There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy
-Hamlet, William Shakespeare
The Cycle never stops. Mortals die, Empires crumble to dust, and Gods wither away to nothing, but The Cycle will never cease. It has always been and always will be, even if the forms within shift and morph in the churning sea of creation. There is no beginning and no end, even as Eons and Ages pass, only change. Always change.
On a humid, dreary Tiwazday in the Month of Rain, a traveler came to Canterlot, bringing with them change.
The Polished Shield was aroar with late-night activity. Jaunty tunes echoed around the cramped quarters, fiddlers dancing around the tables with graceful sylvan steps and impish grins directed toward future bed-companions. A chorus of drunken voices accompanied the screeching notes, their owners barely remembering the words but knowing them by heart, many of the songs being unofficial anthems of the military academies. A few brave souls attempted to dance in the rare open space the bar had to offer, but many of them quickly tasted the fresh polish of the floor, belatedly realizing they were far drunker than they initially thought. Their friends laughed and jeered, encouraging them to get back up and try again, launching tiny barbs and insults that could only be acceptable between friends forged in fire. The Royal Guards of Canterlot, normally the dictionary definition of stoicism, were cutting loose in one of the few places they were free from the public, engaging in behavior that would surely get them latrine duty if their officers found out, though many of the officers were themselves three to four drinks in.
O, I left me Maw a'weepin in the streets o' Baltimare
Tol' her I'd be back by morn on Solstice Day
Strapped on me sword, 'n went to join the Guard
Now ahm penniless, and waitin' for me pay
The men and women of the guard were laughing, bumping their ale-cups, asserting the truth of the song's lyrics, when the door to The Polished Shield was blown open with such force that it cracked the stone wall. All laughing, all music, all sounds of merrymaking ceased. All that could be heard was the howl of the wind as it screamed along the cobblestone streets and the rushing of rainwater as it babbled along the tiny ruts carved beside roads to direct it to the city's cisterns. Standing in the doorway, framed by the incandescent light of a waning moon, was a figure wrapped in a dull green traveler's cloak that was ripped in a few places and covered in mudstains. The figure, unbothered by the attention they commanded over the room, walked across the bar with an ethereal grace that sent a shiver down the spines of those closest to them. Or perhaps they shivered at the sight of the ornate scabbard on the stranger's hip.
The stranger sidled up to the bar and leaned against the lacquered wood as though they were an old patron in a familiar haunt rather than a complete newcomer. In the dim light of the tallow candles burning away in sconces along the walls, a few souls could make out the bottom half of the newcomer's face: pale skin, lips set into a thin line, and a distinctly feminine look. With no fanfare, the stranger tossed a few gold pieces onto the bar.
"Your strongest cup of ale, if you would."
Her voice was the soft sound of summer rain, soothing and gentle, and the sound of rumbling thunder over the distant horizon. It was the gentle wind blowing the tall grass of the Midlands and the crack of lightning as it burns a tree to ash. It was the trade winds that swiftly brought ships to foreign shores and the maelstroms that sent ships full of sailors into watery graves. The patrons closest to her shuffled back, falling into the laps of their friends who were squinting to get a look. The barkeep, a young woman by the name of Malted Barley, hesitantly shuffled over with the requested cup of ale, glancing nervously between the stranger and the rest of the room.
"Many thanks," the stranger purred. Barley blushed and quickly stepped away from the stranger, though kept a curious eye on her. Seemingly ignorant to the sea of people around her, the stranger downed the ale in a single gulp and sighed with pleasure. "Nothing like a good Equestrian brew."
"Certainly true, but who are you to enjoy it in this establishment?" The question was asked by Captain Primrose, the highest-ranking officer in the room. A tall, solid woman with a jawline like a granite block and eyes that pierced through those under her command like an eagle staring at its prey, everything about Primrose screamed authority. She was not one to show disrespect toward; it was said that she once assigned an entire class of recruits to latrine duty after one of them suffered a voice crack when addressing her. That she was okay with the shenanigans at The Polished Shield tonight was a testament to the otherworldly atmosphere that bars produce in their patrons.
"Who am I?" One could sense the stranger's raised eyebrow in her voice. "I am me. And me wants some ale."
Primrose's mouth pressed into a line so thin that it was hardly visible. "Perhaps you were unaware, but this a bar for Royal Guards. Unless you are -"
Everyone in the room reached for their pockets or inside jackets as the stranger reached under her cloak and tossed something at Primrose. The Captain barely caught it. She held up a hand as she examined the object, signaling the guards to wait for further orders. Crow's feet scrunched in confusion.
"Scroll, come and look at this." A dark-skinned man with yellowish hair stepped from the crowd and stood beside his superior, gazing curiously at the object in her hands. His eyes flicked between the stranger and the object, growing more vexed with each passing moment.
"It's one o' the medals tha' they used ta give generals back in the ol' days, but ah don't recognize the design," Scroll responded in his fading Trottish Brogue, tempered after so many years in Canterlot.
Eyes narrowed in suspicion, Primrose's hand drifted towards the hilt of her sword, a silent signal to the other guards - those not piss-drunk, at least - to stand at the ready. From all over the room came the distinct sound of daggers, dirks, and shortswords being unsheathed, the weapons gleaming in the candlelight like dangerous stars come down to wreak havoc upon the world. The barkeeps, taking the hint, slipped into the back room and locked the door with a click that echoed around the bar like the sound of a clock ticking down to a vital moment.
With a sigh, the stranger stepped forth from the bar, all blades trained on her. When she was a few steps from Primrose, whose blade was aimed directly at her heart, the stranger shrugged off her cloak. The room let out a collective gasp.
She could have given the hardiest farmhands in the country a run for their money in terms of muscle. It was like gazing at a marble-carved statue from the classical era, the ones made in the image of divine heroes, ideal youths, and the greatest of athletes. Many of the men in the room and a few of the women found blood rushing to their cheeks (and other areas) as they stood transfixed, the woman's beauty unsullied by the dirty, ripped peasant tunic that she wore. But the thing that left most of the room silent was her hair, a wild mess that spilled across her back in the form of a roiling gray stormcloud.
Only the Princess had hair like that.
Primrose, at this point, realized that she had perhaps stepped into deep shit. Putting up her hands in surrender, she switched into diplomatic mode. "Now, m-ma'am, let's talk this -"
The cold feeling of steel at her throat silenced her. The stranger's blade had been drawn faster than anyone could see, moving like a flash of lightning across the sky. Those among the crowd who knew metalworking admired the weapon like a chef savoring fine cuisine. It was a beautifully crafted piece, a single-edged blade that gleamed in the light like a bolt of electricity given physical form. The guard was a ring of shining gold that would do little to guard the hand from the enemy, though it was clear that was not a concern; this was a weapon of pure skill. The hilt was a glittering silver styled like scales, each one clearly and painstakingly etched into the metal, matching the theme of the dragon-headed pommel whose mouth was wrapped around a pure emerald as large as a child's fist. It was clear that this blade was a work of art, and it was even clearer that it could slice through Captain Primrose like she was a hog up for slaughter.
"In the olden days, a Royal Guard would never back down," the stranger, whose eyes had up to this point been screwed shut in some strange battle-glee, opened them and stared at Primrose with a gaze like living lightning. "How you have been softened in these intervening years." She drew a single finger across the back of her sword. A few of the guards swore that they heard the blade purr like a contented cat. "Now, it is time for Orna to sing!"
Author's Note
Chapters will get better as we go along, kinda just laying some groundwork here.
A maid walked the ornate halls of the Royal Palace, dutifully carrying out her duties with the professionalism expected of Equestria's finest domestic service. With her trusty feather duster - the DustMaster 3000, newest model on the market - she delicately brushed motes of dust from imposing suits of armor, the gilded frames of paintings, and vases older than the nation itself. She spent perhaps a bit too much time on each piece, though her supervisor always told every new hire to clean until you could see your reflection.
She stared into the polished surface of a Grecian urn and giggled as she saw the contours of her face among the ancient scenes of feasting and games. Though she wasn't much of a history buff, she had to admit that it was interesting to work among artifacts that pre-dated modern history.
Bang!
A tremor shook the hallway, causing paintings to rattle and suits of armor to clank. A flurry of yelling and screaming erupted from one of the rooms along the passage, the one that, with a gulp, the maid realized was Celestia's personal study. She couldn't even imagine what could be so distressing, so infuriating that the ever-serene mother of the nation felt the need to raise her voice.
Wobble! Wobble!
Her ears pricked at the distinct sound of something wobbling to her left.
"Oh shit!" She dived to catch the falling vase, clutching it to her chest and turning so that she would land on her back. Her heart was beating a mile a minute as she checked the vase over for any damage. Not even a scuff mark. "Thank Celestia."
When the vase was safely back on its pedestal, the maid hurriedly made an exit, hoping to find a more peaceful area of the palace to clean. She could not imagine that sticking around when the Princess was in a bad mood would be good for anyone.
"So," Celestia said, gently swirling a glass of sherry in her hand. Sitting across from her was a woman with storm-cloud hair and electric eyes, eyes that were staring back at her defiantly. It was astonishing how much she missed that look. "Let me make sure I understand this. You have been gone for 900 years, journeying around the world. You have decided to return to Equestrian society. Your first act is to challenge nearly one hundred Royal Guards to a fight, proceeding to leave almost all of them in the hospital." Celestia paused to take a sip of her drink, knowing that she would need it. "Does that sound about right, Tempest?"
"When you word it like that, it doesn't put me in the best light, sister." She spat the last word with a venom that could stun a manticore. Tempest reached for the drink Celestia prepared for her, forgoing it in favor of the bottle. She took two long swigs, ignoring the exasperated expression of her sister. "I would say that I went on a journey of self-discovery and growth and have finally decided to return home. I found that the guards were not up to standard, and so I beat sense into them as we would have done in the old days."
"Ah, growth. Is that what you call this?" Celestia waved a dismissive hand at Tempest. How the younger Goddess could term what she had done last night 'growth' was beyond even her centuries of wisdom. "I see an immature young woman who came back just the same as she left."
"Immature!" Tempest growled, slamming her hands on the desk. Fortunately, it had been built with angry goddesses in mind, because as much as Celestia cultivated the image of a calm, controlled monarch, ruling a nation was stressful. "I haven't even been back for a whole day and already you're passing judgment! And," she wagged a finger in Celestia's face to punctuate her point, "I don't see how giving a bunch of guards some much needed combat training is immature!"
"Tempest," Celestia was speaking through grit teeth, an occasion so rare that even her hot-headed sister wilted. She was mad, roaring mad, and for Celestia that manifested as a cold steel in her voice that sent an uncomfortable shiver down the spine of whoever dared annoy her. "Has it occurred to you that breaking bones may not be proper training? Has it occurred to you that I am going to have to present you to those same guards as a member of the royal family?" With a sigh, Celestia settled into her plush velvet chair and rubbed her temples in annoyance. "In case you did not realize, we are no longer in an era where a noble could kill someone over a slight or sleep with the newly-wedded wife of a serf. There are rules now, Tempest. Even for us."
Tempest merely huffed and took another long swig from the bottle of sherry. Celestia rolled her eyes; some things never changed, even as centuries passed. The bottle was suddenly covered in a shimmering golden glow and yanked back to the table, much to the frustration of the drinker. Her glare was met by a raised eyebrow.
"I think you've had enough."
"I didn't realize you were Mother."
"No, but I am your older sister, and in her absence, I am responsible for you."
"I'm a grown woman, Tia," Tempest crossed her arms over her chest. "I don't need someone being responsible for me."
"You could have fooled me." Celestia held up a hand to stop further argument. "Both of us know that this will go nowhere, so let us turn to more practical matters." She gazed out the window, looking at everything except what was in front of her. "I'm going to have to introduce you - reintroduce you - to the nation. In their eyes, you and Luna are little more than myths." Despite everything, Celestia huffed in amusement. "Some historians have even theorized that ancient peoples interpreted different aspects of my personality as the Moon Goddess and the Storm Goddess."
"Mortals are funny like that," Tempest chuckled. Both sisters sat in silence for a moment, each wondering how to bridge the wide gulf between them. Finally, Tempest spoke again, her eyes settled on a particularly interesting point on the floor. Her tone was begrudging but still apologetic. "Celestia, I... I do apologize for last night. I really do like to think I've grown a lot over these 900 years, it's just... you know how I am..."
"I know. I do." Oh, did Celestia know. It was virtually ingrained into the Storm Goddess' very being to be as impulsive and temperamental as the squalls she commanded, as much as it was ingrained in Celestia to be the calm, serene matriarch, like a gentle sun bathing her supplicants in soothing rays. "I just need you to try and curb some of your more... destructive tendencies. I promise that we can find you appropriate outlets."
"I don't have a choice, do I," Tempest groaned.
"No," Celestia said with a thin smile on her face. "There is nothing more stifling than the social pressures of a royal court."
Author's Note
Prologue arcs, so wonderful
