"Prince Peter, thank you for coming. We're honored by your presence."

"Please, just call me Pete. There is no need for the formalities behind closed doors, but thank you nonetheless," his smooth baritone voice dripped with his usual paternal tone that he frequently addressed his subjects with.

The editor nodded and pushed off the smooth wood floor, maneuvering his swivel chair towards a shelf containing a myriad of tapes, discs, and files. Grabbing a disc off of the top shelf, he gazed at Peter and raised his hand, "Well, we've got most of the final cuts made and it should be ready to be broadcasted to the theaters. I was hoping the whole Royal Family could come to view it before it makes its debut, but I'd be completely satisfied with your opinion."

The editor sighed, curling his smile into a small frown, "Your father, well, he was a great man. I'm sorry about the whole... well, you know," he did a circular gesture with his hand.

"It's fine," Peter mumbled. He gestured to the small monitor sitting on the metal table near a large soundboard, "Please. After you."

The pony nodded, placing the disc into the player, and working a few knobs on the machine, the display shot to life with a pristine, old photo of Peter's dad, a long, long time ago, during some better days.

He felt a stab of that pain he'd become all too familiar with lately, but like so many other times, he suppressed it. The TV started a drab, soft music soundtrack as the program began to play.

...

Dad, in many ways, was a very private man.

An image of himself popped up, sitting with the interviewers that had contacted him all those months ago.

"He was born as a farmer on Earth to a poor family in a place called Kentucky. He was a straight shooter. If you asked him a question, he'd give you a straight, blunt answer. Always a gentleman. Always."

The shot cut to his mother in that same interview, almost as youthful as she was when he was born

"He had a very happy childhood. Full of love and community with his fellow people. All throughout...our years together, he always spoke fondly of his birthplace, even though he hadn't seen it in over 200 years. Equestria was always home to him, even throughout his 243 years of life, but he never forgot his hometown."

Sonata was next. She had forgone her usual royal regalia he'd seen her wear so often when conducting court with Mom. It was almost unusual to see her without it.

"Daddy was always interested in anything scientific. He loved to 'tinker' with his chemicals and just see what he could make with them. He had a great interest in birds, naturalism, playing his piano. Oh, he loved to go fishing with Ms. Marnie back in the day. Dad just was a real hobbyist, you know? He loved to use his gifts for others. That's just who he was as a person."

The program cut to a few pictures of Dad, holding Sonata as a baby, standing outside the University with Aunt Tia and Mom, his wedding photos.

"For the longest time, Dad didn't want to write the book for the public. I guess, he originally wrote it... for us. So we could know, just what happened to him. But it was only after many years, and much persuasion from us, giving the reasons why it would be good for the public to know, only then did he finally decide to publish it into general circulation."

"My James," Mom came on, "Oh, he was always nervous, to some extent. Tense. It eased through the years, but it was always there. In the first years of our courtship and marriage, he always felt that he was fine, even though he wasn't. It took a long time for him to open up to me about his wartime experiences. Even longer for the children, far past a few decades.

He had terrible nightmares, almost all of his life. I don't know if I was able to help him get over his experiences completely. He... knew, that the war had had an impact on him, but he fought it all his life, even at the end. He had a terrible struggle in those years and that makes a terrible impression on a young man."

The shot cut to Peter.

"My father was particularly bothered by loud bangs, sudden noises, pegasi flying really fast over him that sounded somewhat like an airplane. Oh, especially fireworks for an incredibly long time. Basically anything that resembled artillery or gunfire. He would be so unnerved."

"There was one time, when I was a boy, maybe 12 or so. I was running around with my toy gun he'd made for me and I was hiding in my parent's wardrobe, hoping to pop out and scare one of them with my gun for a good laugh. Dad was the one who found me and I shot out, with this gun in his face."

"The next thing I knew, I was promptly grabbed by the scruff of my shirt and thrown on the ground by Dad with his hands on my neck."

"Now, now he quickly realized what was going on and nothing happened past that. He was able to compose himself and such, but it was really one of the first times that I was clued in that something incredibly bad had happened to my father. I don't think he ever really forgave himself for that, even though I've long since let that go."

A more sinister track came on as an old interview of Dad (maybe 10 years ago? Peter couldn't quite remember) appeared. His old man did not look any more aged than he was at 40 years old , yet his body looked more broken, worn down. He had sank into his favorite easy chair, resting his joints that by then were wasting away.

"There's not a day that goes by where I don't think about it. And if I do, I try to force myself to think about all the good times that I had. The wonderful friends that I'd made, some things that we found funny."

"But you also will remember your dead friends and... how many of them there were. It's so hard to accept, even today, some 200 years later, that the friends that you made are gone. That I alone am left. It's such a potent, deflating shock to your heart to know that the man you just woke up next to or the buddy you shared a can of peaches with that morning was just, gone. You can't ever share a meal with them or shoot dice with them or, or help them write letters home. They were here when you woke up and now they're gone. And, it's something that you can't ever forget."

The scene faded to Peter walking through the garden and park his father had planted at the University, the camera focusing in on the plethora of different flowers and trees James had painstakingly maintained.

"Whenever we had the various shrinks come to help Dad, and when Sonata and I thought we were up to the challenge to somehow help bear the extraordinary burden the war placed on him, inevitably, the question was always asked, 'How does the war make you feel?' Looking back on it, I thought that was such a stupid question to ask. But Dad, ever the patient man he was, always answered gently with a old saying from Earth that he had read about in an old war memoir.

'My past is an armor that I cannot take off, no matter how many times you tell me that the war is over.'

In the spirit of that saying, he planted this memorial park here to remember his friends and the people that he left behind.

The camera finally came to rest on a plaque that was placed under a cherry blossom tree

To my buddies Arthur, Howard, Jenkins, Gates, Arles, and Flume, who fought by my side through Cape Gloucester, the sweltering heat of Peleliu, and the bitter battles of Okinawa - To the Marines that fell that I couldn't help - To those who I left behind - To my mother, father, and family that are still on Earth - And most importantly, to my lovely wife Luna and my children, Peter and Sonata, this park is fondly and proudly dedicated.

SEMPER FI

and I miss you

The camera cut to Peter, sitting in his chair once more at the interview.

"Even after the disease took his memory," Peter paused for a long while, breathing in a shaky sigh, "And he forgot all of us," another long pause, "He never forgot the war. He never forgot being in the Pacific."

The film cut to black.

A somber, overcast wind blew Peter's ethereal hair tepidly as he walked through the streets of Canterlot. His unfocused gaze lay idly upon the tiled sidewalk as motorized carts passed by in the street. The whole city seemed so much less colored, more drab and gray, less full of the life and beauty it daily projected. The wind in its sails appeared to have ceased, as if the very city itself recognized the tremendous loss of a great man. Thankfully, his illusionary disguise was working quite well, as no one accosted him with bows, asks for autographs, or other such things. Not that he despised to do those things for his ponies, but his mood couldn't handle it at the moment.

His thoughts were a haze, like the troubled sea that could not rest. But the one unifying factor was that each of his thoughts lingered on his father.

Dad. His death had been difficult to bear for Peter. His guiding force, the man who taught him to rule and to be both a man and a proper Equestrian.

He frustratedly kicked a innocent rock across the tiles he walked upon. Why did it have to be this way? His father, a brilliant man who invented slow aging with his team of chemists and unicorns. The man who guided his kingdom through Tirek, invasions, Chrysalis, and unrest. The man who raised two children to be good, upstanding rulers.

It wasn't fair! Just because he was born of an alicorn, he gets to be immortal, but Dad didn't? No one deserved to live a longer life than his father did, yet he was taken away like the rest of the mortals.

It wasn't fair to watch a brilliant, gentle man waste away as that infernal disease took the memories of his life away from him. To watch him deteriorate from a humble, intelligent family man to a babbling, fearful, and irritable husk of his former self.

It wasn't fair.

Days ago, he would have cried, wept, screamed at this injustice, to call out God on his gross mistreatment of his most devoted follower. Now though? He was just angry. Angry at what or who, he didn't really care anymore. Angry at Sonata for not visiting Dad as much, angry at Mom for not putting him on that medication as quick as Peter said she should, angry at those tepid doctors for not acting as quick as he wanted.

In his stewing anger, he hadn't realized that he had walked himself, almost on autopilot, back onto the castle grounds. Standing in the main courtyard, he spat on the ground, removed his disguise, and walked towards the gardens. Perhaps another stroll would clear his head, or at least, clear it enough to get back to his duties.

As he quietly stewed in his frustrations, Peter walked over the wooden bridge that crested over the small stream running through the quiet castle garden. He spotted his father's large, marble, monumental gravestone up ahead. Most didn't know he was buried here. After all, he was a well-loved ruler and the ponies needed their own funeral for him.

He stiffened for but a moment as he spotted his mother standing quietly in front of her husband's grave. He hadn't expected her to be out. She'd barely left her room for the past month. It was unsettling to him how broken she looked. Her mane did not wave in that non-existent wind and the constellations in them seemed all that much dimmer. She did not cry, scream, weep, pray, only somberly gazed at James' headstone, the wind in her sails firmly gone. And from the brief glint he saw from her hands, her fingers were holding Dad's wedding ring.

Peter silently and respectfully slinked up next to her, crossing his hands behind his back, and joined her.

James W. Milligan
Husband, Father, Ruler
An exemplary soldier and accomplished scientist
We miss you dearly

Mom didn't acknowledge his presence for awhile and he was content to let them quietly pay their respects for awhile. A gust of overcast wind blew their hair gently as the cool air graced his nostrils.

"Hi Mom," he broke the silence, stepping a little closer to her.

"Hello son," Luna replied in a shaky voice.

His heart broke a little as he looked at her. He didn't really know how to respond for awhile, "Are you okay?"

Mom was silent for a moment, "No, I, suh-... no. No, I'm not."

He reached his arm around her and gave her a side hug, "Yeah, neither am I," he candidly admitted.

"I miss him," Luna honestly replied, "Goddess, I miss your father so much," she fidgeted with his wedding ring in his hand.

"Me too, Ma," his reply was short yet again, "How's Sonata? Haven't seen her for a few days now."

Luna spoke nothing for a moment, "She's been handling court recently. Your aunt has been gradually handing out more of our responsibilities to her." She sighed, depositing her husband's ring into the pocket of her sweatpants, "Honestly, I just think that's how she's choosing to cope. I've let her be."

His mother turned to him and gazed up at him warmly, or as warmly as she could muster, "And you my son? What have you been up to? I've not seen you much at all either. I'm sorry for that," she wrapped her left arm around his back and softly caressed him, holding him close.

"I was meeting with the filmmakers. You know, the interviewers from a month back? The documentary and film should be ready to be released soon. They're hoping for us to attend the premiere. I'm assuming you want to go?"

"Of course," she reached up to brush a little flake of skin off of her cheek, "And how have you been?"

"Oh, how do you think I've been?" Peter snapped, his waving hair glowing for a split second as his frustration surfaced again. He heard his mother's ears splay down on her head and sighed, "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have snapped."

"It's okay, Peter. Something's troubling you, I see," she correctly guessed.

"That easy huh?" he joked, running a hand through his hair, "Yeah, I guess you could say I'm a little upset."

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"I just," he paused with a frown, "I guess I'm just angry. This isn't fair. This isn't right! How can this happen? Didn't Dad lead a good life? He didn't deserve to lose his memories. I didn't deserve this! YOU don't deserve this."

His rambling was cut short, his tears starting to well up as he fought back a lump of his throat, "I don't understand. I just don't understand Mom. Why did this happen to him? Why do I have to live on and Dad has to die?"

Luna pursed her lips and hugged her son, gently stroking him as a few tears spilled out onto the dirt.

After awhile, she wiped his cheek again and spoke, "Oh Peter. My sweet, kind little boy. You are absolutely right. We don't deserve to have this happen to us."

He looked confusedly down at Luna. She continued, "Your father was a great man and experienced a great amount of pain in his life. But he also experienced an even more abundant amount of joy, most specially because of you and Sonata."

"I won't claim to understand why we have been saddled with the burden of immortality. Losing your loved ones as you live on is a great pain that never fully loses its sting, my son, but you can only grow around it. All you can do is remember the wonderful times you shared with that pony and be glad that we were blessed enough to know them."

She smiled up at her son in an attempt to comfort him, "Sometimes bad things will happen to good people. Your father knew that fact very well and he accepted that. Yes, he led a good life, but ultimately that doesn't excuse a person from hardship nor their death, even one as old as your father."

She sighed, "I know that might not help, but unfortunately that's the cards we've been dealt, Peter."

Peter frowned weakly and fiddled with his hands, "You and I have seen friends and family pass on again and again, but this time, this time is worse. I don't know if I can bear this."

"In time, as always, it will pass. But I must confess, I feel much the same way," she gazed up at the castle windows and mustered up a small smile, "Would you like to come eat with me? I think the chefs are almost done with Tia's pastries. I'm sure she'd love the company."

"Sure. Anything to take my mind off all this," he muttered, putting his arm around Luna's shoulders and smiling softly, "I love you, Mom."

"Oh, I love you more," she cheekily replied, reaching up to give him a motherly kiss on his scratchy, whiskered cheek.

As the two of them walked over the stone bridge towards the castle, he looked back upon his father's gravestone, "Goodbye, Dad. I miss you."

The heavy steel doors of the castle closed behind Peter and with it, the stoic chemist was finally able to rest.

Author's Note

And here we are, only four months later from the last one. My sincerest apologies for the delay of the last epilogue. This semester was hectic, but now I'm off and free for another 3 weeks!

That being said, it's finally over. Thank you everyone for your reading and support of the story. I can't even quantify how excited and grateful I am that I was able to create something that people really liked! So thanks for the opportunity!

As for future projects, I've got a few stories that are on the drawing board right now. A rewrite of the Silent Saviors is probably in the future, since I REALLY like the idea of a cavalryman and horse in Equestria, but it was my first story and I think it was poorly executed. A full overhaul is needed, in my opinion. That being said though, sometimes writers are too critical of their own works and I'm not entirely sure if I'm just being too nasty towards my own writing. Feel free to let me know your thoughts about it. It'll help me to decide what to do.

I've also got a prison escape and adventuring HIE story I've been wanting to write. It'll likely be about our human protagonist and a friend escaping from a mine (prison, mine, compound, haven't decided) and journeying across Equus to seek asylum in Equestria, probably with some RGRE elements too (herding, less males, all that jazz). It will probably be focusing on heavy themes and such similar to this story. If you'd be interested in that, keep a look out! I'll probably start putting that to paper soon.

Also, with the cancellation of Squad Up, a story I really liked, I've been considering writing my own story with Battlefield 4-esque themes. Perhaps not a strict crossover as I want everyone to be able to read it and enjoy it, but some elements in it. If you'd be interested in that, I'd love to know and gauge interest for something like that.

Anyways, thank you again for reading my story. I've loved writing it over its two years.

Taco