Martyr

She was in, at last. She could feel a single bead of sweat rolling down her forehead. It was a miracle that the guards had not sensed her nervousness, even with the hijab covering most of her body and facial features. She had tried her best to keep composed at all times, from the moment she bought her ticket at Nafez station and boarded the Saddle Arabian express No. 175-11, till the end of the seemingly endless security checks at the Palace itself. But now her resolve was flagging. During the long train ride towards Canterlot she had been unable to sleep, so preoccupied she was by her mission and its consequences. For hours she had rehearsed over and over again in her head the necessary steps, recalling her instructor's stern gaze as vividly as is he were in the carriage with her. She was the stone on which everything held; years of preparation and training, the hopes of an entire people placed in her hands. So much pressure, and no way to escape it. Yet she had held well until now.

What if they knew? What if it were a trap, another one of the Service's cunning plans? She had made eye contact only once, with a young looking official, his well polished armor gleaming under the scanner light: no doubt fresh out of the Institute. He had smiled enigmatically after handing her a magic-infused signature pass and for a moment she had thought her fate was sealed. In a wave of panic she had been ready to surrender and confess, but had managed through sheer force of will to avert her eyes and smile at the last second. During the rest of the clearance process, she had focused on one of her most intimate memories: a necessary mental lifeline guiding her towards the surface her instructor had taught her to grasp.

Galloping through the orange orchards of the Eastern Settlement, tasting freedom for the first time as well as the crossbred citrus fruits that had quenched the thirst of generations of ponies. The caravanserail had stopped for a full week. It was a rare occurrence, explained by the fact that the chief was currently attending the ceremonial meetings with his closest advisors, her parents among them. Left to her own devices, she had been overwhelmed by the sensory delights of the gardener caste's work. Now that the procedure was over, she suddenly realized how distant those memories truly were and shuddered uncontrollably.

The bead of sweat was quickly absorbed by the insulating lattice of her expertly woven hijab. She scanned the lobby, trying not to attract too much attention to herself, but the only guards in the area were busy chatting with patrons and monitoring the entrance to the VIP section. She kept repeating "I'm in, I'm in" in her mind, like a mantra, as if she doubted her surroundings were real and needed to be convinced of their solidity.

After a few minutes of nervous mingling with the other guests, her resolve slowly returned. She suddenly had a vision of her instructor smiling. "Should you prevail in the Jihad al-nafs, the Struggle against the self, then anything is possible. You cannot fail once you have reined in your primitive impulses." So was the advice he had given them on their first day at the Rock. For years they had faced their demons under the scalding sun, becoming stronger which each day. As her side Taleb, slain during the raid on the spell library. Marwan, who never betrayed the cause even as the Palace interrogators blinded him with hot coals and tore off his hooves. Khalil, the strongest of her squad, impaled on the horn of an infidel. And there was Samira… her eyes defiant as she was led to the gallows. All those martyrs who had shed their blood for the righteous faith. She felt a surge of confidence. How could she have panicked so easily? How could she have been so weak? Her mind was pure, her will was uncrushable. They all counted on her. She knew what had to be done.

Wading her way through the crowds, she crossed the main ballrooms, politely evading a few enterprising stallions drawn to her exotic appearance. They had no idea of her reason for being here. They could not have guessed that under that innocent looking exterior, that cherry red mane, arcane and forbidden magic concealed the sword of vengeance.

As he approached the corridor to the throne room, her eyes gleamed in anticipation. There was already a long queue formed ahead of her. Turning to the guards, she flashed her diplomatic credentials and the signature pass. She was led to the front by one of the guards on duty. A few minutes later, the doors opened and she stepped in. After the royal guard took their place, trumpets rang and she heard gasps in the crowd. "Her royal highness, Princess Celestia!" bellowed the herald. Then suddenly, a ray of light penetrated into the room from the glass ceiling, which opened soon after. And there flew in Celestia, the tyrant queen, whose hatred for the righteous knew no bounds. After giving a condescending glance at the expectant crowds, Celestia alighted on top of her opulent throne and beckoned for the audiences to begin.

She bowed, before trotting up the marble steps towards the Princess. She could feel the monarch's gaze on her. Their eyes locked. "Daughter of the orient, Celestia said, what brings you to me? I am the light and the sun, and I welcome you into my domain."  She smiled; neither her minions nor her fearsome powers could save her now.

"There is no light but Allah." she said.

Removing her hijab, she closed her eyes and pressed the button. Her features distorted with fear, Celestia yelled for her guards, but it was much too late. The Palace was bathed in light.

As her body disintegrated, she thought of the orange orchard, of ripe fruit falling from the tall trees.

Then there was darkness.