88: Instruments of destruction, tools of foul play. (BoME) (SS)
Instruments of destruction, tools of foul play.
Chapter published 29th Aug’14
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Ducking my head, I follow my father into the tent, his hand aloft, holding the rough canvas aside until my entire body is inside before he lets the flap fall closed behind us.
Turning his back to me, he starts to unpack the large trunk that I had brought him from the city. I watch as he lifts out each item, inspecting each one with a craftsman's eye before laying them carefully upon his makeshift table.
I watch, not moving, saying nothing, as my father lifts piece after piece, finding I must turn my eyes away as he reaches the last few contents down at the bottom of the plain, unassumingly appointed crate, pulling forth items that I’d hoped never to see again. Products of cruel beauty created for a dark and ugly purpose, a purpose that chilled me to the bone.
The old planks of wood thrown almost haphazardly across a pair of rickety stands creak as more and more weight is loaded onto them, items arranged and rearranged until the trunk could produce no more.
Casting but one more glance into the now empty box, Father closes it down slowly, the thick, heavy lid settling into place with just the tiniest whisper of wood upon wood.
I move forward to my father’s side, my eyes taking in the wares he has carefully spread across his table.
A sea of dull grey is the pervading sight, sheets of deliberately unpolished metal, many bound with rivets, joins, and seams.
Next to that lay cold-worked iron, nestled side-by-side with forge-worked steel, as well as alloys of a more magical nature.
The smell of oil and fire and death assaults my nostrils, pushing their way into my throat and down into my lungs.
“You don’t have to be here, Star.”
He uses the unused part of my name, the part I have always pushed away, railed against, rejected, refused to answer to. Even before my granddam, the mare for whom I am named, left this world, I had treated that part of my name with distaste. Even now, with her passing so far behind me, I find I can still no longer take up that mantle, preferring to to be just ‘Song’... plain, simple, ‘Song’.
But he still uses that name, as he always has. And as always I can never think badly of him when he does, the only one I had ever allowed to do so. To him I am his ‘Star’, I always have been and, no matter what happens, I always will be.
And I am glad of that.
His voice is soft, as gentle as it was when I was a child, taking my first few faltering steps. He knows that I would rather be elsewhere, as far from this place as could be possible. His words are few, but his meaning is clear. He would not think less of me were I to flee right now, to head back to the city leaving my task incomplete.
My sister would take up the role without pause or hesitation.
Heck, there were a dozen mares - maybe more, undoubtedly more - within shouting distance of this tent who would gladly drop whatever they were doing to come to my sire’s aid. They would see it as an honour, to be allowed to offer their assistance, to play their part, even just to get close to the man of the moment.
But this task... this task is mine. It is my honour... and my burden.
I move to his side, using my magic to lift one of the pieces, large and heavy as it is. This is my answer, I need say no more.
As I check over the buckles and straps, my father doing the same to the similarly sized piece he holds in his hands, no words need to be spoken.
I will be leaving soon, heading back to the city. But it will not be until my job is done. Though I may not be joining my father in what is to come, I will not run, tail between my legs... not until I have played my part.
I remember the tales of the olden days, told to me in my youth as I lay at Luna’s knee, warmed only by the roar of the fireside. Detailed retellings of a time so many generations ago, grand events involving players long since passed, names and places now consigned to the annuls of history. Luna would speak of many these events as if they were just a few years gone, as for her a fair few of them were just that.
Often, my grandmother would join us by the fire, though for a great many years I did not understand why.
I did not realise that the reason she would insist on joining us during these formative years of mine had very little to do with her learning anything new from her more long-lived herdmate.
No, it took a long time - too long, and by then, too late - for me to comprehend that the reason she was there was that she wanted to spend time with me; to watch me grow, and learn, and experience everything for the first time. She had missed out on so much of my own mother’s childhood that she wished to be present for a least a small part of mine. To see the world through my eyes as I grew, to watch her grandchild change from an awkward and sickly young foal to a statuesque and confident young mare.
It took years for me to be able to pierce the hard outer shell she had put up around herself, the walls she used to keep others away, though I will admit that she raised, purposefully or not, less of a defense to me than to others. My Grandsire once told me that her sardonic wit and sarcastic tongue had been her primary form of defence... and that she had firmly believed that the best defense was a good offense. And by Celestia, if there was one thing my Granddam could be, it was offensive. But he also told me that when it came to me, she was always that little bit more... accommodating, her tongue just that little bit less barbed, her time just that little bit more easily shared.
The tales that came back to me now, that she and Luna had laid out for me in graphic detail, were that of the unadulterated reality of the darkest of times, the days when good mares went to war.
Back then, to me at least, it had been just that; tales of times long past, of traditions and protocols that had long since fallen out of favour. But now many of these old traditions had made such resurgences, like the great whales, the kings of the sea, as they regularly surfaced for air.
Right now, all across this glorious nation, many other mares, both old and young, had or were performing the same rights that I found myself tasked with.
The act of ‘dressing for war’.
Oh, the tradition might vary from tribe to tribe, from clan to clan, and house to house; but at its core it remained the same. When the time came that a family was called to war, it fell to the eldest daughter of the herd to make sure that the warriors of their herd was properly appointed for the task.
Armour would be cleaned, polished to a gleaming shine; spears, axes and wingswords would be sharpened, honed to their deadliest potential; amulets, crystals and the like would be checked for imperfections, buffed, recharged, and readied for use.
But then came the final act, the one that I was dreading the most... ‘Tacking up’.
How I wished my elder sister were here, that she, rather than I, were saddled with this... ‘honour’. I have wished for her return many, many times in the past, but never more so than today. But she is not here, and will not be here, no matter how hard the wishing and the wanting. And so it falls to me, and I will play my part, putting aside personal opinion on the matter to perform my duties as the dutiful daughter should.
Historically, the last job that fell to the eldest daughter was to make sure that their herdmothers were properly dressed, that their equipment and armour and weaponry was properly fitted and securely fastened. But times had changed - and it was not just the mares, the mothers and daughters of the herds, that were heeding the call and answering the cry - for it fell to me now to prepare for battle the man that many were calling ‘the most powerful stallion in history’.
I stand here, holding this heavy piece of creator-damned armour, watching their so-called ‘most powerful stallion’, but try as I might I cannot see a great leader, a figurehead, a beacon of hope. Instead I see my father, the man who raised me, the grandfather to my own children, and the great-grandfather of theirs.
Logically, I know that world has changed since my youth, and I know that in no small way this is down to the influence of my herd parents, their challenging of social mores, their steadfast refusal to bow to peer pressure. I know that the times soon to come requires us to send our males into danger, and to stand side by side with those we had formerly seen as antagonists. I know that our enemy knows nothing of gender or species or tribe. All are equally worthless to the eyes of the oncoming storm.
I know that nothing I can say, or could ever say, or have ever said, can change my father’s mind. Once his mind is made up he is the most stubborn thing I have ever met, and he says the same about me. He blames my stubbornness on my namesake, but I know it is not her that I inherited that trait from.
But all that means nothing to me now. I have a job to do, and I must complete it as best as I am able. Anything less would be an insult, an insult to those who came before me, and to the good man who stands before me now...
I busy myself with checking straps and buckles, making sure that stitches and seams are tight, that there are no imperfections or damage from transit. I cannot bring myself to look further down the bench, past my father’s form, to the weapons that lay at the edge of my vision.
I find myself watching my sire, my task forgotten as I stand transfixed, watching his hands as they move.
My earliest memories are of those hands; how they held, soothed, cradled, supported. Hands that had eventually let me go, to embark on my own faltering path, to make my way in the world under my own steam. Such memories - well, the memories that are my own anyway, not the ones that were bequeathed to me by queens long dead - fill my mind as I gaze upon those hands for what might be the last time.
He stands immobile, the loose chestplate of his very own armour held effortlessly in one hand, the fingertips of the other brushing against the metal where it would cover his left breast.
His touch is gentle, soft, almost a caress. Under his fingers is a small painted symbol, barely the size of his palm, marked out in jet black and pure white against the dull grey. I know this symbol well. Variations of it grace my flanks, and those of my sisters. It is known by many names; the taijitu, yin and yang, the symbol of ultimate harmony... to name but a few.
Mother Lyra always said it symbolised the finding of balance, that it was gifted to the three of us to remind us that we were products of this balance, the meeting of different worlds, the ability of the disparate to co-exist. None had ever displayed it so simply as my older sister, the simple black and white pattern adorning her soft cream-coloured coat, just as it now adorned our father’s armour, positioned as it would be so close his heart.
Would that she... that both of them... could see us now.
Mother Lyra had always said that balance was everything in life, that the good needed the bad to even it out, that without one there could not truly be the other. Without the bad times for contrast there could be no appreciation of the good times. Without the possibility of hate there could be no true love, without the slim chance of conflict there could be no such thing as lasting peace. The hard part, the trick, she said, was in finding that balance, the knack of falling to the centre, so that everyone could be happy.
As I think about Mother Lyra, it occurs to me, as I look at my father now... would she still recognise what he has become? Is he still the same man that she pledged the rest of her life to back in those heady days, long before I was even born? How much has he changed through the decades? Or even just in the last few years?
He still has a full head of hair in that glorious burnt orange that fill my childhood memories, though long gone now are his long, lustrous locks, the ponytail that so often held it in place now just a thing of the past. Their place had been taken years ago by a short crop, the strands standing on end most of the time, but especially when he ran his hands through it, a subconscious gesture of exasperation he had developed years ago. The occasional strand of grey has crept its way in around the temples as well as sneaking in around the edges of his smartly trimmed goatee.
It is a good look for him, I feel.
One thing that has never changed though, is the braid he keeps behind his left ear. How I can remember now, the times I spent in my youth, practicing my magic on that one short bundle of hair. The nights we would sit, the two of us, often for hours at a time, as I used my fledgling magic to weave those strands over and over and over again, until the day finally came where I could finish the job in just seconds rather than minutes.
Never had he complained, or lost his patience when I had faltered or miscast, not a word had passed his lips as I had tried over and over again to be that little bit faster, that little bit better, that little bit more efficient than before. Every time he would appraise my work in his small, handheld mirror, praising me with gentle acknowledgment of a job well done, then use his fingers to unravel the strands so I could start over again.
I still believe that, even taking into account the magical giants that I had as my tutors, it is ultimately down to his seemingly bottomless well of patience that my casting skills have been honed to the fine point that they now possess. Without his care and attention to detail, his willingness to go the extra mile time and again, I would be so much less than I am.
In my lifetime, I have seen children flock to him to be lifted aloft in his hands, to run with him in fields of gold. Kings and queens alike have sought his wise counsel, enemies have become friends through his acceptance, nations have grown prosperous under his watchful gaze.
And now he would throw it all away on this... crusade of his.
My whole life I have known him as others could not, we are as close as any father and child could ever be, but when it comes to this, I do not understand him at all.
We have argued, yes of course, we have argued. Both of us are willing to bend at times, to compromise, to see the view from another’s perspective, but neither of us are willing to back down when it comes to what we truly believe in.
So, for today, we agree to disagree. As I said; we are both too stubborn. We really are too alike.
Catching me watching him, he turns to me and smiles. It is not a happy smile, more one brought about by the unexpected remembrance of better times, moments lost to us forever. His eyes crinkle at the edges, just enough that just a few beings, only those especially close to him, would be able to notice the lines. He still has a youthful face.
He claims that he looks young for his age. Well, his estimated age at least. Without other humans to compare him against, I could not say how true this is though I am more than willing to believe him.
He has said many times that most humans are dead long before they reach his age, that all those humans he knew and loved and left behind must, by now, be long gone. We’ve long come to accept that the unpredictable nature of his lifespan is one of Equestria’s great unknowns, that he could essentially live forever or die peacefully in his sleep within the next few years.
Deep down, I think he likes the uncertainty, the heavy duality of both a blessing and a curse. ‘A double-edged sword,’ he calls it, an apt expression considering where he’s going.
Looking away, I focus instead on the backplate of his armour, checking for the fifth time today that the small, twin magnetic enchants designed to hold a pair of weapons in place against his upper back are functioning properly. I check the primary spell weave, then the secondary, then the tertiary. Mother always stressed the importance of taking the time and effort to build redundancy into my spellcrafting, a lesson I took to heart from a young age.
Next I move to the arm pieces, from the spaulders down to the vambraces. Laying them out at either side of the backplate. It is easy to tell the left from the right; the right-side pieces have a stripe, blood red bordered on both sides by pure thin white, running from the shoulder all the way to the wrist. Father insisted it be marked in exactly this way even though the paint would decrease the effectiveness of the exposed iron skin. He stated it was to symbolise the iron of his blood, the bottomless depths of his determination, the burning fire of his resolve.
The gauntlets come next; a gift from the gryphon nation. My nose crinkles at the smell as I lift them from the table. The feel of the underlying leather against my magic, the skin of a slain creature, makes me feel physically sick. The glove part, covered as it is in these little plates of curved iron, is crafted - if I can even used the word ‘craft’ when referring to a process so barbaric - of real leather, from real cows.
My mind races away from me and I reign it in. I block any thoughts of what may have happen to the leather’s previous... owners. I pray that they died of old age, or an unexpected mishap, though there is some small part at the back of my brain that cannot deny the truth of its source.
I put aside the knowledge that members of my family have partaken in the flesh of living beings. I ignore the fact that my father must consume animal protein in order to survive. I try to forget for a moment that the gryphons are still a race of carnivores and hunters at heart, even though most of them have now turned to farm-raised mindless cattle for their dietary needs. I know that these cattle are not intelligent, that they are as related to the cows I know - and especially those I consider friends - as the horses of the wild plains are to my mother, or Zebrican monkeys are to my father, but the comparison does not help me right now...
I even push way back to the farthest reaches of my mind that, due to my hybrid nature, there are times when I, much as I am ashamed to admit it, have suffered the creeping urge to join my sire when he is enjoying something called ‘bacon’. It is an urge I have always managed to resist, even if the smell, though logically disgusting, is so unbelievably heavenly and mouth-wateringly inviting.
I place the gauntlets down, their many metal parts clinking as I do so. The iron plates are designed to overlap, to allow my sire’s fingers to flex and curl. There are small, sharp metal spikes on each of the knuckles, capable of turning strong hands in vicious weapons. With dismay, I reflect that such beautiful fingers could be covered in such reprehensible things, that the tools of his trade could so easily become instruments of war, of anger, that hands which in years gone by had stroked stroked my mane and wiped away my tears could now be used to inflict so much pain.
As Mother Lyra had said; yin and yang, life and death, the good and the bad.
The leg coverings are next; curved plates covering from hip to ankle, all with straps and buckles to hold them securely in place while still allowing freedom of movement. Tall, tough leather boots with strong iron toecaps, also a gift from the gryphons, make up the set.
While I still find the boots distasteful and repugnant and repelling, they have nothing on the gauntlets. They are made of the same leather, thicker actually than the gloves, yet I find they upset me less. The ridiculousness of the situation is not lost on me.
As I have been checking his armour, Father has been giving his weapons one last inspection. I know that this is also technically part of my duty, and one that I, though reluctant, was willing to do myself... but I also know that he has purposefully done this task for me so I do not have to.
Even now, he is still considerate to a daughter’s feelings.
Pulling off his clothes, kicking off his shoes, Father strips down to his underwear as I ready the fabric bodysuit that will serve as his under-armour. As I hold up the clothing towards him he pauses before simply shrugging and pulling off his underwear, dropping them onto the pile of discarded clothing.
Though he’s been surrounded by ponies, and their... our lack of a nakedness taboo, for decades now, he still gets uncharacteristically - and adorably - shy whenever he has to strip down. Part of me is glad that he’s never embraced the pony way of going sans clothing as, in a way, it’s always made my own strange habit of wearing at least a vest at all time that bit more acceptable.
Why I still insist on wearing a barrel covering is something I’ve never truly figured out. I may have needed to wear something to keep me warm back when I was young and sickly, but once I reached adulthood, and my body could better regulate my internal temperature, I still insisted on wearing some kind of clothing. While it was not uncommon for ponies to wear barrel coverings at times, my insistance of wearing one at all times, be it a sweater vest, a blouse, a vest or a jacket, was certainly seen as unusual.
Maybe I was trying to emulate my father, or my granddam and her ever-present jacket?
Maybe it was my way of acknowledging my hybrid bloodline and that I was not fully ‘normal’... as the common pony saw normal anyway?
Or maybe I just like wearing clothing?
Let’s just call it a kink and leave it at that.
Stepping into his bodysuit, feet pushing their way along the legs and out of the holes at the bottom, cloth stirrups holding the ends in place, Father helps me maneuver the sleeves so that he can thread his hands and then his arms through them. Wiggling himself into the most comfortable arrangement, he lets me zip up the front, lifting his chin as I reach the suit’s high neck so I did not let it catch any of his beard.
For a moment, one that feels like a lifetime, we just stand as we are, neither wanting to move, the armour that is to follow left ignored and forgotten on the tabletop. My head drops, my eyes fall to the floor, pink feet on a floor made of old boards is all I can see, all I allow myself to focus on the for the moment.
Seconds roll by. I have no idea how many. I do not move.
I feel something between my ears, a hand, sitting upon my head, the reassuring weight, the warmth of skin though my hair. We stay like that for... again, I have no idea how long. Eventually I nod, answering the question that, even without looking up, I know my father’s eyes are asking.
His hand lifts away and I move over to the table, back to work.
We start with thick socks, then the boots, before working our way up. Shins, calves, thighs and hips are covered, shielded by armour. A short torso-covering hauberk of enchanted mithril follows which is itself covered by the chest and back plates. The arms are next, spaulders and vambraces strapped into place like their lower siblings. The gauntlets remain on the bench, waiting their turn, we will get to them in due course.
Stepping back, I take the sight of him in. With all the armour in place, and even with the enchants running to compensate for the weight, what he is wearing still weighs more than my twins had at birth. With only his hands and head free, the high protective neck of the chestplate blocking the view of his throat, the shape of his body was still easy to make out as he shifted from side to side, presenting him to the world as some kind of mobile iron man.
Reaching into a pocket on my vest, I pull out a small velvet pouch. I had carried this last piece close to my heart, not daring to let it leave my side ever since I left Canterlot. Father takes it from me, untying the drawstring with his nimble fingers before lifting out an ancient custom-made pendant. A miniature harp made of gold dangles on the end of a long chain, light catching on its surface as its gentle pendulum motion gradually comes to a stop.
Handing me back the pouch, Father rubs a thumb against the tiny instrument, causing aging enchantments to spring into life. The strains of a much beloved composition floating like a beautiful butterfly around these stark and purely functional canvas walls, the notes as sure and as true as the day they had been first inscribed into the metal.
A second touch silences the music, the tent once again filled only with the sounds of the preparations that are taking place outside these four temporary walls.
He wraps the chain around his left wrist, once, twice, again and again until it is secure. He holds it out towards me and I use my magic to fasten the clasp, checking it not once but twice to make sure that it is secure. As much as he could not bear to leave it behind, father could not bear to see it lost either.
Without warning - it never was her way - my younger sister pokes her head through the flap, rainbow mane falling down over her rose-coloured eyes as she pushes the canvas aside. She has that determined look in her eyes, the expression that says that she is ready, no matter what comes next. In this moment she looks so much like her mother that it takes my breath away.
“Dad, everyone’s reported in. It’s time.”
Releasing the edges of my mind, I let my consciousness flow, reaching out beyond my physical form. At the edge of my reach, I can feel them nearby, I can feel the children of the hive, even more strongly than I could ever feel my own children.
I send out a brief wave of encouragement, and another of gratitude to the many who have come to our side, before I pull my mind back, into my corporeal body once more. I refocus, finding my father with his eyes closed, his hands gripping the edge of the planks that serve as his makeshift table.
He pushes away, opening his eyes, turning towards my sibling and I. There is fire and resolve in those eyes. He nods to my sister, acknowledging her message has been received and understood. She nods back in return. No more is said between them, no more needs to be. She turns to me and a look passes between us - no more, no less. Pulling her head from the tent, she is gone and we are alone again.
We get back to work, moving with purpose but without words, both focused on our immediate tasks. Each small goal working towards fulfilling the job as a whole.
In the past, not so long ago, I had pleaded with him, begged, cajoled, argued, ranted even, implored him to choose another path, to look again for another way. But not today. Today isn’t a day for arguments. We both have our roles to play and once we leave this tent then our ways will part, our destinies taking us in opposite directions.
I will be heading back to Canterlot along with my sister to take charge of keeping the supply lines running. My methodical - or ‘uptight,’ as many are known to mutter behind my back - nature makes me a natural choice for the task while my sister will be coordinating the airlifts, both of the supplies to the frontline as well as carrying back the many injured that we well know will be coming.
Moving to the weapons at the end of the bench, I see that Father has them all neatly arranged, lined up in the order that he would like them to be attached to his armour. I stand and stare at them, not really seeing them as my eyes fall out of focus, not wanting to think too much about what they will be used for.
The strange thing is, as pieces of art, macabre though they are, or as examples of the pinnacle of a weaponsmith’s craft, I can appreciate their beauty; the time and skill that must have been used to create them, to turn a lump of ore into a painstakingly crafted piece, the care and experience that is beaten and forged and bonded into their very being.
Though there is an undeniable beauty to their existence, it is a dark and cruel beauty, the kind that can stab and slash and slice, the kind that still makes me sick to my stomach whenever I am in its presence.
I am not the only one to feel this way. Fair or not, I know that of the noble artisans - the hardy work-ponies who were tasked with crafting the weapons and armour for the times to come - many of them have been shunned, excluded from polite company, even as their tasks were taking them away from their herds, their loved ones. Their orders now took them away from their blacksmith's shops or their work as farriers and ironmongers, their creator given talents instead used in the creation of the tools of war.
Their new mission, their dark task, was just as noble now as it had been before, but so many common ponies, those who had known nothing but lives of peace and plenty, now turned their heads away, so uneasy, many still in denial that the world was changing around them.
In a way these weapons remind me of Nightmare Moon, with that air of danger and strength, the knowledge that at peak efficiency, honed to perfection, both could cut you to the bone without a second’s thought. And, like Nightmare Moon, they are a necessary evil, even I can admit that, though I would much rather not. I would so deeply prefer to live in a world where this was not the case.
I have always maintained that violence is not the answer, that there is always another way, a second or third or fourth option, should one look hard enough. But I am not blind to the fact that sometimes... just sometimes... violence is the only real option available. That eventually fire must be fought with fire, that strength can only be met with strength.
To have the yin, you must accept the yang, the good with the bad. Behind the blissful peace often lurks the possibility of wanton violence. As Luna herself has said many times over - Si vis pacem, para bellum... If you wish for peace, you must be prepared for war.
I lift the first, and arguably the oldest piece, from the table. It is an ancient weapon sent to us from the nation of Neighpon. The ‘Kusanagi’ they call it - the ‘Grass Cutter’ in standard Equestrian. Father refers to it as a ‘wakizashi’ - a ‘short sword’, and I guess to him it would look somewhat short.
I turn the short sword - held tightly in its scabbard as it is - over in my magic. For a moment I admire the glossy shine of the laqueur that covers the scabbard - or ‘Saya’ as the Neighponese call it - the intricate floral pattern carved into the wood beneath the many layers of varnish. I know that if I were to pull the sword free of its sheath and expose the blade, I would see similar patterns etched into the blade... but I cannot.
Father turns away from me and I offer the Kusanagi up to the backplate of his armour, attaching it to the small of his back with a short sling, custom made just for this purpose. The sword’s hilt - the ‘Tsuka,’ as it is known - is to his right hand side, ready for him to pull it free in a short, sharp motion. He reaches back, his fingers curling around the grip, experimentally pulling it free from its saya by just a few hornwidths before pushing it back into place.
Next comes a long, curved scimitar, a gift from Saddle Arabia - the ‘Jasmine Sword’ they called it. Unlike the lacquered wood of the Kusanagi’s saya, the sabre’s scabbard is coated in ornately carved gold, as is the hilt. Like the Neighponese sword, I know that were I to pull it from its sheath the blade would be covered in carving just as ornate as the Kusanagi’s, and the edge just as deadly.
I hold the Jasmine Sword up against father’s right shoulder blade, the tip of the scabbard overlapping the Kusanagi, hanging down past his waist. As I move it into position, I hear the faint click of the scabbard contacting the armour’s magnetic enchant, the sword instantly becoming firmly attached to father’s back. As the sword is tested to make sure that it will pull free when needed, I move onto the next piece.
The Zweihander takes some lifting, being almost five foot long, made of dark iron and weighing in at more than a freshly weaned foal. This too was a gift, this time from the last of the original Germane tribes. Unlike the Kusanagi and Jasmine, this is more of a bludgeoning weapon than one designed for stabbing or slashing. That wasn't to say that it wasn't sharp, far from it. But the biggest danger from this beast of a sword was that, with a good swing behind it, it could crush armour and break bones just through sheer momentum alone.
Carefully, I lift the mighty sword into place against father’s left shoulder-blade - its huge apple-shaped pommel higher than the top of his head while its uncovered tip reached down almost to the back of his knees - a soft click telling me that the armour’s enchantments had kicked in. Even with the dual-layered mass-reducing charms in place, father still sags slightly to the side as he takes its weight, though he quickly straightens up again as he grows accustomed to its bulk.
Next comes the Vorpal Blade, a boon presented to my father by the Elementals. I lift this most carefully, making sure that my own magical field does not come into contact with the deeply entrenched magic that the blade’s holster keeps well contained. I have seen what it can do to the unwitting, and the unworthy, and I have no intention of letting the same happen to me.
Father turns to face me, reaching out to take the blade from my magic, his own non-equestrian body perfectly safe from its powers... well, as long as he keeps well away from the large knife’s sharp edge at least. Holding the sheath carefully, he pulls the blade from its constraints, a soft ‘snick’ sound being released as it is finally freed.
The blade, looking at first glance to be nothing more than a large kitchen knife, glows a pale blue... and it sings. A gentle hum coupled with a soft yet high-pitched note fill the tent. As it moves through the air, the blue glow along the blade’s length can be made out to form the shapes of floral carvings that ripple their way across the metal, moving as if they are alive.
Pushing the blade back into its covering, the hum cut off as the metal disappears back into the leather with a soft ‘snack’, Father releases the hilt, the ornate brass carving around the otherwise plain wooden grip glowing blue for a second as he breaks contact, before fading back into lifelessness. As with those before, the weapon is attached to his armour, this time at the left hip, handle down, ready to be called upon in an instant.
For what feels like forever now we have worked together without words. But like all things, the silence cannot last, and father is the first to break it.
“When I was a young boy, there were tales of a great leader... perhaps the greatest of leaders. He was wise and he was noble and he was compassionate. But he didn't want to be a leader, or a warrior, or a soldier. No, like me, he wanted to be a simple historian, a keeper of the past; a teacher or a scholar, passing on the wisdom of the ancients to the young, to help them to see that for every trial and tribulation that the future may bring, the strength and wisdom needed to get past them could be found in the past.”
He moves to the bench, to the last of his weapons. A trio of identical daggers lay side by side, the black of their dark iron skins casting no reflected light.
“But fate had other plans for him. He ended up caught in the midst a battle not of his making. Soon enough he found himself surrounded by those who would follow him, eventually being pushed to the head of his side’s forces, time forging him into the tip of his allies’ spear.”
The first of the three thin iron daggers, more of a stiletto really, is lifted from the table, held tightly between strong fingers as it is clipped into place at his right hip..
“He would die for his followers and they would do the same for him, without hesitation. And he knew that they would. But he never took it for granted, never saw those around him as pawns, or statistics, or numbers. Even surrounded by the ruthless calculus of war, they were all still people to him, every one of them... even his enemies.”
The second blade is lifted, the penultimate blade is slipped into place. With this only the third is left and once that last blade is stowed then our task will be complete, our time together will be up. How I wish it was not so.
“The fates had much in store for him, pulling him hither and forth. After the longest time, he ended up in a land that was not his own, trapped first by circumstance on this world far from the his own, then staying on, making it his home through his own choice. He took the people of that world under his wing, protected them as if they were his own kin because, to him, they were people too, just as worthy of his love and protection as any other. When he looked at them, at us, he could see such potential, such untapped greatness, so much depth of possibility. He knew that when he looked at us, at the human race, that there was so much more to us than met the eye.”
The last dagger is plucked from the bench. Father holds it tight against his palm, rubbing his thumb against the blade, checking the sharpness. I can hear the blade scrape against the rough skin, calloused by many years of noble toll, of working with his hands. He had continued his ‘handy-work’ even though he had not needed to for many decades now. His fame and his standing had made it unnecessary, more of a habit or a hobby than anything else, but he did it anyway. He said it kept his feet on the ground. Funny, really, for a being that couldn’t fly to have that as a concern.
“Through it all he was well aware that when fighting fire with fire, of repaying violence with violence... he was always conscious of the fact that when you fight monsters, you must be wary that you don’t become one yourself. He knew that if you gaze long enough into the abyss, the abyss also gazes into you.”
His eyes leave the blade, the sharp edge still held against his thumb, so tight I can see the metal pushing at his skin, deforming it, threatening to break through to the flesh and blood beneath. His eyes meet mine, I try to see what he sees with those eyes... for a second it is as if I can see that abyss held in those deceptively youthful orbs.
“But he had a belief, a purpose to his life that was held in eight simple words, eight words that he believed in so strongly that he would rather die than betray them. And die he did, many times over... only to be reborn again each time, like the phoenix from the flames. I have kept those words with me, as they are the most important lesson a free man can ever learn, can ever hold dear, for it is the antithesis of everything that THEY...”
His teeth grit together at reference to our foe, clenched so tightly that I can hear them grind against each other.
“...represent. THEY do not understand us, or what makes us what we are. They take, and they twist, and they corrupt, and they enslave. They kill from the inside out, they hollow you out and....”
Blade still in hand, he turns from me, leaning against the edge of the table.
“They did it me... and they’re doing it to her, and so many others like her.”
He grips the table so hard that his knuckles turn white. As I come around to his side, I can see that his eyes shine with unshed tears - the tears of a soldier, always under the surface, always kept deep within - a sight I find more distressing than if he had openly wept, or raged, or railed against the heavens with raised fist. Outside this tent, in so many other like it. So many mares... mares and stallions, would be fighting back those same tears. So many soldiers afraid that they would not be returning to their loved ones, but going anyway. So many sons and daughters spending their last moments with their parent knowing they may never meet again. I am no fool, and neither are the many others. No matter the outcome, so many will not be coming home. So many lives... gone, over, finished... just like that.
“It was said, back on Earth, that all it takes for evil to flourish is for good men to do nothing. I cannot do nothing, cannot let evil flourish. Not and still be able to look at myself in the mirror in the morning.”
As he pushes away from the bench, the simple wooden construct rocking with the force of his departure, I ask him, what is it that makes him this strong, what is it that fuels the fire that burns in his soul, that he can throw himself back into these flames of which he speaks.
“Eight simple words - my precious Hoshi No Koe, my very own Song of the Stars - the most important words that you will ever hear.”
Clipping the last dagger into place, our time coming to an end, he told to me those eight little words, enunciating each clearly, as if each collection of syllables was a full statement of intent, a rousing speech, a declaration of his resolve. As I ponder their meaning, he grabs his gauntlets, pulling them onto his hands with a speed born of deft practice.
“Today is the day we make those words true again, today is the day we make them mean something.”
He reaches out, reaches up, his heavy hand clad now in leather and iron, falls between my ears. Even with this extra weight, these many layers, I can still feel how gentle he is inside it all - the most caring, dedicated, loving father a mare could ever ask for. He is still the same man he always was, even encased by such tools of foul play.
As his fingers move down the side of my face, cupping my cheek, a thumb wipes away a single tear from my eye, a tear threatening to betray how I feel in this moment. I will not say the words I long to say, I will be strong for my father, I will not make his parting any harder for him than it already is.
He turns, pulling the canvas flap wide, stepping forth into the world beyond its veil. The canvas falls back behind him and, with that instant, my father is gone, and in his place are left eight little words.
Words that roll around in my head.
Words that I will remember for the rest of my days.
Words that my father believes in.
Words to live by.
Words to die for.
“Freedom is the right of all sentient beings.“
And I know now why he must go.
In the depths of a palatial bathroom, a shower-curtain pulls back, revealing Discord, clad only in a large, fluffy pink towel. The walls of the bathroom fall away to reveal Ponyville's town square.
DISCORD: Ladies, how are you? Admiring my most godly of physiques I would wager. And so you should, for this is what a true chaos god looks like. I join you today to grace your eyeballs not just my magnificence - magnificent though it is, and you're reading this in John DeLancie's voice aren't you? How lovely - and not just a new chapter from one of my many, many minions, but also a sneak preview from one of my more verbose peons. Those fools, they still haven't figured out that I swapped their avatars around last month, silly humans. Now, look down... now back to me...
DISCORD: Do you see that seek peek? That is what your fan-fiction could look like, were it not all about crossovers with post world war three landscapes from PS3 games or stuffed full of thinly veiled self inserts and Mary Sues. Quick, what's in my hand...
Discord snaps his fingers and a large gold many-sided box with six keyholes appears in his palm. It hinges open to reveal two tickets labelled "Equestria Girls 2: Rainbow Rocks".
DISCORD: Oh my, it's two tickets to that thing half of you are going to love while the other half stamp their feet as they bitch and whine about the franchise being ruined forever. Now, quick, back to the sneek peek... now back to me...
Discord is now on a beach, wearing a polo shirt and sitting backwards on the back of a very disgruntled looking Celestia.
DISCORD: This is what your fan fiction could look like if you let the one true god into your heart. That one true god being me! I'm on a Horse!
Discord rides off into the sunset as a jaunty little tune plays. For some reason you feel the need for a ice cold shower.
DIVIDED RAINBOW - SNEAK PEEK
“Come here, foxy human!” yelled Scrounger as he leapt from the balcony. Scrounger easily grabbed a hanging chain and slid down until he landed in the dirt below. His joints popped loudly and more pus oozed from his many boils. His slacked face was curled once again in excitement. The terrified look on the human’s face was absolutely priceless.
“We go now,” said Scrounger. “Go below to have fun!”
Scrounger grabbed Lero by the ankles and began to drag him out of his hiding spot and towards one of the holes. The human, who had become completely panicked at this point, began to ineffectively fight back, using his encased fists to first pound at Scrounger’s paws. When that failed to produce any results, Lero desperately tried to crawl in the opposite direction. Once again the obsidian encasings proved no use aside from forming twin ditches in the bare earth behind him.
“Hey, where in Tartarus do you think you’re going?!” Scrounger turned and looked at the source of the loathsome noise. It was the bossy pony dressed as a cheerleader.
“You said Scrounger could fiddle with the foxy human,” he said. “Fiddle and diddle. So Scrounger is going to fiddle-diddle in quiet.”
“Not without me there to watch!” screeched Honeydew. “You’re staying right here until I finish with these bonobo-loving nags!”
“Graaagh! Bossy pony is too noisy! Ponies are too noisy! Scrounger can’t fiddle-diddle with all these noises! So Scrounger takes it under!”
Lero had seized the opportunity to try and fight again, this time landing a blow on the Diamond Dog’s knee. Scrounger yelped at the pain, then growled menacingly. He grabbed Lero’s head, wrapping the human’s face with a meaty, bleeding paw, and slammed it down into the ground. There was a resounding crack and Lero went limp.
Scrounger picked up the human by the ankles again and dragged him back to the hole.
“No! Get back here you canine freak of nature! You aren’t doing anything until I say so!” Her words did nothing to dissuade the walking collection of diseases, as Scrounger simply threw the unconscious human over his shoulder and hopped into one of the holes.
“DAMN YOU! GET BACK HERE RIGHT NOW OR I’LL THROW INTO ONE OF THESE GRINDERS AND SPRAY YOU WORTHLESS MEAT ALL OVER THE QUARRY!!” Honeydew’s fury had been stroked to a raging inferno. She couldn’t lose, not like this, not when she was so close to ridding the world of that demonic ape! She had to be there! She had to be there to watch him suffer, to have him know that that it was her, not Exit Wound, her that was the architect of his demise!
She couldn’t risk having him face his punishment without her to witness it or worse, have him escape! What if he got away? What if he made it to the surface?! Then everything she had done, all the things she had sacrificed would have been for NOTHING!
It was then, she spotted two Sicklefin goons out of the corner of her eye. “You two!” she screamed, causing the pair of stallions to come to a halt. “Get your worthless plots down there and bring that disgusting ape back up here NOW!”
The two gangsters looked first to freshly dug hole, then to each other. “Eh,” muttered one of them, “I don’t think-”
“Of course you don’t think, you half-brained special school rejects! You do what I say, or I’m going to have Exit Wound skin your useless hides and wear them as a cape! Now get down there and bring him back up here! Alive! I want to be there to witness his moment of ultimate shame! And I want those worthless, monkey-loving nags to watch it happen!”
Honeydew had the two lackeys at the mention of Exit Wound. They cantered to the rim of the hole and gave it a wary look before they dove into the darkness.
THE QUIET MAN: Discord! Get out of my Author's Notes box! And stop antagonising the readers! And stop pinching Mike's stuff!
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Wow.
And I saw what you did there, kudos to Optimus Prime.
Wow. You put a lot of heart into this one.
Wow indeed.
Was that a Mass Effect reference I saw there? Red stripe encased by two white stripes on his right side.
Anyway, this was a really great chapter.
Dark, but great nevertheless.
There must be filly or she just change gender or something?
4922407
Foal is gender neutral though? Male vs female is colt and filly. Its child:boy:girl, foal:colt:filly.
*narrow eyes*
You better not have just suggested that Fallout is a PS3 game...
4922407
Foal means child. Gender neutral term.
4922458
Didn't know that, I only saw the male gender translation. I need better learn english then.
Must...not...cry....
Edit: Sorry to ask but, who as her granddam ?
Wow this chapter, so much is unsaid, but not needed to be said, i really like this chapter, really well written. another piece of literary art. beautiful, inspiring and powerful are the words that come to mind when i read this.
however i would love to know, what war? why?
So, new questions. Where is Sweet Spirit? How did Rainbow have a foal? What is her name?
Who is "her"?
Ohoho, someone need to continue this. Preferably the author of this chapter.
Also, Optimus prime rulez.
This was a very heartful chapter. The "unsaids" were great, and the situation itself was very... "powerful", emotionally speaking.
If I may though... I'm not sure I like Lero's "immortality" that is given to him here. From what I understood, the herd we know has all but passed away, except for Lero since his lifespan was altered. Nothing to throw a tantrum about, but I always figured they would all have comparable lifespans and would die together, or close to it...
Meh, I still love this story and universe anyway :D
Best "shaggy dog story" ever.
He quoted transformers to her! More specifically Optimus Prime, but the moment he started talk about a leader I started pulling every leader from history and fiction from my memory. I suppose it's fitting being that they're both licensed by Hasbro.
Ultimately this stirred emotions I thought were long buried. Curse you writer for your ability to draw out my feelings! You go from the stillness before the plunge to the inspirational speech that would make Aragorn, Optimus Prime and Leonidas eat their hearts out.
Damn good writing.
Ok, so first, Star Song...Twilight's child, and her granddam being Twi's mother. That said, HOLY SHIT!!! This has to be going against the fey...and of course, Star Song's circumstances around her birth, being saved by love from the Changeling Hive...that makes some sense she'd have a connection to them, likely even a Queen since she has the memories of previous ones from the sound of it.
But then...there at the end...
Optimus, you made such an inspiring speech, and I'm ashamed I didn't get who it was until the last line. But man, that hits so damned hard, was so damned good!!
Well done, just well done on all marks I can even envision. This chapter, is something great, and in my heart, it stands out as some of the best writing I've seen on Fimfiction to date, bar none!!
Walk with your head held high this day, and ever day hence. You just made a chapter that ranks up with the greats, and I dare anyone to say different.
4922735 Star Sparkle, the child was Star Song Twilight's and Lero's foal
I can also see this having the alternate title of "A Good Man Goes to War"
Over the prospect of war and the fact Lero is going to participate in it (despite the apparent objection which would be made by his herd-wives prior to this), I'm most curious as to what happened to Sweet Spirit, Star Song's older sister.
I fucking knew it at the half way point, I said out loud "no way he's gonna do it"
I stopped to count the famous phrase out loud to see if I was on the money
I really was expecting a twist, but there's something that feels right about such a cheesy thing, he's a sentimental old sod.
And that is a lot of equipment, seriously gonna be awkward staying on balance with all that stuff. Gonna be like one of those helpless turtles in the sand if he falls over.
Also, I first thought he was gonna have an american arm band when you mentioned the stripes
NRG reference spotted.
it takes quite the feat of writing to make me tear up.
this did. HAVE AN INTERNET
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i have 2 say this is a seriously deep chapter i see the message in there and it weights heavy on the heart there is no need for tears just understanding (Si vis pacem, para bellum... If you wish for peace, you must be prepared for war.) this saying is very true and it shouldn't be taken lightly
4923559
Sounds to me like she was taken and that's part of the reason why Lero is so determined about this.
4922997
Aging is the product of genetic damage / mutation caused by things in our environment (like radiation). If the laws of physics are at all different in Equestria, some of the things that make us age could be absent there. The end result would be a longer lifespan for Lero. However, the author makes it clear he isn't immortal since he does show some signs of aging, otherwise he would still look pretty much the same age he did when he escaped to Equestria.
Also, the human body as a whole is pretty much completely replaced every 7 years as old cells are replaced by new ones. Since new cells have to be made from the stuff you absorb, it's quite possible Lero could gain some form of magic as his body becomes more attuned to Equestria.
I've always seen it written as "Wingblades", never "Swords", since well, they're not truly swords, *and* it's possible to misread it as "Wings words" Which is potentially confusing.
Aku Zoku Zen at it's finest
4922735
Star Sparkle, Twilight Sparkle's Biological mother.
4922762
Because they took Sweet Spirit.
There could be no less response to such an affront.
(It's very subtly implied in the story that's what happened, but don't take my word for it.)
4922923
Sweet Spirit is "her", and she's the reason the war is on- see above.
"calloused by many years of noble toll,"
I think this was supposed to be 'noble toil'.
Loved this chapter, nice job!
Errrrm That was good? Im not really sure who is who and what is going on
A little like Braveheart.
Another amazing chapter. The this chapter could lead into a whole arc if not story of its own. Of Lero rallying pony kind together to fight the Fay.
Damn. Just damn. I liked this, but I can't really comment on the developments with so much left implied at most. But you most definitely have my attention.
It occurs to me that a mass-reducing spell on a weapon would also reduce its effectiveness since momentum is a product of mass and velocity. If the idea was to make the weapons easier to handle, a strength enhancing enchantment on the armor would have been a better choice. Another option would have been enchant the weapons so they have reduced weight without affecting their mass (basically reducing the effect of gravity on them).
This was a beautiful chapter. I hope we get some more with this story arch. Also, who was he talking about near the end there? The "great leader"?
Only few stories really tug at my heart like this. This is definitley one of them.
Amazing chapter, very moving and emotional. I must say though, I thought he was talking about The Doctor rather than Optimus Prime, but hey ho.
Picturing armor!Lero holding up the Element of Magic in both hands over his head and saying "Light our darkest hour!"
Brilliant chapter. I have no words to describe how this moved me.
For today, in the name of Freedom, we take the battle to them!
So I take it, then, that Luna does not join herd Bellerophon, or did I misread that?
So I'm guessing he's finally going to fight the beings that brought him here to Equestria in the first place right?
4925919
Aging is a product of telomere decay, a natural function of meiosis. Cancer is what happens when telomerase and telomerase reverse transcriptase, enzymes that reverse telomere decay, are reactivated in normal cells. If the laws of physics are so different that human biology no longer functions properly, then Bellerophon has much more serious problems to deal with than immortality.
4932566
That would only be a detriment to weapons that depend on blunt force from weight for the majority of their function, rather than sharpness: the zweihander greatsword is the only one depicted here that does. Swords that use sharpness for their primary damage method would pick up enough momentum from their speed to compensate for the loss of momentum from their lowered mass. Vorpal is special in it's own bizarre way, and if we assume Kusanagi resembles the quasi-historical Ame no Murakumo no Tsurugi/Kusanagi no Tsurugi, it has a special sort of authority behind it as well.
Taking the fight to the Fae oh yeah!
First of...Hahaha! Having the grand speach about the noble warrior be about Optimis Prime? Priceless. But for more reasons than one. Seeing how Lero truly idolizes him and his actions is awe inspiring. Lero himself is awe inspiring here. A soldier, a warrior, an advisor to kings, and an idol to many. Our little Lero certainly has co.e a long way! But its nice to see that even with all these titles bestowed upon him...he still acts as compassionate and human as he can muster.
Seeing this possible future is also very interesting, foreshadowing many events yet to come.
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Just wanted to point out that the lyrics for Instruments of Destruction are actually "tools of power plays"
Cold iron pieces? Worried about the effectiveness of iron? Legendary weapons of power? Feels like someone's off to fight the fair folks...
And what does it say about me that the first 'Great Leader' to come to my mind when you mentionned an Historian was Optimus Prime?
Were the other chapters cut or something? That's so depressing.
Wow, well I'm really glad Rainbow Dash finally had her daughter, and it was sad to find out that the herd at lost so many just to have the 3 they do have. It was a neat surprise, but of course it leaves me wondering how it all went from start to finish.
And this last chapter, I always felt that Lero would have to go back and face his tormentors, but just as happy if it never came around. Or a third route of him breaking down to build himself back up, if he ever remembered what had happen to him.
It's great to know that he has so many grandchildren and his family is so long lived. Very sad to see that Lyra was the first in the herd to pass away, sadder still, she passed during the time her daughter was kid-foalnapped.
I hope it all works out for them in the end.
Optimus Goddamn Prime.
I totally didn't catch it until the very moment he said those words bun maaan...
That was a hell of a mood whiplash, going from being all emotional to me laughing me ass off, but that was also several kinds of brilliance working that in there.
Gold. Star.