewildered officers and bureaucrats, and finally out into the courtyard.

There, Luna observed the Purestrain’s approach from the other side of this large, packed parade square with one of her usual domineering glares calculated to invoke as much dread as possible in mortal minds. To my surprise, and secret glee, it seemed to work on Odonata too, who, finding herself having to cross a wide-open courtyard surrounded by armed Equestrian soldiers, having cleared a path for her, all watching her intently and in the presence of one of perhaps two ponies who could possibly give Queen Chrysalis a run for her money in terms of sheer intimidation, appeared to have lost much in the way of her arrogance. It was a transparent piece of theatre, to force the enemy general to slowly walk across this scrap of dry, parched land, while leered at by the common soldiery who had conquered her swarm and city, their banners fluttering victoriously in the breeze, as one half of Equestria’s ruling body watched on from atop her royal chariot, but it had absolutely worked in utterly crushing Odonata’s inflated sense of self-worth. Her steps were slow and faltering, and her head was bowed low in a defeated, helpless posture. Perhaps it was only now, before the one pony she could not cow with sheer presence and reputation, that the true emotional weight of what her surrender meant had finally made itself felt.

“I’m sorry I can’t stay,” said Luna, as Odonata silently mounted her sleek, pointy, gothic-inspired chariot with some difficulty. Saguaro scrambled around behind Luna away from the Purestrain. “Both Second Fiddle and Iron Hoof have… I hesitate to call them ‘friends’. They have ponies within the Commissariat and the Ministry of War who may try to obstruct the course of justice to save their own careers, those who are not intelligent enough to know when to abandon a lost cause. Celestia and I must make haste to stop them.”

Her royal guards, those of the Night Guards who were lucky enough to avoid frontline duties for now, boarded the chariot, while fresh pegasi, the ones who did not pull on her journey here, were leashed to the yoke. They were just about ready to go when Saguaro jumped off the chariot, raced back on over to me, and threw his thin, spindly forelegs around my neck in a clumsy hug.

“Thank you for getting me out of the pod,” he said.

Feeling a little awkward and knowing that everypony was now watching me, I patted him on the head and told him that he was welcome. I saw Luna watching, smiling softly, and if I didn’t know better I’d have thought she had put him up to it. Saguaro reluctantly released his embrace and trotted back to the chariot, and as I watched him try to pull himself up, insisting to the guard that he could do it himself, I realised that I would miss him. Even Odonata too, who observed the whole thing with faint amusement, and Elytra would be missed, and as the pegasi went through their final pre-flight preparations I felt a sudden pang of loneliness.

I stood back, while ponies cheered and beat their hooves for their Princess, which she reciprocated with a smile and a polite wave, as the burly pegasi flapped their wings, muscles straining with the weight of the chariot and its passengers, and pulled it down the runway cleared for them. As I watched the chariot ascend, soar, and shrink into slowly-lightening blue of the morning, becoming smaller and and smaller until it was a mere speck, I considered that although I had ‘won’, in the sense that I was assured that I would come out of this most recent mess with my life and reputation intact, there was no sense of triumph. Cannon Fodder put it best, when, apparently having slept through Princess Luna’s visit or was otherwise occupied with the myriad things in war that cannot cease even with a national scandal unfolding before us, he wandered into the courtyard, and even out in the fresh air I was alerted to his presence by the oncoming wave of body odour.

“Was that Princess Luna, sir?” he asked, watching the speck disappear into the blue.

“Yes, it was,” I said. “She’s going to sort out our problem with Second Fiddle for us.”

“As the Princess wills,” he said, in the verbal equivalent of a shrug; that Luna and I seemingly had it all in hoof was apparently enough for him. “Now what do we do, sir?”

With Princess Luna now gone, normality, such as it is at the frontline, reasserted itself in this dreary little courtyard, like jelly returning to its original form. Corporals and sergeants regained control over their soldiers, drill exercises continued, while others lounged about awaiting orders. Staff officers and bureaucrats darted around them, dodging the marching formations, idle ponies, piles of equipment along the way, carrying their usual stacks of paper to and from offices and conference rooms. Like that, the misery that I had endured over the past few days faded, and with it those hellish moments prior to it - assaulting the breach, and before that being gassed, and before that advancing up that damned hill, and so on. All of it drifted into the past, as all things must inevitably do, and yet their legacy lingered like the family ghost in the drawing room, accompanied by the spectre of further horrors to come.

This was no victory for me, merely the continuation of the status quo thus far. Now, there was only one thing left to do.

“We go back to work,” I said, and the war would drag on.

Epilogue

[It is on this abrupt note that this entry in the Blueblood Manuscript comes to a close. While the immediate aftermath of the Battle of Virion Hive and the Medusita Massacre are well known to casual fans of history, I believe that my nephew’s narrative deserves to be sufficiently rounded-out by some much-needed context. Once again, we return an appropriate passage to Paperweight’s ‘A Concise History of the Changeling Wars’.]

The Battle of Virion Hive is seen as the turning point of the war, which is not an entirely inaccurate assessment. The battle was a decisive strategic victory for Equestria; the first hive city had been taken, and with it two thousand ponies liberated and the sustenance they provided was denied to the enemy. The Equestrians held the initiative, the Changelings were in retreat, and the Twilight Sparkle Reforms were vindicated.

It would be more accurate, however, to call it an ‘escalation point’. Prior to the battle, the small, elite, and well-trained but poorly-led Royal Guard fought hoof-to-hoof against vast, un-disciplined, and fanatical hordes of Changeling drones. Following the completion of the Twilight Sparkle Reforms in Equestria and copycat reforms within the Changeling Hives, increasingly larger armies of Equestrian volunteers armed with muskets exchanged disciplined volleys with equally-armed Changeling conscripts, and increasingly deadly artillery and even poison gas were employed by both sides. Virion Hive had ultimately marked an escalation in the scale, technology, intensity, and savagery of the war.

It was the Medusita Massacre where this escalation had finally culminated. The unthinkable had happened - Equestrian soldiers had murdered civilians, and officers, up to and including Field Marshal Iron Hoof, had attempted to cover it up. The resulting public outcry when Lord Commissar-Prince Blueblood exposed the atrocity was the final nail in the coffin of the old guard of officers.

Princess Celestia’s decision to appoint herself Warmistress of Equestria could not have been taken lightly, but that the resurrection of this ancient title, forever tainted by its association with Nightmare Moon, was accepted by Parliament with only minor dissent is a testament to the sheer outrage felt by her subjects. In doing so, Princess Celestia was entrusted with total power over the entire apparatus of the Equestrian state and its military, after centuries of the gradual dispersion of royal alicorn authority to nobility and the slowly-developing democratic institutions.

However, with millennia of political experience, she was prescient enough to know that this would not be without controversy. Public reaction was positive at the time, for after two years of inconclusive fighting and the slaughter at Virion Hive, Princess Celestia was finally taking decisive action in leading her country. A few malcontent journalists and politicians complained about a return to the tyranny of ancient Equestria, but our Princess soon proved them wrong. She organised and consulted heavily with a cross-party cabinet from the democratically-elected House of Commons called the War Cabinet, consisting initially of Prime Minister White Hall, Foreign Secretary Fancy Pants, War Secretary Blowtorch, and Minister for Labour Clementine. It would later expand as the requirements of the war continued to evolve.

It has become fashionable in recent years for so-called revisionist historians to attempt to paint Princess Celestia’s role as Warmistress in a more negative light. It is claimed that her interference in the running of the war had led to costly mistakes with unnecessarily high casualties. To counter this ridiculous charge one only needs to point to the previous two years of mismanagement and stalemate. This flagrant character assassination of our Princess is nothing more than a misguided and malignant attack on the very foundation of Equestria itself.

[Paperweight goes on to complain about historical revisionism for seven more paragraphs, which I have cut because it is not relevant. I will say, however, that his apparent need to defend my reputation from criticism is misguided. While this book is excellent at providing an abridged narrative history of the Changeling War, his tendency to excuse or dismiss genuine mistakes and lapses of judgement that I had made as Warmistress, including the delay it took for me to reluctantly take the position, taints it.]

In becoming Warmistress again for the first time in more than a thousand years, Princess Celestia had adapted the role for the requirements of modern war. She would not personally lead her ponies into battle as she had done in the ancient wars of conquest, but from Canterlot she would direct the operational conduct of the war at the highest level, marshalling the vast resources and institutions of the state to achieve total victory over the Changelings. In practice, this often meant managing the clashing personalities of her generals and civil ministers. In serving as a mediator in such disputes, Princess Celestia would ensure cooperation between all aspects of the war effort and a unity of vision in operational strategy. Later, she was overheard to quip to her personal assistant, Raven Inkwell, that she ‘feels more like a herd resources manager than a warlord’.

Her first act as Warmistress was to remove Field Marshal Iron Hoof from command. He had struck a deal with the war crimes investigation to provide further evidence against Second Fiddle in exchange for his freedom, and had believed this would also ensure that he kept his job. Princess Celestia, however, declared that his poor conduct of the war thus far was sufficient grounds for his removal, citing his singular lack of initiative and stubborn rejection of modern innovations in war as making him thoroughly unsuitable for the job. Iron Hoof would never receive another command and would go on to run an unsuccessful campaign for prime minister. His promise to bring a quick end to the war by immediately opening peace negotiations with Queen Chrysalis gained some popularity with the electorate following the costly campaigns that followed Virion Hive, but although the charges against him were dropped, his association with Second Fiddle had damaged his reputation beyond repair. He would become a writer, and spent the rest of his life defending his war record.

As for Commissar-General Second Fiddle, a lengthy and politicised court martial found him guilty of murder and he was sentenced to be transferred to a penal unit, an innovation he had brought to the Royal Commissariat. His ultimate fate is not recorded by history, but it is believed that he was either killed in action or merely faded away in ignominy and failure. Penal units were not known for their meticulous record-keeping, unlike the rest of the bureaucratised Equestrian Army, so it is unlikely that the truth will ever be found. Either way, what had been a promising career in the Commissariat had been thrown away in the vain pursuit of glory.

With Iron Hoof out of the picture there came the problem of replacing him. General Market Garden seemed like the obvious first choice, and she was so confident of being selected that she commissioned a new uniform from her Saddle Row tailors to go with the promotion she believed was inevitable. Princess Celestia, however, appointed General Hardscrabble to the position instead, and mollified a despondent Market Garden with a peerage title -- Viscountess of Virion. When questioned about this choice, the Princess explained to journalists that ‘Market Garden is a sledgehammer -- slow, ponderous, but unstoppable when it gets going. I need a pony aggressive enough to wield that sledgehammer effectively, and that pony is Hardscrabble’.

Another one of Princess Twilight Sparkle’s new rising stars, Hardscrabble had commanded the 2nd Army’s drive south on the western flank of the 1st Army’s main thrust. As the 1st Army’s offensive had bogged down in siege warfare and counter-insurgency operations in Virion Hive, it was outpaced by the 2nd Army’s spectacular advance. His success there had been overshadowed by the capture of Virion Hive and subsequent events there, but it was of great strategic importance in cutting off the Changelings’ western supply routes through the Mysterious South.

An earth pony farmer from Ohayo, quiet and sensitive in his youth, Hardscrabble seemed an unlikely candidate to command all of Equestria’s armies. However, he understood more than others the concept of modern war, and that the only way to end the Changeling threat to Equestria was the total military defeat of their war-swarms and the destruction of their economic base to force a favourable conclusion to the war. Market Garden’s strategy of capturing hive cities to cut off the enemy’s source of food was one interpretation of this concept, but the Siege of Virion Hive had shown that besieging cities was a slow and costly method.

Instead, Hardscrabble devised a bold strategy that would strike at the Changeling Lands from multiple directions. Instead of capturing hive cities, these would be isolated and cut off from the Queen’s Hive so that their harvested love would not sustain the bulk of the enemy’s population. The 2nd Army was to sweep south and then east in a hook, while the 3rd Army would cut off the enemy’s access to the Celestial Sea. The 1st Army would strike directly into the Changeling Heartlands with the aim to threaten the Queen’s Hive to force the war swarms into a decisive battle. Princess Celestia summed up the strategy succinctly with perhaps uncharacteristic bluntness in a letter to Hardscrabble:

“You are to wrap your hooves around the enemy’s neck and squeeze, and to keep on squeezing until all life has been crushed out of her. Never stop, never loosen your grip, never allow her a moment of respite to even think about her plots and schemes.”

Princess Luna too had not been idle. Though Celestia had taken her coveted old title, Princess Luna would find a new role to play, her ‘war in the shadows’ as she referred to it. Their vast slave populations presented the Changelings with a problem and Equestria with an opportunity: the enemy had to expend ponypower on maintaining order, but with Equestrian assistance the slaves could be turned into a secret army within to tie down even more drones away from the frontlines. To this end, small, elite units were formed and dispatched behind enemy lines, with the aim to foment slave uprisings and to sabotage infrastructure and supply lines. Market Garden had called this an ‘unladylike’ approach to war, and the name stuck - The Ministry of Unladylike Warfare.

The war was about to enter its deadliest phase as the Badlands Campaign started in July of that year. However, nopony could have anticipated how ambitious Queen Chrysalis’ plans had become, and that perhaps one of the most decisive actions of the conflict would be decided hundreds of miles away across the sea.

Chapter 12

And so the siege was laid; the day after the heights were taken the division’s artillery had been dragged up the slope to the summit, whereupon the two batteries of cannons began hammering away at the walls. I’m no expert on such things, but when I went up to take a look for myself, the twelve guns firing one after the other seemed to have very little effect on the stout, reinforced fortifications around the city. I would watch as a cannon fired, belching flame and smoke like a certain baby dragon with indigestion, only for the cannonball to smack into the thick stone wall and bounce off, leaving what looked like a tiny paint chip in the wall.

“Our guns might as well be loaded with apple sauce,” said the recently-commissioned and newly-breveted Captain Bramley Apple. He kept glancing down at the rank pips on his epaulettes, which were so new that they had yet to be tarnished by the burnt gunpowder residue that stained the rest of his uniform and coat.

Despite his very sensible insistence that the military life was not for him and that he’d like nothing more than to return to his family’s unhealthy apple fixation, he had finally relented and accepted the battlefield commission and brevet rank that the Ministry of War had been dangling in front of him ever since all of the officers of his artillery battery had been killed or captured. I had considered offering to mentor the aspiring new officer, after all, there was more to leadership than merely the capacity and will to rally ponies to a common purpose; it required a certain level of elegance, gentlecoltly behaviour, and manners that his crude, country upbringing had sorely lacked. While working with an artillery battery would allow me to sit back and sip martinis as cannons hurled lead shot at the enemy a mile away, that incident where the Changelings had infiltrated the battery had rather put me off that notion.

A cannon roared, spitting its lead shot in a streak of fire and smoke through the air, over the heads of the picquet lines a little further down the slope, where it struck the sturdy wall and bounced off harmlessly. The gun crew, stripped of their armour and their coats foaming with sweat, pushed the gun back into position and set about the arduous process of reloading. I waited until the thunderous bark faded before speaking.

“I heard Market Garden will bring in an expert to help,” I said.

“Well, bless her heart,” he said, and I wondered what that phrase really meant as I’d heard that quite a lot lately. “But I don’t need no ‘expert’ to bring down that wall. What I need is bigger cannons, and more of them, too.”

I couldn’t argue with that logic, and speaking of Market Garden, my presence was required at another one of her strategy conferences. Quite why I needed to be there, my input being considered neither useful nor desired, still remained something of a mystery, but I strongly suspected that I was merely there for window-dressing. Lord-Commissar Prince Blueblood, the Hero of Black Venom Pass who had saved Princess Luna from capture and recovered the Royal Standard, certainly lent a touch of class to any dull meeting of military minds. I was an attractive piece of furniture that happened to recite mindless sentences dreamt up by a team in the Commissariat who thought they would be inspiring, and really, that actually suited me just fine as long as I could grab some free sandwiches when it was over.

The bodies had been cleared earlier, making my journey back down the slope a little more tolerable at least, though the landscape still bore the scars of the battle; if one was not careful, one could easily place one’s hoof into a small divot carved out of the earth by an errant cannonball and end up with one’s snout buried in the dust where a Changeling might have bled out. I tried not to think about it too much, lest the vivid memories of that battle that I had been trying, unsuccessfully, to drown out with drink every night rise up like bubbles in champagne. It was a relief, therefore, to be back at the camp at the base of the hill. I was still rather early, so I took a quick detour back to my tent on the off-chance something there required my immediate attention and got me out of this meeting.

Selecting an appropriate spot to place my tent proved to be a rather more difficult task for me than most other officers, who were more concerned about its proximity to the mess tent. Erecting it too close to the edges of the camp would leave it vulnerable to any plucky infiltrators who slip through the picquets, but too close to the centre would make it harder to escape should we come under attack. Eventually, after much thought, I had selected a spot that seemed to offer the best compromise between the two, and the mess happened to be well within my usual ‘stumbling-home-whilst-very-drunk’ distance as well. That it was rather close to Market Garden’s command marquee was something of a drawback, however, but I had hoped that if the camp were to come under attack by assassins in the night that they would go there first before coming to get me.

By the time I had reached my tent Corporal Hooves had already completed the mail deliveries, and Cannon Fodder was busy sorting through letters and documents sent to me from the Royal Commissariat and the various bits and pieces that Drape Cut had dutifully forwarded from my various homes. The latter consisted of the small amount of mail I receive that my valet had decided required my personal attention, which tended to be vitriolic hate mail, fawning fan mail, and personal letters from various members of my extended family asking if I still really needed particular bits of land under my demesne and if I could possibly spare one or two fiefdoms. The former, which I had been receiving rather less of as of late, usually provided a few moments of amusement to read before being tossed into the closest fire. This was more than what I could say for the latter which was more often than not destroyed the moment I had deduced my distant relatives' self-serving schemes to ‘heal the schisms in the House of Blood’, whatever that was supposed to mean.

Fan mail was something I was quite uncomfortable with, as I could never be assured of the sincerity of the praise and desire to have my foals expressed in these letters, so I left Cannon Fodder to deal with them by providing a standard response along the lines of ‘His Royal Highness is too busy martyring himself for Equestria to respond personally to your rather creepy missive, but he appreciates its sentiments regardless’. Of course, he worded it rather differently, but, as each reply carried some measure of my aide’s powerful body odour, repeat letters were quite a rare occurrence. If, dear reader, you have received one of these in response to a letter you have sent me, then I can only apologise and point out that there are other ponies far more deserving of your praise and offers of marriage than I.

There was nothing from Twilight yet, despite her promise that she would write to me. Perhaps I should have taken the initiative, but I was rather at a loss as to what to write about; the Battle of the Heights was hardly the most appropriate subject for a pleasant and potentially amorous correspondence between two members of royalty, but everything else that I had experienced around that was either terribly boring or would have been subjected to the censor’s black marker.

[Censorship of soldiers’ letters home was allowed for under the DOE Act and was up to their commanding officers to blot out any information that might be useful to the enemy or lower morale. Correspondence between Blueblood and Twilight Sparkle, however, would have been protected under the Defence of Equestria, Royal Prerogative provision (the DERP provision) and therefore not subjected to censorship.]

One letter, however, caught my eye, and for once I read it personally. A lengthy missive was scribbled in three different styles of hoof-writing that were unmistakably those of foals, which was incongruous with the rather fancy parchment used. A closer inspection revealed a faint watermark on the upper right corner of the sheet, showing a mare in profile with a remarkably familiar manestyle and the words ‘Carousel Boutique’ beneath it. The letter was from the three fillies I had met on the station platform in Ponyville, the ‘Cutie Mark Crusaders’ they had called themselves, and rambled on at length, in the usual meandering way that foals tell stories, what had happened in the intervening period between that party and now.

The three of them had finally received their cutie marks, and had apparently decided that I had to know about it. There were a few other things mentioned, too; Auntie Luna had helped them overcome a few nightmares, Apple Bloom’s brother developed a taste for cross-dressing, and something about Twilight Sparkle and her friends at an obscure little commune run by some tyrannical unicorn with a cutie mark fixation, among others. Now that they had acquired theirs, it meant that they could put a stop to their absurd little paramilitary cadet force and cease harassing ponies as they disembarked from trains.

Rather than leave this for Cannon Fodder to deal with, I had a few minutes before the conference started to write out a reply myself. I am not sure why I felt motivated to personally respond to a letter sent by three fillies I had met precisely once in rather awkward circumstances, but nevertheless I felt compelled to out of more than mere polite obligation. Indeed, I felt rather embarrassed; in the previous week I had plunged eighteen inches of Manehattan steel into the body of a living, breathing Changeling, and now I was writing a congratulatory letter to foals on reaching the most important milestone of a pony’s life.

Perhaps it was precisely because of that odd disconnect between the horror of what I had just been through and the rather pleasant, quaint, and even, dare I say it, ‘cute’ diversion this letter had granted me that I bothered with it in the first place. Distractions from the war were difficult to come by out here on the very edge of the land liberated by our glorious Equestrian Army, and those vices familiar to any soldier on campaign, namely drinking, gambling, whoring, and fornicating, were of a self-destructive nature that, as I suffered through another hangover and the disconcerting gaps in my memory of the events of the previous night, started to feel like they were doing me more harm than good. So to indulge in an activity that was altogether much more edifying and beneficial simply felt good in a way that defied easy explanation.

[Prince Blueblood and the Cutie Mark Crusaders would exchange letters for much of the remainder of his life. After his passing, these letters were found in a safe and a selection are available for viewing in the Royal Archives.]

***

I was about ten minutes late for the meeting, but nopony seemed to care. In fact, they had started without me, and when I wandered into Market Garden’s marquee she and Major-General Garnet were already having a bit of an argument.

“I seem to recall forbidding further offensive action on behalf of your division,” she said as I entered. I made a bee-line for the refreshments table and picked up a cucumber sandwich first.

I received no acknowledgement from the other officers, aside from a polite nod from Second Fiddle as I took a reluctant position next to him; it was the polite thing to do, I thought, and if on the rare occasion that any questions were hurled in my direction I could simply deflect them onto my supposed superior officer. Perhaps the novel experience of being below another in the grand pecking order had its advantages.

“You only forbade me from encircling them,” said Garnet, shrugging all too casually. “I merely used my initiative and allowed the Griffons to do what they do best.”

Market Garden glowered at Garnet, her beady little eyes squinting up at him beneath a heavily furrowed brow. “I don’t approve,” she said, her tinny voice frightfully formal in that odd, cultivated accent she uses to tell off ponies. “I don’t approve of officers using their initiative. All I require of them is to follow my plans.”

“Your plan was followed. My division took and held the heights as you ordered. My orders to the PGL did not violate your battle plan. I merely allowed them to fight as their ancestors had done, during the Nightmare Heresy when two flocks harassed-”

“That’s enough, Garnet.”

Things looked rather tense, and I wanted this meeting over and done with as quickly as possible so I could go and do something more useful with my time, like taking a nap or reading a racy novel or considering how attached I was to my left forehoof and if I could spare shooting it off to be sent home. So I did something that I rarely ever did, or wanted to do, in these meetings and said something that sounded vaguely worthwhile.

“I’m sure Major-General Garnet didn’t intend on undermining your authority,” I said. The two generals stared at me from across the table. “But I was there, and the Griffons were straining at the leash to get stuck into the Changelings again. Letting them pick off the stragglers let them work off their natural, predatory aggression in a constructive manner, instead of picking fights with our ponies. I expect we’ll see less of those incidents from now on.”

It was utter nonsense and I knew it, and they probably did too, but I imagine that the drivel that gushed out of my mouth like jam from a doughnut that had been struck with a mallet distracted them enough from their petty little squabble long enough for them to realise it was all pointless anyway. From there, the meeting proceeded, and, as per usual for me, one should not expect an exact, word-by-word facsimile of exactly what was said; the majority of which was dry, tedious, and utterly boring, and therefore of no interest to anypony except those peculiar sorts who can explain in great and frightening detail the precise workings of a six-pounder cannon but are clueless on how one would go about pleasuring a mare. Twilight’s books on the war are good for that, but not for one’s psyche, and so for the sake of expediency in portraying this horrid battle the way I experienced it, I shall be forced to summarise and condense.

“Lieutenant-General Glitter Star’s VIII Corps attempted to cross the River Vir on I Corps’ right flank.” Market Garden picked up her swagger stick with her mouth, tapped one end on said location on the large map that dominated the table’s surface, and then put it down again to continue speaking. “They established a hoof-hold on the opposite bank, but counter-attacks threatened to destroy the pontoon bridges erected across the river. The situation on the southern bank was therefore untenable and had to be abandoned. The retreat was conducted in good order, as I instructed, with minimal losses.”

“It turns out Changelings are very good swimmers,” said Second Fiddle, grinning at his own joke. Nopony reacted.

Market Garden carried on. “The River Vir forms the largest natural obstacle for 1st Army’s advance deeper into Changeling territory. It must be crossed. I had hoped to cross along the flanks of the city, but this ‘General’ Odonata is smarter than she looks. It’s a bit of a setback, I must admit; I’d wanted to surround the city and push on ahead, and tackle the inevitable relief column before assaulting the city. Defeat in detail, and all that. We’ll have to take the city directly, then.”

It was grim news indeed. I had internalised enough of military theory, mainly through osmosis rather than paying attention, to know that taking a city ‘directly’, as Market Garden had put it, would be a slaughter on both accounts. The Siege of Fort Nowhere was horrific enough as it was, but now, with an entire city full of Changelings, fortified to the greatest extent of their science, and with Faust-knows how many terrified civilians to get in the way, I could only foresee a long and protracted bloodbath in my near future.

“We could just starve them out,” said one of the staff officers whose names I had never bothered to remember. I stared at him, waiting until he thought through the proper ramifications of what he was proposing.

“That would conserve our resources for the fight ahead,” said Second Fiddle. “Position our artillery to fire on Changelings trying to bring food into the city, and get the PGL to raid them too, then all we need to do is sit tight and wait for Charlie to surrender or starve to death.”

[‘Changeling Charlie’ was a character from a series of informational pamphlets and posters produced by the Ministry of Information. This was part of a media campaign aimed to teach Equestrian subjects how to spot potential Changeling infiltrators in daily life and encourage them to report suspected infiltrators to the local authorities. This was neither popular nor successful. The Ministry also used such pamphlets to encourage soldiers to use this term to refer to the enemy over the more commonly used nickname of ‘bugs’; it was deemed bad for morale that the Equestrian Army had thus far failed to comprehensively defeat mere ‘insects’. ‘Charlie’, however, never really caught on, but the grotesque caricature of a Changeling remains a potent and controversial symbol of the homefront.]

“Right, but aren’t we forgetting something?” I said; reluctant as I was to interject, I couldn’t claim to be a prince of the realm and stand by and watch this insanity unfold. Second Fiddle sneered at me, the nameless staff officer merely looked confused, but Market Garden smiled knowingly and nodded. “What do Changelings eat?”

Second Fiddle rolled his eyes and sighed. “Love, Blueblood. They eat love. Where are you going with this?”

“Bear with me, there is a point to all of this,” I snapped back at him. “Changelings ‘eat’ love extracted from living creatures. So, in order for us to starve out the garrison, all of the ponies in that city, who have suffered under Changeling oppression for so long, would have to be starved first.”

An uncomfortable silence fell, as I waited for Second Fiddle to acknowledge his rather callous oversight. Instead, he stood there, glaring at me as if I had just told him that I had slept with his mother and spoilt the ending of a mystery novel he was halfway through reading. At the very least, the other staff officer had the good sense to flush crimson with embarrassment and admit that he had forgotten all about that.

“It’ll take far too long anyway,” said Market Garden, tapping her hoof noisily on the table. “We have to maintain the initiative, which will mean a direct assault on the city itself. I won’t sugarcoat it; the cost for us will be high, and perhaps too high for most ponies to bear. I don’t like it either, but it’s the only choice we have right now, which is why I have brought in an expert to assist us. Send her in.”

Another staff officer led a young earth pony mare into the marquee from outside, and pointed her to Market Garden’s side. Her appearance was bland to the point of obscenity; it was as though one of the statues in the gardens of Canterlot Castle had come to life. Her coat was grey, her mane was a sort of faded grey-ish purple, and her expression was so very neutral to the point that I feared she might have suffered some form of facial paralysis. The one thing, however, that at least hinted that this creature possessed a soul and wit and all else that life entails was a pair of piercing blue eyes that seemed oddly familiar.

“This is Maud Pie, a rock farmer,” said Market Garden. “She will assist our artillery crews in breaching the walls of the city, as part of her studying for her rocktorate in rock science.”

That was the second most stupid thing I had heard all morning, but I suppose that’s earth pony ‘magic’ for you. Still, if it made them happy, then it was no harm done.

“Hi,” said Maud Pie. “I look forward to working with you.”

It was remarkable, truly; I have heard some monotone voices over the years, as, indeed, military staff work appeals to some desperately dull individuals, but not even Field Marshal Iron Hoof’s infamous deadpan delivery could compare to the total flatness of the voice that came out of this mare. Devoid of the merest hint of emotion, I have heard metronomes with more expression and variation in pitch, tone, and volume than her.

At the very least, however, with such dullness came brevity, and after this rather terse introduction she was sent back outside for the rest of the meeting. I shan’t bore you with the details of this, because I have largely forgotten what was discussed, but as the old saying goes, if one can’t remember it then it probably wasn’t worth remembering in the first place. For a general idea, it was merely dry and tedious reports on morale, supply, reinforcements, officer-of-the-day rotas, picquet duties, and so forth, and made all the longer by Garnet’s frequent interjections about whatever subject was even slightly related to the topic discussed. I might have dozed off, if Second Fiddle didn’t keep jabbing me in the ribs with a quill each time I closed my eyes for more than five seconds.

Market Garden wrapped up the meeting, and just in time for afternoon tea, too; one could always trust the Trottingham officers, of whom I have seen a surprising number in the course of this career, to make sure enough free time was allocated for that most sacred of rituals. I, however, did not partake, as consuming heavy, butter-laden scones and imbibing steaming hot fluids in the blistering heat and humidity of the Badlands seemed somewhat counter-productive to me, so I used this as a cover to sneak out, citing the ever-convenient excuse of ‘paperwork’ to deal with.

Maud Pie loitered around the edge of the tent, apparently engrossed in examining a small collection of pebbles in the dust. A few of the soldiers, apparently starved of at least vaguely pretty mares to gawk at who weren’t printed in certain gentlecolts’ special interest magazines, had gathered around to leer at her, but she paid them absolutely no heed. When I stepped outside, blinking in the harsh sunlight, she looked up and trotted on over to me. As she approached, I gave those stallions a withering stare, or it was intended as such at least, and they quickly remembered they had other duties to be getting on with and swiftly dispersed.

“Hello,” she said. “You must be Prince Blueblood.”

“Yes,” I said, wondering if she had really been waiting for me for however long I was in that meeting. “I am Prince Blueblood. How do you do?”

Maud Pie tilted her head a fraction of an inch to the left, and then looked me up and down. “Pinkie Pie is my sister,” she said.

I didn’t see much of a family resemblance, but perhaps there was something in that rock farm of theirs that had caused a few issues with the pregnancies and drained all of the personality from one and into the other. Who knew what these isolated little earth pony communities got up to out of sight of civilised ponies? One shudders to think.

“Yes, I’ve met her,” I said, choosing to go along with it for now. “How is she?”

“Pinkie’s well,” said Maud Pie, and her tone of voice remained as flat as Market Garden’s flanks. “She asked me to give you a present.”

With Pinkie Pie it could have been anything at all; a hug, a kazoo, or the secretary of state for agriculture. So, imagine my surprise, if you will, when Maud Pie reached into the pocket of her frock and produced a small sheet of slate, about the size of a small paperback novel but at a fraction of the thickness. She held it up for me to see, and though, for all intents and purposes, it looked like a flat, rectangular chunk of rough grey stone, I admit to flinching slightly from it, as though it might explode suddenly in a shower of confetti and glitter. Having met her more exuberant sister before, that was a very distinct possibility.

“Pinkie Pie said you looked like you could use a friend,” she said. “Prince Blueblood, may I introduce Slab? Slab, this is Prince Blueblood. You take good care of him.”

She held out ‘Slab’ with her hoof. I waited for the inevitable laughter to accompany this bizarre little joke, but her face remained as stony as before. Either she was completely serious in her assertion that rocks are friends or she was very committed to this practical joke; both interpretations felt just as plausible. However, when I took this sheet of slate and peered at it, though I was thoroughly inexperienced in such mundane matters, it appeared to be nothing more than a smaller version of roof tile as seen on primitive earth pony houses.

Out of a lack of any other idea of what to do, I tucked Slab into my jacket’s inner breast pocket, where the weight of this thin sheet of stone felt oddly reassuring against my chest. “Thank you,” I said. “I will.”

“I was talking to Slab.”

***

Even out here, in this barren, desolate wasteland, the officers’ mess still provided the trappings of civilisation and culture that made existence on this miserable little world bearable for ponies such as I, who have been born into positions of privilege and wealth but have very little of practical worth to offer society. Sunshine Smiles still disapproved, of course, preferring to take meals and socialise with the common soldiery, where I made merely a token effort to participate with that sort of thing. An officer, and a prince no less, eating from the same trough as the enlisted was a wonderfully egalitarian gesture, symbolising the brotherhood that binds together the gallant defenders of Equestria across class lines, and yet it was just that - a gesture and a symbol. The gulf between our two stations, nobility and peasantry and all that lay in between, remained insurmountable. My unique position within Equestria’s new model army had forced me to share in the same dangers as the common soldiery, and as I have already described here I have shed blood with them. Therefore, I ask, with even an iota of luxury dangling before me, offering a temporary but unequal respite from this horror, can one truly blame me for desiring to take advantage of it?

The mess was quiet, but I preferred it that way. While the soldiers out there gathered around troughs and mopped up their tasteless brown stew with chunks of hard, crusty bread, I had dined alone on a wonderful wild mushroom and camembert puff pastry parcel and washed it down with an agreeable bottle or two of Chenin Blanc. On an ordinary night I would have been holding court with the usual coterie of officers eager to hear bon mots and anecdotes from Yours Truly, but Garnet had been pushing them pretty damned fiercely over the past few days preparing for the inevitable slaughter to come. So I dined and drank alone in the corner of the mostly-empty marquee, where I tried and failed miserably to do the crossword puzzle in The Daily Ponygraph, on the off-chance that Twilight Sparkle might remember a certain little lie I had told her in what felt like an eternity ago.

Besides, I still had Slab resting in my jacket pocket, so I was not entirely alone. Unlike certain officers I’ve had to deal with over the years here, he did not offer self-serving sycophancy masquerading as friendship, nor did he drone on relentlessly about boring military matters. He did not dominate the conversation with the tedious drivel of his personal life, nor his boorish and vulgar views on the important political matters of the day. I had to admire his stoic silence; Drape Cut had once told me that the true definition of a gentlecolt was simply a stallion who could listen to the problems of another without dispensing judgement or steering the conversation to his own matters, which made Mr Slab, Esq. the perfect model of a gentlecolt.

As far as evenings go out here, this one was at least approaching what one might consider to be ‘nice’; if I was careful about where I looked and kept my eyes away from the military camp outside then it was almost like being back at Canterlot, if the shining city upon the hill had become unseasonably hot and humid due to a weather pony strike and the Imperial Club had to temporarily move venues to a tent. To be somewhere where I did not have to even think of the conflict, even though it was mere dozen yards away through the open tent flap and if only for a few minutes at a time, was precisely what I needed to keep myself from plunging into the depths of despair.

This rather pleasant respite was cut short, however, as it must always be, when a pony-shaped shadow fell over the newspaper. It couldn’t have been a waiter, as the soldier-servants, whose greatest contribution to the war effort and eventual victory was keeping Yours Truly well-fed and well-lubricated, were far too polite and well-trained to block the dim candlelight that just barely allowed enough light for reading.

“Bastard,” I said, before looking up to see Second Fiddle glaring down at me.

“What?!” he blurted out.

“Thirteen down.” I tapped the half-completed crossword puzzle with the eraser end of my pencil. “Illegitimate son. The answer is ‘bastard’.”

In truth, I had given up on trying to do the puzzle properly, and had instead spent the last ten minutes or so filling in the blank squares with as many vulgar words as I could think of. This way was much more fun, but I don’t think Twilight or the eggheads who wrote it would have approved of my creative approach.

Second Fiddle squinted at me for a moment, then shook his head. “Whatever,” he said. “I’ve been looking for you, you weren’t in your tent.”

“I’m off the clock,” I said, using a phrase I had heard parroted around the hunched-back office drones I used to work with in the Ministry of Supply.

“A commissar is never ‘off the clock’. I thought I told you to look over those reports and-” Second Fiddle stopped and looked me up and down, frowning. His lips quivered, then pursed, and then he leaned in and whispered: “Are you wearing a tux?”

“Oh, this?” I looked down at the offending article, being a cream-coloured dinner jacket very similar to the one that had been ruined by so much icing and jam in a Grand Galloping Gala those long years ago. “Just because we’re at war doesn’t mean I should give up on the tradition of dressing for dinner.”

He screwed his face up in disgust, and sniffed as he eyed the empty bottle of wine on the table and the half-empty one next to it. “You are drunk.”

“Yes.”

“Blueblood,” he hissed, sounding almost… disappointed? I think that’s what it was.

I sighed, folded up the newspaper with its crossword puzzle now rendered unfit for publication, and pulled back the spare chair at the table with my magic. “Sit down,” I said, pouring a glass of wine and sliding it in his direction, which he glowered at as though the bottle had been labelled ‘arsenic’. “And for Faust’s sake, loosen up, damn you.”

‘Loosening up’ was not a phrase that appeared in Second Fiddle’s rather limited vocabulary, or whatever training he had gone through as a commissar, which I had not, had expunged it. Even though he finally relented after losing a staring contest with the wine glass and sat down with me, his posture still looked as though he had sat on a strategically-placed ramrod.

“I haven’t touched alcohol since that night,” he said, sliding the glass back to me. The rather pricey vintage inside swished and swirled precariously in the bowl in a manner that would have made Fine Vintage, were he here to see it and not out on the picquet line, faint with shock. [The remnants of the former 3rd Solar Guard had been used to bolster the new, reformed Solar Guard Regiment.]

Shrugging, I took a sip of the wine and found that the bottle, having previously been chilled to perfection, had become unpleasantly warm in this heat; the delicate notes of quince and apples had become sharp and tangy. Disappointed, I pushed it to the side and looked to my friend, if I could call him that.

“It’s a matter of knowing one’s limits,” I said. “Mine are considerable.”

Second Fiddle snorted, shaking his head, and then drew himself up even taller and straighter somehow, as though trying to invoke a sense of formality and authority over me. There was, however, something about his manner that simply did not lend well to those things, being concepts that, paradoxically, diminish the more conscious effort one puts into them. Contrast, if you will, to Yours Truly, slouching drunkenly and yet comfortably in the rattan chair; it irritated him to no end and I would be lying if I did not feel at least a small amount of glee at that.

“Why in Equestria did Princess Luna appoint you?” he sighed. “You haven’t changed since Celestia’s school.”

“I don’t know,” I said, exhibiting a rare amount of honesty. “I happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“I read about what happened with Princess Cadance,” he carried on, “and everything else since; you’re quite the role model back at the Commissariat. Now I see this. Do you want to know why Princess Luna appointed me?”

I had some curiosity on the matter; Luna was very much the sort of pony who had little time for fools, and made even less of an effort to hide it, so how Second Fiddle of all ponies made it to the rank of commissar-general was frankly a mystery, although I had an inkling based on what I knew of the lad. Then again, she also appointed me too, so perhaps she was just an astonishingly bad judge of character after a thousand years on the moon.

It was very clear to me, however, even though I was moderately tipsy, that he had been stewing upon these thoughts for quite some time, and only now, as he found me most pointedly not working as he expected me to, had he been finally pushed into shoving his metaphorical bowl over and spilling out his half-cooked thoughts all over my lap.

“It’s because I worked hard,” he said, emphasising his point by tapping his hoof noisily on the table. A few of the other patrons glanced over, but quickly looked away; few officers wanted to get involved in whatever it was that commissars were discussing. “Getting expelled from Celestia’s School with you ruined my chances of a career in magical research. You went and bought a commission in the Royal Guard with Daddy’s money, and I had to enlist and start from the bottom. That was the last time I ever saw you until that night in the Tartarus Club.”

“I’m sorry about that,” I said. It was a lie, of course, I might have been a bloody hellion as a teenager (and frankly, who wasn’t?) but it was his own damn fault for sticking too close to me and getting some of the blame splashed onto his coat when I was showered with it. “Things weren’t exactly rosy for me either.”

“Like Tartarus they weren’t,” he snapped.

I boggled at him, stunned by that outburst. “You can’t talk to me like that,” I stammered out.

“You might be a prince back in Equestria, but out here I am your superior officer,” he said with no small hint of smugness; he must have been positively itching to say that for months. “I’ll speak to you however I please.”

“Fine.” It wasn’t worth pressing, so I merely glared sullenly at him and drank my slowly-warming white wine. Wherever he was going with this, I didn’t fancy taking it without most of my higher functions drowned in alcohol.

He continued: “Whenever you hit a problem, you had your wealth and your titles to lift you up again. What did I have? Nothing, Blueblood. No money, no titles, and no golden alicorn auntie to put me back on my hooves. I spent three years on the Foalklands with those princess-damned penguins, but I kept at it while you dropped out of the Royal Guard and carried on as you always did.”

“Right.”

“And now you come here, undermining me at every turn; the sanitation issue, that stunt with the Griffon, and now correcting me in front of Market Garden. I did not work my hooves to the bone just for you to come here and take down everything I’ve worked for, and out of what? Jealousy? Because I’m your superior and you can’t take it?”

My glass was already empty by the time he finished that tirade, so I poured myself another. In truth, I didn’t care the slightest jot for what he was saying, for as far as I was concerned my title as a prince of the realm overruled any mere temporary military titles, and despite what he thought, I was, and have been, perfectly happy to work in a role subordinate to others, provided that their orders made sense. Indeed, the abrogation of responsibility when things inevitably all went to Tartarus in a hoof basket more than made up for any slight to my regal pride.

“But you still didn’t tell me why Princess Luna appointed you,” I said, acting on a hunch. I sipped at the wine, finding that as I drank more of it I didn’t mind it being a little too warm.

“Princess Luna recognised my potential,” said Second Fiddle, wrinkling his nose at my continued indulgence of one of my lesser vices. “She needed more commissars, so I arranged a personal meeting with her. I explained how, like her, I too had been held back by the nepotism and incompetence rife in the Royal Guard. I told her my ideas on how to stamp those out, and how to inculcate aggression, initiative, ruthlessness, and the drive for victory we need to win this war. I’d even brought examples from when she was Warmistress of Equestria. She hired me on the spot and mentored me through my training.”

“So you toadied.” The glare my words invoked from him would have turned the sweetest apples of Sweet Apple Acres as sour as lime. “You told her what she wanted to hear. It’s the same as when we were in school together. You weren’t my friend because you liked me; I know I was an utter horror back then and you thought a connection with a prince would give you an edge. But that didn’t turn out so well, did it? Auntie Luna still isn’t settling in well to the modern world, and so she responds all too agreeably to ponies who tell her she’s already right and doesn’t need to change.”

“Now see here, you can’t talk about the Princess like that.”

“She’s my aunt.”

“Fine, but while you were malingering in Canterlot, I was busy-”

“I was flogged.”

Second Fiddle blinked. “Pardon?”

“I was flogged,” I repeated, “while retrieving the Royal Standard. It almost killed me, Second Fiddle, and perhaps you might like to see the scars? I might not have had to work to get where I am today, but I have had to fight and bleed for Equestria. Only one of us sitting here has experience in the field with the common soldiery, and it’s a shame you think my sharing that experience is undermining you. It’s not about you or your ego, it’s about winning this bloody war, and it’s high time you put your feelings of inadequacy aside and actually listen to the things I say.”

And there it was, that chink in his armour, needled expertly with the thin rapier blade of reason. He slumped, as though the aforementioned stick that had been rammed up hard had been extracted, and his body was finally allowed to collapse in a small heap on the chair. The glare, however, remained, as I could tell Second Fiddle was trying to come up with an adequate riposte. While he racked what little remained of his brain besides an absurd victim complex and poor fashion sense, I poured out a second glass of wine for him, the last in the bottle, and slid it on over.

“Look,” I said, returning his stare with what I hoped was a friendly, if drunken, smile, “you’re right, I don’t know what it’s like to work, that day I spent doing slave labour excepted, but why don’t you tell me? We have so much to catch up on.”

Second Fiddle looked at the glass, and I could tell that he was tempted, but damn him, he just wouldn’t. Instead, he thanked me for my time, and then got up and walked right out, leaving me sitting there alone, bewildered and rather embarrassed. So much for the Magic of Friendship then, thought I as I watched him slip through the tent flap.

History is replete with moments where the fate of our nation might have been forever altered had one pony who made a decision went one way instead of the other: if Princess Celestia had been just a little bit more attentive to Princess Luna’s whining; if the Crystal ponies had been a little bit more suspicious of a certain power-hungry stallion named Sombra; if the Duke of Baltimare said ‘why not build a model of the solar system?’ instead of approving his daughter’s parasprite breeding programme for the school science fair. Though not as dramatic as the previous examples, if Second Fiddle had stayed a little longer that night then perhaps we could have rekindled some small flame of genuine friendship, or at least I might have convinced him that this sort of foalish politicking was beneath the both of us.

Alone again, except for Slab, of course, I opened up the newspaper to the crossword, and there, in seventeen across, I wrote a four-letter word beginning with ‘F’ that accurately and concisely summed up my thoughts on the matter.