In purely magical terms, Luna had always been more talented than her older sister. Celestia knew how to make other ponies love her, and she drew strength from that love. Luna, for all her efforts, had never quite figured out that trick.
In the pre-dawn darkness, the fanfare of trumpets woke the princess from her reverie. The airship fleet was preparing to launch.
“Go now, my little ponies!” Her sister’s voice boomed over the assembled legions. “You know the stakes in this battle. If Discord cannot be stopped, all of Equestria will fall into chaos.”
There was a hint of tightness in Celestia’s voice. None of the soldiers would notice, but Luna and Tia had been together for centuries now. How could a sister fail to notice the inner workings of her heart’s twin?
The roar of thirty thousand voices answered Celestia, pledging themselves to the defense of the nation. Engines thundered to life, and the airships turned north. On the valley floor, legions formed ranks and fell into a steady trot. The two princesses stood, stiff and resilient, as their loyal subjects began the long march to war.
When the last pony had passed beyond easy sight, Celestia finally allowed herself a moment of weakness. She bent her head and gave a heavy sigh. “Are we really doing the right thing, sister?”
“Damn it, Tia. How can you still ask that? You, of all ponies.” Luna’s was surprised by the harshness of her reply.
“I remember a time when we thought he could change. When we thought he could learn to use his powers for the good of Equestria.”
“I never thought that, Tia.” Hadn’t she? Perhaps, for a time, but she’d been a different pony then. So much had happened in the intervening centuries. “You never understood him like I did.” That much, at least, was true.
Luna brooded as they made the long trek from the mustering grounds to Canterlot Castle. The pale glow that hinted at dawn crept across the horizon before them. Perhaps things with Discord could have been different. If the Elements of Harmony hadn’t been lost. If the Crystal Empire hadn’t fallen once more into shadow. If Fluttershy weren’t three-and-a-half centuries in the grave.
“If wishes were wings, we’d all be pegasi,” she muttered darkly.
“Sister, you know how much I hate to see you like this.” Celestia’s voice oozed with solicitous concern. “Somehow, this will all work out. I know it.”
It’s revolting, Luna thought. She needs to be harder than this. How can she defend our nation, when she’s not even willing to confront the hard truths behind Discord’s betrayal?
The thought pulled Luna up short. Celestia walked a few steps ahead before noticing her sister had stopped.
“You can’t, can you?” Luna’s voice was barely more than a whisper. “You can’t protect us.”
Celestia turned, and for a moment fear flickered across her face. “Please, sister, let’s go back to the castle. I know this has been a difficult time for you, but it will be over soon.”
“No,” Luna whispered. And then again, louder. “No. You’re just dodging the issue again, Tia. Dodging, like you always do. The truth is, you’re too weak to rule. I should have seen it months ago, when the first reports came back from the Crystal Empire. You were slow to act. You were afraid, weren’t you?”
Something felt wrong. Luna’s voice had taken on a deeper sound. She could feel magical energy surrounding her like a crisp, electric crackle, but she didn’t recognize its source.
“I’ve let this go on too long, Tia. Equestria can’t be trusted in your hooves any longer. Who knows what threats may follow, once Discord is dealt with. Who knows what else the Princess Regnant may be called upon to do. Your time is done, Celestia. Step aside, and I’ll see you’re treated with all the deference due a pony of your position. But leave the rule of Equestria to me.”
The look on Celestia’s face was not one that Luna recognized immediately. She might have expected anger, or confusion, or even that hateful fear she’d seen more and more over the past months. But Celestia’s eyes spoke of sadness and her mouth drew tight in determination. She looked... resigned.
“And what if I don’t step aside, sister?”
Luna gave a guttural laugh. “Don’t joke about this, Tia. You know I’m the strong one. You don’t want to fight me.”
“So you would bring civil war to our nation, at a time when our armies are off facing Discord – a plan you suggested, mind. Why you think a few legions can stop him when it took the combined power of the Ele—”
“Shut up! You know we can’t take that route anymore!” Luna’s own voice carried an undertone of panic at the mention of the Elements of Harmony.
“And who saw to that, sister? Who made sure the Elements could never be used again?”
Dark wisps of magic floated around Luna. She could see them at the edge of her vision. “It doesn't matter,” she snapped. “None of it matters now. Equestria must be strong, and that means I must be the one to rule! And if you won’t step aside...”
The pale light at the horizon shimmered, and Celestia stepped close, a tear trickling down her cheek. Her voice was very quiet. “And if I won’t step aside, you’ll force me away? You’ll leave the moon in the sky, and deny the sun it’s rightful place? Deny me my power?”
Luna quailed at her sister’s words, and at a sudden realization. She did know this magic that swirled around her. She’d felt it before, in a very different way.
“Yes, Tia,” she whispered. “Yes, I would.” Luna lowered her head in sorrow. “Do it. Now. Before it’s too late.”
Celestia reached out with one hoof and stroked Luna’s cheek. “I am sorry, my dearest sister...”
And then another magical aura took hold of Luna, cutting through the tendrils of darkness around her. A part of her prayed Celestia had the strength for this. There were no Elements to boost the spell's power, this time. Another part craved one final failure from the pony she’d called sister for so many centuries.
The darkness flexed and cracked. A small smile stole across Luna’s face. The right part of her desire would be answered.
“Oh, sister...”
The pony called Celestia had been warned, so very long ago, when she assumed her station. “The burden of the Night is heavier. You have all the joy and warmth of the sun. Your sister has only dreams... and nightmares. Past is prologue. Remember it well.”
She tried to tell herself it was necessary. She tried to tell herself that the moon wasn't such a lonely place. She didn't believe it.
Celestia’s breath hitched in her throat. Finally, her composure failed her and she sank to the ground of the grassy meadow where her sister had so recently stood. Tears fell, and were sucked away into the earth.
Her sister. Her only remaining tie to her old life. Gone.
Maybe, if she were very good, in another thousand years...
Her voice came out as a broken whisper. “Sunshine, sunshine, ladybugs awake...”
January 1944—Cassino, Italy
An artillery shell whistles overhead, breaking the stillness of the moonless night. It slams into the concrete bunker where your C.O., Captain Talbot, was meeting with the other lieutenants. The pressure wave of the explosion hits you like a hammer, knocking you to the ground, and then a roar like thunder fills your ears. You roll onto your shoulder—there is a distant sense of pain, too new to register fully—and you look back at the bunker. At what was the bunker.
You stare, dull and unthinking. A sparkling haze fills the air, reflecting off the snow-covered ground. It glows, like the fireflies that used to dance along the riverbank on late summer nights, back in Iowa. You stare. And for a few beautiful seconds, you are happy. Everything falls away—all the hunger and the pain, all the fear and the bone-deep cold that's been with you since November. For a few beautiful seconds, you're back in Cedar Falls with Sandra, lying in the grass behind your parents' house.
And then you hear the screams.
The haze... twists. You see it writhe and contract, like a snake crushing its prey. And all the time, it twinkles, shining brighter and brighter. The screams grow louder, more desperate, and the light within the haze seems to pulse in time with those screams. For a moment, you think you hear the Captain's voice, and then it falls away in a low desperate burbling sound. The haze twists again, in the other direction, and the light within it flares—bright as the headlamps on an M3 half-track. Then it's gone.
You stumble to your feet, and the pain in your shoulder finally hits. You grunt and feel at it with your left hand, but there isn't any blood. Something broken? Maybe.
You lurch toward the bunker, now a slumped mound of concrete. The southwest wall looks melted. A part of your mind gibbers that artillery shells don't work like that. What if it's gas? But your lungs feel fine.
Inside what's left of the bunker, it's a scene from a nightmare. Four bodies, lying still, with limbs bent in unnatural angles. A spray of something dark covers the wall—probably blood, judging by the acrid, mettalic scent in the air. The Captain lies at the center of the room. His face is lost in shadow, but you can see well enough to recognize a rictus of pain etched into his features. Nothing moves. There is no sound, beyond your boots scuffling across the floor.
"Mostra tue mani!"
You spin, and see a dark figure standing in the doorway. You fumble at your waist for your service pistol, but your fingers are clumsy in the cold.
"Mostra tue mani!" The figure takes a step toward you.
You unclip the sidearm and your fingers close around the grip. Your hand whips forward as you raise your head.
The butt of a rifle crashes against the bridge of your nose, and everything goes black.
The first time, you wake to pain and panic. Rough leather straps bite into your arms, your thighs, and your stomach. Instinct takes over and you thrash against them, but your body refuses to move. The room around you is white and hospital-clean. It reminds you, in a way, of the back room of the recruiting center—where the army doctors checked you over before stamping your paperwork. You feel the crusty residue of dried blood on your face, and your left shoulder aches as bad as when you dislocated it back in Tunisia, in the fighting around Sidi Bou Zid.
There are hushed voices, speaking some language you don't recognize. Then a figure steps into view, towering above you. He has a dark gray uniform, like what the Jerries wear, but without any insignia or marks of rank. He stares down at you for a moment, his eyes cold and blue like the North Sea, and then he nods.
Somewhere in the room, something flashes. You try to turn your head, to get a better look at it, but your muscles don't respond. More flashing, faster, brighter, and the air seems to shimmer. Sparkle. Then you feel a stabbing pain in your left shoulder, and your vision goes black.
The second time, you wake up to comfort and peace. You're lying in a bed, two down-filled pillows supporting your head and a heavy comforter pulled up under your chin. For the first time in weeks, you aren't overcome by pain and cold. You prop yourself up on your shoulder—your left shoulder—but whatever ache had been there is gone, as if by magic. You look around, but you aren't sure you can believe what you're seeing.
The room is rich and colorful, almost too colorful. It looks like the sort of place Clark Gable would live. It looks like a palace. Is this heaven, you wonder. Did I die, and somehow wind up here?
A knock sounds at the door of the room, though there's something odd about it. The whole room is odd, actually—something about the way the furniture is formed. And then a voice speaks from outside.
"Lieutenant Carter?"
A woman's voice. A woman's voice, and—
"Lieutenant Carter? Are you awake?"
Your breath catches in your throat. Sandra?
The door opens and a... thing... steps inside. It smiles at you. "Oh, thank Celestia! Prince Arbor was worried your injuries might be more than he could heal."
You tense, simultaneously attracted and repulsed. The voice—you know that voice as well as you know your own name. Sandra. But Sandra died a year and a half ago, just after you left for the war. Your heart skips a beat, every time you hear that voice.
But it comes from something that looks almost like a purple horse, except that horses aren't purple, and they don't have wings and horns. And the face is wrong—too human, but with enormous eyes. The thing is unnatural, disturbing.
And all you can think is how much you want to hear that voice again.
