Many times have I walked the hidden paths in my forest home, far from the province of Equestria and its guiding light of the twin Alicorn Princesses. In the shadowed glades of the seemingly endless conifer forest where a coolness permeates the air. This same darkened landscape caught under the sea of green has remained unchanging in my clan's memory and is well known to me. Bark and leaf of fir stretching back even to before the original woods-ponies’ first meagre homesteads were laid on the bare earth. As wild and primordial as our forest is, the Greenwood is not unclaimed by the clans. Scattered throughout are venerable settlements connected by ancient tradition as much as the winding roads and paths that join them. Even at this depth of the forest I still walk on some remnant of my people’s works; the cobblestone underhoof is cracked, drowning in lichen and moss, barely discernible from the browns and greens of the forest floor. Alone I walk along the disused path, off the main road where my guards and aides wait for me. We of the Fir Tree Villages live deep in the forest, beyond where outsiders care to tread - alone and isolated, just as we like it.
This path snakes further still into the forest away from the main road. Not so deep that the spirits may likely find the occasional wanderer, but enough that if I close my eyes and wait, then I can almost feel them in the still, damp air. Unlike the main road, the path does not breach our borders nor it does not bisect the forest or lead to another village. Instead, it leads to a place of old memory. Though long forgotten by the common-folk, those whose bloodline can be traced back to the earliest settlers still know of this and similar well hidden paths, but this is one my family and I have trodden over the long years since the clan's most distant ancestral memory. The end of the path does not hold an ancient shrine nor a forgotten settlement, but a reflective pool centered in one of the rare forest glades. An oasis of sunlight warms the waters of the bubbling brook.
My journey on this path and its intended destination are not arrived upon by mere chance or whimsey, but a desire for respite and reflection. My nation, my home, is in a state of uncertainty. Our clan leader has recently passed from this world and yet we have no one to take their mantle of responsibility. Already the people clamour for answers, for sound leadership, and civil unrest has begun to set in. Many turn to those of my standing within the clans and look to us for leadership, or worse seek to take advantage of this uncertain time with banditry. I know it is not my destiny to be the leader of my people, but I know there is a part I have yet to play. Thus I found a need for a moment where I can collect my thoughts, one that cannot be found among the populace. I chose to travel down a path that I have known well since I was a filly - one that holds great meaning to me.
There are those that believe its depth in the forest leads to danger, though I believe the only danger I shall find will be any I could bring with me. Many times in the past have I journeyed to this simple hallowed ground to reflect and ponder on the paths ahead of me or my clan, just as those before me have done. Perhaps it is this closeness to the forest spirits, our kin in this land, that draws me to this place. As I walk this path the only sounds in the forest are my hooves on the cobblestone. The forest itself is silent, the windless air suffocates any sounds of snapping twigs or chirping birds. Almost as if the forest itself awaits the coming days with bated breath.
A fine reflection of the clans perhaps, for with the death of the chief of the Coldmouth clan, no legitimate heir has been left. Even now those in our government make move and countermove, throwing support behind the two candidates for our future. The more traditional among us whisper that Lorweth should lead the nation as he leads us spiritually, if at least temporarily. Others however whisper of Shinespark, the daughter of Coldmouth, exiled for practising forbidden magics. They argue that by blood she should inherit and that her knowledge may give us the advantage against the coming storm. The supporters of Lorweth in turn claim that it is not in magic nor the ways of outsiders to which we should turn, but instead look back to tradition to see us through the murky days as it has always done.
The muffled silence of the forest slowly gives way to bubbling waters. A pool comes into view, fed by a small stream from deeper into the forest and flowing out to some distant edge. I push through the sward that acts as a living boundary between the path and water, dew clinging to my hooves as they break through the cool grass and to my time-worn cloak as it drapes behind me. As I approach the pool, each hoof-fall brings me closer to the end of the now downhill path, the sunlight spearing through the canopy to mark my destination. I make my way to the water's edge and take note of the grooves in the stone by the shore, worn by many years of like-minded ponies seeking reflection. Relaxing into a seat set in olden, moss-worn stone, I release what feels like a long held breath. Arching back into the seat I focus on the coolness of the stone on my back and the rippling water before me. The sunlight seems to make the pool glow, almost as if holding a magic of its own, perhaps lending to the long history of this place. As I watch the shining waters a distant memory comes to life in the sunlight: a young foal playing in the waters by the shore. Her light blue coat closely matches the waters she finds herself in, while the rough teal mane could be mistaken for being from the nearby firs. Nearby is a mother watching the child play from the same bench I now find myself resting in, both watching her own child and reflecting on her own troubles.
Blinking, I push such fanciful thoughts aside while drawing my cloak tighter around me, letting it press into the steel plate on my breast. Brought back to the present with a sudden snap I again focus on why I am here and the decision that lies ahead of me. Reaching into my saddlebag I pull out two letters. One is written on rough parchment, brown like tea; the other is white as pearl and so smooth to the touch it resembles glass. Both have the same name scribed in the header: ‘Aquaria Lance’. Though of vastly different origins, the letters both call for the same thing - political, and if needed, military support. The browned letter’s words flourish with cursive, dramatised and written to speak to the soul in much the same way as religious text. They call for us to turn to tradition and the spirits in these new days, to save the spirit of the nation of old before it can be corrupted. The pearl white letter is written in crisp ink, borderline perfect. I suspect it was written by a device known as a typewriter, an invention from the outside world and currently alien to our own. Here the words are dry, direct to the point, in form very much like an academic study or military report. It speaks of how we fall behind our neighbours, wallow in tradition while others pass us by, and that when their eyes and desires fall on us we will be helpless to stop them. That in our future we must look to progress.
My name holds weight, both among the troops and the people, but it is not the only one. Wynne, Battlehardy and Chief Earthworks also stand as likely candidates for position in the Clan Ring, a role which mirrors what our neighbours call ‘Military High Command’. Their support will also be sought and only the one who backs the right prospective leader will share in their prestige and rank in the Clan Ring. I know of these ponies; each would try to see our militia led in with differing strategies in mind. All forget our nation’s morale. With the death of our leader and current uncertainty the nation's stability lies on a knife edge - like a shorne cloth it must be stitched back together and restored.
If it were any other year my answer would be obvious, as always our tradition would see us through and Lorweth would be elected, even if I wanted to take the command. But on this day the outsider nations who once overlooked us as a collection of villages not worth consideration now see a land rich in resources. The fires of industry would consume the forest; the hunger for agriculture would take the land. Already there are those who press in, as the trees at the forest edge are already taken, the land defiled with great machines by those emboldened by our stagnancy. The leader chosen will need to see us made safe against these outside threats, and thus then comes the choice of two paths ahead. Do we embrace our traditions, our spirituality and what we know? Or do we embrace a potential direction - one using magic, a power that we have long shunned?
Magic. That itself is the quandary, not just for my people but for our world. Long has it permeated everything, even though we abhorred - even banned - its practice one could not deny that it lived in the forest, in its spirit and soul. Still in pools like this it was said one could see sprites dancing like strands of gossamer. Yet now this push for the embrace of magic from Shinespark, a direction the rest of the world seems to view as a dead end, is lauded as our saviour. Is this another reflection of a staunch traditionalist? When we seek advancement it's in a direction long since abandoned by the grand nations? Even now the nations of this world embrace the advancement of what is to them, mundane technology. Instead of the well known steel and iron they turn to advanced firearms and other esoteric weapons. The very letter she wrote made use of a device many of my peers would view with suspicion. What is the wisdom in this focus on forbidden magic abandoned by those greater, those who now seek what I have heard described as ‘the coming thing’?
Again my thoughts drift. The direction our future leader takes is not fully my decision regardless of who I support. I may give guidance and advice if I achieve a position in the Clan Ring as military leader, but even then it will not be by my will. No, for now the immediate choice stands before me. Lorweth or Shinespark. Spirit or Magic. Both seek my support; an answer and a choice must be made once I leave this glade. As my gaze drifts from the letters back to the bubbling brook I watch the water flow gently off in a small stream, bending around roots and stones, but ultimately going one direction. It is almost as if the voice of the forest speaks to me, revealing long hidden truths in the simple flow of water through this place. I can feel the power and importance of the forest we call home flow through me here, and in turn reflect the weight of my decision, of my responsibility.
The Firtree Villages and her militia will need not just leadership - its spirit must be made sure. This is something my contemporaries cannot be relied upon to do, so focused are they on their own agendas. Through rank and prestige perhaps I can help move us in the right direction by focusing on the spirit, the morale and the hope of the ponies. Thus this can be done by providing the correct guidance to the one who assumes the mantle of leadership as the clan's head, should this chance of politics work in my favour. Once I return to the main road and rejoin my retainers these choices and politics must play themselves out as they will, either with the decision I now make being the correct road to take, or another footnote in history. But that is for later worries; there is still a moment now in which I can reflect and watch these waters, listen to the forest and feel the cool, still air on my face as I allow myself to exist deep in my memory here. For now, perhaps for the last time, I shall simply take a moment and enjoy the tranquillity of the Fir Tree forest that is my home.
