Songs of Thunder

The song of distant thunder echoed across the plains.

Looking like little more than a faint, ragged line of majestic purple low along the horizon from this distance, the Southern Range was dwarfed itself by an array of towering, black anvils. The rumbling thunderheads, sending the low notes of their chorus for hundreds of miles in every direction, almost looked more like mountains than the mountains themselves, but with night long since fallen upon the Southern Plains, such tricks of distance and perception were to be expected. The horizon itself flickered with light, where, many leagues away, forks of lightning lashed at the lush earth past the mountains. Buffalo legend spoke of green and fertile lands past the mountains, a geographical boundary which served as both a physical and, in a way, mental barrier to the understanding of the natives of the Plains.

Every now and then, storms ran up against the mountains, perishing as they struck the dry, desert air, often bringing with it a rush of rejuvenating water to the parched scrublands and salt flats.  Tonight, though, no rain came; there was only the oppressive thickness of the air, and the suspicious absence of the usual chorus of crickets.

Thunderhooves, chief of the buffalo clans, turned restlessly on his mat. Visions of his youth tormented the aging bull, memories of times and friends long since passed. With more a dull grunt than a gasp, he awoke, slowly rousing his bones into letting him sit up. Blinking his eyes drowsily, he remembered for a moment storms that had terrified him as a calf. He let out a snort of frustration. He was too old to be scared of such things now.

Wasn’t he?

Thunderhooves tossed and turned, trying to get comfortable again, fall back to sleep, and dismiss his troubled musings. A few minutes later, he gave up. Tonight, it seemed, there would be no sleep. Flipping grumpily over onto his stomach, he mulled over the peculiar behavior of those in the buffalo camp earlier that night. With the air so stifling and uncomfortable, he doubted he was the only one still lying awake, but the camp, like the desert, remained eerily silent. The drums and voices had died down early that night, and everybuffalo had seemed eager to escape into their tents and sleep this evening through. All the fires had been stamped out, and the camp was devoid of light, save for that of the occasional flash of lightning.

The chief wondered whether the storm had anything to do with this. Looking about his tent uneasily, he felt as though a shadowy pall hung over the camp that night. Thunderhooves had never been a particularly superstitious bull, but something about this night seemed… ominous. It disquieted him.

Another flash of lightning, and a peal of thunder. He heard a rustling at his tent flap. Set on edge by his dark thoughts, his fight-or-flight instinct kicked in, and he was quick to jump to the conclusion that some intruder had found its way to his tent. If it wanted a fight, then so be it. Flaring his nostrils and tensing up, Thunderhooves turned – and found only Little Strongheart. The orange-coated calf was staring forlornly at the chief, standing firmly in place, though he could tell she was trembling at the knees. Even by the poor light, Thunderhooves could see that the fur under her eyes was stained with tears.

“Chief,” she whispered, a wavering in her voice, “can I sleep in here tonight?”

Thunderhooves closed his eyes, regaining his senses. This night was fraying his nerves, to be sure. He had very nearly jumped at Strongheart, and found himself feeling rather foolish. He rumbled in assent. “Come, little one,” he invited in as soft a tone as someone with a voice so deep could.

Strongheart plodded weakly to Thunderhooves’ side, lying down and nestling against him. Though the presence of the chief seemed to calm the calf down, Thunderhooves thought he heard a bit of sniffling. He sighed, shaking his head. It truly pained him to see Little Strongheart like this. He had known her parents, both great braves of the tribe. He found her endearing vivacity and courage reminded him greatly of her mother, and the chief was tremendously proud of the young cow that Strongheart had grown up into. He frowned as he recalled the tragic day of her parents’ death. Thunderhooves had raised her from infancy, and he had come to think of her as his daughter. He was loathe to see his young charge in distress, especially that which he could do nothing to prevent.

The buffalo chief was not stupid. Though in his old age he tended to wind on in his words and convince those around him of his rapidly-approaching senility, he could see past his own snout. Strongheart had awoken tearfully from her sleep too many times to convince him that this was anything normal.

“Little Strongheart,” Thunderhooves rumbled. The calf opened her eyes, blinking, and stared questioningly up at the chief. He continued, “Have you been having nightmares?”

Strongheart blinked again, clearly surprised by the question. Glancing away, she opened her mouth to speak, but said nothing. Noticing her hesitation, he offered, “I have nightmares too, little one.” He smiled, trying to lighten her mood somewhat, and received only a slightly reproving stare for his trouble. His smile wavered. Strongheart seemed to think he was patronizing her, and she was likely correct. Sometimes he forgot that the younger buffalo was hardly a child any more.

After a few moments, she sighed, breaking eye contact and resting her head on her forelegs. “It’s not really important, Chief.”

Thunderhooves let out a long, thoughtful hum. “Maybe so… if they did not make you wake in tears so often.” He turned his gaze down toward the curly-maned little buffalo, sending her a meaningful look.

Thunderhooves heard Strongheart sigh. She stared at her hooves, and squirmed under the bull’s probing stare, ashamed that she had tried to brush away his concerns so rudely. He was only worried for her, after all. “… Yes, chief. I’ve been having nightmares,” she relented. “They’re just silly dreams,” she continued after a moment’s hesitation.

The chief shook his head slowly. “What, then, do you dream of, Little Strongheart?” The calf held a breath, meeting his gaze with trepidation, obviously unwilling to detail her nightmares. After a moment, though, Little Strongheart exhaled, and began to describe what she had seen.

The young buffalo’s nightmare was laid out in surprisingly vivid detail. She spoke of creatures and beings which existed only in myth and tales, of desolation and destruction to come. Though he’d never admit as much, even the great buffalo chief felt uneasy at the images Strongheart was painting in his mind.

Towards the end of her explanation, Little Strongheart was crying again. Chief Thunderhooves allowed the conversation to end there, placing a comforting hoof on Strongheart’s head. He regretted forcing the calf to relive her nightmare, but at least he now knew what troubled Strongheart – and now troubled him. He could feel in his bones that there was some terrible significance behind these dreams. Just what, he could not say.

Though Little Strongheart soon fell asleep, Chief Thunderhooves got no sleep that night. He was far too busy planning a letter to an old friend.

Celestia stared out at the horizon as her sun finally dipped out of sight, the dying shades of twilight setting the sky alight in a myriad of different shades and hues. Despite having seen hundreds of thousands of them in her lifetime – creating them, in fact – Celestia never grew tired of watching the sun set in the evening. Nearly all of Equestria was visible from here. A dark patch amongst the valley bottom, which itself was already dark in the failing light of dusk, marked the Everfree Forest, the site of her and Luna’s ancient capital. Not allowing herself to be caught up in memories of times long past, she shifted her gaze outward. At each horizon, great blotches of pale yellow light highlighted the positions of some of Equestria’s most major cities: Vanhoover, Las Pegasus, and, its silhouette visible amongst a colossal bank of cumuli, Cloudsdale. Millions of ponies thronged even into the night in every corner of her kingdom.

She turned her gaze back to the dark blotch. A smaller point of light lay next to it, the small town of Ponyville. She remembered when the town had been founded, all those years ago. She herself had chosen its location, and the town, which had remained a very small and close-knit community despite all the decades that passed, never failed to surprise her with both its many charms, and the peculiarly strong character possessed by its inhabitants. She thought of six ponies, very dear to her, who lived in the village, and smiled.

Her smile wavered as she thought of the very likely danger that she herself was about to place those same six ponies in. With a sigh, whatever positive feelings she’d been enjoying fled her, and her worries returned. It seemed worrying was really all she ever did these days, and she resented it. If only she could just stop worrying for a time…

As if to highlight her concerns, Celestia scanned the letter she had received for a third time, her brow furrowing as her concern grew. Each time she read it, it only grew harder – not due to any true difficulty on her part, but because with each scan of the page, the gravity of the situation at hoof grew only starker. Not since the return of Discord had the princess felt quite that sort of unwelcome emotion – the wrenching of fear in her gut. Only a great threat to Equestria, and, for that matter, the world, could inspire such dread in the alicorn’s heart.

And if ever there was a threat to this world, this was it.

Stepping back inside with the sensation of a great weight on her shoulders, she lowered the letter down to a table at her side, and stood a moment in thought. Her horn sparked back to life a moment later, raising a blank scroll, pen, and ink well. ‘My faithful student…’