“W-w-w-w-why are we doing this again?” the Courier asked from across the fire, decorating the expression with a communicative shiver as she rubbed her forelegs over the fire, huffing warm breaths onto her snow frosted featherings.
It was the first time anyone had spoken for a long time, in their camp. Traversing a mountain, as they’d intimately become familiar with, was an exercise in exhaustion, and it was a particularly heavy exhaustion, one which followed every one of them into the late hours of the night as they vainly attempted to recuperate in the thin atmosphere of the mountaintop.
As such, it was a particularly long time before anyone spoke again to respond, the stretching silence seeming natural, even comfortable, to the half-asleep forms and bodies that surrounded the blaze.
“Well, whaddaya mean, ‘why’?” answered the hulking Cohort, “- cause we gots orders to, that’s why.” The fire flickered faintly across the snow, reflecting sharply off the clean, white surface, yet, even then, barely managing to illuminate even the soldier’s massive figure.
And, off to the side, even better hidden against the cliff-side, the Cartographer spoke up. “I believe the essence of her question, my dear giant,” here, he leaned over to gently pat the soldiers side, “was more concerned with the reason we were given those orders in the first place.”
The soldier gave a distasteful glare at the contact, but otherwise made no motion to answer, instead looking back down at the snow between his legs and huffing, as if still puzzling over the matter.
“Well?” the last member of the quartet, the Commander, said, addressing the Map Maker, “don’t leave us hanging, what’s the answer?” There was, in every single one of her slips and remarks, a pervading condescension that never ceased to irk the Cartographer, and the beaming smile she continually directed at him only showed her own awareness of this fact, which only served, quite effectively, to irritate him all the more.
“Well,” the Cartographer huffed, holding back a scowl, “as any idiot should be aware, Captain, we are marching up this hill to take Canterlot.”
“Not much of a hill,” the Cohort interjected, sounding almost indignant as he turned his head to look at the looming precipice below, its contours and limits marked only by the series of fires and tents which dotted the darkened landscape below.
The Captain only chuckled in a good humor, not breaking the easygoing smile that continually shone out against the flickering fire-light, “and, why, dear Map-Maker, do you think we’re going to Canterlot?”
“Oh, and I suppose you know the reason for that,” the Cartographer snapped back, apparent disgust evident in his tone.
“I know the official reason,” the Captain answered easily, and with not too little of a conspiratorial tone marking her voice, as she toned her beaming grin down into a more serious smirk.
“Oh,” the Cartographer laughed richly, now taking on his own mocking lilt, “and I am to suppose that you have, with your apparently vast insight, divined the inner machinations of our leaders mind? Perhaps you’ll also take up future telling as a hobby? Maybe, tell us what the king’s favorite color is? I need to pick an outfit for our briefings.
“Well, let me tell you this.” The Cartographer continued, “I’ve worked as the king’s personal advisor for fifteen years now, and -- and here’s the big secret --” he prefaced, leaning in as if to keep his next words private, “-- nothing we ever do makes sense,” he said, with a soothing smile that he managed to direct in every direction and at all of them equally. Rearing back, he continued, “if we didn’t keep winning despite that fact I might not have stopped caring fourteen years ago.”
“Well-” the Spy started and paused, seeming suddenly bashful as the rest of the circle peered in at her.
“Well- what?” the Captain prompted.
“Well, I just remember some old stories we used to tell in the low-lands, that said that the King actually lived in Canterlot once…”
The Cartographer almost physically recoiled at this, saying “Oh, that trite- do you honestly believe what you are suggesting?”
“What’s so unbelievable about it?” the Captain answered in her stead, “everyone comes from someplace, and Canterlot existed even a thousand years ago. Besides,” the Captain began, broaching closer to the fire as she took on a serious expression to underlie her smile, “we have similar stories where I come from; except --” she paused, “ -- we say that he was born in the same house as the Twilight Princess,” she drew yet closer to the fire, hunching over the flame in an earnest attempt to add drama to her story, “and it was on the first hour of the first night of his life -- before he was old enough, even, to open his eyes -- that the Twilight Princess struck, and attempted to kill him, scarring him. And ever since, they have been the worst of enemies.”
The rest of the crowd only looked over at her with expressive variations on unimpressed.
“You made that up!” the Spy teased, pointing an accusatory hoof at the captain.
“And, badly, too,” the Cartographer added.
“Oh, and I assume you have a better theory?”
“I don’t,” the Cartographer answered, “and I don’t feel compelled to titter about inventing silly tales as to what did, or didn’t happen a millennium ago.”
“Well, I heard from my grandmother that the Twilight Princess killed his bride on the harvest moon festival,” the Spy added, feeling more energetic in the lively debate.
“Oh, and is your grandmother eleven-hundred years old, as a matter of fact?” the cartographer asked.
“...no.”
“Then I suppose she’s hardly an authoritative source, then, is she?”
“Oh, lay off it, you pencil pushing-”
The Captain paused, interrupted by a hitch in her throat as a blast of hot air and heavy lungs alerted her to the presence of The Dragon King, who, for his part, was comfortably stretched atop the large boulder they’d made their encampment against, and who, until now, had stayed just out of the reach of their firelight.
She bowed, hastily, all but pressing her face into the snow and thinking of nothing else but to say, “my lord!”
Immediately, this set off a scramble of motion around the fire, as all the other’s, like pre-set automatons, rushed to mimic the captain’s action.
“Arise,” The Dragon King commanded, before the last of them had even managed to get in position, resulting in a funny, bobbing motion that overtook the Cohort, as he rushed back up to attention, with heavy armor clanking.
Hereafter, there was a dead silence as the four returned to their previous positions, and went back to watching the fire, trying, as only the most sensitively aware people could, not to notice the eleven foot long serpent looming over them.
Curiosity got the better of them, however, and, soon, one by one, they all gave in to the opportunity.
At first, it was the Cohort who looked, indistinctly and unabashedly up at the beast. In fact, he had never even looked away in the first place. This, he did because, modesty, to him, was an unimportant, if not utterly foreign, concept. And, consequently, he saw no breach in his tactless staring.
The rest of the crowd, too mortified to follow the Cohort’s example, yet, at the same time, not willing to draw attention to themselves by chastising him, were, nevertheless emboldened enough by his behavior to begin their own, significantly more discreet, observations.
It was rare that one found an opportunity to glimpse more of The Dragon King than his shadow as he passed overhead, and it would be a lie to say any of them, really, could have resisted the temptation.
The Dragon King, as far hidden as he was in the shadows which radiated out from their fire, was still starkly visible to them all, seeming to reflect and dazzle the moonlight, which covered his figure like pressed steel.
His body, at the limits of it’s form, was hard and almost angular, it’s general shape at odds with the serpentine figure that described it as he stretched, on all fours, across the boulders and jagged outcroppings of the cliff-side.
Down the left of his body, the side facing them, a harsh scar ran the majority of his body, leaving a trail of ghostly white scales at the jagged borders of it’s draw-line.
Most striking, however, were his eyes, which were old, and in the dim fire light overshadowed everything, a feat they managed not by the crystal-green glow that burned them out of the darkness, but rather the disinterested perspective and dim, inner light, with which they seemed to observe everything and each passing second.
With a terrible rumble, which, though it didn’t reach far, crashed through their waking bodies, The Dragon King spoke.
“I’ll have you know,” he said, “whatever truth those rumors contain, it is so far distorted as to lose whatever instructive value it may have had.”
“So, there is some truth to them,” the Captain leapt up excitedly, ignoring the panicked looks the others shot at her.
The Dragon King, for his part, was merely surprised. More, than he usually was these days; it wasn’t often he found anyone with such pluck anymore. And, it wasn’t often he found himself cornered on such topics.
“There is some truth to all rumors,” he answered, swerving away from the intent of the question.
The captain, however, either from bravery or burning interest, wasn’t about to let the matter drop.
“Well?” she began, with her classical rejoinder, “what’s so true about them? Did she actually give you that scar as a hatchling?”
She pointed directly as the pale, white line that ran down his body. The Cartographer, over who’s head she pointed to address the blemish, took on a similarly pallid expression, looking as if he were ready to keel over from sheer mortification.
“Oh, this?” The Dragon King answered, with a harsh humor underlying his voice, looking at the scar, “no, this came later in my life. It wasn’t an assassination attempt, in any case.”
Here, he drifted off, hoping to let the matter drop yet, with every passing moment, sensing the burgeoning anticipation that hung, ready to ruin the quiet as the Captain, with glowing eyes and all but hopping on her legs, stood, waiting for his continuation.
At last, The Dragon King sighed. “I… was born in Canterlot,” he said, “that much, at least, is true.”
“And, did she kill your bride?” This time, it was the Spy who spoke up.
“Nothing so romantic,” The Dragon King answered, keeping all the time a sort dignified distance from the subject matter, but, now finding himself unable to ignore his recollections.
“No!” said Twilight, an acrid, pained tone in her voice. “No,” she repeated, quiter, turning to walk away from the collapsed dragon.
“But, she’ll die!” he repeated, unable to muster any further words as bitter, uncontrolled tears streamed.
“Everyone’s going to die, Spike, even us.”
“You say that like you care!”
“I do care!” she shouted, turning angry in her turn. “If there were any other way, I would happily do it, I’d give everyone immortality, but these things won’t work, Spike. They won’t make anyone happy, least of all, her!”
He remained silent.
“Things are different now, Spike. We can’t think only of ourselves anymore.”
“The Twilight Princess and I are not enemies,” The Dragon King continued, choosing his words carefully before such a croud.
“Hey! How’s it going everybody!” a voice next to him spoke, accompanied by the occasional, excited bob of curled-pink hair that jumped with every inflection.
Even in old age she was lively, and it was to everyone’s pleasure that she, of all of them, had managed most to preserve her talents.
“Soooo…” she stretched the word, leaning ever closer in time with its draw, and rapidly changing the subject onto him, “how’re you and Twilight holding down the fort…” she paused with a confused look, “holding down the castle?” she said, touching her chin in a thoughtful manner.
“We’re doing great,” he chuckled, sounding nervous despite the familiar ease she brought about in him.
And, far as he could recall, he wasn’t lying when he’d said that.
Perhaps it was just the event which brought about the feeling, and, looking around the table, he could see the bodies seated around it. His freinds, everyone, was there, including her...
...
She died, eventually.
‘Others had died before her,’ the thought came, carried on a dream like wisp and memories of long suppressed guilt sparking up at the thought.
But, she was the one he remembered; long as he’d spent burning her dazzling features, expressive turns of phrase into his memory.
And, no matter how long he’d spent preparing for it, not considering the precious time he’d tried to squeeze out of the past few years, he could never think of that gravestone as being ‘her’ now.
The others she was buried along, the markers he walked over as he carried the coffin, they would be honored in legend in history, they would live on to the future in that form, but her…
...
He stayed over the grave, watching the cool grey of the rain-filled dawn turn into a crystal washed clarity of the evening night, and Twilight remained with him.
There was no blame, no anger, between them. They’d both grown to understand now, more than they ever thought they could, that they would have to go through this world thinking of others now. There were few left for them to be selfish for, and that number was dwindling, dying.
But, that too, passed, crushed under the weight of the following lifetime.
Just at that moment, a violet flare went up, burning bright enough to illuminate the entire mountain side in it’s metallic, purple glow before quickly dimming into a nothingness which left behind a darkness more complete than before.
The Dragon King looked up, following the dying streak of light to it’s source and, there! -- over the parapets of the castle overhang, The Twilight Princess looked down from her perch. And, looking into the indistinct gleam of her eyes, he could see the memories passing through them were much the same as his.
“No,” he repeated, his breath suddenly gaining a fantastic weight, “we weren’t enemies.”
Up in that very parapet, Twilight stood, observing wearily the burning lights and frantic activity of a city preparing for war.
“No,” Twilight answered, addressing Penum, who stood, hidden behind the steel bartizan beside her, “I never considered him an enemy.”
Penum, who now failed to resist the urge to crouch with every pillar of light and fire which lit up the sky and the castle wall behind her, looked earnestly into the glimmering corner of Twilights eye.
“Then, he was your friend?” Asked penum, up in the parapet.
...
“Then, what were you, friends?” Asked the Captain, down in the precipice.
“No,” answered The Dragon King.
...
“No,” answered Twilight.
...
“We were nothing,” said he with an ease of voice, contented.
…
“He was my brother,” Twilight said, with a guilty look below.
…
On both the mountain top and the precipice, there came a meditative quiet, even in the midst of harried rushes.
“Then,” even the Captain showed hesitancy as she began this sentence, “why are we attacking Canterlot… in the winter?”
The Dragon King let out a relaxed breath, sinking ever more comfortably into his perch. “It was as I said. The city is the only thing that defends the mine lands… it was built as such a defense, after all. It is inevitable that we will have to take it.”
“But,” the Cartographer began, hesitating almost to a stop as The Dragon King turned a gaze onto his direction, “... I mean, my lord. Why not wait until more favorable winds are at our heels…” the Cartographer finished, stopping his sentence more than he ended it.
“We will have to take the city now if we are ever to take it,” The Dragon King answered with a sense of finality. A sudden blast of chill crashed onto them, warbling his final words; “...we can not think of ourselves at moments like this.”