My Little Warhammer 40,000: Penitence

Chapter 6: Secrets and Lies

As Mykel stepped into the castle’s great hall, he took note of how grass had found its way between the pavestones. The destroyed ceiling above laid this portion of the castle open to the sky. Nature does its best to reclaim this place, nonetheless.Marching forward, he noted six arches, three on either side, which led to other parts of the castle. Behind the arches, at the far end, two sets of stairs made a precise one hundred and eighty degree turn before meeting further up in the castle.

Picking a random archway, Mykel soon lost himself to the castle’s inner halls. He told himself that it was to scout the area and assess any possible threats, but he knew that it was actually to feel the comfort of stone walls around him. A gauntleted hand brushed the stone walls, uncaring that the fingers within them could not actually feel the brick. Each step sent up a small cloud of dust, revealing that no one had set foot in this place for a long time.

It took a long time before Mykel noted something interesting: he did not have to duck his head in order to navigate the castle’s interior. Clearly, these halls were meant to admit larger creatures. Is Zecora small for her kind, or was this castle meant for a different kind of creature altogether?

Mykel continued to wander, taking note of the strange sights before him. One hall contained several suits of armor, clearly meant for equine warriors. They would have been impressive were it not for their diminutive size. So, they are all that small, then. Then what does that make the Sisters? Surely, they cannot be of the same breed. The knight tried not to think of how that logic could be turned against him with the example of the primarchs.

Another hall contained a puzzle for him. Gazing down the hall, Mykel took note of strange, cylindrical shapes sticking out of the walls and holding torches. Not realizing their true identity, Mykel shrugged them off as unnecessarily complex torch sconces and continued onward.

As the afternoon wore on, more and more of the castle was revealed to him. Before making his way either further into the castle’s depths or upwards toward the obvious location of the throne room, Mykel resolved to check one more room. What had appeared to be yet another hallway was, in fact, a library. A small desk was set up in the center of the room with two downright tiny chairs, clearly meant for the former equine occupants. How do they even hold themselves upright in such a position? Surely, they must be top-heavy enough with those large heads that they could not hold themselves upright as men. Mykel shook his head as he tried to abandon approaching that idea with any sort of rational reasoning. Yesterday, the idea of a talking horse would have been ludicrous. You’re really going to waste your mental energy on something so trivial, instead?

Surrounding the table were shelves stuffed to the gills with books. Before the Imperium had arrived and changed the Order’s records from written word to digital, this was similar to how Aldurukh’s own collection had looked. Moving to one of the bookcases, Mykel looked on the spines of the books and gave a low gasp in surprise. Inscribed on each of the books was a title in Low Gothic. It is one thing to learn another people’s language, but to adopt their writing… What secrets do you hold, I wonder?

As Mykel reached for the books, unpleasant memories stayed his hand. There was another group in Caliban’s history that had sought the knowledge of Beasts for their own purposes. The Knights of Lupus had been obsessed with the lore of witchcraft and mutation. Such eager pursuit of forbidden knowledge, along with their secret program to breed the last of Caliban’s Great Beasts, had earned them the tips of the Order’s swords. Could he be falling into a similar trap?

In the end, Mykel decided to compromise. His hand stayed well away from books that clearly indicated magic, searching instead for more scientific titles. In doing so, however, one book in particular caught his eye. It bore a simple, unornamented cover with an interesting title: Past My Pages, Not My Lips. Pulling the book out from its spot, Mykel examined it a little more closely. The author’s name was stenciled in below the front title. “Starswirl the Bearded,” Mykel read aloud. He resisted the urge to roll his eyes. By the Circle, I hope that was the name he given and not a pen name that he picked for himself.

Setting the book down on the table, Mykel dubiously eyed the chairs. While he had been willing to test the bridge above the chasm earlier, Mykel felt no such compunction here. Going down on one knee beside the table, Mykel opened the cover. Immediately, the pages were nearly ripped out of the spine by the motion. He placed his hand quickly beside the pages and pushed them gently back in. Clearly, time had not been kind to these books, either. Gently, Mykel flipped the pages as he began to read. Luckily for him, this book had been designed for hooves and was much easier to handle for his gauntleted fingers than anything made by human scribes. This calligraphy is so precise… How does one write so well without any fingers?

The first few pages were a self-introduction by Starswirl. As talk began to turn to magical theory and the various advances he had made in that field, Mykel started to become uncomfortable with the idea of pressing forward any further. He could almost feel the lost souls of the Knights of Lupus reading over his shoulder, mocking him for his hypocrisy. Just as he was about the slam the book shut, however, one passage caught his eye. Soon, Mykel found himself intently reading the words of the long-dead scholar.

It is the nature of us mortals to forget. To be caught up in the now or the future and turn our backs to history. Well, I shall quote wisdom that is older than the Princesses themselves: ‘Those who do not learn from history are doomed to repeat it.’ In light of this fear, that our frail harmony may all collapse in on itself after all that we have worked through and sacrificed for, I shall leave this account so that our descendants may know of the titanic efforts undertaken to allow for peace.

Countless years ago, the world on which we stand was awash in the influence of Chaos. No records indicate if our first civilization came before or after the tide of madness. What is remembered is that it was a dark time, where fear, savagery, and cruel sacrifices were enacted to please distant deities. Discord, a servant of the powerful being known as the ‘Changer of Ways’, ruled over our lands like a foal given the iron crown of a tyrant.

No one remembers the name of the mare that finally managed to stand before Discord defiantly, nor is there any physical description of her. The Princesses, despite being pressed for details by historians, do not speak of her. All that has been recorded is that she used a golden magic that banished Chaos and acted as a beacon for our people. This indicates that she was at least a unicorn, but I would not be surprised if she was an alicorn. When this great hero turned Discord to stone, bestowing a fitting punishment upon an agent of mutation and shapeshifting, she then appointed her three daughters to ruling over the kingdom of Equestria before vanishing from history altogether. When asked why they were to only be princesses and not queens, or why their mother had not taken the position herself, silence once again met the inquiries of historians.

Two of these Princesses we know. Beloved Celestia, Princess of the Sun and Day, with a pure white coat and a mane like a rainbow. The fetchingly beautiful Luna, Princess of the Moon and Night, her coat the blue of the night sky and her mane a tapestry of stars. But too much effort has been put into forgetting the Third Princess, the third sister.

Her name, unfortunately, has been lost to the ages. What is remembered, however, is that she was subjected to a different burden than her sisters. Where Celestia and Luna are immortal to fulfill their duties in raising the sun and moon respectively, the third sister did not have such a luxury. She was achingly mortal, just as we are, but she was allowed to have what her sisters could not have: a bloodline. As the Princess of Love, a vital component of our society, she was able to pass on her title to one of her daughters. That way, even with the death of the previous Princess, love would still continue to exist in Equestria.

Well then, you might ask, why is she not venerated just as much, if not more, than her sisters? Sadly, revisionists seek to erase her from history not because of her sins, but the sins of one of her descendants. Princess Papilia, ruler of the Crystal Kingdom, was much adored by her subjects. When an Earth pony named Sombra began to court her, however, storm clouds began to gather over the Crystal Kingdom. At first, Papilia sealed herself away in her palace, refusing to address matters of state or resolve conflicts between her subjects. Rumors began to spread of her unhealthy infatuation with her new suitor and the long hours that were spent in the royal chambers rather than the throne room.

What seemed to be malicious slander, the sort that always greets new royalty with jealousy, was validated when she pronounced that Sombra was to become Emperor of the Crystal Kingdom and she was to be his Queen. Through some dark magic, Sombra had overcome his birthright and gained the horn of a unicorn. Little is known of what sorts of cruelty he visited upon his new subjects, but the one clear change he made was to attempt to mobilize an army to overthrow our neighboring kingdom of Equestria. Supposedly, long-forgotten armor designs that would enhance the strength of his legions would have been the key to his victory.

Fortunately for us, the Princesses reacted decisively and launched a preemptive strike against the Crystal Tyrant. They managed to seal him within the ice of the Frozen North, but at the cost of imprisoning the Crystal Empire as well. Only Princess Papilia was able to escape the disaster.

Her time with new lover had changed the Princess, and not for the better. Papilia’s once beautiful coat of black fur had fallen away to leave behind the shell of an insect. Her blue mane, once a source of pride and beauty, now lay limply across her neck. Open sores were present on her legs and horn from where she had worried at them. Papilia greeted her relatives with open hostility, demanding to know why they sought to separate her from her Dark Prince. As newly-formed fangs were bared at Celestia and Luna, a further surprise was revealed: Papilia carried a filly swaddled in blankets. Unrepentant for her role in Sombra’s uprising and madness, Papilia was banished. Her daughter, however, was taken in by the Princesses and continued the line of the Princess of Love.

Despite being exiled, I have no illusions that she has either died or lost her power. Somewhere, Papilia hides and nurses old wounds. I cannot imagine under what circumstances somepony like her would sink so low, but mark my words: only magic of Chaos can wreak such havoc. The secret to her corruption lies hidden in the past, but as long as the Crystal Empire joins Sombra in exile, the truth is lost to us…

We must be vigilant, now more than ever. It is clear to me that dark forces move unseen in the shadows, the barest glimpse seen flickering in the corners of our eyes when we focus on something else. The Ruinous Powers hate the harmony that we have constructed for ourselves with a strength that only Virtues can withstand. The greatest changes to rock our world have not come from grand battles or meetings of world leaders, but from our own bedrooms. As we sit in the night and think about what our lives are, what they have been, and what they will become, the choices that we make in those moments will shape the future of Equestria. I can only hope that we prove worthy of the power that has been entrusted to us…

Secrets

Unbeknownst to Mykel, there was no home for him to go back to. Caliban, the once-proud home of the Dark Angels Legion, had been sundered in the battle between the Lion’s and Luther’s forces. The remnants of the world hung in space, shattered into billions of pieces by the Chaotic forces that rent it asunder. In the wake of the destruction, only one piece of the planet survived intact: the stone upon which the great castle of the Order had stood. This asteroid-sized chunk was fittingly named the Rock. Aldurukh had been severely damaged after the duel between Luther and the Lion; it sat ruined and abandoned on top of the Rock and was now known as the Tower of Angels.

The Warp-drive that had been placed within the Rock had allowed it to escape the clinging grip of a dead world’s gravity. It now sat in space, standing sentinel in the Cadian subsector as the Eye of Terror hung in the galactic distance like a harbinger of doom. This mobile fortress-monastery dwarfed even the largest of battleships and its sides bristled with defenses; gun turrets, lance batteries, and torpedo tubes across its bulk promised swift death to any attackers. Large docking bays, yawning in the Rock’s surface like a Beast’s mouth, housed craft ranging in size from fighter class all the way up to frigates. Most deadly of all, however, were the armored figures that walked within the depths of the Rock.

Inside the fortress, all was quiet. The quiet hung in the air with many emotions; grim determination, shame, nostalgia, and caged resentment all made themselves known simultaneously. Its dark corridors were lit by archaic torches that eagerly consumed incense. Giant armored figures walked slowly through the halls. Whenever they spoke, it was in hushed tones to avoid breaking the forced sense of peace. Armor of black, white, or green denoted each battle-brother’s ranking in the Chapter hierarchy. Dark Angels of both the parent and successor Chapters made their way through the labyrinthine tunnels carved into rock like a worm’s burrow. These figures regularly walked past doors that had been sealed with both iron chains and holy inscriptions. Some of these portals guarded rooms filled with ancient archeotech, such as the forcefield that safeguarded the Rock. Others just barely managed to hold back screams and shouted questions as… renegades and informants were interrogated by the Chaplains.

Within a cell that had more psychic protection than physical, a Space Marine attempted to meditate and pick out individual strands from the tapestry of Fate. Olive skin crinkled around his eyes as he focused his concentration inward and outward. As a Librarian, his job was to observe the Warp and use his knowledge to help his brothers and combat the immaterial. The Librarians of the Dark Angels and their successor Chapters, however, had another task that was kept secret: hunting for signs of the Fallen.

Deep within the safety of the Rock, the Astartes sat cross-legged without either armor or psychic hood. Only a sturdy bed of metal and a small shrine, dedicated to both the Lion and the Emperor, topped with candles burning low occupied the room. The lack of light was no problem, for the Librarian’s eyes were turned inward as visions of impossible color and blurred images danced across his mind. Zaphkiel sought out any clue in this web of possibility that he could find, weeding out the lies and half-truths that the spirits of the Warp were so fond of using to mislead mortals.

Suddenly, the Librarian found his psychic wards sorely tested. Scrabbling claws and fangs tested his defenses, seeking an entrance. Realizing quickly that he had somehow attracted the attention of a powerful force, Zaphkiel forced his consciousness back into his body and opened his eyes-

Standing before him in the dim light of the cell was Asgaroth, one of the Interrogator-Chaplains of the Deathwing. Although Zaphkiel was more familiar with the Chaplain than most, it still sometimes made him nervous to be under the man’s judgmental gaze. Like Zaphkiel, Asgaroth had taken leave of his armor to wear a simple black robe. The only concession to breaking the shadow of his outline was the white hood he wore with forest green trim… and the bone-white skull mask that covered his face.

It was not lost on Zaphkiel that despite the Chaplain’s lack of battle-dress, the Interrogator had still armed himself with his Crozius Arcanum before entering the room. A power mace with a head shaped like a winged sword, it was both his primary weapon and a badge of office. Taking deep, controlled breaths to stop the cold sweat breaking out across his body, Zaphkiel did not move from his position on the floor. Was I truly so entranced that I did not hear the door open or his boots as he strode across the room? Why does he come so armed, as if I was one of the Fallen? Is my doubt that obvious…?

Asgaroth finally broke the silence. His voice was harsh like a whip crack and laced with veiled threat. “From what little I saw, brother, the Warp is severely taxing you. Take care that you do not delve too deeply into its secrets or drink too much from such a font of power, for that path lies to ruin… and your final repentance.” The Chaplain held his Crozius up meaningfully.

Rising smoothly to his feet, Zaphkiel let his own white robe settle before replying. “I try to pierce to veil that we may find more of our traitorous brethren, but some unseen force confounds my efforts. It is as if the closer I get to the truth, the harder it pushes back.”

“Luckily for you, Epistolary, our spies have been able to see what you cannot,” Asgaroth commented derisively. “One of the traitors has finally reared his head on a near-forgotten world. Its inhabitants do not seem to have access to even basic firearms, so this should be a simple matter of retrieval. Still, we shall go clad in the full raiment of the Deathwing. Go down to the armory and ready yourself, brother. When you are equipped, meet with our squad down in the primary docking bay. We shall leave aboard the Deliverance of Traitors in two hours.” Without another word, the Chaplain left the room… and Zaphkiel to his thoughts.

Hours later, the Librarian made his way through the stone corridors of the Rock toward the docking bay. Now encased in full Terminator plate, painted sky blue to denote his position in the Librarium, Zaphkiel took up a large portion of the corridor. The tip of his force staff tapped in rhythm with the tramp of his large boots; the weapon’s head was crowned with the statue of a hooded angel holding aloft a sword. Zaphkiel’s mouth and nose were covered by a metallic mask. In the event of a hull breach or some other incident depriving him of air, its systems would keep him alive. Since the psychic hood he wore jabbed its many needles into the back of his skull, Zaphkiel could not wear a helmet and had to rely on the barbaric looking apparatus. Still, he wore it, for he had learned too much and seen too much go wrong to let such an oversight be the death of him.

As he walked, he spotted two diminutive hooded figures approaching him from further down the hall. Hidden beneath brown robes, only their red eyes could be seen. Seeing that they were engrossed in some silent conversation, Zaphkiel stopped and let the two figures pass respectfully. The Watchers in the Dark were a mystery, even to those in the Inner Circle, but he had no doubt that every task that they performed was of the utmost importance. It was said that the greatest heroes of the Dark Angels were blessed by their presence. He could only hope that one day he would receive such an honor.

Eventually, Zaphkiel reached the docking bay with minutes to spare. He took an indulging moment to stand in awe of the spectacle around him. Massive starships, kilometers long, competed for space with scores of fighter-class defensive craft. Spurts of binary code and shouted orders rang through the air as Techmarines, Chapter serfs, and servitors all scrambled to either prepare the craft for take-off or initiate repair machine-rites. The colors of each vessel ran the gamut between shades of green, ash white, black, and silver. Though the majority of them belonged to the Dark Angels proper, there were a few other vessels in dock that belonged to visiting successor Chapters. Unlike other First Founding Chapters, the Dark Angels made no distinction between themselves and their descendants; all of them together were the Unforgiven.

After searching, Zaphkiel finally found the ship’s name painted on the side of one of the larger vessels in the docking bay. Despite how the vessel compared to the others in scale, running at thirteen hundred meters, the Librarian was surprised at how small it was. A simple Hunter-class Destroyer escort ship? Asgaroth seems confident in his informants’ intelligence regarding the natives’ technological levels. For most hunts for the Fallen, at least a Strike Cruiser was thought to be prudent. The choice of a smaller craft signified either a need for stealth or confidence in a lack of real resistance. Being a torpedo boat, the Hunter did not even possess orbital bombardment ordinance to support ground forces. Let us hope that that is a good sign.

Making his way down the metal stairs to the bay’s floor, Zaphkiel was grateful to find that the dock workers were giving him a wide berth. How much was due to the hulking ten feet of Terminator plate or the clear blue of the Librarius, he could not say. The additional height also proved useful as it allowed him to see over the heads of even his fellow Astartes and spot similarly clad warriors waiting at the ship’s base.

From what he could see, six members of the Deathwing stood waiting for his arrival. Five of them were garbed in the traditional white of the Deathwing, a color that represented ash and bone instead of purity. They carried among them an assault cannon, a storm bolter, a heavy flamer, a thunder hammer and storm shield, and a strange combination of lightning claws and bolter. To complement their ranged weaponry, three of the five armed themselves with power fists on their off-hand. The individual with the odd combination of claw weaponry towered even over the other Terminators, standing at eleven feet in his Tactical Dreadnought armor. His weapons consisted of four retractable claws on each wrist flanking three bolter barrels. A clip of ammunition extended from the bottom of each arm, clearly allowing for ease of reloading.

As for the sixth squadmate, Zaphkiel already knew who he was. Garbed in black Terminator armor and a skull-patterned helmet covering his head, Asgaroth cut an impressive figure. A Rosarius dangled around the Chaplain’s neck and fresh purity seals, their wax still cooling, were pressed to his armor.

Despite the differences in color and personal effects, all seven of them shared two things. The Crux Terminatus, each of which was purported to hold a small fragment of the Emperor’s own armor, covered the left pauldron of each set of armor. On the right side, the Deathwing First Company symbol was displayed for all to see: a downturned red sword stabbing through a circular disc on a background of ash white.

Acknowledging the Chaplain with a nod, Zaphkiel respectfully asked, “Are we ready to leave?”

“No,” replied Asgaroth with clear resentment. “Sadly, we wait upon a few brothers from the Ravenwing to join us. Were it not for the distances that we might have to cover to find our traitor, I would be content to leave them here and press on.”

“Then that gives us a little time.” Turning to regard the others, Zaphkiel found a sudden burden thrust onto his shoulders. His voice was quiet and contemplative as he recited their names.

“Israfil.” The brother bearing the flamer looked quizzically at the Librarian.

“Haniel.” A nod was returned from the brother bearing the shield and hammer.

“Hofniel.” Stillness greeted him as the warrior armed with the storm bolter stared back.

“Baradiel.” The tip of the assault cannon was raised to the ceiling as the brother saluted.

Zaphkiel stared at the last brother and gave a grateful smile.

“Temeluk.” Stepping forward, the giant placed a gauntleted hand upon the Librarian’s shoulder. Zaphkiel returned the gesture, albeit by clasping an arm instead, before Temeluk stepped back.

There was no need for Zaphkiel to acknowledge Asgaroth. Even had they been in identical suits of armor, each would have known the other well enough. Still, purpose drove Zaphkiel to look Asgaroth in the eye. He spoke directly at the Chaplain, but it was clear that his words were meant for all of them.

“I am glad to see that we serve together again. It is just as well that all the shards of the blade have been brought back together, that it may be reforged from its broken state.” Zaphkiel paused as a sudden and quiet tension filled the air. He blew a sigh before continuing. “Brothers, I know that our failure still hangs over you. It haunts me, as well. However, we cannot let it detract from our purpose here. This is a chance to redeem ourselves, to prove ourselves worthy of the Lion and the Emperor. We may have lost a world, but we will bring a renegade to justice.” Firm conviction filled his words.

“The fires of Perdition tested us sorely, but never once did you falter or shirk your duty. You stood strong and gave the enemy every reason to turn back. Let the past be the past. We will not forget what the greenskins did to us, but we have a higher obligation to uphold. Just know that, no matter what happens, I am proud to fight alongside you. Every one. If I am to finally stand before the Emperor and await his judgment, let it be in this company.”

An uncomfortable silence greeted the Librarian’s candid words. The memories of that bloodbath, that mere diversion compared to the real battle that had been waged at Armageddon, still left the bitter tang of failure in their mouths. Clearly, they had not expected anyone to speak of it so openly. For his part, Zaphkiel expected Asgaroth to reprimand him for stepping on his toes and giving a speech before departure. Such oratory was clearly the duty and privilege of a Chaplain, not a Librarian. When Asgaroth finally spoke, however, his voice was strangely subdued and respectful. “Well spoken, Brother Epistolary.”

The tramp of approaching boots broke the quiet reflection of the moment. All seven of the Deathwing observed as two black-armored members of the Second Ravenwing Company advanced rapidly toward them. Clad in modern Mark VII power armor, the two Astartes had their helmets hanging from their belts. Instead of the red sword on white of the Deathwing, their right pauldrons carried the white winged talon grasping a sword on a background of black. Despite the similarity of their garb, the two Ravenwing battle-brothers could not have been any more different. One of them had pale skin and a closely-shaven band of red hair that went only across the middle of his scalp. A pair of bolt pistols hung from his belt as he approached the group in a business-like manner. The other was of a much darker skin color and kept his head bald. His chainsword clanked against his leg as he walked toward the waiting Deathwatch with something approaching eagerness.

When they were finally close enough, the pistoleer spoke first in a clipped voice. His accent reminded Zaphkiel of the rare occasions he had met with the Storm Wardens. “My apologies for our tardiness, Chaplain, but there was a hiccup in the machine-spirits with regards to requesting fuel for our bikes. Wouldn’t want to be caught on a strange world with empty fuel tanks, now would we?”

“I would not speak of the machine-spirits in such a manner while within the confines of the docking bay, brother. This is the domain of the Techmarines and they would not take kindly to you insulting the Omnissiah’s gifts so.” Unlike most of his rebukes, Asgaroth did not deliver this one with malice.

The other Ravenwing biker nudged him. “He’s right, you know. You’ve had a screw loose for years. Wouldn’t want you catching the attention of a Techmarine and have them tighten that screw with one of those fancy Martian power axes, now would we?” Though the swordsman mocked his brother’s earlier words, there was no real disrespect in his voice. How does one like him maintain such a demeanor in the Ravenwing, Zaphkiel wondered.

The first biker rolled his eyes wearily and pointed a thumb toward the other. “This is Brother Rahatiel. Lucky for us, his bike and sword-arm are as fast as his mouth. I am Ansiel. My job is to keep this one here in check.”

“You wound me, brother. Am I truly such a burden?”

“In the legends of ancient Terra, there was a Titan tasked with bearing the weight of the Earth itself. You make me feel like that, sometimes.”

“If we are quite finished,” Asgaroth interjected with growing impatience. The two Ravenwing snapped to attention with eyes facing forward. Placated, Asgaroth swept his gaze over the eight other Astartes. “As you know, our sources have tracked our prey to an isolated world.” Within the confines of the docking bay, where the ears of those outside of the Inner Circle might accidentally catch snippets of conversation, Asgaroth avoided direct mention of their target. “I will not reveal the rest until we are already under way, but take comfort in this: this world is not far away. Soon, the enemy shall know the full extent of our wrath and beg for forgiveness for his crimes. Let us embark, for the Lion and the Emperor!” Asgaroth held his Crozius aloft in emphasis. The fists, hammers, and claws of his brother rose alongside it.

“Yes! We shall teach this renegade the folly of pledging his allegiance to Horus, the Great Betrayer,” Rahatiel proclaimed proudly. Ansiel nodded in support of the notion.

None of the Deathwing uttered a word in response.

Ᾰnd

Deep within the Everfree Forest, far from both the prying eyes of ponies and the stony ruins of the Castle of the Sisters, a simple yawning hole sat in a rock face. Barely big enough to qualify as a cave, it nevertheless served as the entrance to the lair of the forest’s most cunning denizens. It connected down to a series of labyrinthine tunnels that resembled an anthill more than a base of operations.

In the dark of these tight places, the murk only broken by the light of specially grown fungus shaped into dangling orbs, four-legged creatures scurried and flitted to and fro. An outsider regarding them from afar could be forgiven for mistaking them for ponies, for these denizens did indeed match the shape of Equestria’s primary inhabitants. Whenever they passed through the light of the fungus, however, their true nature became much more apparent. Almost all of them had black hides made of chitin rather than hair. Holes perforated their legs, further enhancing the skeletal aspect granted by the soft sheen and rigid-edged smoothness of their carapaces. Rather than white eyes surrounding pupils, almost all of them had blue eyes surrounding a slightly lighter “pupil” in the center of their visual orbs. Insect-like wings, predominantly translucent green, buzzed on their backs. Twin fangs jutted from below their upper mandible, lending them a predatory look. Such an impression was fitting for a race that hid in the shadows and preyed on the weak, away from the blinding light of the sun or the moon’s damning gaze. For these were the changelings.

Of course, despite how similar they all appeared at first glance, there were occasional differences between them. Aberrant colors, differences in fang length, and other, more… interesting mutations occasionally made themselves known. Despite the best efforts of their supreme leader, the creation of these changelings did not always result in a perfect, carbon-copy drone. Such differences only made them the subject of more scrutiny and harsher tests, for only the Queen was worthy of respect, recognition, and devotion.

Luckily for one changeling walking slowly through the confines of their hidden base, his differences were not that noticeable. His only defect was having three pairs of smaller fangs instead of the prominent double fang pair expected of a drone. More aberrant to his fellow changelings, however, was his behavior. It took physical effort for him not to merrily bounce his way to the Queen’s chamber and receive his assignment.

Yes, his assignment! He was so excited that it was everything he could do not to vibrate himself out of his shell. Queen Chrysalis, unquestioned ruler of the changelings, was to give him his own personal mission! His mind filled itself with visions of him daringly infiltrating Canterlot Castle itself, cunningly making his way through its hierarchy and gaining the royals’ trust. Then, in a dramatic flash of green light, he would reveal his true form and incapacitate the surprised Princesses!

His beloved Queen Chrysalis would settle upon Celestia’s throne and lavish praise on him for his brave and wicked involvement in the takeover of Equestria. And then, when the changelings conquered more of the land, he himself would be raised to high status! All would know the devious mind and low cunning of Daggert, changeling special agent! He resisted the temptation to throw his head back and laugh in his raspy voice, wings buzzing as they lifted him up in the air to sweep his arms dramatically.

He wanted to be special, but he couldn’t be. Not yet. He had to earn it first.

Daggert paused and let a pair of drones go by, hauling a struggling pony along with gooey, sticky strands of green webbing. The pony’s voice was ragged with breathing, no doubt from screaming earlier. Even though hope quickly began to die in the captive’s eyes, the pony’s eyes darted as they sought escape. As those eyes met Daggert for a fraction of a second, silent pleading caused them to water. Soon enough, however, the moment passed and the pony continued to be dragged down the corridor.

The interaction produced no real reaction from Daggert. The hive needed the love provided by ponies in order to survive. That deliciously sweet positive feeling filled a void in the very core of their being. Sometimes, the changelings were forced to kidnap ponies to drain on the love that their captives possessed for their families, but just as often ponies made the unwise decision to visit out-of-the-way places either alone or in pairs.

That having been said, Daggert didn’t get any sort of sick pleasure watching the prey item give in to despair. There were some among the changelings that did indulge in that – Daggert suppressed a shudder as he remembered how fond the Queen was of it – but it was not something that he particularly enjoyed. He didn’t want to starve and so the pony could just deal with it. Continuing on his way, Daggert turned his thoughts back to imaginings of his grand assignment.

Finally reaching the entrance to the Royal Chamber, Daggert found himself stopped by a rather tall changeling. The sentry in question was one of the hive’s most stand-out drones, which was rather unfortunate when the Queen looked to cast blame. His chitin was a ghostly white, a comparison only made stronger by the holes present in his legs. Dull pink eyes, alert and discerning, regarded Daggert as the changeling grew near. At first wary, the mutant’s stance relaxed as he fully recognized the newcomer.

“Daggert,” the sentry asked with restrained exasperation in a voice that echoed even more hollowly than a regular changeling’s, “have you seriously come to petition the Queen again? If you keep at this, the day will fast approach when she silences your boasting with a snap of her jaws.” His tone was less about personal concern and more the lecture a teacher gave when telling young colts to not stick their tongues to a frozen lamppost.

The smaller changeling waved off the idea. “No need to worry about me, Heindall.” Daggert’s response came out smugly in his high, nasal voice. “As it turns out, I,” he placed a digit upon his chest proudly, “have been requested to the Queen’s presence to receive a royal mission.” A smug grin worked its way onto Daggert’s snout as he gazed up at the taller changeling.

Heindall’s chitinous brow lowered in puzzlement. “You?” When Daggert’s expression didn’t falter, the only word that could escape from Heindall’s fangs was “huh”. Heindall shrugged his shoulders slightly. “Wonders never cease. Very well, Daggert. You may proceed.” The sentry moved aside to allow Daggert past. Head held proudly high, Daggert walked past with excessive solemnity. Of course, once he was clear on the other side of the entrance, Daggert skipped in place like an excited schoolfilly.

That glee died in its crib when he heard a snarling growl make its way towards him. Where Heindall’s mutations had been the result of several hitches in the Conversion process, the creation of the creature that stepped up to Daggert had gone all too well. Gnawdhogg was its name, a being that only barely qualified as a changeling. Queen Chrysalis had certainly broken the mold with her latest experiment to create a proper warrior caste. An entire mouthful of fangs gaped obscenely in Gnawdhogg’s maw as perforated masseter muscle was exposed in the corners, linking the two jaws together and allowing for frightening bite force. Pronounced bony claws scraped against the floor, having traded places with hooves on the experiment’s feet. A scorpion tail reared up from Gnawdhogg’s abdomen, its end barbed and wicked sharp. Slitted blue eyes regarded himself with equal parts disgust and hunger.

It was no secret that Queen Chrysalis fed underperforming or disobedient drones to this monster, who gladly ate the flesh of its kin. Much more on the secretive side were the rumors that Chrysalis used it to satisfy… her other needs. Personally, Daggert never felt the need to bring that subject up. I like my insides on the inside, thank you very much.

Unfortunately for Daggert, it was clear from past encounters that Gnawdhogg felt no sense of companionship for the changeling. In fact, only the lack of a command from the Queen stopped the living weapon from spreading Daggert’s ichor all over the walls as it shook the life from his limp body. As much as Gnawdhogg enjoyed the feeling of ripping through flesh and spilling life’s blood, it dared not anger its Queen by acting prematurely.

That was small comfort for Daggert as he chuckled nervously and saluted Gnawdhogg. “Er, hey there, Gnawdhogg… You, uh… Your teeth are looking particularly nasty today. Did you sharpen them on your own, or did you have some help with, uh… someone else?” Its eyes glared at him unblinkingly, a drooling tongue running over its teeth. Daggert wasn’t sure if Gnawdhogg was actually hearing what he was saying. As he spoke, Daggert slowly made his way around the monster without turning his back. “I, uh… I gotta run. Important meeting with the Queen and all, hehe.” As Daggert turned around, he heard the snarl and whipping of a tail behind him and readied himself for the end of his life. A cold voice, echoing with old power and hate fueled by magic, uttered one simple word in the space of the chamber. “Stop.”

The gaping maw of fangs snapped shut behind the cowering Daggert and Gnawdhogg lowered its head with a surprised whimper. Meanwhile, Daggert opened his clenched shut eyes and discovered that he was, in point of fact, not being torn to shreds. Gnawdhogg slowly backed away, wings dipped low like a scolded puppy’s ears. Looking up, Daggert finally laid his eyes open the other side of the Royal Chamber.

Despite the nature of its occupant, decoration inside the room was rather restricted. Only specially crafted magical lamps of glowing green flame broke the gloom inside. Such darkness was no problem for a changeling, but would prove greatly disconcerting to any other “guests” brought to the Queen’s presence. The Queen herself sat upon a throne carved from a great chunk of limestone. Pores within the rock, normally unsightly, only served to complement the organic feel of the hive and the long, slender, hole-ridden legs that rested upon them. Nearly twice as tall as any of her subjects, Queen Chrysalis already cut an impressive figure with the dainty black crown upon her head. The symbol of her office looked more like an organic growth of blue fungus atop black stalks than anything forged of metal.

In many ways, the Queen was a dark of reflection of – shut up, dummy, don’t even think about her or the Queen will feed you to the fungus farms – a certain Princess of the more… “sunny” variety. Black chitin instead of white fur, a limp mane of blue instead of a flowing rainbow, and a fanged, smug smile that dripped with cruelty instead of kindness. Slitted, green cat-like eyes regarded him with a certain clinical detachment, as if Daggert was indeed the insect that ponies claimed changelings to be. The horn atop her head, crooked and bladed and tipped with a lethal spike, glowed green with fell magic as Chrysalis raised a hole-ridden hoof to beckon Daggert to her. “Come closer, my aspiring little spy. I want to show you something.”

On the way up to the chamber, Daggert had been filled with excitement. Now irony struck him as all he wanted to do was run and escape the judging gaze of the being before him. Swallowing to reduce the dryness in his mouth, Daggert crept forward as he obeyed the Queen’s command.

Once she had judged that the little changeling had come close enough, the green light around Chrysalis’s horn intensified and an ethereal green mirror appeared before Daggert. Gazing curiously within its depths, Daggert found himself gazing at an old stone fortress somewhere within the Everfree Forest. Chrysalis’s voice broke his confusion.

“My scouts have reported that some new creature has taken up residence within the ruins. It has aided a pony against predators, so we must assume that it is an enemy.” The image within shifted, showing a two-legged being that strangely reminded Daggert of another changeling. Covered in black plates and feet like hooves, just like us… The red eyes are very different, though… And what about those sticky little things at the ends of its top limbs? Claws?

“You are to find this creature and kill it.” The Queen’s declaration broke him out of his reverie. “I don’t care how it gets done; just see that it is done. When you have finally dealt with it, bring the body back to the hive and we shall see what we can learn from it.” Chrysalis leaned back in her throne and lifted her head up imperiously. “This is your chance for greatness, Daggert. See that you do not disappoint me, or I will make you wish that I had never picked you out of the Swarm.”

Raising a hoof in salute, Daggert stuck his chest out and stated proudly, “I will commit this terrible deed, for you and the hive! Colts and fillies will speak in hushed voices around their hearths in the dark of midwinter night of the unspeakable carnage I shall inflict!” Chrysalis rolled her eyes at the contradiction. Daggert extended his hoof in questioning. “Now, my Queen, I ask of you: do you wish for it to know its killer, or should its last moments in this life be spent wondering what horror finally brought its end? I’ve really been working on my maniacal laugh and I just thought that-“

“I don’t care!” Leaning forward in her throne, Chrysalis’s yell made her displeasure known. Her eyes were wide and dangerous, fangs bared menacingly. Daggert flinched. “I already said that I don’t care. Get it done and do not return until the task has been completed. Have I made myself perfectly clear?”

Daggert knew that his luck would run short if he did not leave immediately to carry out his orders. He settled for one last obsequious bow and whispered reverently in a loud voice, “As you wish… my Queen.” Wings flapped on Daggert’s back as he tossed himself airborne before making a turn in the air and speeding out of the Royal Chamber. So excited was he that he didn’t even notice Gnawdhogg’s hungry eyes following him the entire way out. Neither did he see Chrysalis holding a hoof to her forehead to ease the sudden headache.

Heindall watched the other changeling leave, a growing sense of unease gnawing at an already hungry belly. Why send only one changeling, and an untested one at that, as an assassin against a supposedly dangerous target? Turning into the chamber, Heindall poked his head in and looked askance at his Queen. Voicing his doubts aloud would have been considered treason, but the look on his face was expressive enough. He’s not coming back, is he, Heindall silently asked his Queen. A bloodthirsty grin was all the answer that he needed. Her eyes glittered with malice. Suppressing a sigh, Heindall turned back around and resumed his post.

So. Either Daggert somehow succeeds with his mission and the Queen reaps the benefits… or the true nature of the mission rears its ugly head and removes Daggert’s from his shoulders. Either an enemy or an upstart is removed from the board and the Queen continues to move her pawns.

Tread very carefully, Daggert. The assassin on his mission is the one who least suspects the knife in the dark…

Lies

Mykel spent what was left of the afternoon poring over old tomes and seeing what he could learn. Even with the attempt to avoid explicitly magical topics, it soon became clear that this was a land whose traditions were steeped in psychic might. The imprisonment of Beasts in the underground realm of Tartarus, the nature of Cutie Marks – Mykel suppressed the urge to hawk acidic spit -, the banishment of Princess Luna, the founding of Equestria on Hearth’s Warming Eve… All these events made heavy references to magic, but most of it was in a positive light. Of course it is. Most of these books seem to have been written by psykers and witches. Yet another world fallen to a magocracy.

Still, if each of these Marks, he refused to call them by their full name, are of a magical nature, then why can’t all of them use that magic? Zecora seems unable to perform psychic phenomena. Each answer led to only more questions, but Mykel could almost feel the slope slipping under his feet as curiosity drove him further toward witchery.

He needed to think. To that end, Mykel set his latest book down on the table and continuing his walking patrol of the palace. A full moon shone gloriously through what was left of the roof as he made his inevitable way to the throne room.

Sure enough, two low-seated thrones were present at the end of a raised dais. One sat beneath the banner of a blazing sun while its companion rested below a crescent moon. Even despite the disrepair, however, Mykel couldn’t help but feel that something else was out-of-place. The symmetry of the room seemed… broken, for lack of a better word. It was if the two thrones seen were too small for its space.

Just as he was about to investigate his suspicions, however, Mykel’s sensors picked up the very faint sound of flapping wings. Even with the prior warning, the Astartes barely had enough time to duck behind one of the side entrance archways before the sound of hooves clacked against the stone floor. After a brief moment, the clacking approached closer. Has something learned of my presence here? A guardian or a scavenger?

Daring to take a peek around the arch, Mykel found that the newcomer was not even looking at him. Its gaze – her gaze, he was sure – was locked onto the two thrones. Instantly, Mykel recognized the alicorn from her description in accounts. A mane of stars, hide of blue, the crescent moon Mark… She was significantly taller than Zecora, but there was no doubt. Mykel now shared the same space as the fabled Princess Luna of Equestria, Lady of Night.

And from what Mykel had read, last seen possessed by a demon of shadows.

His grip tightened around the pommel of his sword as it stayed locked to his back. What sort of power can move a body between its orbiting moon and the planet below? Powerful wizardry, indeed. There was only one reasonable course of action. Mykel had to press the advantage rapidly and take her by surprise before she could bring her magic to bear. He moved his arm smoothly to disengage the mag-lock on his back quietly and grabbed the hilt of his sword with both hands. The Astartes took deep breaths; his armor recognized this behavior and began pumping stimulants into his body to enhance his perception and quicken his blood.

Steeling himself, Mykel quickly rounded the corner and charged toward the exiled Princess. Though he had contained the war cry in his throat, it was difficult for Mykel to cloak the thudding of his armored boots as he speeded toward her like a train. Looking up, the Princess’s eyes widened in shock as a pair of soulless red eyes and a massive blade that sheened in the moonlight closed rapidly toward her. Luna’s reaction was instinctual. Her horn glowed with a blue magical aura and the Space Marine found himself suddenly halted in his tracks. Despite his enhanced musculature and the aid of his powered armor, Mykel felt himself unable to move and powerless as he was encased in the same blue aura. A cold sense of foreboding washed over him as the equine royal looked crossly at the intruder. When she spoke, it was in a voice that was clearly psychically enhanced. “Who art thou that would ambush Us in the sanctity of Our own throne room? Thou art clearly not a pony. Neither do We recognize thy form from among Equestria’s allies. Speak quickly, least We lose patience and send thee sailing through the night sky as penance for thy skulkery.”

High Gothic? Strain entered Mykel’s voice as he continued to struggle. This effort, combined with the metallic vocal component of his helm, turned his voice into even more of a snarl than usual. “I do not fear you, witchbreed! I have heard of your dabbling into the dark arts and the suffering that you put your people through before your own sister had to banish you! I would do this world a great favor to rid it of the likes of you!”

Luna was silent for a long time, staring at the halted Space Marine. Great was Mykel’s surprise when tears began to form in the Princess’s eyes. Her voice quavered, as did her magic’s hold on him. His fingers began to twitch experimentally as they tested the ensnaring force. “Doth thou thinkest that the same thought hath not occurred to Us? That We are unaware of what hath been wrought by Our own resentment and would not have welcomed death as an alternative to the results of Our actions?” Mykel stopped his struggles for a moment as the unexpected answer caught him off-guard.

Closing her eyes and heaving a sigh that almost turned into a sob, Luna continued, “We were a jealous ruler. In Our quest for recognition, We nearly condemned Our people to eternal night… and their eventual deaths. Were it not for the Elements of Harmony, Our corrupted self would have doomed this world.” Mykel’s brow lowered in puzzlement beneath his helm. The Elements… Where did I see that term? Luna looked regretfully toward the Solar Throne. “Only the kindness and forgiveness of Our beloved sister have given Us the strength to rise from the ground and not submit to the world’s judgment. We had hoped that by coming here, We would be able to retread Our steps and find some measure of closure.” Realizing that she was staring off into space, Luna shook her head and returned her attention to her would-be assailant. “Instead, We find thee.”

“Do not look down thy nose at me, psyker, unless thou doth wish to look down the point of my sword,” Mykel shot back in High Gothic. He’d had some practice back on Caliban, where uppity Terran bureaucrats and trendy lords needed to be reminded that a simple manner of speaking was not indicative of worthiness. Luna, for her part, looked aghast. Clearly, she was not used to being spoken to in such a manner. Mykel pressed his advantage.

“I see clearly the trap that this world has fallen into. You alicorns, the psychic elite, build your empires on the backs of your mundane brethren and use your magic to keep them in line. You keep them in the Dark Ages that they may not rise up and triumph over your foul sorcery with science and reason!”

“Do not seek to scandalize Us with uncouth slander! We bear real love for our subjects and do not threaten them with violence for their loyalty, unlike some that We could mention,” was Luna’s heated reply.

“Then how do you explain the lies and conspiracies that plague your history? The torn-down legacy of your mother and forgotten sister? Who is the King of this land?”

Luna’s expression was torn between reluctant admission and uncertainty. “The choice to remove… Our sister’s throne was to set an example. Our fragile harmony was not to be threatened by mad quests for power or self-indulgence. We loved Our sister, dearly, but sadly her bloodline was as a tree with strong roots that eventually came to bear rotten fruit. Her descendants are still royalty and entrusted with Love, but the memory has tarnished that seat forever.”

“Just like yours,” Mykel barked harshly.

A weak nod replied. “Aye, like Ours… This castle has been abandoned for a thousand years. Our sister, Celestia, now resides in Canterlot Castle and has taken up the mantle of monarch for centuries. As for Mother… She left us. We were sorry to see Her go, but She insisted. Said that there was much work for Her to do and that She had faith that we would find the strength to govern Ourselves. And the King… We truly do not know. Mother never truly spoke of him; She only said that one day he would come and We would serve under him. But that day never came and so She took to the skies.”

“How convenient for you all. A promised messiah that never comes, leaving you all as stewards to prepare for his coming and carry out his orders.” Mykel scoffed. “I would be more impressed if mankind’s history was not so thoroughly plagued with such trickery.”

“We committed no trickery. If Mother said that there was to be a King, then We believe Her. We cannot fathom under what circumstance he would leave his throne empty, but here We are. We have been assigned a duty and will carry it out as such.”

“If that is the case, then who has been responsible for the moon?”

“Celestia.” Luna was clearly uncomfortable with it. “Though now that We have returned, We seek to regain Our strength that We may return to Our duty and relieve a load from her shoulders.”

“…Why should I believe a single word of what you say?”

The look that Luna gave him could have frozen a lake. “Because if We were still Nightmare Moon, possessed by the Tantabus, We would entertain Ourselves with snapping thy bones one-by-one instead of conversation. Or perhaps a trip to the moon would be more to thy liking?”

Reluctantly, Mykel was forced to acknowledge the observation that holding him back did not seem to even take conscious effort for her. “I still do not trust you.” He would not relent.

“Nor We thou, for our first meeting has consisted of thine attempt at regicide. But… Our sister tells Us that forgiveness is the only way that progress is made between enemies. So…” The light from her horn faded and Mykel found that his body could now move freely. Luna gazed at him expectantly. “We are willing to forgive thy bad manners, if thou art willing to sheathe thy sword and make peace instead of war.”

For a moment, the stranger stood still and glared at Luna. Eventually, however, the sword found its way into its customary position on Mykel’s back. “Don’t make me regret this, witch.”

“We will not.” A small smile of welcome worked its way onto Luna’s snout. It reminded Mykel of how Zecora had looked when she welcomed a complete stranger into her own home.

“Now, if thou wouldst join Us, We go to the site of Our defeat so that We might rejoice at Our second chance.” Perplexed by such a statement, Mykel followed behind slightly as Luna found her way to a chamber that Mykel had passed through earlier. His eyes darted around, wary of a trap. The only notable feature was the sculpture in the middle: a round orb mounted on a platform and surrounded by pedestals. Luna looked around the room; the conflicting feelings that tore at her were plain as day on the Princess of Night.

“It was here that Nightmare Moon was struck down and We were returned to Our sister. We wish that more of this statue was intact to commemorate the occasion, but the other stone orbs were sadly shattered during the conflict.”

While Luna was engrossed with the memory, however, Mykel found his eyes drawn to the center orb as if it was a lodestone. Stepping quietly forward, Luna grew quiet as the Astartes fixed his gaze on one particular facet of the orb. There… Brushing the accumulated dust off, Mykel could faintly make out the paper-thin cuts in the stone that outlined a five-fingered hand. Hesitantly, he raised his own hand and pressed it to the orb.

A stony rumbling echoed throughout the room and Luna’s wings spread in panic. Dust rained from what was left of the ceiling. “What did you do,” she asked in rising panic. Mykel himself was too concerned to note the Princess’s slip into Low Gothic.

Rising from the floor in the back of the chamber, near the shattered remains of tall windows, a throne of monolithic stature finally settled and quieted. Both visitors gazed up at the furnishing in awe. “By the stars… How long has this been hidden here?” Luna seemed genuinely astonished by its presence. Mykel, however, was caught unprepared and audibly gasped.

For emblazoned on the back of the throne, proud and strong, was a double-headed eagle clutching a pair of lightning bolts.

Author's Note

I'm still not happy with the dialogue between Luna and Mykel, but I fear that getting caught up in that will kill my will to write. Also, Daggert is voice by Richard Steven Horvitz.