The Manticore of Canterlot

Chapters

The Duel
Laundry
Reorientation
Shoeing part 1
Shoeing part 2
Shoeing part 3
Speech
Chats part 1
Chats part 2

The Duel

12th Sappy street was quaint and quiet; just like the well off retirees that lived there liked it. Blueblood and his compatriots however did not respect the peace of the neighborhood; more specifically the peace of one neighbor.

Grandpa Longday started at the knocking at his door, and setting down his tea and newspaper, walked over and opened it. A colt waited at the door and proffered a stack of donut boxes.

“Three dozen banana and pomegranate flavor. Hot and fresh, the Sweetie things ™ promise!”

Longday blinked,

“I didn’t order donuts,” he said in a creaky voice.

The salesman’s smile of the delivery driver faltered.

“Uh…,” setting down the boxes, he fished around his pocket and extracted a notebook, “12th Sappy street, house 11022, scheduled delivery for 8:00 am?” He glanced up with a raised eyebrow.

“Well that’s my house. But I didn’t order any donuts.”

The colt stared and thought about a few responses; but decided that ignorance was the better part of valor.

“Alright, um, they are already paid for… do you want me to throw them away?”

“No, no, I’ll take them I suppose.”

And so he was back at his table; wondering what he was going to do with three dozen donuts. He heard another knock on his door, to find a lawyer wanting to talk about his will. He informed the lawyer that he already had a will. The lawyer asked why then he had scheduled an appointment. Longday told him to go away.

An organ tuner came and asked if the heating was at the usual level. He said it was but he did not have an organ.

Longday could not hear the laughter, nor could anyone on the street. But it sounded in the rented room positioned across the street. A muffling spell kept the pranksters hidden. Longday tried a donut; they were gross.

A party clown flipped unto his porch, a private detective, a plumber, an electrician, a nurse, a police officer, a colt with flowers that was crushed that his secret admirer didn’t exist, another lawyer, three journalists, protesters that only left after Longday convinced them councilor Copperheart didn’t live there, councilor Copperheart, funeral mourners, filly scouts, a man who sought a lawyer; and more and more until sunset.

Blueblood had watched Longdays descent into confusion, anger, and madness with a steady grin; his arm chair providing the best view of the show. The gaggle of socialites surrounding him laughed and laughed and laughed; Sir Jewel Eater had laughed so hard he had collapsed onto the floor. It was undignified; but Blueblood appreciated the compliment of his efforts.

Finally a feather preener was thrown out(Longday was an earth pony); and with a stretch Blueblood rose from his chair. Any who had been sitting rose a beat after him.

“Well Ladies and Gentlecolts; shows over. I couldn’t get the fumigators to come on such short notice”, a titter of laughter, “so I will bid all of you a good night.”

There was a surprised stir but the pack of lords and ladies collected themselves to leave. Blueblood was already outside the door; Alfalfa(his butler) and the two servants carrying his favorite armchair following behind.

By the time Blueblood exited the hotel his smile had faded to the usual slight smirk. Outside the door of the hotel the servants peeled off, heading to their small truck. While Blueblood and Alfalfa headed to the sleek, black, custom Wingbardy model. Blueblood immediately slid into the passenger seat. Alfalfa gave him a look he didn’t see and slid into the driver seat.

“Were too your highness?”

“The palace.” That earned him another look, but the butler held his peace. Soon the car roared to life and began zipping up towards the palace.

Canterlot castle was beautiful. Like the whole city it was built into the side of a Mount Canter; but it perched above the city; like a throne on a dais. The oldest part of the castle once was a lesser peak; that had been carved into the beating heart of Equestria. The newer parts, still hundreds of years old; where interlocking brick mosaics of white and purple shades. Gold and silver domes and spires pierced the sky; and in the descending sun they gleamed and flickered as their long dead designer intended. The castle proper was surrounded by the royal gardens; anything that was good to eat or fair to the eye was planted there. Some of those plants had made journeys of thousands of miles to be planted here; made to thrive by royal gardeners despite the brisk mountain air. Hedge wall separated various sections from each other. A wall ringed it all, and with it’s ceremonial watch fires and ancient archer towers; it looked like the band of a crown.

And Blueblood's mood rotted as he walked it’s paths. Alfalfa had watched his master's mood deteriorate as they drove; and was stepping lightly. Not lightly enough apparently.

“Alfalfa,” the poor pony flinched, “head up to the room. Prepare it.”

Alfalfa took the offered exit; and Blueblood was alone. Well not alone, alone; this was the center of Equestrian court and government. But no one tried to talk to him, and Blueblood kept turning down less and less well-traveled paths. Well, almost nobody tried to talk to him.

“Your highness, your highness!” A high voice shouted after him. Blueblood tried to ignore her but he scowled as the trotting grew louder.

“Prince Blueblood,” Lady Highhoof breathed heavily, “nice to meet- gasp - again.”

Blueblood sighed, turning to see the pretty mare that now strode beside him.

“You are very kind, but I am currently occupied. I think it best to speak another time.”

She blinked large eyes at him, sidling closer.

“Occupied with what?”

Blueblood’s ears laid back fully.

“Merely a thought.”

“What are you thinking about?”

“That if you used your skull as a vase .” She flinched back but Blueblood continued with a flat voice, “something worthwhile and beautiful might just come out of your head.”

She stumbled back. Blueblood did not slow; and with a muffled sob she ran off. A smile flicked over Blueblood’s face. A few moments later Blueblood did slow. That had been… undignified; he hadn’t thought it through. His head twitched to the side; before his face hardened and his ears pinned to the back of his head. Oh damn her and damn this garden, he thought as he turned down a narrower path.

Blueblood turned again and again into less well traveled paths; until he was in the darkest and loneliest corner of the garden. This being the royal garden it was still idyllic; a venerable oak surrounded by a hedge wall. The southeastern jungles or the Evertree forest would have suited his mood better. How could one be properly bitter in such a beautiful place?

The worst part about his mood, Blueblood decided, was he couldn’t articulate why he was bitter. Things had gone well tonight! He should be drinking with his coterie. Or with one of his paramours. Or one of madames Sweetsign’s mares if he was feeling lazy. Or sleeping. Or even working on his thesis. He should not be pacing in the royal garden like he intended to beat the ground into submission.

He stopped, looking at the sky through the tangle of branches; the sun hadn’t quite set yet. He sighed, all of a sudden melancholy joined his foul mood. Then he blinked up at the tree; then around at the grass under it and hedge surrounded it. He gazed back at the tree; and saw a branch. He blinked, it was his branch. He hesitated, then with a shrug and a wave of ivory magic that slid over his body; he jumped and hooked a hoof around a branch. The route he remembered being like an open highway took a lot of squeezing and telekinesis to get up and through. A horrible thought of turning around and seeing some of his peers flitted through his mind; but he was already too far along.

With one more contortion; he was onto his branch. The branch swayed a little, but it still held his weight. He grinned and carefully sat down.

The view of the garden was different; but the sky was the same. The melancholy was still there as he stared at the setting sun; but a small smile creeped onto his face. He plucked a cigar out of his pocket, clipped it, and with a brief glow of his horn, lit it.

His hoofs itched for a book. He had left his copy of Reflections on the Revolution in Aquillia was back at his mansion. A shame really; this spot was made for reading. As the younger self had known. Though his books had been lighter reading. Quest for the West Light and Knight Cursebreaker; and the like. Young Blueblood had looked over the garden and saw monsters, castle walls, and armies arrayed in all their glory. Sun above, he hadn’t read those books in ages.

“I remember this place.” A smooth, maternal voice interrupted his nostalgia.

Now Blueblood was Prince of Equestria; born and raised. A picture of good manners and breeding. So he did not fall out of the tree. And he dared anyone to say otherwise. Blueblood merely descended the tree quickly.

A moment later he was kneeling, and he gasped out:

“Your majesty?!”

Celestia looked down at him with a small smile.

“Raise nephew; and we are not at court. I’m your aunt.”

Blueblood rose slowly; his cheeks burned, but he returned a full smile. Blueblood felt the lingering tension ease further. It was even more difficult to be bitter around Celestia. Celestia made him feel small, not lesser, but small. Like he was staring at a mountain range, or the royal guard on parade, or Caterlot for that matter.

Before he could cobble together something to say Celestia continued; looking up at the tree.

“Yes this was your tree,” she chuckled, “I remember you falling asleep up there and driving your parents to fervor looking for you.”

He winced, but spoke.

“You found me if I recall.” How did he forget? Waking up like he was wrapped up in a warm body wide hug; as Celestia telekinesis plucked him from the tree. He winced again, and then there had been scolding from his parents that followed.

Celestia gave him a sympathetic smile.

“I’m sorry that we haven’t talked more. I have been quite busy.”

Blueblood shook his head; his voice was a little shocked.

“There is no need your-“ his words stumbled a little, “aunt. You have important affairs of state to look to.”

“Aye, but it's still unfortunate.” She looked over the grassy knoll under the tree, and finding a particularly lush spot; sat.

Blueblood remained standing and tried, but failed, to find something to say. Why was the ruler of all Equestria here? He looked around. Where were her guards? Did she come looking for him? Or was she just strolling? Celestia interrupted his thoughts; with a question in old equestrian.

“You may sit nephew. How does your painting go?”

He did sit; to the front and right of his aunt. His old equestrian was rougher. He was more used to reading it than speaking it. Few except scholars bothered to learn the original language of Equestria; before reforms in the 100s ALB standardized and simplified the language. Of course part of the roughness came from awkwardness.

“Uh… I quit painting.”

“Oh, and what is your progress on your thesis?” This was an Herzlander. A language he spoke more easily.

He shifted.

“It is progressing,” he shifted again, “slowly.”

Celestia didn’t say anything; just gave him a look. And in that moment Blueblood felt lesser. She turned her head up to the sky. This time in aquillia. He recognized it but shook his head. She tried again in Rijekan.

“Did you see the new play? Joy of the cab, I have been offered tickets.”

Blueblood relaxed, now that he was on firmer ground. Not linguistically though. He frowned in thought for a while; trying to parce what she said. Celestia repeated herself twice more before he spoke.

“Not - no - value - in - the - seeing…” he shook his head, and spoke in equestrian.

“Are you asking about the quality of the new play?” She nodded, “I would skip it; I should have skipped it. It is only popular right now since they somehow managed to con Bright Flash into accepting the lead role. Everyone saying it is some masterpiece is just star struck.” He tilted his head, “I wouldn’t mind seeing the stallion in the lead male role, Big Encore if I recall, again. He was rather good despite the drivel that was script. Really elevated the role.”

Celestia listened to his rant with amusement.

“Oh? Drivel? I didn’t read the whole review; but Hardeye gave it a good rating. And he is not one to let a play go unpunished.”

Blueblood rose to the challenge of defending his objectively correct opinions. As the sun was only a shard above the horizon; the conversation flowed on. Art, court life and gossip, research that suggested that large swaths of Equestria had once been a desert. Until with a tilt of her head, she asked a question.

“What’s your hobby now?”

Blueblood blinked at the change of topic. It took him a moment to readjust. Lord Frostflower’s scandal being mentally brushed aside.

“Pardon?”

“Now that you’ve given up drawing, what is the new one?”

“Sword fighting…” he spoke somewhat hesitantly.

“Fencing?”

“No, sword fighting. I met a retired monster hunter and mercenary from Tobuck. He claims to be a noble. He might be lying but his skills are real enough.”

“An unusual hobby.” There was no condemnation in her voice, though, which relieved him, “why pick it?”

Blueblood shrugged slightly.

“Because it is uncommon.”

She nodded slowly at that.

“Hmmm… how long have you been at it?”

“A few months at this point.”

She nodded and rose to her feet. Sunlight playing off her white coat.

“Let’s see it then.”

He gave a shocked blink. That was… that was the phrase she had used in the past when she wanted a demonstration.

“I- I don’t have my sword.”

With a pop of magic two dull practice blades fell in front of the pair. Celestia catching it with a hoof.

That had Blueblood staring at her eyes wide; she wanted a duel. It was hard to picture his aunt using a sharp knife. Any doubt of her skill was burned away in the next moment. It was a simple thing; a few twirls to test the balance of the blade, and it was one of the most graceful things he had ever seen.

He did not touch his blade.

“Are you sure?”

“Quite,” she tilted her head, “… I suppose we don’t have to.”

He plucked up his blade. She gave him a broad smile. Was it a little… smug? No, surely not.

She tilted her head, a brief look of concentration flitted over her face. A wave of gold magic over both of them. He felt the magic; but stamped down his instinct to push against it. No need to cause her Majesty unnecessary effort.

“That will prevent us from imparting too much force. A bear could swing that blade and it would only bruise. En guarde.” An aquillian phrase he did recognize.

He gave her a wry smile; but he slid into his stance. Balanced, ready to spring, blade high and forward. She adopted a similar stance; he would have liked to have analyzed the differences.

“To surrender?”

“To surrender.”

“Go”

He hesitated a moment. She swung at his throat. It wasn’t a very fast blow; and he parried and riposted. She smoothly side stepped, bringing her blade back into guard. The fight began in earnest.

He almost laughed at just how much she was holding back. It was like a lion play fighting a house cat. For one her horn stayed dim. She didn’t use anything but her right hoof wield her sword; while Blueblood made full use of his telekinesis to aid and carry his sword. Even sometimes swinging up into a bipedal stance to swing from; putting both hoofs behind a blow or block.

She also kept her wings to her back. Though a gust from those could probably knock him through the hedge.

And of course, apparently, she was also a master swordsmare. She started slowly, pulling her blows and telegraphing her attacks. This grace period allowed him some attacks of his own; but he couldn’t land a blow.

Soon though it felt like he was fighting a growing storm; as tempo and ferocity of her attacks increased. Blows started to slip through his guard; the dull edge leaving bursts of pain. He was soon panting, sweating, and constantly retreating. It felt like she wielded ten swords.

An idea came to him; an inspiration.

Letting go of his sword and catching it in his telekinesis; he went for a high overhead swing. Celestia raised her sword to block it. Blueblood leapt forward; horn aimed for her barrel. He felt his blade deflected, his target step to the side, and then a blow across the head laid him out in the grass. He dimly heard a musical voice.

He blinked up at the bright sky; which was soon joined by Celestia’s face. He stared wide eyed, while Celestia studied him. Blueblood winded, bruised, and sweating like a pig; Celestia didn’t appear to have a hair out of place.

He started laughing and grinning as his heart pounded in his chest. Celestia returned his grin and offered hoof. A wave of magic washed his pain away. He took the offered help and got to his hoofs.

He pranced about for a moment before he bowed to Celestia.

“Thank you for the bout.”

“You are welcome. You have a real talent for fighting. But you're not the first unicorn to think of that.”

His eyes shone, “Can we fight again?”

She shook her head.

“Not tonight.”

“But it is still light out,” he pleaded, but even as he spoke the sunlight went away. He blinked up at the sky, at the moon, then his watch; and gave Celestia a baffled look.

“I can make a little false sunlight if needed,” with a flash of light the swords were gone. “But I really must be bidding you a good night.”

He sighed, shoulders slumping.

“Good night aunt.”

Blueblood stood alone a while; as he stepped to go he felt his hoof touching something. He looked down to find his cigar. He snorted, leaving for his palace guest room. Alfalfa was relieved when his master came back sober and with a smile. He even received a compliment on the room.

Author's Note

If you have any criticisms for this chapter or the story in general; I would appreciate them.

Laundry

Clean Pin hummed; it helped distract her from the gaze judging her. With vigor her fluffy white wings dusted the window seal; not that there was much dust on the rich mahogany. With a nod she stepped back; mindful not to tread on the edge of her skirt.

Swift Sweep strode forward to examine her work; silk swishing around her fetlocks. They wore the same white, silver accented, servant dresses. She thought they were lovely; but…

“Do we have to clean in these?” she asked in the slight nasal of Manehattan.

Swift Sweep was leaning, looking at a spot at a few angles. Her accent was neat received canterlot.

“Only on special occasions and when directly waiting on the prince. However you must get used to working in it.”

“Sorry, just worried about ruining it.”

“Which is why you are wearing it now,” Swift Sweep stepped back, “mostly adequate work, but you missed a spot.”

She leveled a feather at a corner. Clean Pin stepped forward; leaning down with squinted eyes.

It wasn’t quite the corner; it was a tiny triangle of dust just before the corner that her sweeping wings had missed.

“I barely-” she winced, “sorry, I’ll be more thorough.”

“As I said, mostly adequate, but working for his highness demands the best.” She spoke with certainty.

With another wince, Clean pin flitted out a feather and got the spot. She turned to face that room; opening her mouth to ask what was next, when a horrible thought struck her. She paled.

Blueblood’s room was, in line with the rest of Blood Manor, massive. The Bloods had been given their land grant when Equestria was young; long before modern zoning laws had been signed in. The Manor showed its age. The remnants of the fortress it had once been was hinted at by the thick outer walls, and the dourer foundation stones. Each subsequent prince had put his touch, and obscene wealth; into the structure. The chapel built by Archblood for his aquillian bride, Quickblood’s fascination with Colthage stone carving, Goldblood’s manehatten style offices that wouldn’t look out of place in Fence Street; they and many more had left their mark on the sprawling manor.

Blueblood’s contribution so far had been to renovate the manors old observatory tower into his personal suite; and the top floor into his room. The bronze dome, with its mural of the sun and planets, remained; but the rest had been refashioned.

Large windows opened in every direction; allowing the prince to more easily look down on Canterlot. Paintings and statues were interspersed betweens the windows. They depicted Bluebloods ancestors in various forms and styles; their patrician features watching on. A plush, four poster bed was opposite a stairwell and elevator. To the right through a door was a bathroom; with its gold handles and a small swimming pool that some called a tub. The left side of the room was devoted to his study and library; and a parlor with a massive fireplace guarded by an ornate bronze grate.

Clean Pin took in the room; with its expensive and rare fabrics, the nooks and crannies of the statues, to the plush carpets and the high ceiling.

“It is going to take hours to get this clean!”

“Don’t shout,” Swift glared, then sighed, “and don’t worry. We are here early. We start cleaning at seven; but I wanted to examine your work without the distraction.”

Clean Pin nodded; blushing.

“Alright, sorry; got a little carried away. Was thinking about going out with som- uh what do you want me to clean next?”

Sweep eyed her for a moment before glancing around the room.

“How about his lordship’s arm-”

They heard a ding and the elevator opened; the pair turned and greeted Blueblood with wide eyes. He was followed by the ever faithful Alfalfa. Hastily they gave deep curtsies; wings held tight to their sides. Blueblood’s voice cracked across the room.

“Why are you in here!? No, you should be. Why isn’t my room clean!?” Clean Pin shriveled; Swift Sweep licked her lips.

Alfalfa coughed.

“What is it Alfalfa?”

Clean Pin risked a glance up. Blueblood had a ‘this had better be good’ expression as he glanced back at his butler.

“The staff plans around your typical schedule your highness.”

“Ah,” his voice cooled, “very well.”

He walked over to his study and sat behind his desk. Alfalfa followed, and reached into his black and silver butler's suit, and pulled out a bundle of letters and pamphlets. Setting them down; he moved behind and to the right of Blueblood. Blueblood rifled through the stack. He set the pamphlets aside, tossed a letter in the trash, and, turning, gave about halve the letters back.

“Deal with these,” he turned back to the letters, as Alfalfa nodded and walked away.

He picked up his silver letter opener with telekinesis; and began opening his letters. He glanced back up, “and get me some tea.”

Alfalfa nodded again; Blueblood started to look down before his eyes caught on the pair of maids. They had been waiting in the same spot; not quite curtsying, not quite standing up.

“Oh, you,” he gestured at them with the letter opener, “as you were.”

The pair glanced at each other. Swift Sweep pointed to the far side of the room. Clean Pin nodded, and walking on eggshells; the pair started to work. They attempted as much as possible to communicate in gestures and expression; only the occasional soft whisper passing between them. A despair for her evening plans started to grow in her. Was the rest of the staff going to come? Did they have to finish the rest of the room by themselves? Would they be dismissed? How long would they work?

Eventually she grew bored with her concern; and started taking glances at the prince. She wondered if they needn’t have bothered staying quiet. The prince did not once look at them. Alfalfa returned with a tea tray, and poured his master a cup; before taking his position. The prince didn’t turn from reading his opened letters; reaching out a hoof to grab his tea without looking. He read most of the letters quickly, then set them aside. For some of them he wrote, sealed, and stamped curt replies. The last three were read over more carefully; a smile softing his face.

Clean Pin hadn’t seen the prince up close before. She still wasn’t that close; Sweep was still leading them along the far rim of the room.

Blueblood, anger gone, now at his ease; was no longer frightening. He was still imposing, easily head and shoulders taller than anyone in the room, but he looked like he was plucked out of a story book. At any moment he might don his armor and belt on his sword; then gallop off to fight dragons and save damsels. With his golden locks and blue…

With a blink she turned her head. Sweep had finished dusting the plinth; and was glaring at her. Clean Pin set down the vase that she had been cradling in her feathers. Swift continued to glare; and gave a curt shake of her head. Clean Pin looked away, blushing. She was just looking. She kept such arguments, and her eyes, to herself however; and soon the pair moved onto cleaning the paintings and statues interspersed between the windows. Then the windows themselves. There was an art to hovering with a soap bucket and rag. The clock struck nine and to her returning dismay; no new staff had made themselves apparent.

Light began to fade to the gold and red of sunset. A huff of irritation had the pair glance at the prince. He was looking out a window; his pen stopped half way down a page.

“If you are by the curtains step away,” a brief few seconds later, his horn lit up and a random stone in the fireplace started to glow with runes and lines of enchantment. Smaller ivory runes lit up on Bronze curtain ends; and the curtains flung themselves closed.

Clean Pin had taken a moment to process her boss's words, and had managed three solid flaps of her wings; before the gust of curtains buffeted her. It was a near thing with the bucket; soapy water cresting inches above the rim.

She expected the room to be a total disaster, but if it wasn’t for the glowing electric lights, rocking drapes and the wide eyed Swift Sweep; she may have thought nothing had happened. Sweep closed her eyes, breathed, then opened calm eyes.

“I had forgotten the room had that functionality,” she murmured, pitching her voice slightly louder she continued, “Let's go back to the vases.”

Clean Pin tilted her head; then glanced at the vases. Then it clicked. They had only managed to clean a rim of the room; and the prince had just stirred the remaining dust.

Clean Pin closed her eyes, and let out a long shuddering breath. She opened her eyes; and turned to the vases.

If she was expecting any sympathy, or even awareness from the Prince; she expected in vain. He pulled a green tome with a bookmark off his book shelf; his stack of pamphlets hovering behind him. He turned and plopped down in his arm chair; and began reading with a smile. She couldn't read the title of the book; but caught a glimpse of a stylized unicorn warrior picked out in gold thread.

She kept the glare off her face as she glanced at Blueblood; any hope for after work plans dying as he continued to not care, or notice, the pair. She seethed in silence; maybe they should just walk out? She looked at Swift Sweep; who continued to work with equal aplomb. She resisted the urge to sigh.

Perhaps it was her mood, or perhaps it was the fire light; but his features struck her now as eerie. It wasn’t until they finished the vases and moved back to the paintings and statues that it clicked. She wanted to smack her forehead.

He looked like his ancestors; all of them. Bright manes, lighter shaded coats, sharp and strong features, and for the older portraits, a pattern of graying; they were shared to a degree between every depiction and the current prince. Over dozens of generations that had married ponies from all over the world.

She stared wide-eyed at the prince of Equestria, the distant nephew of the diarchs, a scion of a family that stretched back to ancient days; she looked back at the window she had to reclean while worrying about getting tangled in the curtains and sighed.

The monotony of cleaning was broken when a bang shook them. The prince was on his feet and pacing; his arm chair tipped back onto the floor. The green book was sitting on an end table; an open pamphlet was clutched in a hoof. He stopped to read a page; his muzzle twisting like he ate something rotten. With a glow, all the pamphlets lifted into the air, and jerked towards the fire. The pile paused mid way. The prince glanced at his tome; then the ceiling mural. He turned to Alfalfa.

“Summon-” his eye caught on the pair, “-ah, you're still here-” for a brief moment Clean Pin’s heart swelled, “-Very good. Lead me to the laundry room.”

Clean Pin stared slack jawed at the prince. Swift Sweep blinked, then curtseyed; Clean pin followed after she closed her mouth.

“Right this way your highness,” Swift Sweep said, before turning for the elevator.

The elevator was spacious; but Clean Pin put Swift Sweep between her and the prince. The ride felt like it went on forever, it took less than a minute, and the elevator dinged and opened. Swift Sweep led them through the fine wood and tile halls of Blood manor. Tapestries, paintings, statues and other finery became less and less frequent the deeper they went. Eventually Swift Sweep turned into an alcove, that one might pass by a dozen times without noticing, and pushed open a door.

The servant corridors, which threaded through the manor like arteries, allowed the swift and silent servicing of the house. Some narrow enough only to allow one pony to walk. Some broad enough to allow push carts and trolleys to move; all were well lit and unadorned.

There were still servants up at this hour, and they stared at the procession like ghosts; before they bowed and curtseyed hurriedly, and got out of the way.

The Laundry was empty this time of night. On sterile white tile where a ranks of washing machines, dyers, ironing boards, washing bins, hampers, wash bins and drying racks. Swift Sweep turned and curtseyed.

“We have arrived, your highness,” she said, “what is it you require of us?”

Blueblood eyed the facility, the sour expression back in full.

“You will teach me how to do laundry,” he stated.

The pair looked at him like he had announced he was a changeling. Then blinked in fright at his narrowing eyes.

“Alri- alright your highness” Swift sweep said, “We will need some dirty clothes to wash. Clean Pin go-“

Blueblood plucked a maids uniform with his telekinesis from a hamper; and plunged it into one of the wheeled hampers used to collect dirty clothes. He tossed the uniform, now dusty and with bits of detritus, at Swift Sweeps hoofs.

What a waste, Clean Pin thought.

“Will that suffice?” Blueblood asked.

Swift Sweep mutely nodded.

“Well first we will need to check what it is made out of…”

And so the four hour lesson for the prince began. Swift Sweep did most of the talking and demonstration; as Clean Pin prepped each next step. She got the powders measured out and the basins filled with water. The prince watched silently; only asking for clarification.

She supposed they should have seen it coming. When the demonstration was done the prince rolled up his suit’s sleeves, cast a wave of ivory magic over himself, dirtied another outfit, and set to work. The servants stared wide eyed at their master as he began to repeat the steps. When he mis-measured the detergent; Clean Pin smile flashed and corrected him without thinking. Her mind caught up a moment later and her career flashed before her eyes; but the prince nodded and poured in the proper amount. After the long tedious process was over; two freshly dried and pressed maid uniforms were back where they started.

The prince looked around the room, looking no less groomed for the work, except for the crumple of his sleeves. He was nodding to himself.

“This is endurable,” he declared.

He turned, and without another word, left; Alfalfa in tow.

The pair waited a moment to see if he had truly gone. Then Clean Pin collapsed onto a bench groaning; starting to massage her legs one by one. Swift Sweep let out a sigh and sat next to her.

“Well,” Swift Sweep pronounced, “Your probationary period is over; you are now a full member of the house staff.”

Clean Pin groaned again.

“Look… I don’t…”

“This is last weeks' pay”

She saw a white envelope profurred in front of her nose. Clean Pin stared at it, and the thought of reading numbers made her brain hurt; but she grabbed and opened it. She read, her eyes bugged out, and reread it more carefully.

“I mean I knew… is this a starting bonus?”

“We are royal employees, and so we have some tax advantages.”

Clean Pin silently stared at the paper; before groaning.

“Same time as last monday?”

“Yes.”

Author's Note

Checks calendar 20 days!

Hopefully I’ll be able to work that down to bi weekly.

Anyway, hope you enjoy.

Reorientation

Onhoovers Army Camp was… less impressive than Blueblood had imagined in his mind. They could have at least used a castle.

The camp was nestled in a green valley. Rows of narrow wooden buildings and stocky brick structures boxed in a grassy commons. More detail resolved itself as Alfalfa continued to navigate the road. Blueblood cursed as they went over another bump.

“Alfalfa, the moment, the moment, you get back; I want you to bring this to get cleaned.”

“Understood your highness,” the exact same response he had used the last three times.

Blueblood looked back out the window; and smiled. It was a pretty valley though. He wondered if they would do mock battles here. His minds latched onto different features in turn; picturing how he would array his soldiers to hold or take them. His imaginings flickered between walls of pikes and rifles; between changelings swarms, dragons, and reds.

He blinked when the car jerked to a stop. A brick building with the words ‘Intake’ written on it in white paint. Blueblood got out, and straightened his suit; Alfalfa went to the back to get his luggage. Blueblood did a walk around his car; fussing over its scratches and dust. Alfalfa was done quickly; and his two suitcases were neatly placed. That had been another sticking point; the recruiter had made it quite clear that he could only have two suitcases of personal effects. Far, far too little, but he had been clear. He had also been clear that servants were not allowed.

Blueblood turned to stiffly face Alfalfa. Alfalfa had a slight frown creasing his face.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to join…?”

Blueblood hesitated a moment, but shook his head

“You are to manage the house while I am occupied.”

Alfalfa stood quiet for a moment, before he bowed, turned and left. The tension eased from Blueblood as he turned back to the brick facade; his smile blooming once more. The urge to prance flowed through him. It would be a foalish thing to do; so he assumed a good posture and waited.

Soon a uniformed unicorn came out; looking down at his levitating clipboard. Blueblood started, nonplussed. The uniform was awful. It was like someone had found a mechanics jumpsuit and dyed it the royal gold; except they had used some bargain bin paint so it looked more yellow than the gold plate of the royal guard. An ‘2S’ was sewn onto the collar in blocky white lettering. The unicorn looked up from his clipboard; and blinked, and spoke in a neat canterlot accent.

“Huh? How are you here so early?”

It took a moment for Blueblood to marshal his thoughts.

“I drove.”

The unicorn tilted his head, before looking up the hill at the retreating car.

“You’re supposed to take the bus.”

Blueblood puffed his chest; and smiled.

“The instructions said orientation started at nine, and the bus was leaving at eight, not that I had to be on the bus.”

The unicorn stared at Blueblood; opened his mouth, paused, then shrugged.

“Fair I suppose, well you’ll have to wait around.”

The soldier went back to looking over his clipboard. Blueblood interjected his fears.

“Is that the uniform?”

“Pardon?” He replied, not looking up. Blueblood spoke up, a tinge of irritation entering his voice.

“Is that the Onhooves uniform?”

“Yes”

Blueblood bounced between wanting to snap at the unicorn's curtness; or to ruminate on that he would be forced to wear that, but a growing roar had them looking up at the bus rolling down the hill. The soldier spoke up.

“Well since you're here, you may as well form the start of the que.”

Blueblood moved to be in front of the soldier; but he kept his head turned to watch the bus approach. Blueblood’s brows knit, first the uniform and now this. It was… pedestrian. It looked like any number of buses he had seen in Canterlot or Manehattan. It stopped and the rest of the recruits, twenty or so, filed off. Most, he judged, were of lower and middling backgrounds; but he judged a few to be of finer stock. He had been expecting as much when he learned that officer cadets had to go through the basic training with the enlisted. He turned to face the door… gatekeeper? Soldier? The pony coughed then started up in a bureaucratic tone.

“Hello recruits ; I am Specialist Deep Cellar. Today you all began your journey in her majesty's army. You will enter through the door behind me in an orderly fashion. You will go through processing; please have all the documents you were asked to bring ready. After that you will drop off your luggage at your barracks; for you that will be 15B. You will return here and be directed towards the medical office; or towards the quartermaster's office. You will go through more medical testing; or receive your kit. You are to follow the instructions of all staff. Are there any questions?”

A frown had entrenched itself on Blueblood’s face at the brief instruction. Maybe this was just training camp; officer school would surely be better. He thought about asking when they would be issued weapons; but decided against it. Deep Cellar waited a moment longer before continuing.

“Remember one at a time. Welcome to Onhoovers Army Camp,” and in a tone that was less boilerplate, “good luck.”

A single desk clerk, a gray pegasus, greeted them in the narrow room the recruits filed into. Blueblood strode up first.

“Name?”

“Prince Blueblood”, loud and clear, he was gratified at the quiet murmurs he heard behind him. The clerk nodded.

“Provincial I.D?”

So began the slow wheels of bureaucracy. At one point he was given a document to look through and sign. Blueblood gripped it with his magic and made as if to hoof it off to a pony behind him. He blinked, and jerked it back to his front, hoping nobody had noticed. He looked through and signed the document. The last few things were confirmed; and he moved towards his barracks. The pathways between the various buildings were hard baked dirt; he wondered how they kept them dry during rain.

He had to go past a few rows of barracks and other buildings to get there. He saw other more senior recruits bustling about in front of their barracks; forming ranks in front of instructors. It was confirmed that yes, those unadorned, ugly things were the uniforms. It would have been difficult to tell the instructors and recruits apart; if the instructors hadn’t been wearing hats. He watched as ranks of yellow formed. Ugly? Certainly, but they did have a charm in ranks. He supposed chickens could look impressive in a mass. He passed further into the camp; seeing less and less recruits and instructors as he got deeper. Until he found 15B.

When he entered; he gaped in mute horror at the thin wooden interior. Row upon rows of narrow beds and foot lockers were packed like match boxes. There were no night stands; and there was barely enough room on either side for night stands. He felt something poke him from behind and he mutely moved aside; the student that passed through gave him an odd look. Surely… surely… they couldn’t expect him to live like this? Like cattle? He had better conditions camping. Another student filed in. Well there had been that one hike he had been convinced to go on; where they had to make do with less provisions. That had been similar… maybe- maybe this was temporary. Blueblood shuddered, and moved to his bed; laying his suitcases atop his bed.

He hurriedly made his way out of the match box and to the doctor's office. The doctor was a grizzled earth pony; and was acceptably competent Blueblood decided. More was involved in the testing then he first thought. The doctor's office had a space like a gym; and he was made to go through tests. After the doctor confirmed he was up to snuff with his shots; the results were marked down and he was sent on his way. Blueblood still wished they had let him send his own physician's results.

The quartermaster was a rake thin unicorn; who proffered a backpack without a word to Blueblood. Inside there were a few changes of the uniform, a canteen, a rain jacket(in the same yellow), a flashlight, and a small utility knife; and the backpack itself was apparently his. Blueblood did not like the uniform any better on him. The front sleeves were too tight, and it was looser than he liked around his barrel. The mirror he conjured showed that even he struggled to make the outfit work. He wondered if the army would let him bring it to his tailor. He would fix the fit, add holes for his cufflinks, and loosen the collar so his amulet would fit better; while he was at it he could also change the color and…

These musings where interrupted by a voice behind him

“I don't think you're supposed to wear those.”

Blueblood finished latching on his gold watch; and a subtle wave of ivory magic flowed over him. Wood Walker’s Greater Ward against Pests flowed out. He could see a bug that had been scuttling above ground freeze; then rapidly fled. He turned to look down at the light brown pegasus. He was clad in the tight plain cotton; by that, and his accent Blueblood placed him as from the Cloudsdales docks. Blueblood raised an eyebrow. The pegasus shrank a little; looking more hesitant.

“I haven’t seen any of the staff wearing jewelry…,” he continued in a more hesitant tone.

Blueblood considered a moment, before his eye brow was joined by a mocking smile.

“Well I suppose I'll let the instructors inform me of such a rule.”

The pegasi flushed with embarrassment; and backed off. Blueblood noticed the looks of some recruits. Somewhere amused, some reproachful; but they went back to what they were doing.

Soon Blueblood, and the rest of the recruits were milling inside the barracks. The recruits had broken up into small groups, chatting and laughing and wondering when the instructor would arrive. Blueblood busied himself trying to get his things packed away; cursing the recruiter that hadn’t bothered to tell him how big the two suitcases should be. It helped distract him from the stragglingly small space; and the plethora of loud, rough accents and odors that filled it. He was making some headway when a loud voice rang through the barracks.

“Recruits! Get your flanks out here!”

Despite the harshness of speech; there was a clang of iron to the tone that had him perk up. Leaving his suitcases and foot locker; he was one of the first out the door.

The unicorn standing at parade rest was broad and gruff, like a black bear, and was glowering at the lot of them. He almost made the uniform look serious. The gaggle of recruits globbed into a semi circle in front of him. He roared again:

“This isn’t story time; form ranks.”

Blueblood placed himself front and center, and stood still; eyes fixed on the unicorn. The group shuffled about more around him; some confusion about whether to form 1, 2 or 3 ranks. They settled on two ranks, but struggled to get them straight; undulating until they managed ragged lines. The front lining next to Blueblood; and the second rank copying the first. The uniformed unicorn looked on with a flat expression.

“I’ve seen school foals form better ranks; but I suppose it will have to do,” he tapped his chest, “I am sargeant Broadflag; I am your instructor. In your time here; you will become part of the first Onhooves divisions.”

He looked over the crowd with a stern look. Blueblood’s eyes were bright.

“I know to some of you; this may seem like merely an easy way to get a government pension. It will be anything but. Should the changelings come again, should the buffalos break the peace, or should any other threat knocks at our door; you may, if diplomacy fails, need to fight the threat off,” he paused for a moment; Blueblood nodded along.

“You will be taught hoof to hoof fighting, the use of explosives, and the use and maintenance of weapons. You will be taught how to fight shapeshifters; that can go from a crowd doing some market shopping; to a ravenous horde of chitin and gunpowder. You will be taught how to resist a buffalo charge,” he shook his head, “you better hope in harmony that our peace continues. They are twice the height of the tallest of you; and the smallest thrice your weight. They could crush every bone in your body to powder and not notice they trampled you. You will be taught more besides-”

One pony spoke up. Blueblood glanced over. The gray earth pony that spoke shifted hoof to hoof; his expression drawn and heavy.

“Why-?”

“Recruit! I was not finished. Let that be the first lesson, until you know I am finished; you will not interrupt.”

Pony looked down crestfallen.

“You will also be expected to learn, and follow army regulations. Your second lesson…”

His eyes, which had been looking up and down the line, landed on Blueblood. Blueblood, despite himself, shrank back.

“What is your name recruit?”

“Prince Blueblood”

He didn’t look surprised.

“Well Bluie, your uniform isn’t following army regulations. Which you might have guessed had you looked at any other personnel at this camp.”

At ‘Bluie’, Blueblood looked poleaxed; only to flushed at the insult; driven deeper by the snicker he heard behind him. He sputtered for a moment.

“That,” A shuddering inhale, “is not my name.”

“The amulet can stay; but all the other jewelry has to come off”

“They are enchanted!”

Broadflag smiled at him; it was not pleasant.

“Well then I suppose you can keep wearing them.”

Blueblood blinked, but did not relax; he knew that tone. He had used it.

“If you want to look all glitzy; I know a place that could use some decorations; the rest of us will head to the mess hall for supper; and you will clean the barracks toilets.”

Blueblood paled, flushed, and paled again in turn.

“That is an order, come on the rest of you, hurry.”

Some looked shocked as they left, some looked at him in sympathy, some laughed at him; including the brown pegasus. Blueblood stood quietly as the group moved out of sight; before he gave a firm nod. He turned towards the barracks.

He was glad in retrospect that he hadn’t finished packing. He started repacking. How dare Broadflag treat him like that; how dare any of them treat him like this. He ground a silk shirt between his hooves. He turned for the bathroom. Before he repacked he would not spend another moment in this damned uniform. The bathrooms fit the rest of this dump. Plain, ugly tile, with primitive fixtures; with a dingy mirror reflecting the pathetic room. He sneered at the toilets; his horn lit up and he began to unbutton his uniform. He did not belong here; he belonged back in a civilized place. He would return to Canterlot first-

A memory of a disappointed face floated through his mind. His horn flickered out. Well that hadn’t stopped him in the past. He began pacing the bathroom. Moreover he had been lied to, deceived; he would be justified in turning his back on all this nonsense. He stopped and his horn lit up. Giving up on all this nonsense. His horn went out. He remembered the Broadflag watching them gauging their reactions to his brutal speech. He would be failing.

He shook his head; but the thought refused to leave. He would have been driven out at the first hurdle. No- no he wouldn’t. This was just like the other times he had quit his other hobbies; he was bored of it and was lied to. He started pacing again. Well those other times he hadn’t been lied too; but that just meant he had even more justifiable reason!

Stern to inflict and stubborn to endure.

The quote rang through his mind. The words that the poet had used in his praise of Cursebreaker. He looked at the toilet; mouth curling. Cursebreaker hadn’t been degraded and humiliated in such a way.

He stood a time like that. Before his horn flicked on, and he redid his buttons. He stared at the scrub brush next to the toilet. He levitated it like it was a dead snake.

Author's Note

My upload schedule is evolving; backwards.

Next one should be quicker

Shoeing part 1

In the first two weeks Blueblood got pretty good at cleaning toilets.

Blueblood cringed at the trumpet. His eyes stayed shut against the battering ram of sunlight. He spoke in a grumpy murmur.

“Alfalfa make it quiet…”

The trumpet sounded again. Blueblood groaned. Memory and awareness began to trickle through his skull like a leaking valve. He kicked off the sandpaper like blanket, groaned again, and rolled off the mattress.

Through bleary eyes he watched the bustle of the barracks. Somewhere already uniformed, chatting with each other; or getting morning stretches in. Some sane ponies were rolling out of bed like him. Many of them seemed unnaturally energetic for this early.

Blueblood looked at the bathroom and its growing line. He shook his head, and tried to focus on the spell; lamenting the enchantments back home that would have done this for him. His horn flickered, then steadied; and his cleaning spell fired. Blueblood shivered at the sensation of hot air over his coat. He cast again; and his mane and tail were sorted out; though not properly styled. He looked at his locker.

He had learned that, yes, those were the official uniforms for the whole army. No, he could not wear something else. No, he could not re-tailor it. No, he couldn’t wear something over it. Blueblood, stop asking questions.

He opened the locker; and with a flash of his horn, one of the uniforms turned red. The flashing spell drew attention to what he was trying. Some sighed, some laughed, some looked hopeful. The last group was disappointed; Blueblood had more janitor practice.

The “Woodspony” M03 was a breech loaded long rifle. It was heavy, with boxy wood furniture.

It was chambered in .421 Rugpile. Its large caliber had made it a favorite in the frontier.

Blueblood could feel every ounce as he ran bipedal with it in his front hooves. He panted like a dog.

Sweat had turned patches of his uniform into an even more disgusting yellow. He kept his eyes forward, trying to follow the instructor’s advice and count his steps. The numbers jumbled in his head like a jigsaw puzzle.

Bipedal exercises were invented by Discord, Blueblood had concluded. Like any reasonably healthy equine, he could rear up and move bipedally; but Running on two hooves? For a protracted period? His entire body screamed at the affront to nature he was putting it through. He actually was better off then some; many dances required bipedal movement.

A few rifle shots, and dings sounded out ahead of him. Blueblood gritted his teeth, kept moving, and tried to breathe. He almost missed the red line; his eyes slicked with sweat. He slowed, and heard a beep as he crossed it; a few feet past it was a wooden shack. He swayed on his hooves as he stopped; but with a groan he hoisted his rifle to his shoulder. The metal target seemed to sway. There was a sharper beep and he fired. The recoil had him stumble back; and a moment later he sat down heavily. He groaned, there hadn’t been a ding. A few more shots rang out; some accompanied with a ding. Blueblood groaned again. He was better off than some.

Blueblood sat under the dark sky; eyes heavy, horn dim, but eyes still panning up and down the pages of his book. Cursebreaker and his companions were advancing through a snow drift to the defense of a village called vanhoover. He had a wane smile.

Blueblood yawned and wondered if he was exhausted enough to fall asleep; to not sit there in his uncomfortable bed, listening and smelling to the thirty ponies that shared his space.

His silent companion yawned too. He and his fellow insomniac shared the alley between their barracks most nights. He was leaning on the wall of his barracks; puffing on awful smelling cigarettes. The stallion was a touch creepy. His dark coat blended with the night; so that he sometimes appeared to just be eyes and floating sparks. He was quiet though.

The moon peaked out from the dark cloud; and washed the valley in pale light. Blueblood started, it had been overcast at night since he got here. Blueblood looked down to see the gray pony looking at him. In a clear, cultured Severnaya accent, he spoke.

“Is that Cursebreaker?”

Blueblood started again, staring at the once grim figure that was fully upright and looking with a cocked head.

“You’ve read it?” A triple surprise.

“Yes, how are you liking it so far?”

“I’m rereading it.”

The Severnayain walked out the shadow of the barracks. His ankles were a solid black, lightening to a dark gray. His cutie mark, the army provided no pajamas, was a lit match. He was shorter than Blueblood, but not by much.

“Have you read The Song of Tsar Charcoalmane?”

Blueblood’s brow knit.

“Wasn’t that… the tsar that opened trade with Equestria? ”

“Close. Tsar Adrik, Charcoalmane was his equstrianized name, freed Severnaya from the Yaks.”

“Why did he have a equstrianized name?” Blueblood chuckled to himself, turned to his satchel and pulled out two cigars, and proffered one to the pony, “But you must forgive me for my poor manners. I am Prince Blueblood, what is your name?”

The pony sputtered for a moment, eyes wide; he gave a neat bow.

“It is an honor to meet you, your highness. I go by Dimitrios Konstantinova or Heartrock; either will do.”

Blueblood gave a full strong smile; and proffered the cigar again. This time Heartrock took it, and the pair sat down to talk.

Author's Note

Technically this is my quickest update.

Sorry about the low word count. Shoeing was originally going to just be one chapter; but I realized the scope of the chapter needed to grow. So instead of putting it off for a few more weeks I decided to post what I had ready.

Hope you enjoy regardless. Any thoughts or criticisms would be appreciated.

Shoeing part 2

Wind gusted down the alley. Blueblood threw up a thin shield that took the edge off the wind. Heartrock hummed appreciatively. They puffed on their cigars for a moment; the brisk air on their coats and a banner of night shining between the shingle of the barracks. Blueblood spoke up, his voice cutting the silence.

“You did not explain why Tsar Adrick had an equstrianized name?”

Heartrock nodded his head with a smile.

“Of course your highness; the short story is that he hired equestrian mercenaries-” Heartrock saw Blueblood’s expression, “what?”

Blueblood shook his head, waving a hoove.

“No, no keep going.”

“No your highness, I insist, what did you want to say?”

“Equestria doesn’t have mercenaries. Except for a few criminals here and there. Did he hire criminals?”

Heartrock sighed and grumbled.

“What is a foreign pony that accepts payment for fighting?”

Blueblood thought for a moment.

“You didn’t tell me the time period; but we used to have adventurers. They would sometimes accept foreign contracts. ” Blueblood raised an eyebrow, “But that sounded rhetorical to me.”

Heartrock grunted.

“They were called that; but there isn’t a meaningful distinction.”

Blueblood shook his head. The smoke from his cigar swayed with it.

“Adventurers were held to a high code of conduct by their guilds and royal mandate. They were paid of course; but they were motivated by the thrill of adventure and altruism.”

Heartrock took a moment to process that before he started in a skeptical tone.

“Taking that characterisation as fact for a moment; they would still fit the definition of mercenary.”

“Setting aside your cynicism for a moment. Bitch, by definition, refers to any female dog breed. Refer to a female diamond dog as a ‘bitch’ and see how far strict definitions get you. Connotation is half of a word; there is a certain connotation to ‘mercenary’ that equestrian adventurers do not at all meet.”

Heartrock shook his head.

“But by your own example you are wrong. In a medical context such terminology is used appropriately according to its strict definition. And in a proper academic discussion, which I thought we were supposed to be having-”

Blueblood spluttered, and so began a heated argument, and their friendship.

They argued, talked and smoked long into the night. Their arguments and discussion meandered, sometimes sprinted, through half a dozen topics. Home life(Heartrock, it turned out, was from Manehatten; a second generation immigrant from Severnaya), History, philosophy, painting, music, the theater, moving pictures, favorite restaurants, and half a dozen different topics; never the army though, or the camp.

He was addressed as ‘prince’ and your ‘highness’. They talked about history, high art, and other worthy topics. They smoked fine cigars. Blueblood’s smile was irrepressible.

All good things had to come to an end. Heartrock’s accent was understated, but when they moved on to ‘Quest for the West Light’, Blueblood found out he struggled with ‘ship’, which he pronounced more like ‘sheep’. Heartrock tried to correct himself. Blueblood tried to help; but his tired, barely coherent explanations did not help in the slightest. Both stallions started laughing. Attempt by either of them to compose themselves and hold a straight face only prompted the other to break down again.

Heartrock, shaking from near hysterical laughter, begged off and stumbled to his barracks.

Blueblood trudged out of the alley, his smile in place. Exhaustion smothered the ever multiplying thoughts and concerns that plagued his mind these past weeks; until his mind had a dim clarity. A focus born out of the current narrow scope of his mind. In that small scope there was a pleasant warmth and the knowledge of a friend made. He rounded the corner and stood in front of the barrack’s narrow door; he stared at it, and thought of the bed within. He was tired enough to fall asleep. He turned and walked away.

The moon dimmed for a moment. He looked up. A small tuft of cloud had passed over the moon. He blinked as the cloud passed, the unfettered moonlight beamed down again. Blueblood kept wandering.

The moonlight and shadows danced over the camp, as patches of cloud obscured the moon. Under shadows, the barracks could appear vast; only to become thin and frail under the moon. A cloud flitted over the moon; and the electrical poles were at grim dark totems. It went, and they were odd, silvers trees from the depth of evertree. The colors of grasses and flowers of the valley were washed out under the moon; only to turn into dark stubble. Even the mud patches on the paths were strange; becoming oil pits or silver plates.

He turned another bend and was in front of the camp’s admission office. It was solid brick. Blueblood smile went. He should go to bed; every moment out here meant more struggle tomorrow, and for the whole week, and for the whole time he was here. Eight weeks to go. Some in his platoon had already gone to the admission office to leave. He would not, he refused. Eight weeks and he could not go. He collapsed onto the path, staring at the office. The moon passed the moon, and a glint had him turn his head. He got up slowly and trudged over and around the admission office. A metal ladder led unto the roof. He felt the ache in his limbs; but shrugged and climbed up the ladder.

It wasn’t much of a view. The one story building being the same height or not much taller than the rest of the camp. The camp was dead silent; with nopony going about this late. He was not back home. He may as well have been shipwrecked or cast to a different world.

He sighed and sat down. Could he keep this up for eight weeks? The thought struck him like an icepick; or like an ax strikes the base of a tree. Wake up tired, eat awful food, get yelled at, punished for trying to hold onto his dignity, watched as the others pulled ahead as he struggled to tread water? He struggled now, how would he struggle in six weeks? Tartarus, how would he struggle in one week? Broadflag, in his usual cheerful, sadistic manner, told them it would only get harder. It would get harder and he would only get more strained, and tired and- he shuddered.

He should talk- write his aunt. Two weeks out, two weeks in. Four- no she would send someone. Two than. Two weeks to get advice. Anyone closer by letter? No. No one that could help him. Anyone here? Blueblood spat out a bitter laugh. The only friend he had here he had only known for a handful of hours. How would he view his prince coming to beg for advice?

He shook his head. He would view his prince very poorly. Right now, if he came up that ladder, he would view his prince acting quite poorly. He could last… he would endure. He nodded firmly. So he was alone; so what? He had succeeded at anything he had put his mind and heart into. He would make it to the end of the eight weeks.

Did he want to last it like this though? Like a dog endured a beating? To then be allowed to crawl out of here. He wanted to endure like a prince. So what were his problems, and what did he need to do about them?

He was tired. That made everything worse. A good night’s sleep would help with that. He could try getting more used to the barracks? Maybe something gets mailed in? Neither was an immediate solution; but he could try both.

The whole camp rankled on him. The waiting in lines, bad uniforms, the bad food, the narrow bed that had been forced upon him; just like everyone else. He could get used to discomfort; he was already getting used to it. He had already sent a letter to Alfalfa for things to make his stay more comfortable. The second part, the disrespect for his person and rank…

That led to his third problem; Broadflag. Broadflag not only didn’t treat him with respect; he had it out for him!

Could he get Broadflag fired? Could he perhaps get the whole camp ordered to his liking? He smiled. Have some conversations, throw his influence around. His smile withered. No, this was a royal institution. A flawed one? Yes. One that his aunt should fix? Certainly. It was a royal institution nonetheless. A moment later he shook his head. On a more practical angle; exerting influence was hard when the levers were two weeks away. What could he do here?

He had already tried convincing Broadflag. He had tried everything short of bribing, begging or threatening him. Broadflag had laughed at him; or sent him to clean toilets.

The camp’s commandant? He hadn’t seen much of her; only in passing. He knew little about the eyepatched mare. That would be a blind dart. A dart that could hit a sleeping dragon. If she was as unreasonable as Broadflag; trying to get him removed… it would go badly. Of course, it wasn’t a fully blind dart. She was the camp commandant, while he hadn’t seen much of her, that didn’t mean she didn’t know how Broadflag was treating him.

He brooded, looking down on the camp. More and more clouds were passing; and now the moonlight was only a flicker.

Could he… accept it? No, certainly not. To be mistreated was one thing. To accept one’s mistreatment was a new depth of degradation.

Yet… there were certain requirements before you left basic training; shooting and athletics and others; and he was falling behind. He wouldn’t fail of course, he nodded firmly, but there was a difference between passing and excelling.

If he got Broadflag off his back. He would surely excel. Excelling at those would look good on his record. That would help him rise faster through the ranks. Even as a junior officer he would outrank Broadflag; but when he had risen higher. He grinned, got up, stretched, and started to pace the roof. He would have power; power enough to make a certain sergeant guard a sewer for the rest of his career.

Another problem was that he only had one friend here; that was downright unequestrian of him. As soon as his freetime was liberated from janitorial duti-

Blueblood blinked as light slashed across his eyes. He blinked his watering eyes at the horizon and paled. Today was going to be miserable. He headed off for the barracks, dreading the day ahead of him; but with his head high.

Author's Note

I got it done on time!

Next chapter Blueblood will put his plan into action.

As always, thank you for reading

Shoeing part 3

The day had been as awful as he predicted. It started with Broadflag having to call his name three times at roll call. It ended with Broadflag sending him to bed early. If he had been in a better state he would have resented being treated like a foal; but he was happy for the empty, quiet barracks. He slept through the entire platoon entering, undressing, and getting ready for bed. Discord himself couldn't have woken him.

It was the second blast of the trumpet that woke him hours later. Blueblood rolled off the bed, stretched, and yawned. He blinked the sleep out of his eyes and yawned again.

His cleaning spell slicked over him; the spell went slower than it usually did. He tromped over to his locker and pulled it open. All of his uniforms had been hung just a little off; so they all formed small wrinkles and creases. He sighed, but a small, wry smile came out. At least he would get an opportunity to use it. He knelt down and started rifling through the lower cubby of the locker. He pushed aside the hair products he hadn’t the time to use, the accessories he wasn’t allowed to wear, and the writing kit that he’d only used once; before finding his spell book. It was a thin book; with a dark silk cover. The cover sported a depiction of Eorþe. Surrounding their globe was the sun, moon and planets. As he watched; a thread, a part of the southern ice cap, unwove itself. It writhed like a confused worm, before diving back down and reweaving into shape. He began flipping through it; temperature manipulation, pest repellent, cleaning magic, and… he stopped, read over the page and set it down on his bed. He levitated one of the uniforms out in front of him. His brows knitted, he looked over the page again before focusing on the uniform.

A sputter of purple light bubbled into existence; before it congealed into a translucent iron. He willed it; and the iron floated to the uniform and started tracing up and down; leaving behind a perfectly pressed uniform.

As the magical iron worked; he glanced over the hall. The platoon of thirty had shrunk to a little over twenty. Some of the madder ponies, as usual, were already showered and dressed. They were all around a card table; laughing and playing. He frowned; the iron stopped and began to wobble. Blueblood refocused part of his mind; and the spell steadied. He examined the other undressed and unshowered ponies; none of them were shooting them dirty looks. He looked back at the table, and there was a unicorn at the table. Ah, he nodded to himself, that would explain it.

The ponies in line for the bathroom were either sullenly silent, or talking to each other. A blue earth pony stepped outside and made his way to the table; he glanced at Blueblood with mild amusement, before continuing on and being warmly greeted by the table. The iron flickered. Blueblood’s eyes narrowed and he looked over the room’s ponies. A few looked at him with amusement, like circus goers watching a dancing animal. Some looked down on him; regardless that he was the tallest pony in the room. Some mares, and one stallion, glanced at him with appreciation… but they were not like he was used to. In an awful strike of empathy; he recognized the expression. It was the look he must give to the pretty, unsophisticated, mares that threw themselves at him. Most of the time, none of them looked at Blueblood at all. The iron shook and sparks of lightning arced across its surface. He turned to hide his face.

The difference, he mused, between a pest repellent spell, and a pest attraction spell; was rather small. A very familiar thought. A familiar reaction. Just a reaction.

He took a breath and the iron steadied. He schooled his face into an expression his aunt had taught him. She used it when she had ‘particularly troublesome little ponies’. With a false calm Blueblood looked up.

They weren’t entirely at fault; Broadflag was. Respect, like most good things, flowed from the top. Broadflag didn’t respect him, and so they wouldn’t. The iron traced up and down its course. He sighed, and... he supposed that Broadflag had prevented him from putting his best hoof forward. The iron made a soft ding; and he examined the uniform. He hummed in approval, and put on the uniform. He glanced at the clock, and with a shrug pulled a new wrinkled uniform out and started ironing it too. While he looked at the iron as it worked; he peered out of the corner of his eyes at his… comrades.

He got to the third uniform before the last trumpet sounded. The iron flickered out and he put the half done fourth back in his locker. The platoon jumped to their hoof, the table goers hurriedly shoving their chairs in before rushing outside.

It was nearing the end of the day, and the third week. The platoon was at the range. Weathered tables and benches were behind firing booths covered by a tin roof. The firing booths were numbered, right to left, one through sixty; and blackened lines marked the firing lanes. In front of the firing line at varying intervals were rusting metal targets; with concentric red circles painted over them. The further one got to sixty the further away and smaller the targets got. Behind them was the hill that unlucky ponies had to collect stray bullets from.

Most days, thankfully, they did not do those awful bipedal drills. Instead it was practicing reloading, cleaning, and stationary firing. Mostly practicing reloading and cleaning. Recruits were only issued three rounds a day. So for most of time the recruits disassembled, cleaned, and reassembled clean guns; then mimed reloading and firing a few dozen times. A few at a time would be called up to fire under the sergeant's watchful eye. No spells were allowed for this. ‘If you rely on magic to use your guns; you’ll be useless if you're too tired, have too many distractions, or cast too much. Things that happen all the time in battle.’ Blueblood supposed that made sense.

He sat on a bench; a table away from the rest of the platoon. He finished ramming down the barrel brush. He pulled it out; made a show of inspecting it. There was nothing on it, not even bore cleaner; but they were supposed to mime what they would do in the field. He gently set the brush down. Reaching into his ammunition pouch, he grabbed an imaginary bullet; and put it in the breach. Before clicking the rifle closed. He rose to his hoofs; and kept the barrel firmly pointed at the ground. Early on there was one pony, who was no longer at the camp, who thought it would be funny to point their rifle at another recruit. Broadflag had not found it funny.

He got to one of the firing booths, reared up bipedal, and mimed pulling the trigger. He reloaded, went prone, fired, and reloaded on the ground. Broadflag’s harsh bark sounded over them.

“Flour, Blueie, Zaps, Peas.”

Chocolate Flower, Blueblood, Cloudy Sun, and Good Soil; all looked up. The four previous ponies were filing back, chatting; Broadflag was scowling and gesturing to the four to hurry up. When they were close enough to reach out and shake hooves, Broadflag shouted at the same volume. He started hoofing out ammo as he spoke.

“Flour 13, Blueie 7, Zaps 15, Peas 20.”

Blueblood winced, but kept his mouth shut, and accepted the rounds. He started repeating Broadflags advice in his head. Blueblood had decided the advice he gave to the group was safe; even he was unlikely to sabotage the entire platoon to spite him. For his job if nothing else.

‘Spending too much time aiming will make your aim worse. I’m setting a time limit and the enemy most certainly will. Don’t shoot while breathing. Don’t take a full breath and hold it. Don’t expel all the air out of your lungs. You have a natural pause in your breathing; stop breathing then, and fire. Don’t-” More and more advice; but now they were at the booths and Broadflag fiddled with his watch. Blueblood took a deep breath. It was just like magic; filter out distractions, focus on your goal. Broadflag pressed a button and shouted.

“Go.”

Blueblood stood bipedal, raised his rifle, lined up the iron site dead center on the target; and waited that brief moment for the exhale. He was ready for the .451’s kick, but the trigger pull had been too fast, and the barrel jerked just a little. Ding. He didn’t know if it was his or anothers and he didn’t check. He clicked open the rifle; reached into his ammo pouch and pulled out another fat bullet. He saw his hoof shaking. Just like magic. He took a deep breath even as he felt seconds melt away. He slid in the round, clicked the rifle shut, and raised it again. Aim, wait for the exhale, hold; pull in one smooth motion. Ding. He was pretty sure that had been him. He reloaded then went to his knees. His back knees folded on the ground; and front knees holding the rifle against his shoulder. Aim, exhale, hold, fire. A ding; and a few moments later a chime.

“Time,” Broadflag shouted.

Blueblood got up slowly, and opened the rifle to eject the shell, and looked up with a thumping heart. He sighed, slumping a little; well at least there were three holes. He shook himself; he was getting better. That is what mattered. He turned around to see Broadflag watching him. He spoke in a dry tone.

“Decent for someone that started two weeks late.”

“I know,” it was the closest thing to insolence he had given the sergeant in a week. Broadflag eyed him for long seconds; before he snorted and turned away.

“Get your rifle cleaned up and stowed.”

“Yes sergeant.”

Blueblood trotted back to the bench smiling. He got to the bench and started cleaning the rifle again. He paused with the brush half way down the barrel. A moment later a dark scowl murdered his smile. Finishing cleaning his weapon; and stowing it away he trotted over to the forming ranks of ponies in front of Broadflag.

Broadflag had taught them marching the first day of the third week; and forced the platoon to march everywhere. To the mess hall, to the shooting range, to the fighting rings, and back to the barracks. This incited much grumbling. The high, rolling, hoof smashing step that Broadflag demanded introduced already sore recruits to new sensations. Marching in the muddy camp, and the muddier valley, resulted in many eating mud. The last problem was compounded by Broadflag declaring no magic would be allowed. Finally, no other platoon was forced to march everywhere; just at drill. Broadflag ignored all of these reasonable complaints with laughter.

Blueblood didn’t complain. Part because he didn’t want to give Broadflag an excuse; part because he found, at first, he liked marching. Not that he didn’t agree with his platoon’s complaints; but there was a beat, a thunder to the march. Like the heartbeat of a great beast. It also helped him think. Which was welcome, at first.

Broadflag looked over them, and nodding, shouted:

“Forward, march!”

And so the snake started to move. Back home if he wanted to make friends with a pony or a group. He could almost always get an introduction; somepony to vouch for him. In the rare cases he couldn’t; he could still rely on the respect decent citizens gave their prince. There was always a foundation to work from. Blueblood had burnt that foundation to the ground; and dug a pit under it.

That had been another bitter thing to realize. He had picked the worst riposte to Broadflag’s assault. If he had retreated, it would have been a humiliation; but he wouldn't have had to worry about any of this. If he had bowed to Broadflag on the first day; he wouldn't have lost so much ground. His platoon may have even rallied to their put upon prince. Instead he had given Broadflag every opportunity to rub his muzzle into the mud. Now he needed to do something to wipe away the first two weeks. What that something was eluded him.

Every plan he could think of required luck, resources, or time; often all three. Luck? HA! Resources? There was a limit to the weight he could ship in and it required time. Time? Small unit drills were coming up. He did not want to be a pariah when they started. So his thoughts writhed and consumed each other.

They tramped to the front of the barrack and Broadflag shouted the halt.The platoon came to a, thankfully, smooth stop.

“Fall out!”

The platoon started streaming into the barracks. Blueblood blinked; he had been so consumed by thoughts and training that he had forgotten that he had worked through all of his punishment details. He finally had the hour before lights out free. He followed the platoon into the barracks like a piece of paper dragged in the wake of a car.

He stood at the entrance watching the platoon. They were taking off damp clothes, talking to each other. Some immediately headed to the showers. Two ponies in the corner, Clear Text and High View he thought their names were, had taken out a chess board. A dark blue pegasi shrieked as a grinning orange unicorn dropped an ice cube down the back of his uniform. The early risers apparently played cards in the evening too.

Blueblood walked to his bedside; and picked up his book of army regulations. He turned to the door; he had memorized the more basic and common, but he wanted to get familiar with the whole book. He didn’t want some obscure regulation having him stuck in a toilet stall.

A northern accented voice called out.

“Hey Blueblood.

”Blueblood turned to face the voice. It was Pop Lane, the blue earth pony, surrounded by the early risers; at the usual table with cards scattered over it. Blueblood stood straighter and spoke in a firm, reserved voice.

“Yes?”

“Do you know how to play Follow the Princess?”

“Yes.”

Pop Lane waited a moment as Blueblood remained silent. He rolled his eyes.

“Do you want to play?”

Blueblood glanced over the faces of the players. He couldn’t see any shifty eyes, or too intent stares. Their expression eluded him for a moment. They were… sympathetic; they were pitying him. There was a flash of black, bitter anger; but Blueblood walked forward. He examined the only open chair; and sat down like a coiled spring. Pop Lane started dealing their hoofs; and the table picked up their conversation where it had stopped. Blueblood remained quiet; waiting, but as a minute passed his shoulders eased. Blueblood perked up at something Pop Lane said.

“You work on cars?” Blueblood waved a hoof, with a slight flush, “Sorry I did not mean to interrupt.”

Pop Lane turned with a smile.

“No worries; yeah why?”

“I’m something of a hobbyist. What do you think of the new Wingbardy model as a technician?”

Pop Lane scowled, and Blueblood tensed a bit before he spoke.

“They are scrap buckets.”

His tension eased.

“I’ll admit they have to be babied; but isn’t ‘scrap bucket’ a little far?”

Soon Blueblood was conversing with the whole table; and started to hoard tidbits about them. Poplane was from a town north of Shire. Set Score, a pegasus stallion, was the youngest of them and had joined straight after school. He had been right about the mare unicorn; Wander Wind was a sound mage. Shift Taker, a pegasus mare, disliked cats; and probably liked Set Score. Nopony brought up his… misadventures.

When there was a natural lull in the conversation; Blueblood glanced over the hall. Some gave the table looks; but most were occupied, and ignored the card players. Blueblood felt his throat tighten. He looked away, and took a deep breath; before looking back at the table. It wouldn't do to make a scene; but he couldn’t make his smile more proper.

Author's Note

I went from two weeks to almost a month. Why?

I bought Rimworld(big mistake). This chapter went through two versions before I settled on this on. I was also had some work troubles.

I do hope you enjoy. Thoughts and criticisms would be appreciated.

Speech

Onhoovers army camp was located in what weather pegasi called a ‘dumping site’. Where various weather patterns lost cohesion and sputtered out of existence. It resulted in chaotic, if usually mild, weather.

Broadflag started battle drills on an unusual day. As the rain pounded down like a stampede of buffalo; they were organized into a loose diamond formation. They were to advance at a walk; and when Broadflag shouted out something like ‘12 o’clock, 150 meters, enemy in the open.’ They would scrabble for cover, or if there was nothing nearby; drop prone. Over and over again; up and down the valley. He insisted on strict adherence to orders, even more so than usual. ‘Your officers will need you to follow orders in the field strictly, promptly, and fully.’ This caused grumbles; but made perfect sense to Blueblood. An artist couldn’t have their paint shape itself; a chess player couldn’t have his piece moving on its own initiative. They needed to stay where they were placed. Broadflag started them as he meant to go on.

How to respond to an ambush, how to form square, how to retreat under fire, how to advance under fire, how to dig and defend a trench; and more. Over and over, again; in all conditions.

Blueblood liked them. The trained quick response to orders, the physical regimen, the running and firing drills, and a dozen other things all found their purpose. He enjoyed excelling at his part in a maneuver. He shared in the platoon’s whoop of triumph(or tired relieved sigh) when Broadflag admitted they had become ‘barely acceptable’. He shared in the looks of horror when they were ordered to dig another trench 3 meters in front of the last, the wilting when Broadflags shouted ‘you’re going to get trampled or eaten if…’, the aches that invaded every muscle, in their envying of the other platoons, and in the groaning about the army, training, and Broadflag. Misery certainly loved company, and perhaps a platoon.

It was after one particularly nasty day, while he was drifting off to sleep, that he mused that if Broadflag had ordered them to march another mile; half the platoon would have to be carried back. He remembered that tired thought the next day, and it built upon itself until another realization struck him. Officer cadets training with the normal recruits, while onerous, was intelligent. His time at the army camp, his time during training, was like casting farsight to see inside a running engine. He could see all the parts in action. How they worked, why they worked, and what one could expect of them.

Of course, sometimes the answer was: not much.

One day when they had been going to fire their daily rounds at the range. The platoon that was scheduled before them was still there. He saw that many of them were not going through their drills while their instructor was right there. He trotted ahead and asked why. The answer was simple: ‘The sergeant says we can pass the marksponyship evaluations; so why would we?’

The more he looked; the more he found that attitude, that apathy, to pervade most of the camp.

Wet uniforms were draped over everywhere in the barracks; when they were not held up by their owner in front of the woodstove or Blueblood’s watch.

His watch’s new purpose had come about as the weeks passed, and the weather trended worse and temperature dropped. Blueblood considered, and decided that he couldn’t wear it, let alone use its heating enchantment, so he might as well put it to use. With the help of some of the other unicorns, and an earth pony; the gold watch rested in a magic circle, chiseled onto a stone slab. The input and output they were demanding of the watch made him wince; but the temperature had risen from ‘livable’ to ‘toasty’.

None of this was on Blueblood’s mind at the moment. His focus wasn’t the slowly frying runes of his watch, or the weather, or the slight ache in his horn from casting cleaning spells; it was their slow to start card game. He saw Shift Taker glance up at the door again; a frown creasing her face. Shift Taker’s cutie mark was a magnifying glass hovering over a clock. It referred to her excellent internal clock and her skill at estimating how long a task would take a creature(apparently she had been on the fast track for a manager position for some restaurant in Hoofington before joining the army). Now, she kept glancing at the door, muttering about how ‘he should have been back by now’.

His reverie was interrupted when the door at the end of the barracks opened; and Set Score slipped in like a burglar after a heist. He almost trotted over to the table; his wet and muddy fur dripping onto the floor. Blueblood shot a wave of ivory magic at him, dissolving the filth right before he slid into a chair. The mud obscuring his cutie mark, a score board displaying 100-0, sloughed off.

“Wipe your hooves before you come in. This place is filthy enough as it is.” Blueblood protested; rubbing his scalp around his horn.

“Understood Admiral Warchief. You have to-“

Blueblood’s face stiffened just a bit; but he bit his tongue. It was getting easier to do that. Shift Taker set her cards down, and leaned forward with knitted brows.

“Where were you? You’ve been gone for an extra half hour; even with the margin of error.”

Poplane looked Set Score over; then he frowned and chipped in.

“Where is the chocolate? Is the quartermaster out?”

“I got something better than chocolate,” Shift Taker said loudly, “I got gossip.”

Shift Taker groaned at that. Poplane sighed in disappointment. Wander wind set down her cards; leaning forward. Blueblood kept looking at his cards, but his ears perked up. The recruits not at the table turned at the loud declaration. Set Score puffed himself up like a circus ringleader. He had gone to some public school Blueblood had never heard; and was allegedly a hoofballer of some repute.

“Gather around; you’ll want to hear this.”

By ones and twos; the platoon gathered. Set Score waited until they were all close; before he started in a low voice.

“So I was going to the quartermaster; and I heard some talking in the mess hall; so I went to the door. The voices sounded mad; but it was really muffled. So I couldn’t make much out. But I thought I heard ‘inspection’. That sounded bad; so I decided to sneak in through the kitchens.”

There were gasps, mutters, and long whistles at that from the crowd. Blueblood was shocked still. Shift Taker looked at Set Score with a mix of admiration and disapproval. Set Score shot her a cocky smile; before continuing.

“One hit with a rock and the kitchen lock popped open. I waited, to see if they heard the rock. But the voices kept talking. So I went in; and put my ear to the bottom of the door. It was Swift Wing-”

Poplane’s tongue loosened.

“The commandant is back?”

Set Score nodded, with a broad smile

“Yeah and she sounded really mad.”

That surprised the platoon; with some expressing disbelief. The commandant had a smile and cheery attitude whenever they had seen her.

“I swear on my cutie mark; she sounded like a hornet had crawled up her flank,” Blueblood winced at the colorful description.

“I think she was talking to the drill sergeants; I didn’t recognize all the voices; but some of them were definitely drill sergeants. Anyway, she was saying things like ‘they need a boot up their flanks’. It took me a bit to figure it out; wasn’t there at the start of the meeting. But she is planning a surprise inspection of the entire camp tomorrow; at lights out. She wanted all infractions punished on the spot.” He looked around the gathered platoon, “so I’m thinking we can clean up around here; make sure everything is on the up and up. Pass with flying colors and go to sleep”

There was a murmur of approval from the platoon. Shift Taker was looking at Set Score with a rosy smile. Blueblood paled, then flushed. It took him a moment to speak past the anger that was choking him.

“You idiot,” he snapped, glaring at Set Score. That quieted the room; faces turning to look at the livid stallion. Most looked bemused, or amused; but Poplane’s eyes narrowed in thought, and Wander Wind tilted her head with a frown. Set Score turned to face Blueblood with a cocky smile. When he saw Blueblood’s expression; he hesitated. His words came out more defensive than joking.

“Do you have a Hornet problem too?’

Blueblood took a breath before he spoke.

“When Broadflag comes in here, and sees everything neat; what will he think?”

Poplane now looked horrified. Wander Wind had her eyes closed; and was mouthing a count. Set Score’s grin was undercut by doubt.

“We don’t have to make it perfect; just clean up a bit.”

Shift Taker began to look just as angry as Blueblood felt. Blueblood continued, relentless.

“It is not just that. When the inspection comes, Broadflag will see we are not surprised, and he will know one of us eavesdropped.”

Set Score’s manner reminded Blueblood of tragic plays where a character bargains with Death.

“We keep secrets from Broadflag-” he gestured at the heating watch. Blueblood shook his head, cutting off further words.

“There is a difference between keeping a straight face; and faking an emotion with enough skill to trick Broadflag. I don’t think we are all secretly con ponies and professional actors.” He glanced around, ”are we?”

A silence descended. Blueblood watched the truth of his words travel like a plague through the platoon. Set Score opened and closed his mouth several times; before slumping down in his seat.

“I’ll have to fess up to Broadflag,” he said with a sigh. Blueblood blinked, anger retreating. He thought back to the relevant sections of the army regulations.

“This isn’t a normal infraction. It would go to Swift Wing.” Blueblood paused, “if she is in as foul a temper as you say… it is within her rights to have you discharged”

There was a heavy silence, and a deep pain in Set Score’s eyes. His frown deepened; and with another sigh he shook his head.

“Either Broadflag finds out somehow; and everyone here gets it for trying to hide it. Or he doesn’t; and he keeps smoking the platoon for who knows how long. None of you deserve that.”

The silence grew heavier. Somepony coughed and turned away. The huddle began to break up. Some looked sad; some relieved. Some tried conversation; but it was strangled by the quiet. Some approached to offer condolences, or a ‘good luck’. Poplane made a brief appeal for him to change his mind; but after Set Score firm denial he backed off. Shift Taker stayed at her seat; looking torn.

Blueblood also stayed at his seat. It was logical; he supposed. Whatever came would be the result of Set Score’s own poorly thought out actions. Blueblood began tapping his hoof on the table. A thought occurred to him to try making his own false confession before Set Score could; but Blueblood’s mind poked holes in that plan even as it formed. Moreover, he didn’t want to risk getting kicked out of the army. Maybe he could try to give a crash course on acting? Maybe-

An actual plan struck Blueblood. He laughed, loud and deep. Heads turned in confusion. He saw hurt add its weight to Set Score’s shoulders. Blueblood spoke in a light, quiet voice.

“I have been away from Canterlot for too long.” His voice rose, “I have a much better plan. We tell everyone.”

“What?” Somepony, Blueblood couldn’t tell who, said.

“All we have to do, or preferably just one or two of us; is anonymously spread the news throughout the entire camp. If we do it right; it will be nearly impossible to trace it back to Set Score. We don’t have to act surprised; just keep a straight face.”

Hope flickered across Set Score’s face, It went out a moment later, and he shook his head.

“Swift Wing sounded very mad. I wasn’t exaggerating that. From how she was talking… I think if that happened she would punish the whole camp.”

Blueblood paused a moment before speaking in a careful, precise tone.

“Why does that matter?”

There was another stunned silence at that; with most of the platoon looking at him like he was mad, or malevolent. Poplane broke the silence.

“We can’t get hundreds of ponies punished for Set Score’s mistake.” He turned an apologetic look towards Set Score, but he was nodding along, “It would be mean and unfair.”

Blueblood looked around; the platoon was nodding along and voicing their agreement. The only one that looked intrigued with his proposal was Shift Taker. Blueblood rose to his hooves, mixing and weighing the elements of his speech; he did not have long to plan. He readied his voice; not loud, but carrying. It cut through the chatter.

“Unfair, I suppose we would know a good deal about that.” The room quieted; but it was a fragile quiet. He forged on; sounding confident, decisive.

“The other platoons are lazy and apathetic; they don’t try. You have seen it; I have seen it. They put in the bare minimum of effort; just enough to scrape by so they meet their qualification and graduate. Their instructors treat them like foals.

“Set Score made a… poor decision; but he did so to help the platoon. Something they would not do for their platoons, let alone ours.” He looked Set Score in the eyes, who jumped a little.

“You always quote your coach. ‘Give 110%’. I know I said I thought it was a ridiculous phrase. However; I cannot deny you try to live up to it.” He turned away to look over the crowd, “Can anyone deny that? Remember that ravine we had to cross, and how he hauled the most ponies across it; in the driving rain? Are we actually proposing trading a little of their discomfort for his career?”

He let the silence hang. Most no longer looked at him like he was crazy. Their gazes were directed inward. He saw some tentatively nodding along with his words. Set Score frowned deeply; shifting in his seat. Shift Taker was nodding along with a smile. Wander Wind was watching him, silent and inscrutable. Poplane was shaking his head; opening his mouth. Blueblood drove on.

“Even if it is a little rough. Won’t that do them some good? What was the commandant’s phrase? ‘A good kick in the flank’? Might toughen them up a bit. Prompt them to start taking their training with due seriousness.”

More and more of the platoon was nodding along. Poplane was still frowning.

“We don’t even know for certain that the commandant will punish the camp. Usually she is quite genial. But I would bet my family estate that Broadflag will come down like a hammer on Set Score, or all of us.”

Poplane spoke, his words were halting.

“What were you thinking?”

Blueblood smiled; and turned to Wander Wind.

“Would you be willing to help me?”

Wander Wind tilted her head; before speaking in her melodious, apparently accentless voice.

“I would be willing to help.”

“Excellent,” he turned to the rest of them, “For the rest of you I will need-”

So they gathered around him; listened to what he said, and agreed to follow his instructions. Despite the risk, the dozen or so things that could go wrong; he fell asleep easily(as much as he ever could here).

It was about two hours after lights out. Large, too bright mage lights lit the camp’s common. It illuminated the sweating, groaning recruits. The sounds of bitter recruits, shouting sergeants, and night insects filled the night. Thankfully it wasn’t raining. Perhaps because Swift Wing was too angry to think of having a rainstorm organized. Anger wafted off her like a heat haze; with her jaw stiff as iron, and her wing splayed out and twitching. Anger, but undirected anger.

With Wander Wind’s magic, spreading the rumors had been easy, and it would take Con Mane to figure out who had started them. It had been nerve wracking when Broadflag first entered; but he had only looked to confirm, yes they knew about the rumors, before he ordered them to form up for review on the green. Swift Wing had demanded to know who had started the rumors. It had been a tense minute as Swift Wing looked over the crowd. Broadflag, as was proper for a platoon’s leader during a formal review, stood at the front, facing forward; only occasionally glowering back at them. Thankfully, she hadn’t cared to do a thorough investigation; and started the punishments.

The platoons began finishing up the current batch of jumping jacks; until they all settled back onto the ground. Some ponies, some whole platoons, swayed like grass in the breeze. Blueblood’s platoon reformed with more grace; but there was still plenty of panting and streaks of sweat. Drill sergeants; most of them as tired and grumpy as their recruits; paced around their platoons. Swift wing looked over the crowds. There was a pause; the entire body of recruits braced themselves for another exercise.

“You’re all dismissed, get back to your barracks.” She ground out in her Severnayian accent, before turning away to stomp back to her quarters.

The recruits took the lifeline with all four hooves; and fled, fearing she might change her mind. When they filed into the barracks; there was no cheering. Blueblood had told them not too; but he needn’t have bothered. They were too tired for any great excitement. However as ponies passed his bed; he got pats on the back from wings and hooves. In a less tired state he might have protested; but instead he accepted the crude compliments. As Set Score passed he paused; opened his mouth, paused again, before saying.

“Thanks Blueblood.”

“You are welcome.”

He passed on up on the line. Blueblood finished stipping off his uniform and crawled into bed. He Shut his eyes; and fell asleep at once.

Blueblood dreamed. He could not quite remember what; but he had plate armor, a sword, and a voice.

Author's Note

In my defense. I had a chapter done two weeks ago. It was edited and proof read.

But the more I thought about; I determined it would weaken the story. So I wrote this instead. As always, hope you enjoy; any thoughts would be appreciated.

Chats part 1

It was two days after the inspection incident. The platoon was currently on a small hill; with the plains and copses of the valley stretching around it. There had been an early frost that morning; and here and there it clung on, hiding in shadows, from the now intense sun.

Blueblood was hunkered down on top of it. Wooden practice rifle trained on the ‘changeling enemy’; which was ‘hiding’ in a small crop of woods near the hill.

The training scenario was simple enough. A group of ‘changelings’ had taken up residence in the woods. One platoon would approach directly from camp, another would swing wide and be the hammer. Broadflag had told them all that a week ago, and they had run through both halves of the exercise.

Blueblood had marched that morning to the staging ground, a spot a little ways outside of camp, with a spring in his step. The platoon arrived and stood in ranks, and waited and waited. Ten minutes later the other platoon they would be training with marched up. Blueblood’s face had been stiff as a statue; with about as much warmth.

They were about thirty in number. Numbers were the only superiority they had. Their marching ranks were loose and wavering; with irregular gaps opening and closing in their lines. The precise step that Army regulations demanded of them was poorly imitated. Looking more like they were strolling than marching. Blueblood whispered under his breath.

“Here we got again, same old thing again.” and frowned. They were certainly not keeping time. They stopped opposite Blueblood’s platoon and they fell out of rank into a heap of yellow. A teal coated pegasi instructor led them. He had a cow-like expression and he did not glance back once at his trainees.

Blueblood’s face brightened a moment later. Heartrock was at the back of the heap. He stood out like a guard dog among house pets. After that first night the pair had stopped staying up so late. Now Heartrock came over to his platoon’s mess table and had brief chats during meals.

Heartrock noticed him a moment later, and waved at him. Blueblood returned a very small nod. Heartrock blinked, confused, before comprehension, and envy flashed across his face.

Their sergeant, Stonehopper as Blueblood later learned, plodded up to Broadflag. Broadflag stood, shoulders and back tense, as they started to converse. Blueblood had to restrain his smile at watching Broadflag, for once, tamp down on his anger. The longer he had watched the scene, and Stonehopper’s face, which remained impassive, that the impulse left him. A few seconds later Stone Hopper turned to address his platoon. Blueblood had blinked in surprise as he explained what the plan was. Blueblood scanned their faces and blinked again. From their expression this was the first time they were hearing it.

Broadflag had turned back and said they would be the hammer. So Blueblood’s platoon, as the plan called for, set out a few minutes before the anvil; Set Score and Shifttakerranging ahead as scouts. That at least had been fun. They advanced quickly. Part because their drills paid dividends and part because Broadflag had loosen the restriction on magic. One red unicorn named Hot Charcoal briefly froze a path on a lake so they didn’t have to circumnavigate it. Blueblood for his part kept the worst of the flies off. Other unicorns chipped with other spells where they could. Broadflag still forbade spells like a wind or rain shields; or other highly visible spells.

Then they had arrived; to their surprise, ahead of the other platoon. The plan was that the anvil would engage the ‘enemy’ before they arrived. However, as Broadflag had instructed them, short of a unicorn with communication magic; that such operations timing could be thrown off. So they hunkered down, rifles trained on the forest and waited.

That had been thirty minutes ago. Twenty minutes ago Broadflag had left to find out what was happening. His platoon was at the bottom of the hill now. Blueblood was the only one still in the position Boradflag had left them in. Not from lack of Set Score’s trying.

Blueblood heard the sound of hooves approaching but still he stiffened for a moment when he felt a hoof land on his shoulder. He turned his head to see said pony. Set Score smiled down at him, wooden rifle on his back. While he was quite cheerful, there was a tinge of concern in his eyes.

“You sure you don’t want to come down? I’m pretty sure you shot all the changelings.”

Blueblood looked back at the forest. His mouth twisted; not quite settling on a smile or frown. Set Score hadn’t removed his hoof. Blueblood took a breath and spoke.

“No thank you,” he repeated himself, “I am still on thin ice with Broadflag. I don’t wish to risk it.”

“Broadflag can’t be too angry about this. I think he’ll be far more busy being angry at Stone Hopper,” Set Score chuckled, “can you imagine how angry he is right now? He looked ready to bite him off when he left.

Blueblood smiled at the image.

“That may be. However, I will remain up here.”

Set Score sighed and turned around; hoof beats retreating down the hill. Blueblood sighed to himself and turned to glance back at his platoon, who would be chatting about this and that, commiserating about being stuck out here. His eyes caught on a brown pegasi. His name was Dust Cloud; the pony that Blueblood had… dismissed on the first day. He was on the side of the hill. Close to the bottom but not quite off it. With his rifle trained upon the ‘enemy’. Blueblood frowned.

Dust Cloud was a private pony, shy; but well enough liked for all that. He fit into the platoon well. Well enough that Blueblood could give himself some grace; but regardless he had taken too long. It was unwise and… dishonorable.

Blueblood rose to his hooves and trotted over to the pegasi. When he got up he saw Set Score turn his way but Blueblood waved him off. He sidled up alongside Dust Cloud and coughed. Dust Cloud started and gasped, and rolled to his side to look at Blueblood. Almost tipping over. A few quips came to mind but Blueblood dismissed them, and spoke with a smile.

“Well I suppose we can start there. I apologize for startling you.”

“Oh-,” Dust Cloud hastily got to his hooves, “-isn’t a problem.”

“And,” Blueblood’s tone became more serious and formal. Blueblood knew how best to apologize; even if he rarely had cause too. “I must apologize for my behavior on the first day.”

Dust Cloud, having recovered, made as if to wave off the apology. Blueblood neatly cut him off.

“I apologize for dismissing your advice and your person on the first day. I judged you as clay when you were iron ore. It was a failure of bother judgement and perception on my part. I can only plead that the camp was a rather alien and discordant environment so I was rather rattled. If there is something I can do for you, name it.”

Dust Cloud stared at Blueblood; a little wide eyed. Blueblood repressed a wince. Perhaps he had over done it. Iron, for all its qualities, was not known for its polish. The platoon’s(and camp) general lack of it was something he still wasn’t used to. Blueblood coughed and modulated his tone. Then, a bit stiffly, he clapped Dust Cloud on the shoulder.

“I’m Sorry. Where are platoon mates; here to learn and work together. I don’t want any ill will between us.”

That, to Blueblood satisfaction, worked. Dust Cloud mostly relaxed and returned Blueblood’s smile.

“Yeah, if you want it. Apology accepted.”

There was silence then, which threatened to turn awkward, so Blueblood summoned a topic he had made good use of here. Back in Canterlot, bringing up money in an idle conversation would’ve been gauche.

“So what is it you did for work?” A little more tension went out of Dust Cloud, and he spoke with a smile.

“Oh I was a glass blower.”

Blueblood blinked a little too long. Dust Cloud, thankfully, had not noticed Blueblood’s surprise. He continued, still with a smile, but a shadow had fallen over him and his words.

“Did it since I was fourteen. Well back then I was just helping with hauling wood and gusting wind into the furnace. Hualing everything actually, and the cleaning never stopped, you know?” Blueblood did, “But later I started making glass work. By the time I turned fifteen I was already making vases and statuettes.

There was a glow of pride in those last words. The undercurrent, the shadow over his countenance only deepened. He seemed ready to prattle on, but he caught himself and glanced over at Blueblood. He smiled and spoke up.

“An excellent craft,” Blueblood enthused, “tell me was your family involved with the tapestry table?”

Dust Cloud nodded.

“Yes, my… I’m not sure how many greats, grandmother, was apart of the project. How do you know about that?”

“I have eaten breakfast on it,” Blueblood said cheerily. Dust Cloud looked surprised, then chagrined.

“Yeah that does make sense doesn’t it.”

The Tapestry Table was a vast dining table; made entirely of glass. The legs were made of such clear glass that the top almost appeared to be hovering in air. The rim of the table had gold dust billowing like clouds through the glass. Yet the top was the most magnificent. It depicted the history of Equestria, from its founding to almost three hundred years ago. At the head of the table wingdagons chased ponies, flowing into the hearth warming tale, to the building of first settlements, to the coronation of Celestia, on and on through the centuries until it depicted a rather minor event. A group of pegasi and earth ponies were shaking pick axes and molten glass blowing rod at each other. Then his aunt arrived on scene, wings outstretched. The ponies sat down with their monarch in the marble and fluted columns of the Cloudale senate. Then they departed looking happy and exchanging gifts with one another.

Blueblood waved a hoof expansively.

“Absolutely magnificent work. What did ancestors work on?”

Dust Cloud blinked.

“I’m not sure?”

Blueblood mentally stumbled a bit.

“Oh. I understand a little about glass blowing. What even goes into a project of that scale.”

Dust Cloud looked up, wistful.

“Well I’ve never worked on something like that. But If I am remembering the description of it right, you would need dozens of ponies working together. You would have to keep the entire thing hot the whole time. The top, the legs, and figures and shapes; they would all have to be made and kept very hot the entire time until they were all done. Then they would all be joined together. For something that size you’d probably need to take shifts.”

He shook his head, eyes bright before he sighed.

“Hope I get to work on something close to that.”

There was a pause. Before Blueblood tentailty spoke up.

“If you do not mind me speaking so. I have rarely heard a pony sound so melancholy when talking about his favorite hobby.”

Dust Cloud blinked, looked at Bluebloood then sighed again and continued.

“Yeah, not a glass blower anymore. No one else in my family is either. We closed down a few years ago.”

Blueblood held a hoof up to his mouth. That was much worse than he had feared.

“Oh I am so sorry,” he trailed off. Three hundred years of legacy, probably longer than that, gone.

“It was tough for the family making ends meet for a while there.”

“Why did it happen? You did excellent work.”

“Well not many ponies are buying blown glass anymore. I understand why. A factory can produce a piece at a tenth of the cost. But we also didn’t have the money for new gas furnaces. We had an old wood furnace. You need ponies constantly working the billows and adding more wood,” he shook his head, “We couldn’t compete so we lost.”

There was a long silence, before with some effort, Dust Cloud straightened his shoulders and put a smile on his face.

“You don’t need to look down. We all found work now. Maybe in the future we can get back our old building and buy a new fancy furnace.”

Blueblood wasn’t quite sure how much that would all cost. But any artist would struggle after being several years out of practice. Could he do something for them? Not now but perhaps after he got back to Canterlot? He spoke seriously.

“I admire your determination.”

Dust Cloud looked embarrassed.

“Yeah thanks,” seeming to grasp for a subject change, he said, “that’s why I joined the army.”

Blueblood paused, chewing that over. It tasted a little bitter.

“Oh?”

Not noticing the slight change in demeanor, he continued in the same tone.

“Yeah. Royal employees get good benefits and wages. And soldiers are technically royal employees. But we don’t do much, so I heard they are pretty lax with leave. So I might be able to do side jobs on top of my royal salary. If i’m careful with my money and my family chips in. We might be able to get our workshop reopened in a few years. Honestly I hoped to start that during training camp. But that isn’t allowed,” he chuckled, “even if it was Broadflag would accept it-”

“I apologize for interrupting. But does that not strike you as mercenary?” Dust Cloud reared back a bit, but Blueblood frimly cut off and more words, “I do not dispute that you have a good cause, but if you are taking her majesty’s bit; do you think it appropriate to treat it so cavalierly, without due seriousness?”

Dust Cloud’s ears laid back against Blueblood’s hard words and stare. In a mix defensiveness and surprise.

“Im going to do whatever I’m supposed to during my time. But there is no reason I can’t make a little money on the side.”

“Where are you supposed to drill every day, you’ll be frivolously missing that.”

“I mean, I get what Broadflag says about readiness. But a few days here and there won’t hurt. Do you think we’ll ever have anyone,” it genuine question.

Blueblood had intended to respond in the same hard tone, but I note of hesitation entered his voice.

“You don’t?”

Dust Cloud tilted his head.

“No? I mean maybe? Where… like parachutes on an airship. In the off chance something goes wrong they are nice to have. But it’s been decades since an airship crashed.”
Blueblood hesitated. The words sunk into him , like the seeds of an irritating weed. But nothing immediately sprung to mind to counter them. He took a breath.

“I see. We will have to agree to disagree,” he smiled, “not out of my second convsetation and yet I must apoligize again. I did not mean to get so heated.”

Dust Cloud relaxed, and returned a relieved smile.

“It is all good. Say where do you live in Canterlot.”

Blueblood accepted the graceless divierstion. Part because his family manor was fanincating topic, part since it distracted him from a growing doubt in the back of his mind.

Author's Note

I took a break around the holidays and a vacation. The next chapter will be quicker.

Also I promise this story isn’t ’Blueblood at boot camp.’ We will move on soon.

Chats part 2

A week later

Blueblood had an itch at the back of his mind, or an infection. Behind it, like distant dark clouds, was a feeling. It dimmed things around him. It rendered continued effort ridiculous. It sapped focus and will. Blueblood called it boredom. So Blueblood asked more questions, and thought on the answers.
It was a few days after New Years. They had been given the day off for the holiday. Blueblood had participated in the ramshackle party his platoon had thrown; but he had spent much of his time strolling around camp, thinking.

It was the last hour before lights out; with the sun starting to descend. Blueblood made his way through the dirt paths of the dimming camp. At this hour most were in or around their barracks; with the occasional sullen recruit walking to some punishment detail. Blueblood arrived at the edge of camp, and glancing around, found Heartrock sitting by himself, reading. Blueblood had the impression that Heartrock was not well liked by his platoon, or vice versa. Regardless he was often to be found here before lights out. Blueblood walked over, Heartrock looking up from his book. Blueblood appeared calm, and his question almost was.

“Could I speak to you on a few matters?”
Heartrock nodded, and sliding his book into a uniform pocket he rose to his hooves. Blueblood smiled, and with a gesture, they began to pace a slow circle around camp. Blueblood stayed silent for a spell, before in a clipped tone he asked.

“Do you think the Equestrian army is important? Do you think your service is important?”

That service would be as an officer. There were less officer cadets at onhoovers than he initially expected; something like one in a hundred. However, Blueblood had been delighted, but not surprised to find out Heartrock was a fellow officer cadet. Heartrock answered without hesitation, with a raised eyebrow.

“Yes.”

Blueblood felt the knot of worry that he had been working on, finally, fully, relax; but he continued.

“Why do you believe it is? Many think a war is very unlikely?”

Heartrock glanced away, before looking back and speaking in a precise and careful manner.

“To start on the second part of that question; Equestria has been in three conflicts in the relatively recent past. There was the series of conflicts with the buffaloes between 898 and 1001, the revolution in Severnaya in 995, and the battle of Canterlot in 1002.”

Blueblood was formulating a response, but the blunt mention of the wedding attack threw him off. Blueblood had fallen violently ill a week before the wedding. To the point where his parents had left their palace accommodations to visit him. He could remember the sounds of distant blasts, and gun fire assaulting his feverish mind. When his fever broke. Most of the damage had been cleaned up, bandaged over. He remembered walking with some of his friends to one of their favorite clubs. They had passed by a fountain; its statue, which had stood for 500 years, was reduced to two hoofs. They had fallen silent; before picking up again after they passed as if they had never stopped.
Heartrock continued, blind to Blueblood’s reminiscing.

“None of these conflicts, at least their true nature and scope, were predicted. The common pony, the equestrian elite” Heartrock glanced over at Blueblood and visibly braced himself, “and her Majesty; have shown themselves to be poor at predicting military conflict.”

Blueblood stiffened, Heartrock sighed.
“That is unreasonable! The buffalo wars happened because wilderness fever was cured. The southwest went from being near uninhabitable to open to settlement. Equestrian law couldn’t shadow such a region quickly enough to prevent conflict. When it did, Her Majesty moved to calm the region. Under her authority and direction a treaty was signed.”

“After the battle of Appleloosa,” Heartrock saw Blueblood raise an eyebrow, “I understand that was more of a riot; but if a participant had brought a bomb? Or a gun? It could’ve become much worse.”

Blueblood grimaced, the thought was horrible… but… maybe? It wouldn’t take a plot, just one buffalo or pony filled with enough hate or greed. Heartrock waved a hoof dismissively.

“But I know what you are going to say next. The boyars were granted a large degree of self governance when they joined Equestria. They exploited that power to conceal the local situation. The changelings are expert infiltrators and spies. Whichever way you present it; the point remains. Equestria has failed in the past to anticipate conflicts and prepare for them. Equestrians, of all classes, failed to do so. They are-”

Heartrock caught himself. Blueblood raised an eyebrow.

“They are…?”

Heartrock coughed, before continuing.

“Well there is nothing saying the changelings couldn’t try again, or that the buffalo situation will not boil over… or look at the Storm King.”

Blueblood grimaced slightly. He did not pay much attention to foreign events. They were not common conversations in Canterlot. So outside of his father’s occasional complaining about this or that in the foreign office; the only time he learned anything was when he sought out information that might impact his family’s foreign investments. Everypony, however, had heard about the mad Zebrica warlord.

“He is an ocean away; and he is not close to conquering Zebrica, and Griffonia is much closer.” A note of hesitance entered his voice, “Do you really think he would try to invade?”

Heartrock gave a grim smile, and shrugged.

“He has airships and ambition.”

Blueblood almost brushed off his words. Heartrock may as well have been talking about the possibility of an asteroid flattening Canterlot. But… well…

“I agree with you,” Heartrock looked a little surprised, “We differ; but my own thoughts followed a similar line: ‘For ponies whose hearts and brands are given to valour, and whose blood thrill at the sound of battle. Still need fear the odors of pestilence which he cannot see, the witchcraft he cannot scry, and the snake which he cannot hear.’”

Heartrock looked stuck for a moment, his face twitched in emotional indecision, but in the end he nodded seriously.

“Good that we are in agreement.”

There was silence for a time. Heartrock spoke up again.

“What brought this on?”

“I learned that nopony in the army, with a few exceptions, cares about our duty.” Blueblood hesitated, before he quietly admitted, “I was starting to doubt my own efforts.”

Heartrock nodded, no judgement tainting his expression, which relieved Blueblood. Heartrock tilted his head.

“You don’t think your platoon cares?”

Blueblood chewed over his words for a moment. He did not wish to speak ill of his platoon, not in front of an outsider, but he wanted Heartrock to understand.

“They do care. But I think,” Blueblood hesitated, his next words tasted sour, and came out as if dragged, “that is because Broadflag makes them care. I think without his leadership they… would not.”

Blueblood glared at Heartrock, silencing any comment; but Heartrocks fresh smile did not fade.

“I don’t know why you are surprised. Most Equestrians don’t take the chance of conflict seriously. Did you not know this?”

Blueblood hesitated. The truth was, he had realized in retrospect, that joining the army had been an impulsive decision. He had jumped in legs first and may not have fully considered things. Well he wasn’t going to admit that. He settled on something that was true enough.

“I expected them to behave like the Royal Guard. I have seen them drill and on parade, and standing guard. How they hold themselves, how they act, how they speak; they all take it very seriously. But I did not grasp the difference.”

Heartrock guessed.

“The Royal guard has other responsibilities? Bodyguarding, policing duties, and occasionally monster hunting? Their role as a military force is tertiary at best?”

“No, I knew that, and that is a major part; but some royal guards perform purely ceremonial duties. Yet they still hold themselves with decorum. It is not just utility that matters, it is more than that.”

Heartrock tilted his head, curious. Blueblood hesitated, his thoughts were fresh in his mind, still unrefined; but he continued anyway.

“Equestria does not have war heroes. Not in a stricter sense anyway. It has heroic royal guards, like Flash Sentry, but they are not famous for anything they did in a war. Anypony that could be considered a war hero is either like Curse Breaker who belongs to the ancient past. Or like Charcolmane. Who is both old and a foreigner. The only modern pony that might be called a ‘war hero’ is Prince Shining. But in his service in Severnaya he is most famous for refusing Hard Hooves’ order to attack.”

In a very neutral voice, Heartrock asked.

“Do you think he should have obeyed?”

Blueblood hesitated only for a moment. He didn’t know the history of that conflict very well. But his aunt had rewarded Shining Armor with a promotion to the head of the royal guard.

“No, that is not my point. It is that he is famous and lauded for not fighting. In our stories soldiers are either villains or minions, or they are misguided. If an equestrian soldier takes their duties seriously. That he is a soldier, and might be expected to actually fight… to kill some creature, they would struggle to reconcile being a soldier with being a good equestrian.”

Heartrock tilted his head, and nodded slowly.
“An interesting hypothesis. I’d not considered it from that angle. But equestria does have lauded fighters-”

The pair stopped and turned their heads. A shout had risen from the center of camp, echoing outwards. Soon more shouts joined the growing clamour. They looked at each other and trotted into camp.

Blueblood had tensed up; but the sounds resolved themselves into cries of joy. The entire camp, sleepy right before lights out, was rousing itself, with whoops and shouts spreading. ‘Equestria, the Land I Love’, ‘Harmony and Glory’ and other songs started to ring out. Soon a violin joined in, then other instruments echoed across camp. A unicorn somewhere fired off a comet into the sky; which popped like a firework. Pegasi were taking to the air; against the normal caution at night flying. The camp hadn’t been nearly so lively during new years or heartwarming. They passed by a gaggle of excited recruits, who were rushing to nowhere in particular. The pair stopped and Blueblood spoke out.

“What is going on?”

“Princess Cadence has had her baby,” one pony shouted.

That was good, Blueblood supposed; but it hardly seemed worth all this.

“And it is an alicorn!”

Blueblood perked up, eyes wide.

“What? Nonsense? That cannot be true!”

“Just came over the camp’s radio; official announcement from the palace.”

Heartrock seemed happy but a little confused. Blueblood was stunned, silent and still. He stayed like that until Heartrock turned to him.

“Are you alright?”

Blueblood sighed, his tone neutral.

“I have been proven wrong about too many things recently, but,” his face split in a wild grin, “I am happy this was one of them.”

He turned and galloped to his barrack, and confused and shouting, Heartrock followed. Blueblood paid him no heed.

Blueblood burst into his barracks. Someone had already spread the news to his platoon, and a festival atmosphere had flourished in the barracks. Any thoughts of sleep or preparing for tomorrow were forgotten. There were animated discussions, and ponies brought out whatever candies or treats they had shipped in and were sharing them.
As he stepped through the door; Wander Wind’s horn flashed and a good approximation of an orchestral performance of ‘Heart’s Carol’ emanated from her horn. He ignored all of that and bounded over to his locker; where he pulled out his writing kit. He sifted through it, until he found a new addition that had been sent a week ago. Heartrock arrived, gasping.

“What- are- you- doing-”

“Getting champagne!”

Some turned at the jubilant declaration, and saw what looked like a normal jar of pounce powder.

“Champagne flavouring?” Heartrock asked, recovered now.

“No, champagne,” saying so, Blueblood grabbed his canteen with his telekinesis and dumped it out a nearby window. Before adding a tiny amount of the powder, sealing it shut, and shaking it. When he twisted it open; it burst with frothing champagne. He took a sip and smiled.

“Not as good powdered but the alchemists that make it know their trade. Also much easier to smuggle into places.”

He had gathered quite a bit of attention; with ponies staring in shock in turns at him and the frothing canteen.

“You smuggled something?”
“You had that the whole time?”
“You didn’t share any?”
“Where was it at New Years?”

Blueblood took another sip, and only answered the last one in a philosophical tone.

“What is New Years? What is a year? Another drop of sand down the hourglass? But today,” his voice rose, “will be remembered long after we are gone. Another great soul, a defender of us and our prosperity, has been granted unto us. If I could trade a year for an alicorn I would; and count it as cheap. But enough nonsense, come, I have a jar to burn through!”

The night flowed from there. The sergeant gave up trying to keep any discipline. Few tried at all. But soon Swift Wing announced that tonight and tomorrow was a holiday. Not that anypony paid attention.

Author's Note

Well here we are, faster than usual. Hope you enjoy.