The Day After
‘Thou art commander of the team investigating suspect leads?’
‘Aye, marm.’
Luna extended the thin parchment she had received. ‘Information from our prime witness. Amend thy search as needed and report back per previous instruction.’
The stallion read through the scrawled note, blinked, and nodded. ‘Aye, marm. Your Highness’ will be done.’
‘Very good. About thy business.’
Knight-Commander Ravel turned smartly on his heel and departed, and Luna returned to the long table. Celestia looked up from her place, surrounded by a small crowd of nobles, scribes, advisors, and vellum. ‘Anything new?’
‘Merely an amendment to the description of the culprit.’ Luna said, resuming her place beside her sister. ‘’Twere a trivial point, that may but narrow the search; the greater part hath not been altered.’
Celestia’s eyebrows rose, but all she said was, ‘Very well.’ Tell me when we’re not surrounded by so many curious ears.
Luna looked over at the vellum most immediately in front of her sister—some kind of proposal, it seemed. ‘How goeth?’ Verily.
Celestia sighed, and neatly set the scroll aside with the others. ‘Poorly. From what I am to understand, the only thing the good Council recommends be said is everything. That in order to allay any fear, I must allay every fear.’
‘Fool’s errand,’ Luna sniffed, and several of the scribes nodded conspiratorially.
‘Not everything, Auntie,’ said Prince Blueblood, a few seats away. ‘Just enough to convince ponies the sun hasn’t stopped in its orbit.’
‘Economy,’ mumbled another with the rough dimensions of a boar, and walrus-moustache. ‘Can’t let the economy falter. One bad day and it’s all downhill from there.’
‘The economy will survive one day of mourning, Minister Fettekatz,’ said Fancy Pants acidly, from Luna’s other side. ‘Besides, I rather think the Princess means to know what the pony in the street thinks, rather than he that owns it.’
‘Fancy,’ Celestia admonished idly, though of course nopony present disagreed. ‘There’s no need to be uncivil.’ She turned to Blueblood. ‘I assume you have a vested interest as well?’
‘Indeed,’ said Blueblood, not missing a beat. ‘I was to host what promised to be a very profitable trade meeting with a seapony delegation from the northeast.’ He wrinkled his nose. ‘I’m afraid the fish stocks in my wine cellar won’t last long enough to get them back in the water as-is.’
‘Trading the mental well-being of a nation for a nicer smell at home. At least you’re honest, nephew.’ Celestia sighed. ‘What you do in the confines of your home is no-one’s business but your own, but any servant that requests the time is to be given it. I’ll find out otherwise.’
Blueblood nodded. ‘Thank you, Auntie.’
‘Good, now go to bed.’ She looked around the crowded table. ‘The same goes for anypony else who isn’t here to help me write a speech.’
A few chairs were pushed back from the table, and several sets of hooves followed Blueblood’s out. Luna watched them go, then turned back to the table.
‘With that dispensed with, prithee, what be the real issues in play?’
Celestia gestured with a quill at several councillors in turn. ‘Domestic security. Domestic welfare. Foreign relations. Foreign military relations. Infrastructure.’ Pause. ‘Treasury?’
‘Labour cost to repair the engine and station should actually be minimal,’ said a bespectacled pony at the far end of the table, surrounded by newly-empty seats. ‘The damage to the engine was mostly cosmetic, and the platform was mortar and cobble, through and through. The carriages are a complete loss, of course—at this point it would be simpler to commission a fresh set from scratch.’
He pushed at his glasses, skimming the papers in front of him. ‘Even fully Crown-funded, it’d be a drop in the bucket at most.’
‘Not that it would stop me otherwise,’ said Celestia absently, to chuckles. Her pen was busy running over parchment.
‘Alright,’ she said at length, looking from pony to pony around the table. ‘We’ve been up all night, and it’s nearly morning. I’m exhausted, you’re all exhausted, let’s just get this done.’
To the first pony she had pointed at before: ‘Continuing risk, elevated alert status for the foreseeable future, increased Guard presence in public spaces and transit systems.’
‘Aye, ma’am, no comments.’
‘Good.’ Celestia’s quill whizzed across the paper. To the second: ‘Assurances of minimal disruption and stressing it as an isolated incident, while also emphasising that everything is being done to rectify this tragedy and bring those responsible to justice.’
‘Partners and orphans?’
‘Being managed through the Partners and Orphans Fund via the Treasury.’
‘Then I register no objections, ma’am.’
‘Good girl.’ The quill fairly sang across the parchment. To the third: ‘No party officially under suspicion, but everyone informed of the incident and alerted to keep watch on their own public spaces.’
‘Yes, ma’am. The Griffons have lodged a diplomatic complaint, citing our apparent “fearmongering”, but otherwise only the best of wishes and condolences from the border nations. No objections.’
‘The Griffons complain about everything, especially while they’re being sanctioned for border violations on the minotaurs. Again. And thank you. Next:’ she pointed to number four, a burly Pegasus mare in immaculate armour. ‘Still no word from the Changeling territory flyover?’
‘No, Miss. Due back in an hour.'
‘Fair enough. And finally, Infrastructure?’
Fancy Pants nodded. ‘Last word I received is that the locomotive will need to be completely examined and probably given a full once-over, just to be safe. Fortunately, we keep spares on the hoof in case of breakdowns or maintenance. Worst case scenario, poor weather conditions prevent us from working on the track for the next while, extends the work out by a week or two at most. Next week at the earliest, next quarter-moon at the outside.’
‘Splendid, thank you.’ Celestia scratched out a final note, rolled up the vellum, and nodded to the assembly. ‘Fillies, gentlecolts, thank you for coming out this evening on such short notice. I know this wasn’t the best day any of us have had in a good long while, but with a little effort, luck, and appreciation for our fellow mare, it looks like we’ve gotten through it in one piece. Now I know the next few weeks are going to be rough on all of us, but some probably more than others. Anything you need to ask of the Crown, or of the other ministries, do it; we’ll allocate and reallocate as-needed. Dismissed.’
Over the sound of many scraping chairs, Luna turned to Celestia. ‘And you? You are prepared to give this speech tomorrow?’
‘I could stand a few extra hours to be worked in before tomorrow morning,’ Celestia smiled, tiredly, ‘but I wouldn’t wish any more disruption on our little ponies than necessary.’
‘You seem . . . much improved from this morning, sister.’
Celestia looked over her shoulder to watch the last page scurry out of the room, and turned back to Luna. ‘We know for a fact what’s happened, now,’ she said, under her breath. ‘And with concrete facts come concrete plans. With what we know, we can prepare, investigate, and hopefully prevent this from ever happening again. I’ve done all I can; I can sleep with a clear conscience.’
‘Need we fear another attack?’
Celestia exhaled slowly. ‘I don’t know, and I’m not going to guess. We need more time.’
‘Strange words from an immortal.’
‘Don’t I know it,’ Celestia replied, looking at the moon hanging low in the near-dawn sky. ‘It’s the price we pay for choosing our people over ourselves.’
‘Was there ever a choice?’
‘Not if we wanted to be who we are.’
‘And them? Have we decided yet what they shall be?’
‘The same as ever. Free and independent, and ready to join us as equals.’ She shook her head. ‘But not like this. Not while we still have to rescue them from themselves.’
‘How far is’t set back?’
‘Shorter than you think, further than you hope?’
They chuckled, mirthlessly, there in the empty hall. The sound echoed around the empty chamber, even after they themselves had let the moment die. It was Luna that ultimately broke the silence.
‘Sister—the report we received whilst you were in Council,’ she let her eyes rest on the vellum-strewn table. ‘It—it confused us. Me. Both the words themselves, and the weight that came attach’d. I did not understand.’
Celestia looked at her, strangely. The air of practised mirth was gone, and a far more familiar look—hard and heavy, ready and reluctant—came over her face. ‘That never bodes well, Lulu. Tell me.’
And Luna told her.
And Celestia sat there in her chair, and listened. And it was only after a long moment after Luna finished, that she spoke again.
‘And . . . Twilight?’
‘In pain, as I am sure you can tell.’
‘I stopped . . . listening. After we left. I thought . . . she would want the privacy.’
‘’Twould have been most difficult to offset this from the guilt and anguish she feels already.’
‘And she didn’t tell us because . . . ?’
‘Because she had not the words to—because the fact of it alone was too much for her to bear.’ Luna straightened. ‘And that—that is the dark of it that I fail to grasp, sister. That by ascribing such an act to a child—somehow that redoubles the shame of her failure of prevent it.’
Celestia shook her head, casting her eyes to the vaulted ceiling—to the vaulted walls, where lay so many, many stained-glass memoria of ages gone by. ‘Not shame, Lulu. Not guilt. Just . . . horror.’
‘And wherefore? In our time, we have seen countless children—yearlings, barely able to crawl from beneath the maternal teat!—take up arms, or gird for war. Countless thousands we’ve watched die, and they among them; whole armies—!’
‘And those times are not our times, Luna. That was the Unification as it was—nasty, brutish, and anything but short. But it is not the Unification they remember, nor the world.’ She rose from her chair, and walked distractedly towards one of the windows—the tale of St Hestia, the Childe Arisen. Luna followed, slowly.
Celestia gazed up at the portrait, followed the contours of Hestia’s battered, triumphant little frame. ‘To us, it is but a hallmark of a terrible time, a more hateful time—to them it is a shock, an affront; the horrible realisation that their civilisation may not be quite so civil.’ She turned back to Luna, with a look that could have burned. ‘Foals have a special place to them; foals are the future, the untested mettle of tomorrow. And the idea of one not only losing its chance at that tomorrow—but giving it up of its own accord?’
Do you see it?
And Luna did see, and Luna did not. And Luna walked forward, and rested her head gently across the back of Celestia’s neck. It was an old gesture, older than anypony yet living—and it took Celestia a moment to remember how to position herself to return it.
But return it, she did; the momentary fire quelled.
‘And yet it is not,’ Luna said quietly. ‘There be yet another reason, be there not?’
Celestia squeezed her eyes shut. ‘Yes. And damn that bond to Tartarus.’
Luna smiled, but continued. ‘. . . need we fear another attack?’
‘My answer hasn’t changed.’
‘And yet you just said—’
‘They are not like us, Lulu.’ Celestia nestled further into her sister’s neck, comforting, seeking comfort. ‘Not for a very long time yet.’
Then she disentangled herself from Luna’s mane, and walked past her back to the table. As Luna watched, she gathered up everything in her magic—the pile of vellum, the mountains of parchment, the scrolls and the scraps—and carried it towards the hearth that framed one end of the long hall. Luna cocked her head, confused, but Celestia merely smiled.
‘They don’t need to hear about the cost of a train repair, or the screeching of tail-whipped Griffons,’ she said, as she dumped the pile into the fire. ‘They need to hear from us.’
Then she beckoned for Luna to join her, and together they walked back to the bed-chambers, talking and listening, and regaling each other with stories about the death of kings.
The sun was much brighter than it had been through the textured glass window in her room upstairs—the images sharper, the colours more in focus. Twilight lifted a hoof to shield her eyes from the glare, blinking rapidly as she was wheeled out the front doors, and into the waiting hooves of the small crowd she had been told would be there.
After Rainbow Dash and Applejack had left, just after dawn, the doctors had made their rounds, checked the poultices on her leg, conferred in their accustomed academic fashion. The one she had spoken to most often had assured her that she would be well enough to go home in only a few hours. They had asked her a series of questions, given her a number of instructions—she cursed herself silently for not paying more attention to those—offered thanks, and comfort, and best wishes. She had answered by instinct, of course, even shaken one of their hooves, but the only part of the conversation she had remembered, the part that had set a lead weight in her stomach, was the promise that everyone would be there to see her home.
And there they were. They came into focus in clusters, shimmering like dewdrops through the morning air, crystallising moments in her mind. The girls, there, together—relieved, tired-eyed, quiet. Applejack, halfway between heartbroken and defiant; Rainbow Dash frowning. Applebloom, standing in small, defiant solidarity beside her sister, a show of strength; Scootaloo, there because her friends were—smaller still, and uncomfortable.
Beside them, her parents, shaking like leaves in the gentle breeze, eyes wide and shining. Either looked ready to dash forward, deck the attendant, and spirit their daughter away, but whether out of a sense of propriety, or concern for their daughter’s safety, they stayed their hooves. Her father’s lip was trembling in a way she had never seen before, but the fire in her mother’s eyes . . .
Shining Armour was not with them, though that was to be expected; the Crystal Empire was about as far as it was possible to get from the Heartland, and a mere two days was nowhere near enough time to make the trip by tr—
By rail—
. . . he never had been very good at teleportation. Dimly, she recalled someone saying he and Cadence both would be down as soon as they could get away, but until they did . . . she could push away the looks she imagined for them as they stood beside her parents.
And there, to the right, just enough apart from the others to be noticeable, three others, and it was from them that the emptiness was most palpable. Magnum, impeccably-dressed and doffing his hat; Cookie, her pink coat pinker still around the eyes; Sweetie Belle, fragile, doll-like, glassy-eyed. She could not stand to look at them for more than a moment, before she forced her eyes back to the others.
They stood there, a loose half-circle arrayed before her like silent jurors—or perhaps the customary twenty-one of the cannonade, for they all stiffened to something like attention as the attendant pushing the wheelchair drew close. They said nothing—to her, to each other—just stared, in something like rapture. Perhaps they were taking her in as she had done them, but why would it take them so long? Perhaps they were overjoyed to see her, but then why would they stand there so quietly? Perhaps they were waiting for her to be ready, but when would she ever be?
She could not bear to look any of them in the eye, not this close, and settled for looking at the blue sky between two shoulders, instead.
‘Someone has to sign me out,’ she said, quietly, and the spell was broken. The half-circle closed in an ecstatic, weeping crush, pushing in tight around the wheelchair, sobbing and sighing, hugging and holding. Those who had not seen Twilight the day before (or, ‘enough’ that day, in some cases) held tighter, and wept louder, but Sweetie Belle was by far the worst. Unbidden, she climbed up on Twilight’s lap, and gave her a wordless, wide-eyed hug that seemed to stretch into eternity. Twilight’s fur was damp and matted, when Sweetie’s parents finally pulled her away.
There was a slight delay as the necessary paperwork was filled out—waivers, releases, the obligatory follow-up appointment at Ponyville General, threats of further violence from Twilight Velvet if things didn’t move the buck along—and then they were away. Night Light pushed the wheelchair, and the others formed a loose sort of phalanx around them, with Magnum and Cookie at its head. Every so often, she would catch them glancing over their shoulders at her, but they would only smile, quietly, and resume the slow march.
The streets were quiet as the little party made its way to the Wards airship terminal. Twilight later learned that the families of the deceased had been offered a full honour escort back to Ponyville—regalia, military processional, casket borne on willow-wood litters, as was tradition—but the Sparkles and the Belles, at least, had declined.
The casket was waiting for them at the entrance to the terminal, flanked by four stern-looking Unicorn Guardsmares. They saluted in unison as the party approached, and one stepped forward to exchange a few words with Magnum and Cookie. They nodded, quietly, and stepped closer to the elegant ebony casket as the Guardsmare turned to the others. Several times throughout the ensuing conversation Twilight saw Cookie’s hoof reach for the lid . . . then slip back to the ground again.
The Guardsmare informed them that, by direct order of the Crown, a small detachment had been assigned to escort the Elements and their families through the terminal, to an airship provided by the Crown, and back to their homes in Ponyville. They weren’t expecting trouble, she clarified, but with all the uncertainty, it was really just the better part of valour. No-one really heard her; Cookie had just buried her face in her husband’s shoulder.
In short order, the Guardsmares had the coffin floating at shoulder-height—suspended carefully in the overlapping magics of four well-trained horns—and, after a final check make sure that their charges were still in tow, set off at a slow march in to the grand foyer. The Belles followed, then the Sparkles, with the Elements bringing up the rear.
Hundreds upon hundreds of ponies lined the walkway to their airship. Pegasi, Earth Ponies, Unicorns, Mules, Zebras—even a Crystal Pony or two, glowing dimly in the mid-morning light—every breed, every walk of life was represented. And as they passed down the narrow aisle—the casket and the survivor, the families and the Elements—every knee bent, and every head bowed.
They had no trouble reaching the airship, or boarding it. Nopony blocked their path; nopony threw a single flower. But as Fluttershy hopped over the airship’s railing onto the deck, and the boarding ramp was raised, there came a single, unmistakeable sound, and Twilight had to crane her neck to look.
Every pair of forehooves stamped the worked stone of the terminal—a clattering, rumbling sound; primal, ancient. It was the sound of time passing; of hooves on the ancestral plain, on the soft grasses of Elysium tomorrow. It was a sound of mourning and of hope, of joy and of sorrow. And as the airship lifted off, pushing away from the dock and into the blue of the sky, Twilight realised belatedly that it was the sound of something else, too—it was the sound of solidarity.
The airship swayed gently in the breeze, the four Guards guiding her expertly around eddies and cloud-banks as they made their way down the mountain. Twilight had her father lock the wheels of her chair near the tiller, where she could watch the countryside as it came up to meet them. It was everything and nothing like her first trip down to Ponyville with Spike—how long ago, now? Her heart skipped a beat on hearing Cookie tell Fluttershy what wonderful things her daughter had always said about airships—and how, even then, this was still only her second time. She could not bring herself to turn her chair when Cookie excused herself below decks.
Spike was waiting for them with a couple of hired coaches when the airship touched down on Cherry Berry’s makeshift landing pad in the cornfield just west of town, and climbed up unceremoniously into Twilight’s lap as soon as she was wheeled down the gangplank. She had to remind herself, as she held him close to her chest, that even he—adult as he was, as much as he himself had been through—was still at heart a child. A little, little child in some ways; he fell asleep in the carriage, cradled in her hooves.
She watched through the carriage window as the casket was loaded into the back of the other carriage; waved, a little, as the Belles themselves climbed in behind it. Sweetie Belle tugged on her mother’s black dress, pointed to Twilight, and all three heads reappeared long enough to return the gesture. Then the doors closed, the runner-stallions heaved, and the carriage, the Belles—Rarity—trundled off down the northward road, towards the mortician’s, the cemetery, and the funeral that Magnum had told them was due to take place in three days’ time. Her heart had skipped another beat hearing her parents exchange addresses and means of communication with Magnum—hearing the choke in the stallion’s quiet voice as he asked them to be there with their daughter for the ceremony.
Her parents, Applejack, and Pinkie Pie clambered into the carriage. Rainbow Dash had stuck her head in long enough to tell them she was going to take Fluttershy home; the talk with Cookie aboard the airship had apparently been her limit. She hugged Twilight fiercely about the neck, and told her in no uncertain terms that she wasn’t allowed to wall herself up in the library—that they’d be coming out to visit as early as tomorrow, and she’d better have something more than month-old scones in the pantry, sweet Celestia.
And then she, too, was gone, weaving unevenly through the skies above Ponyville, one foreleg wrapped tightly around the barrel of her disconsolate friend.
She watched them go as the carriage lurched into motion; watched as the Guardsmares watched them go, then filed silently back aboard their airship. She watched as the thatched roofs of Ponyville thickened like a protective forest around her again; watched as shutters opened, and doors creaked, and more and more ponies filed silently out to watch them pass.
A crowd had gathered in the town square, armed with handkerchiefs and what looked like little hoof-painted signs. No-one was waving them, so she couldn’t read what they were meant to say. But every pair of eyes followed their carriage, and every pair of eyes was wet with tears.
Then the carriages ground to a halt outside Golden Oaks library, and their journey was over.
Her parents bustled inside at once, tidying and exclaiming and admonishing each other to tune the radio properly, so they could listen to her Highness’ address that evening, and thus it fell to Applejack and Pinkie Pie to help Twilight down from the carriage and into her chair again. Once she was settled comfortably, and confirmed for them that, yes, they’d worked out how to unlock the wheels properly, they descended into silence.
Applejack seemed to be avoiding Pinkie as much as possible, and Pinkie was making no effort to engage her, in turn, but after a moment’s hesitation, bounded forward and gave Twilight an incredible squeeze. The Cakes, she said, had promised her a table by the hearth, for as long as she was wheelchair-bound, and as many tea-cakes as she could eat. She echoed Rainbow Dash, promising to come by every day until Twilight told her to stop. Then she faltered, and stepped back, half-smiled again, and trotted away.
And at last, it was just her and Applejack, standing in front of the door to the library—she, with Spike asleep in her hooves; Applejack working the crick out of her neck with a free hoof. They regarded each other for a long moment, letting the echoes of everything they’d said the day before pass between them. Then:
‘Where do we go from here?’ Twilight asked, simply.
Applejack gestured at the building behind them. ‘Home?’
‘Are we?’
‘Are we what?’
‘Home.’
Applejack just looked at her.
‘I mean . . . the train, the foal, Rarity—is this how it’s going to be from now on?’
‘Ah don’t know.’
‘And . . . next time, if there is a next time—?’
‘Ah don’t know, Twilight.’
Silence, again. They stared at the dusty ground between them.
‘It was so . . . quiet, on the way back into town,’ Twilight said, after a moment. ‘They all just came out and . . . watched.’ She bit her lip. ‘Was it just . . . me? Or did I do something wrong? Was it because it was me, not Rarity? What can I tell them? How—’
‘Twi.’
‘But—‘
‘Twilight.’ A voice old and hoarse as orchards. ‘It’s not because they lost her. It’s because they have you back. You are home.’
She looked over her shoulder—eastward. ‘Home. An’ home is just about the only place I intend to be for the next while. Take . . . take care’a yourself, alright? Like Pinkie and Rainbow said, we’ll . . . we’ll be around.’
A thousand more anxious questions burned in Twilight’s mind, but whether or not Applejack was the one to answer them, she knew, their time was up. So she rolled herself up to the open door of the library, turned, and waved, instead. She waved to Applejack as she turned east, towards Sweet Apple Acres. She waved to the pink speck in the distance, pronking distractedly towards Sugarcube Corner. She waved the northbound carriage she could not see, and the airship well on its way back to Canterlot. She even waved to a couple of ponies trudging back from the crowd she had seen gathered in the square.
And in every case, whether they knew her by sight or not; whether they understood why she was waving or not, somepony waved back. It heartened her a little to know that she could raise her hoof at any time, in any place, and that somepony would return the gesture, sight unseen. It made the last twenty-four hours of doubt seem just that little bit more distant—that little bit less hopeless.
It was almost enough to make her feel at home.
So thinking, she turned around, going gingerly so as not to wake the sleeping dragon in her lap, and trundled through the door, and into the warm comfort of her home.
The doors to the balcony lit at her horn’s touch, and she stepped out into the glimmering sunset. The last embers of her sun were flickering on the River Steed, wending its way through Ponyville. The orange sky, smeared with streaks of pink and crimson, shimmered hotly above. A burning day, indeed.
She swept her gaze over the crowd assembled in the courtyard below. When last she’d spoken here it had been to announce her sister’s return, the reinstatement of the diarchy. Such cheers and elation! Such wild cries and open hearts!
And now? Silence. Expectant eyes, red-rimmed. Gaunt faces taut with rigour, slack with exhaustion. Wincing at wounds, leaning on shoulders; nursing broken bones, and broken hearts. Smaller. Lessened in their loss.
She could bear to see it for no more than an instant, and so she spoke instead.
‘Mares and stallions.’ Her voice rang, clarion, clear out into the palace courtyard, and beyond. A great shiver ran through the crowd, like wind through dry grasses, and a few downcast faces were lifted to find their mirror in hers. ‘Fathers, daughters; mothers, sons; brothers, sisters; partners, lovers, children, parents—citizens of Equestria. Friends.’
She paused, letting the word carry. Then: ‘I want to thank all of you who could be with us today for coming out; and all of you who might not be able to—who are listening in from home, or from afar; who hear my words by way of a friend, or read the transcripts in the newspaper tomorrow. If you can hear my words—thank you.’
Some light shuffling; some murmurs of assent from below. She caught a glimpse of a filly—small and golden-maned, chest heaving, her face streaked with tears. She faltered, but only for a moment.
‘. . . I want you all to know, how hard it is for me to put into words exactly what I want to convey in the wake of what occurred yesterday. Not because I was shocked into silence, or because tens of millennia of rule have left me a stranger to the horror of death, but because I needed to know that what I told you would heal, without scarring; last, without belabouring; to move forward, without forgetting.
‘Many thousands of years ago, Luna and I swore an oath: that our first duty to you—our people; our goodhearted little ponies—would not be to command you, to yoke you, to tie you down; it was to watch over you, to guide you, to teach, where able; to keep you safe. And that even in those moments where we could not—where we were surprised, or overtaken, or somehow rendered unable—that we would be there to lift you up where you had fallen; to bring you comfort in the times of pain.
‘And here we are, in a time of incredible pain. Half a year after the Green Wedding—after the Miracle of Love saw not a single Equestrian life lost to the Changeling swarm, here we are in mourning.’
More nodding, more tears; murmurs and whispers and even a few softly-nickered invocations of her name. But whatever they said, whatever they thought, all eyes were on her now—focussed, stronger. She pressed on.
‘You know all the facts already, I’m sure: that, yesterday morning, an explosive device was detonated aboard the inbound train on the Ponyville-Canterlot line; that twenty-one ponies were killed in the explosion and the ensuing fire; that the Crown and the Guard are currently exhausting all possible avenues of inquiry to determine a motive, bring any responsible parties to justice, and taking steps to ensure that nothing like this can ever happen again.
‘I will not insult you by telling you what a tragedy this is—you know. I will not waste your time telling you the sort of vile, depraved, despicable creature it requires, to perform an act so heinous—you know. I will not slander the memories of those who died yesterday with empty words about my thoughts and prayers; if I have performed even a tenth of my duties as a leader of my people, then you would know.
‘And you know that I strive, every day of my life, not to teach to the ponies I am sworn to watch over the many things they already know.
‘You know that I have no desire to move you to tears, nor to incite you to anger. You know that I have no desire to reiterate the lessons of the past, nor make dire warnings for the future. All I desire is to thank you for listening, and ask that you listen for just a little bit more.’
Not a whisper now—not a snatch of murmured prayer. Their eyes were on her, their ears were pricked; they listened. And so she told them.
‘You are my ponies. You are my people. You are resilient, and brave, and unbroken. But more than that—you listen. You could have chosen not to, to shut me out—but you didn’t. You could have succumbed to anger, to apathy, to despair—but when I look out at you, my little ponies, I don’t see a mob out for blood; I don’t see the glazed eyes of disaffectation. I see ponies who came together in their hurt, and did what they could to help, to heal—to understand why.
‘You cared enough to listen. You cared enough to support your fellow mare last night, and today. And by that very action, you demonstrated that you care enough to be part of the solution. Because that is what we do, my subjects—my children, my people. We grow strong, we grow together, and we never let something like this tear us apart.’
Every word, every syllable was stronger, clearer—exultant. She could feel her heart beat faster in her chest, could feel the energy in her words radiate through the crowd, even as she kept her voice level, even as it carried out across all of them, she felt it—she believed.
‘That is my promise to you, my little ponies—that no matter what happens, that no matter whether we are there for you or not, as long as you stay strong, and refuse to allow anything—anyone!—to rob you of your oneness, your compassion, then nothing—not ever!—can keep you from making this the best world it can be.’
She turned to Luna, brimming with the energy of the moment.
‘Luna, Princess of the Night and Maintainer of the Vigil—and my dear, dear sister . . . what say you?’
Luna, violet-black and shining in the sunset, gave her a rare smile. ‘Of course, sister.’ She raised her voice as well, strong and clear, carrying out across the courtyard to match her own. ‘We have always believed in the ponies of Equestria, and the greatness we have wrought together as a people. The Great Work of Equestria is eternal, and aught we can only accomplish if we walk the path as one. We would be proud,’ she said, stepping forward, ‘to walk that path with any of you.’
And though she spoke to the crowd, her eyes never left Celestia’s.
And even if they be not ready today; tomorrow; the next day—they shall be. And I shall be proud to guide them there beside you.
And amongst the ponies in the courtyard below, there came a sound—a low rumble at first, almost a hum, that rose in pitch and volume until it exploded into a storm of cheers and applause and wild, ecstatic laughter. Hope! If the Princess could look past the fear and the danger and the suffering, could stand unbowed, surely there was hope! Hope for the future, hope in the bleakness, hope that the storm could be weathered, withstood, survived!
Oh happiness! Oh unadulterated joy!
And Celestia smiled—not the beatific semblance she had developed over centuries of rule, but a genuine, trembling little thing. There were tears in her eyes.
She smiled out at her subjects, and—for the first time since she had felt the sharp stab of nearly two-dozen deaths of her precious children—felt that things would be alright. Whatever her thoughts, whatever choices she worried she would have to make, whatever proof she felt she needed that it hadn’t all been in vain, they believed, and the millennia told her that would be enough.
She poised herself to say another few words in closing—and the second bomb went off in the square below.
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God help us all.
Maybe it's my imagination, but I sense similarities between this and Cold Light - how they approach the subject of trauma, and the wounds people inflict on one another. In both cases they focus insistently on the process of healing - not on finding answers to questions that are not being asked. In both cases, it could be said they demand the reader do the same.
If there's anger in either of these fics, it's at a world that puts crime before suffering, and rage before compassion. At a world that fails to listen to the desires of those most in need of healing, because the selfish cries for retribution and answers are louder, more compelling.
To be sophisticated as hell, I think you've got a theme going here. Your best works share questions about the nature of justice, the relationship between individual and communal needs, and impulse/instinct vs learned behaviours (particularly as relates to empathy). I have to say I love this. (About the fic, you knew that already - about the running theme? I figure you probably picked it up from me, but it's worth saying anyway ;P)
9142982
I once read thoughts from a man who was there, and the viceral feel...God help us all
That last sentence. . .
My heart has been pounding for the last hour and a half as I've silently read.
There is no need for words.
...
I haven't felt like this for a long, long time.
For nearly 15 minutes after reading the final sentence, my heart kept pounding. My head was swirling with pressure and pain, and I've only just begun to wind down from my cold sweat. There's now this pressure I hadn't known about letting up on my lungs, but I can't even bring myself to focus on even that.
This story hasn't left me feeling profound, it hasn't left me feeling full of anger or sadness, it hasn't left me feeling anything to hold on to or understand.
It's left me feeling empty.
They way people are talking about this, it's the new Biblical Monsters.
Cover me, I'm goin' in.
It's times like this I wish Twilight's Library was still active.
Take my well meaning 'fuck you' and don't stop writing. This was beyond powerful.
~Skeeter The Lurker
9143253
All I can say is, you picked a hell of a day to send that PM.
Also, I *did* see you go in--did you ever come out?
9143133
Please take care.
As I'm mentally looking looking out over the crowd with Celestia, all I'm thinking is "when's the second bomb going off?"
Flying out of O'Hare in 2005, I remember standing in the security line. It was a serpentine line, folding back on itself like at an amusement park for maximum compactness (Boustrophedonically, if we want to do a vocabulary lesson), and all I could think was "man, just wait until you're right in the middle of the crowd, set off the pipe bombs in your carry-on. THAT would mentally fuck this country up like nothing else."
The fact that no terrorist ever managed such a simple, obvious follow up made them seem so impotent to me. There's a sort of sick, grim satisfaction in seeing these pony terrorists orchestrate it right.
9143297
If it helps, this is exactly the kind of reaction I was expecting. Well, alongside the torch-and-pitchfork mob.
I...
9143379
You sure as hell got it from me, dude.
~Skeeter The Lurker
This was s bit too real for me but it is one of the most well written stories I've read here.
We must never devolve into hatred, but instead seek justice. Even when it hurts, even when it seems wrong. Friendship and love will endure far longer that hate.
It still hurts to lose those we care for and those we love. But never tarnish their memories with meanness or pettiness.
Live in Friendship, always.
Dear GOD this was powerful!
Approved for Twilight's Library and The Goodfic Bin.
camo.derpicdn.net/65e56bca0bf663627d9d78fb6b66d3e4820739c8?url=http%3A%2F%2F24.media.tumblr.com%2Fa257ad5165644b1f79354634dfdee284%2Ftumblr_mqo61uYbwk1rj6vd5o1_400.png
I am happy that it ended as if the terrorists are complete monster that wanted to crush all hope. I liked it. It satisfies my heart cold cruel part.
Ordinary terrorist are just thug but with bomb and machine gun instead of knuckle and bat. They wanted something then they use violence. Just fucking thug and glorified robber!
9143373
Doing a simple follow up in the places of grieving or in public address will be hard because of the heightened vigilante of the public and the security force after previous attack. If succed though, I think it also broke some kind of an unspoken agreement, of basic respect for the dead. The type that will do it are the kind like Joker I think. The usual terrorist are more like thug than monster. They attack the unsuspecting and weak, not the vigilante and aware.
But closely done together and/or simultaneous terrorist attacks are more often heard than follow up bombing. Simultaneous and closely done usual attack are where the terrorist set the playing field. In contrast, doing follow up bombing is like playing as away team.
I am sorry for this just a little emotional.
A homeward angel on the fly
A wave toward the clearing sky...
This is a very sobering read. Not something I really expected to see on Fimfiction, but I think you've captured a real sense of the whirlwind effect that shock and grief have immediately after a tragedy. The story was almost as hard for me to digest as it was for a lot of the characters. Very well executed.
I think this just might be one of the most powerful fanfics I've ever read on this site. The parallels that can be drawn to our own, troubled world and society...wow.
A very depressing story, but I think as a cautionary tale, it works that way.
10/10
9142982
Or 9/11. Or, for us across the pond, 7/7. Or the massacre of tourists in Tunisia in 2015 (when I started writing this story in earnest). Or any one of the 346 (apparently) mass shootings that took place in the US in 2017.
How long is this going to go on?
Wow, this was powerful.
9143538
What's so beautiful about that whole album is the fact that it captures whole of everything that was going on in the wake of that kind of tragedy--the hope, the despair, the anger; the rebuttals to all three. If I captured even a fraction of that power in this story, that's more than I could have ever hoped for.
9143387
Yeah. Yeah, me too.
9143373
This is the part that sits with me too. That for however all-too-common the tragedies are of late..it takes a certain kind of diseased mind to do them, and that mind seems generally incapable of improvising.
I may be cold, and callous, but I think my general lack of reaction here is something else, because I look at the portrayals of every pony else here and go 'I'm not sold the malevolence needed exists'.
I understand why it happens in America; things are fucked up enough here that those unstable ones can get pushed and pushed and pushed until they snap. But...Equestria? At least, the one painted here, I simply see this as a bad dream. It doesn't detract from the quality of the prose, but to take 9143253 Biblical Monsters as a point of comparison, that had its horror because I never once doubted it could unfold the way it did.
Here, I do, and it may be naivete or hopeless optimism, but I feel you've painted an Equestria too true to the ideals of Harmony for me to accept it would also lead here.
That, to me, is a good thing though; I can gaze at the space and see it without being stung by it, and honestly I think that balancing act is almost more skillful even if likely unintentional here.
9143823
Actually, completely deliberate in terms of tone.
You are, as I recall, roughly the same age I am, so you remember what life was like before things like 9/11 and 7/7 set the standard, and this sort of thing became all-too-commonplace.
That is what this story is about. The horror isn't fresh to us, because it's something we now deal with on a near-daily basis--and that's horrible, and needs to be picked at. It is, however, fresh to them, just as is was fresh to us some twenty-odd years ago.
Well then.
9143879
That's, I guess, just it. 9/11 didn't horrify me. I mean, I was an utter prat at the time and generally callous, but at the same time it just...wasn't surprising? The magnitude was bigger, yes, but it felt like, like.. 'This is just another..yea'.
It saddens me. And I didn't understand why, like I think I do now. But the big bit is just that fundamental 'It takes a really fucked up situation to breed this', and ...it's Equestria. Where's the situation, as it were?
Playing world-building here the religious extremist parallels are what come closest, and I could see a hypothetical unreformed Starlight Glimmer-like character as a preacher of such things, but...it's just that. It feels too at-odds. In the 90s...it may have felt weird in the first world.
But only if you weren't paying attention to the rest of it. The Slavics, the Troubles, Rwanda, child soldiers, Colombian drug wars...it was all already happening.
In our case? It was imperialistic seeds of destruction finally coming home to roost. There's...nothing comparable here?
I find this less disturbing and less horrifying than Background Pony.
What does that say about me???
9143916
Well, then our experiences on that differed, and that's okay. I was eleven in 2001, and far enough removed that I didn't really understand what was happening; at fifteen in 2005, and with this happening on a rail system I used with decent regularity -- that's a lot closer to home than anything you'd hear on the telly about Rwanda, or Serbia, or any of those other far-flung places I remember being talked about during my childhood. It may be that you didn't have any innocence to lose in that respect; I get that, even if I don't particularly understand it. Unfortunately, I did, and in some ways still continue to, and that's where this all has its root.
Likewise, I very deliberately did not put any indications as to the motives of the attackers in this story -- because when it came screaming out of the dark for us, and for quite some time after, we had no idea where it was coming from. We only got that context later, when people started claiming responsibility for it to forward their own political agendas. But -- you talk about the potential for Equestrian imperialism; it's something that's been raised in other fics, even some of mine. Who's to say that a fringe sect couldn't camp out on the borders for thousands of years, learning to hate the concept of tribal unity? Not like there aren't still places here where that's the case. You talk about the destructive potential of a lunatic like Starlight, to raise a small group of fanatics against an empire -- I don't have any trouble seeing that, for much the same reasons.
In brief -- I don't think there's much of a case to suggest that there's not potential for anti-Equestrian motivations in the hearts of ponies we've seen in-show. Would there be many of them? No. Would they be a force to be reckoned with if handled en masse? Probably not. Could they still do considerable damage if they managed to hide themselves properly? Well, see above.
9143973
Welcome to the 21st Century.
It means that, as it is for the rest of us, the notion of random death has become too commonplace to have any shock value anymore.
It's not an Equestria I recognise or can really visualise as an AU, it kinda doesn't sit right with me although I can't quite put my hoof on why that is so. But that really doesn't matter, as your quality of writing is nothing short of stunning here. The princesses in particular feel so multi-dimensional, so extremely real that I can honestly say I have very rarely seen them portrayed in such a fascinating and detailed way, if ever.
I'm not going to comment on the theme of the story, that speaks for itself.
Great work. Well done.
God damn, this is the best story on this website I've read so far. Even ignoring the heavy subject matter--which you handled unbelievably well--your writing allowed the characters in this story to be fleshed and living in a way I've always strived to do but miserably fail at, and your descriptions really bring the world to the reader impeccably.
It's drama, it's sadness, and it's a lot of things, but it's really amazing. It's stories like this I'm always chasing.
Generally, sadistic dark stuff is called 'edgy' because it's trying too hard to cut at the heart. It's a fistfight with a drunken, enraged Edward Scissorhands.
This is a goddamn open heart surgery. Well done.
I'm chalking this up to random fucktards who kill for the same reason every one who does it on Earth does. No matter what excuse they may come up with later.
Killing for the sake of killing. And because they enjoy it.
9144355
Does that apply to the suicide bombers in this story?
9144131
Yea. I don't disagree with anything you say, per se, because of course we're filtering it through our own unique lenses. It's still an...interesting take, for certain, on how it feels...different.
In some funny way I guess my reaction is basically Celestia's own.
Even if I find it hard to believe this could happen in a nation so devoted to Harmony, and am partial to ponies as escapist fantasy, I find this story kind of beautiful in a say way. It shows ponies can still hold onto their ideals of peace, friendship, and goodness in the face of a tragedy that could never happen in a TV-Y cartoon.
I feel these song are appropriate for the fic:
I liked the speech. Makes me want to do one of my own.
We must stand strong in the face of the unknown and adversity. The perpetuator will be caught, and s/he will be caught by our, your, cooperation; cooperation that is brought about by the bonds of friendship which we have with our fellow ponies, the very ponies who are beside you, around you. Stand together, and we will not break.
...
B***. I suspected, anyone would. After all, there was that filly mentioned for no apparent reason, a square full of ponies, a speech meant to console citizens; its's the perfect target for a demoralizing bombing. So, we can surmise that someone is using foals as suicide bombers. Despicable.
This story really is a masterpiece of... suspense, terror, emotions, something like that. It plays with your heart. It... I really can't think of sentences that can do justice, so I'll leave it at that.
While I hope that we might see the culprit get caught, this ending as it is can be enough for a story of this type. Well, sequel or no, this was very good.
Also, here's some uplifting music inspired by Rarity. I think we all need it.
P.S. Congratulations on the feature!
I really love how this opens a page for a possible series. Not to want to diminish the point of this fic, but a post traumatized Equestria where some ponies are taking advantage of the hearts and minds of impressionable or desperate ponies left feeling unloved, out of place, mistreated, and conditioning them into living weapons.
Good fic. Handled terrorism and pinies well.
9145022
Hooray for pinies!
9143738
I keep wanting to respond with something like, maybe profound, but I keep coming back to the fact that this story had me staring at the ceiling for 2 hours last night contemplating stuff.
Maybe one day I'll be actually able to talk about it.
That was a really well written story that was incredibly hard to read. The TV show and most stories on Fimfiction have the Bearers as involiate; when I worked out that there were two missing in the first part it was just time before I knew which one (or both) it was.
Celestia and Luna were written as I imagine they are - there's a breadth of experience and knowledge that has no comparison with any mortal creature.
Finally, it's the perfect ending to the story. Not one I wanted, but the one that fits.
9143356
I must confess, I started reading, and then the side effects of the medicine I'm on hit me, and now I'm not currently able to give this the concentration it deserves. I'll try again when I'm feeling better.
Shit
Featured in September for Twilight's Library
This made me yell OH SHIT out loud six times
This was one gut-punch after another, and it took me a while to realize this made me feel the same way I did on 9/11.
I don't know if I should thank you or not, but it was an awesome story.