//------------------------------//
// Chapter XXVII: Indelible Ink 
// Story: The World Within the Web 
// by Lord Max 
//------------------------------//


Chapter XXVII: Indelible Ink





* * * * * *





“Yeah, everyone knows it. Still,
It’s not like we’ll say it, girl.
Just who do you think we are?
It’s never

As simple
as a tree that grows tall.
That’s misunderstanding what we are.
She’ll never 
return to the farm
and party away your broken heart.”



— “Indelible Ink,” by Tsyolin and SoGreatandPowerful





* * * * * *




It had been a long two years, and Proximo often wondered just how much it had changed him. Before he had died in that duel, he hadn’t lived for anything but himself—a man who would sleepwalk through life, dancing from one pleasure to the next, never caring who he hurt that was close to him. Now that he had a scar across his chest, he was a man of his own right, and one willing serve something greater. Having friends in this world other than drink and drugs and blood would surely have made him a better man, he had always hoped.

His sister, at least, had not changed at all. Gallia Hart sat in front of him, unaltered down to her dress and hair. She looked at him and Violet askance, as though only half-paying attention as she idly twirled a green bang around a long finger. 

Gallia gave a sly smile. “I’ve come a long way, Proxi. I hope you’ll allow me the introduction of your… friend, is it?” She looked Lady Violet up and down as she laid the emphasis on ‘friend.’ “Assuming you haven’t forgotten all the courtesies I taught you, that is.”

Proximo tried his best to maintain his calm. “Lady Violet Brushshape, the Warden of Generosity. A servant of Faust and Thiesson and the Brony Collective. And yes, my friend as well.”

Violet bowed, offering a cordial smile to Gallia. “To meet the heir of Hartshold is no small honor, my lady,” she said with her usual poise, “and on a more personal note, it is wonderful to meet some of my assistant’s family, at last. Proximo has often spoken of you.”

Gallia gave a lethargic smile. “Oh really? Is that true, Proxi? Have you been saying sweet things about your dear sister all this time?” She rested her chin on one of her hands, looking at her brother with her eyes half-closed, as though about to fall asleep. “It’s flattering to know you’ve kept me in your good graces. I’d truly worried that we might have grown estranged, after two years. How silly of me.”

“Why are you here?” Proximo asked, tired of dancing around the issue.

She yawned. “Oh, shopping for husbands. The ordinary thing that young heiresses tend to do, when visiting other noble houses.”

“A husband?” Proximo cocked an eyebrow. “For you?”

Gallia shrugged, nonplussed. “Biology, sadly, seems to have failed me. Unless, of course, you have another method of producing more Harts that can inherit our beloved home.”

“I’m sure I could other a few delightful suggestions,” Withins-Bei added obsequiously. The swaying lordling was enjoying the reunion too much by half, Proximo thought. “I am afraid marriage is quite off the table with me, however. Apologies for breaking hearts and Harts,” he said with a smug smile, “but a lifetime with me is a punishment I wouldn’t inflict.”

“Yes, you truly are an odious little toad, Withins-Bei,” Gallia replied, mimicking his grin with a thin smile of her own. “And not one that’s likely to turn into a prince, either. You don’t know any princes, do you Proxi? I imagine you’re well-traveled now, being an assistant and all.”

“Enough of this,” Proximo cut in impatiently. Banter and japes from his sister were the last things he needed right now. His friends were lying in sick beds downstairs, he had barely survived an attempt on his life, and the lives of two other men were hanging in the balance. Smart remarks were not going to fix anything. “Why are you really here? And don’t say husband-hunting; you have another reason for showing up now of all times, and you must think I am an idiot to believe that there isn’t.”

“Guilty on both counts, I’m afraid,” Gallia replied with a prolonged sigh. “You might have at least played along, though. Are there no eligible bachelors in this Palace? Perhaps I was invited here to court Arcadio, seeing that he’s yet to take a lady wife.”

Proximo gagged at the thought of it. Violet apparently thought the same. “With due respect, Lady Hart, I would advise against it. You might be joking, but I would not wish Arcadio Martes on anyone.”

“Then you clearly haven’t known me long enough, Lady Violet,” Gallia replied with a smirk.

“If you aren’t going to get to the point,” Proximo cut in, “then I have more important things to attend to, Gallia. How did you even know I was here?”

His sister rolled her eyes slowly. “And here I had thought you were trying to reform your old, impatient self. Very well, Proxi. Your little club has their own intrigues, I’m sure, so it won’t surprise you when I say that I have sources of my own—”

“She is, of course, referring to me,” Withins-Bei interrupted, giving a smirk to Proximo.

“Thank you, Withins-Bei. This is exactly why no one will ever stoop low enough to marry you. At any rate,” Gallia continued, “I’ll have you know that the pile of walking filth that just spoke is hardly the only one who’s taken an interest here. The Chamber has been most keen to know more about this little… development, let’s say. And when I heard little whispers that suggested that a certain baby brother of mine would be here, I thought I’d pop by for a chat. I’m sure you can spare your own blood that much, can you not?” Gallia stuck out a pouty lip, and pretended to get teary-eyed.

Proximo contemplated talking his way out of it, then sighed. “My lady,” he said to Violet, “would you mind very much if I…”

“There’s no need to even ask, Proximo,” Violet replied, putting a supportive hand on his shoulder. “I need to check on our friends, but take whatever time you need. You’ll know where to find me, once you’re finished.” She gave a bow to Gallia. “It was an honor meeting you, Lady Hart—hopefully we have a better chance to meet another time.”

Gallia waited until Lady Violet had left before speaking again. “I certainly wouldn’t mind a better chance to meet either. She is quite beautiful, isn’t she, Proxi?”

Proximo ignored her, and took hold of a chair. “You wanted to talk?” He sat himself down next to her her, eager to be done with the meeting. “Talk, then.”

“Excitable as always. Very well.” She leaned back in her chair, tracing a long fingernail in a circle on the table. “You’ve been away from home a long time, Proximo. Father hopes that you will return to Hartshold, provided that I give you the invitation. Which I am, right as we speak.”

Proximo looked at her, not knowing how to respond. The words caught in his mouth. “Father wants me home?”

“Mmm-hmm. He hopes that two years away has graced you with some perspective on things. The value of family, for instance.”

He turned the thought over in his mind, picking it apart. Proximo tried to recall when he had last seen his father, and seen Hartshold. There he was, standing in the lobby, in front of the door. He had already said goodbye to Aloysia and Gallia, and was halfway out into the world, with every worldly thing he still wanted to keep by his side, just in case. Father was behind him, watching him leave. ‘I can see who you care for more,’ he had said coldly. 'Join your friends, then. And do not return. Proximo recalled those words easily—they had been echoing in his mind for two years.

And now he was wanted back. 

Proximo ran a hand through his hair, trying to compose himself. “He didn’t seem so enthusiastic two years ago,” he said, trying to feign nonchalance. 

“Well, you two had a bit of a row, if you remember. He wasn’t the one that left.”

“I couldn’t stay, Gallia.”

“You could, as a matter of fact. It would have been as easy as not walking out the door, and somehow I manage to do that every day.”

“And do what?” Proximo demanded. “Go back to how I was? A bloodthirsty brat? Without a care in the world for anyone but myself? Do you remember how I was?”

She sighed. “Yes. You truly were a pain.”

“We agree on that much. You and father wanted me to change, didn’t you? You wanted me to start caring again, and be useful? Now I am. This is what that looks like, me being here with my friends.” Proximo rested his head back, and stared off at the wall. “I never had friends before, Gallia.”

She looked at him absently. “Yes, well, that’s all well and good. But if you’re finished acting out against the family, you should come back with me.”

Proximo’s face twisted. “That’s what you think this is, isn’t it? All of it some childish way to spite you?”

“Clearly,” she yawned. “Father was very adamant about all this, Proxi. What will it take for me to sway you back, hmm? I’ll steal your luggage, if I must.”

Proximo stood up. “Goodbye, Gallia. I’ll see you in another two years.” He walked for the door.

He was stopped by the Warden of Honesty appearing before him, blocking his way. Proximo looked up and caught the giant’s single eye, as the Warden scanned the room silently. He was still covered in blood from the assassins he had killed, near a dozen people’s worth of gore—an arresting sight, to say the least.

Gallia raised her eyebrows at his appearance. “What in God’s name is that thing?”

The Warden of Honesty ignored her. “Other friends returned,” he said to Proximo. “Lady Violet with injured?”

“Good Lord, Proximo, do you know this creature?”

“Yes, my lord,” Proximo replied to the Warden, also ignoring his sister. “I was about to join her, as a matter of fact.”

The Warden glanced at Gallia, then to Proximo. He nodded. “Hrm,” he grunted in response, before turning away.

Proximo went to follow him, but lingered at the door. He turned his head back to Gallia. “How is Aly?” he asked.

Gallia tilted her head. “She’s well. She does miss her brother, though.”

He let out a breath. “Tell her I miss her too.”

“You can tell her yourself, Proxi.”

Proximo did not answer. He left his sister behind and walked away.

Walking along a narrow hallway on his way to join Lady Violet, Proximo found Withins-Bei leaning against a wall. “So, how did the happy reunion go?” he asked with a smile.

“Was there a reason you felt the need to do that?” Proximo asked, eyes narrowing at the lordling.

“Do what, invite your sister here?” Withins-Bei asked innocently. “Perhaps it’s my good deed for the day, being a man of singular virtue and all. Perhaps I hate seeing a family torn apart by tide and time. Perhaps, after seeing the sheer gymnastics you were going to in concealing yourself, I just couldn’t resist poking a hole in that effort. Feel free to interpret as you will, chum.”

Proximo rolled his eyes and walked along, Withins-Bei trailing behind like a lost duckling. Proximo was surprised to find that the Warden of Honesty was waiting for him, standing stock-still in the hall and looking at him expectantly. “Coming?” the Warden asked.

“I am,” Proximo answered warily. He did not terribly relish having to accompany the Warden anywhere, seeing that he had only just seen him carve through near a dozen people. “I did not think you would wait for me, my lord.”

“Not leaving people alone again today,” the Warden said, voice flat.

Proximo and the Warden walked together in silence, with Withins-Bei following closely behind. After a time, the Warden spoke again. “Your sister?” he asked, his eye staring forward.

Proximo looked up at the giant askance, unaware that the Warden even knew that he had a sister. “Yes,” he admitted. There was a long pause. “We don’t get along.”

“Hrm.”

Withins-Bei hopped alongside them. “Oh, but it was such a touching scene! Tears were in every eye, I swear. If only you were there, my lord—but I’m sure you were off murdering more people, hmm?”

“No,” the Warden replied, paying little attention to the lordling, “crowds largely dispersed from our path. Regrouped without incident.”

“Tell me,” Withins-Bei continued, “do you know that your dear friend was a relation of the Harts of Hartshold, of Lord Theostinian in fact?”

“Yes.”

“It’s strange how often we’re defined by the things we shut away, isn’t it?” Withins-Bei mused idly, adopting a pseudo-scholarly affectation to his voice. “I wonder then: what is it that you are hiding, too-tall?”

“Nothing,” the Warden replied immediately, still not looking at the diminutive lordling as they walked.

“Oh, you’re too interesting for me to believe that, my lord.” He gave an unbearably smug smile. “I’ve been unable to sleep on account of your appearance, you know. The curiosity plagues me night and day. Women are cruel creatures, but none would be so monstrous as to name a son ‘Warden of Honesty.’ What name were you born with, truly?”

“This one has no name.”

“Pish-posh. Everyone has a name. One might call it discourteous to refuse giving it, after all,” he said unctuously. “You have me such a severe disadvantage. You already know my name, do you not? I am Withins-Bei.”

“No, you are not,” the Warden said. He finally looked down at the man, golden eye locked on.

Withins-Bei stared back, confused. For the first time, he did not seem to know what to say. After a moment of hesitation, he tried to shrug it away. “Well,” he said, feigning nonchalance, “I can see I’m not wanted here. I’ll go assuage my loneliness elsewhere.” He turned about and left swiftly, not offering another word.
        
Proximo watched him leave, curious. “What in the Web was that all about?” he asked, before they continued walking.

“That one is a fool,” the Warden replied, paying little mind to what just happened. “Thinks names are definitions.” The Warden’s mouth was pressed flat, his brow furrowed in disapproval. “Ignorant. Does not understand friendship. Insults people, pushes them away. That way he does not need to care. That way he is never hurt. Never hurt like he was before.”

Proximo did not know what to make of those words. The two continued on their way in silence.

In truth, Proximo had no idea what to think of the Warden now, after all that he had seen. The giant was still the man who had threatened a helpless diplomat without hesitation, but had just saved his life, and those of his friends, the same way. Proximo had never been so glad to have had the Warden arrive as when they had been surrounded by a dozen assassins, but there was something about it that still unnerved him greatly. He had seen the Warden cut through those men savagely, rending them apart limb from limb, and yet the Warden himself did not seem at all affected by it. They were lives taken without a second thought, with no more emotion shown for the deed than for swatting a housefly. It made for a strange intermingling of gratitude and horror in Proximo’s heart.

After a time, they arrived at the barracks, where the injured were located. The whole room was in a whirlwind—several people in butter-yellow uniforms, others in white, circling around as they attended to those around them frantically. The beds were filled with wounded people, some patients more grievously injured than others. Several were sitting upright, wincing while their arms or legs or faces were bandaged up. Others were lying still.

One of those unconscious he recognized immediately, though only barely. Proximo gasped when he saw the man lying, insensible, in the sick bed. “Dustario?” Proximo whispered in shock.

Dustario had been wearing civilian clothes, that much was certain. Most of those on his torso had been stripped off, however, and what remained was drenched in blood. Several wounds lay open and weeping on his body, but his face was worst of all. There were cuts on the left side of his head, but it was nothing compared to what happened to the right of his face: deep, gouging scrapes all across from ear to nose. Someone had covered them as best as they could with linen wraps, but the ruin of Dustario’s once-handsome face had seeped the white bandages red and wet to the point of uselessness.

Proximo rushed over immediately, covering his mouth in horror at the sight. He remembered all the times he’d had with Dustario, his friend: the one always smiling, joking, flirting, forever the life of the party. Proximo couldn’t even imagine how Dustario would react upon waking up, and seeing what had happened.

If he ever wakes up, came an unwanted thought. Proximo shook away the doubt… but it festered all the same.

Though he was no expert in medicine, Proximo could see that the bandages on Dustario’s face were slipping off from the sheer volume of blood, and tried his best to find replacements: Kind Friends were whirling around, trying to tend to as many as possible, but it was clear that they needed more hands. Proximo padded around frantically for more linens—he would tear off a chunk of his own clothes if he had to. Turning back around, however, he saw someone else had taken over for him.

A very pale woman was removing the spent bandages from Dustario’s face with surgical precision, caring little about the blood getting on her hands. There was blood on many other parts of her as well: multiple stains seeped into her uniform. She had covered much of it with an apron, but Proximo could see the white and black of a Peacekeeper’s habit still standing out. Proximo had never met this one, but evidently she was a part of the Moderator team.

She appeared to notice Proximo standing there. “Your friend is badly injured,” she said blandly, as though it were not clear to anyone else. “Provided that the infection is countered early, a recovery is entirely possible. I promise nothing.” She reached for a new bandage, before she finished peeling off the old one.

Proximo looked at Dustario, worried. That same doubt remained in his mind, and no assurances were likely to make it fade early. He breathed deep, and immediately regretted it. The air was thick with sweat, sick, and an unpleasant copperish smell that he recognized all too well. He remembered the time he had spent in a bed much like this one: all but dead, a huge red slash across his chest, passing in and out of consciousness for days, locked on his death-bed for weeks. People did not return from such an experience unchanged.

The woman removed the bandages from Dustario’s face entirely, putting the sticky scarlet things aside. The sight was even worse than Proximo had thought, and he had to turn away from looking. The Peacekeeper woman, however, had no such qualms. She turned Dustario’s unconscious face over to his side, examining it closely and expressionlessly. “Hmm,” she mused, “wounds of such character. I remember his face. It was very complete, before,” she said as she inspected it with unblinking fascination. Gently, she replaced the linens with new ones, complete with a balm rubbed in for good measure. She tilted her head at the work. “He has a hair out of place now,” she said, sounding distant as she looked over Dustario. 

Proximo was grateful for this person tending to his friends, but couldn’t help but feel somewhat uneasy about her. Her voice and manner—so flat, plain, without happiness or sadness alike—set him oddly at edge. “I’m not sure we’ve met before,” he said. “My name is Proximo Hart, Assistant Warden of Generosity. Miss…?”

“I didn’t miss,” the woman replied, still not looking at Proximo as she spoke.

Before Proximo could explain himself, he noticed that Lady Violet had appeared at his side. The Warden of Honesty was off somewhere, attending to others. 

A silent look was all it took to convey how she felt about the friend laid out in front of them. Proximo could already see the grief of the day wearing heavily on Violet, in a way that she didn’t dare show to anyone else.

“When will he wake?” Lady Violet asked the Peacekeeper woman.

“Difficult to determine,” she replied, still inspecting her handiwork. “The sedative will decide it. Perhaps within the day.”

Violet took the news, nodding her head slowly. Proximo could see the same worries that he had had written on her face as well. Violet looked down at the woman, who was finishing her work on Dustario. “If I am not mistaken, you are one of Lord Halforth’s staffers. Miss Abigail Cawtler, I presume? I have heard nothing but good things about your expertise.”

The peacekeeper gave a small, almost shy smile at the praise. Lady Violet continued. “I am certain our friends are in good hands with you. Thank you, from the bottom of my heart, for your help.” Violet offered a bow.

Abigail tilted her head at the gesture, then returned it. “I’ll do everything I can,” she replied. Her manner in giving assurance was awkward, but Proximo thought it sincere as well. Abigail departed right after to continue with other patients.

Violet gave another lingering look at Dustario, then turned to her assistant. “Come, we should see to the others.”

The rest of the group that had been trapped in the city were in better shape than Dustario, at least, but not always by much. Hadrena and Rosesoul were largely unharmed, save for a few cuts and scrapes that did not deter the two from seeing to the injured, but nearly everyone else carried wounds of some kind. Both Jayson and Prim had cracked ribs, and Caymen had some manner of concussion that by all accounts should had made him pass out prior to reaching the Palace, countered by sheer force of will alone. 

They had found Donnet lying down, nursing a black eye under his glasses. He cracked open his one good eye when he saw them approach. “ ‘Ey, m’lady,” he said with a weary smile. “Glad to be spottin’ ya again. Thought I might not, fer a sad minute there.”

“I can’t tell you how happy I am to see all of you, as well. If someone had been killed…” Violet breathed out slowly. Smoothing out her scarlet dress, she sat at Donnet’s side. “Do you know how everyone else is?”

Donnet lifted an arm and flicked at his spectacles, changing the color of one lens to pink and the other to saffron. The latter one was cracked, but he did not seem to mind. “Most-like. Lot are no worse-off than lil’ ‘ol me, but the Honest Eyes,” he said with a jut of his chin towards the other side of the room, “took a lot to get us home-side.”

Proximo looked over to see the three Honest Eyes together, each with wounds of their own. Kriseroff had at least half a dozen bandages covering various parts of him as he snored in bed, while Strongshield was seething over a cut across her head and a wound in her shoulder. Red Autumn had a bandage going up and down on his face and another long one across his side, and was either sleeping or just resting his eyes. Either way, Proximo saw Daria Faust next to him, holding Red’s hand with a worried expression. Next to the Honest Eyes, he saw Theosyrius talking in a panic to a medic, though he only appeared to have a scraped knee.

“And you, Donnet?” Lady Violet asked. “How are you faring?”

Donnet waved a hand. “All fine, m’lady. Really, I shouldn’t even be on my back. Just doin’ it to make them Kindlies feel at ease.” He chuckled, then cringed and gripped his side—Proximo suspected that he might be nursing more injuries than he claimed.

Before they spoke further, a familiar presence came thundering towards them. “Clear a path, clear a path! Six save me, would you just look at the state of this…” 

Proximo saw Caleb Mathet speeding towards them at a lightning pace that he would not have thought the portly man capable off, white cape fluttering behind him as he pressed towards them. “My lady, my friends,” he said panting, “I came the very moment I was informed. Six save us all, are you alright, dear Donnet?”

Donnet shrugged. “Honestly? Ain’t been the worst scrap I’ve gotten into. Ain’t even the worst under the Summer Sun, neither.”

Several other Bronies were streaming in as well, eager to see the injured, but Caleb paid them little mind. “And you, my lady,” he said, taking her hand in his. “My heart nearly stopped when I heard that you were caught out in all this. Praise the Six you are unharmed. But what of the others?”

“There are many injuries,” Violet admitted, patting Caleb’s hand. “Some more severe than others, I am sad to say. We’re lucky to have medical staff on hand. Skylark and Mattieu have been working feverishly, by all accounts, and Rosesoul with them.”

Caleb’s face screwed up. “How in the wide, wide, Web did this even happen? A mob, they say? How did they find all of you?”

It was a question on everyone’s mind, Proximo included. “The ones that came for us knew exactly who we were ahead of time,” he said with a look to Donnet and Violet. “This was preplanned, without a doubt.”

“No contraries from me,” agreed Donnet. “There must have been at least three dozen people or more after us, and they were well-equipped besides. T’weren’t no ‘random mob’ or whate’er else the dee-dubs wanna call it.”

“True,” said a gruff voice from behind. The Warden of Honesty had reappeared, looming over them. “Group able to identify Lady Violet immediately. Possession of swords, spears. Authority repeaters.”

“Auth—” Caleb sputtered in disbelief. “This was assassination! An outrage, a perfect bloody outrage!” he said, pounding a fist into his hand as emphasis. “My lady, I am not one for idle speculation, but we all know whose fingerprints are covering every inch of this dirty scheme. How else could these fiends get their hands on such things if they were not being equipped by a source? A wealthy source, with local ties and a reason to be rid of us?”

“We must take this to the Lord Moderator immediately,” Proximo said to Violet.

Donnet snorted. “Mods don’t care ‘bout us, Proxi. ‘Sides, we’re handlin’ no proof for any accusation we might say. The Martes have deniability, and that’ll be enough.”

“Not for long, they don’t,” Lady Violet said coldly. “Gentlemen, I refuse, categorically, to leave this island without the person responsible for hurting my friends in chains. We will have proof, even if it means tearing this wretched city apart to find it. The ones guilty for this plot will be weeping once this affair is through, I promise you that much.”

Before Proximo could voice his approval, he heard a groan. Looking around, he saw a familiar figure: a round, plain face with red hair. Sir Coin Counter was lying unconscious, a hearty wrapping over his shoulder and a bruise on his temple.

“Oh no,” Proximo said. “How has Sir Coin fared?”

“You’d have t’ask one o’ the Kind Friends fer a prognosis, but he took a crossbow bolt right in t’shoulder. ‘E’s lucky we got ‘elp, else ‘e mighta been cut apart.”

“I’ll have to return to check on him once he wakes,” Lady Violet affirmed. “He has come too far and done too much for us to be left alone.”

There was the sound of commotion coming from the entrance to the room. Proximo heard the voice of Jorama, crisp and commanding over the sick-beds. 

“I must be asking you to leave now, miss,” Jorama said firmly. “Off limits to outsiders.”

Another woman was arguing back. “Please, I just want to be sure of what happened. Are the—”

Proximo knew that voice immediately. “Imelia?” he called.

He went over and saw Imelia, looking frantic as Jorama tried to block her path. “At ease, friend,” Proximo said to his honest friend, “she’s with us.”

Jorama stepped aside, and allowed Imelia to rush in. She came to him immediately, and braced him in a tight hug. “Proximo!” she said, looking him over for injuries. “I came as soon as I heard. Are you OK? Oh God, I had thought maybe…”

“I’m fine, Imelia,” Proximo consoled her. “A little shaken, but none the worse for wear. But how are you? There are rioters all over the city, I heard—your grandmother and you, did they…”

She breathed a sigh of relief. “No, the Mods started clearing the streets before they could reach High-Hill. We’re both fine, but God! Half the city was burning when I last saw it, and I have no idea what’s happening at the docks—the city watch is trying to push back the crowds, but there’s no way it won’t be messy. How could this happen?”

“We have our suspicions,” said Proximo with a meaningful look.

Lady Violet appeared behind him, and went to greet Imelia. “Well, well, Proximo, you didn’t say we might have guests!” She gave a bow. “Lady Violet Brushshape, Warden of Generosity. And you must be Imelia Kohburn, the young woman I’ve heard so much about. I’m much in your debt, my lady, for the kind aid you’ve given the fandom in these times.” Violet offered an apologetic smile. “I only wish we might have met under better circumstances—as you can see, we are facing certain difficulties.”

“I’m sorry for intruding,” Imelia said hastily, “but when I heard what happened I wanted to make sure that—”

“Say no more, my lady—it requires no apology at all,” Violet reassured her. “As it stands, you are the only person thus far who has come to see us, save for those ordered to be here. I consider that an honor on our part. And let me just say,” she said with a smile, “that I simply love what you’ve done with your bangs.”

“Oh! Um, thank you,” Imelia said, blushing as she touched her hair lightly. Her eyes went wide, however, when she saw the Warden of Honesty lurking behind Violet.

Lady Violet continued with the same cheerful manner she would treat any guest—regardless of the circumstances she had been in previously. “I daresay that you and I should spend more time together, Miss Kohburn—I think we are bound to get along famously. I do wonder, though,” she continued, giving a look to Proximo, “if you might be able to help us with our current predicament. You’ve already done so much, but for Proximo and me…”

“Of course!” Imelia answered immediately. “Please, just tell me what you need.”

Violet gave a pleased smile. “Very well then. Our aim, Miss Kohburn, is proof.”

She offered an explanation of all that had happened in the streets, the people that had confronted them, and what they had said. Imelia’s eyes went wide as she listened. “Arcadio,” she spat. “It was all him, it had to have been.”

“That is our suspicion as well,” Proximo nodded.

“But only suspicion, you see,” Violet added. “Without actual evidence, we have no way of convincing the Lord Moderator.”

“You need proof?” Imelia said, chewing on the thought. “Well, I can see what I’ll find. My friend in the guards might know enough about this to help. What exactly would you want to see?”

“Any trace of an order being given by the Martes to send their goons after us. Written proof, or a guard willing to testify to it.”

Imelia mused on the idea. “That might be difficult. Arcadio is careful to plug leaks, when he can find them. I’ll see what I can do, but perhaps…” She thought it over a moment, then spoke up in inspiration. “What about financials? If the Martes were stockpiling weapons, and then those arms disappeared during the riot, that would be call for suspicion, certainly.”

Violet blinked. “Actually, that would be an excellent idea.”

“Do you have anyone that could parse through it?” asked Imelia.

She smiled. “I believe I have just the man for the task. I’ll ask that such records be turned over to us: the Moderators will have to grant us that, at least. And if you should find some leads within the guards themselves…”

“Then I will see it goes to Proximo,” replied Imelia with a nod. She turned to Proximo himself. “Perhaps we could meet again soon?” she said bashfully. “For the information, I mean.”

“Certainly,” said Proximo, “you need only seek me out.”

Imelia nodded. “I’ll get to it, then.” She offered a parting bow to Lady Violet. “It was an honor meeting you, my lady. Hopefully I can help more.”

“I have no doubt you will,” replied Violet.

Imelia departed swiftly, leaving the Bronies amongst themselves again. Violet turned to Proximo with an enigmatic look. 

“Well well, Proximo, she is quite lovely,” she teased with a light push to his shoulder. “Should I be worried?”

Proximo rolled his eyes. “Jayson and the others I can understand, but you too? I don’t see why people feel the need to joke about this every time.”

Violet raised an eyebrow. “It’s only half a joke, Proximo. She’s really quite taken with you, you know. You must have realized that.”

Proximo waved a hand. “You’re imagining things,” he said.

“She is not,” grumbled the Warden of Honesty. “It is very obvious,” he said pointedly.

He looked at the expectant stares from both of the Wardens, and suddenly found it difficult to deny that he might have noticed it himself. “Oh dear,” he sighed, weighing the realization. Imi…

“Mmm-hmm. And here I truly thought I was the only woman for you, Proxi.”

“This…” Proximo said sadly. “This was not what I had intended.” The thought was pressing down on him considerably. He thought back to when he and Imelia had spoken before: he had seen it there, in only the slight expressions, or the quickest words, but he had pushed suspicions like that to the back of his mind. Denial, they called it.

“And all those late night flirtations!” Lady Violet continued to tease. “Oh, you led me astray in only the most beastly way, Mister Hart, I’d never thought you to be such a tease—”

“My lady,” Proximo said while cupping his face with a hand, trying to think clearly, “I don’t find this funny.”

Violet stopped right away, looking sheepish. “Sorry, Proximo,” she said with a hand on his arm, “I truly didn’t…”

Proximo shook his head. “It isn’t that. My lady, when I helped Imelia during the hospitality ball, I did it because it was right, not because I had expected some reward for it. And never, never, did I expect this because of it.”

Violet tried to reassure him. “If you should want to talk about this…”

“I may have to take you up on that, my lady,” Proximo said weakly. “But we have more important things to deal with now than my problems,” he added with a look around the room.

Violet looked as if she might have protested further, but instead nodded, and they proceeded back to work.

As they saw to more of the injured, Proximo found it hard to concentrate on the task at hand, his mind drifting back again and again to a very different problem. 

It was flattering, but that did not make it right. Imelia had been put through experiences that Proximo would not wish on anyone, with her life turned upside down by pregnancy and her old friends long disappeared. Left alone, with an infirm grandmother to care for, and without a helpful person remaining, and nothing to comfort her besides loneliness and grief.

Until, that is, Proximo walked in. One act of kindness, at her lowest point, and without even meaning for it to happen he had swept her away, even if it was only for a moment.

It was flattering… but that did not make it true.

Imelia was lovely and kind and deserved far better than what she had, Proximo knew. But at the same time… at the same time… He shook his head. Six save me, what am I going to do? Am I meant to tear even the slightest hope away from her?

As he thought about that terrible possibility, an even worse fear came to mind. Some time ago, Theosyrius had recommended that they use what good-will Proximo had built with Imelia to use her for their cause. It was a plan Proximo had rejected, until Imelia herself had offered her help. What Proximo feared most was emotionally extorting someone, manipulating honest feelings for dishonest means. He thought he had avoided that, but now…

Am I using her? Proximo thought, horrified. Exploiting how she feels, leading her along for the sake of our cause? He had never meant it that way at all, but if she thought he felt the same way, was that why she had joined him from the start? Was she breaking with everything she knew and helping him because she believed—because he had let her believe—that it was for love?

The thought that he might have been manipulating an innocent woman, even unintentionally, made him sick to his stomach. That he might have to hurt her further by snatching that hope away scarcely made him feel better. And that wasn’t even the furthest depth of his doubts.

Using people. Feigning love and feeling and affection. Getting what I want, and then leaving broken things behind, he thought miserably. This is exactly something I would have done long ago, before the duel, before the Friends. Proximo had always hoped that he had changed, but…

Have I really changed at all?




* * * * * * 




“With Madelin Wright’s army having taken up their command in black Baysmouth and the nascent Honest Friends continuing their campaign in Comchan, the threat posed by the Brony fandom was such that a united front was needed to oppose them. So it was that the effort to crush the inchoate Collective fell to two men that could not have been more different: the Mootking Rohd of the Channic, and Lord Giles Blair of the Moderator Authority. To understand how the efforts to end the First Rise could have gone as they did, it is necessary to know more about these leaders.

“Giles Blair was the scion of one of Central’s greatest and oldest families, one that had contributed their sons and daughters to the Moderator cause since the Scouring of Central. Both his mother and father had served with distinction amongst the Authority, alongside several aunts, uncles, and cousins beyond counting, and Giles was more than willing to join this legacy. Performing well in the academy, he chose to join into the Knight Arbiters, a position in which—with his gregarious and friendly ways—he excelled. He was enough of a rising star, in fact, that he was made the chair of the Channic Relations Committee, passing up his more senior competitor Dyren Halforth, a man whose hard-line stances contrasted sharply with Giles' belief in a Chan brought to heel with minimal cost of Moderator life. Giles Blair was well-known for being a devout servant and a chivalric opponent, but he possessed another quality that proved more troublesome—a desire for admiration, and an almost ceaseless ambition to advance. That drive had brought him far, making him an accomplished lord at a relatively young age… but it would also prove costly for the war he tried to fight. 

“Rohd was quite different: the latest of countless men who had claimed the Baymaster’s Mask and been crowned Mootking of the Channic, a title as ancient as the masked-lands themselves. And like many of those kings, he had taken power by virtue of murdering his predecessor. Prior to this honor, however, he had carved out life as a pirate and raider, building up a small team of ships that would strike at neighboring communities. Such practices were not uncommon amongst the anonymites, and yet Rohd had gained a reputation for success that few others could match, with his attacks on the Blurr receiving particular renown after he returned from the Painted Sea with the heads of an entire cadre of the Oppressed. His cunning made him a far more dangerous opponent than his predecessor, but he was forced to walk a very thin line as Mootking. Cooperate too much with the Moderators, and his people would turn upon him, but they would easily do the same if the Bronies were allowed to win.

“One can likely see the problem with this fragile alliance from the start. Though nominally pledged together, the Authority and the Channic had entirely different goals in this conflict. The Moderators saw the Bronies as little more than a nuisance to be crushed and discarded, but more importantly as a stepping-stone that would allow them to gain a greater foothold in the Chan. The Mootking knew that the fandom that had captured Baysmouth was a threat… but so were the Moderators, who had all the men, capital, and resources that the Bronies lacked. Rohd believed that defeating the fandom would mean nothing if that victory came with Authority chains. While they worked on the surface as partners, Blair and Rohd were thus divided constantly, trying to maneuver the war not to ensure victory as swiftly as possible, but rather to ensure their own personal success after their conflict finished.

“After a tense meeting in Moot’s Point to coordinate their forces, the Authority landed their army in the northern coast of Greatchan, while sending ships to blockade Brony-controlled areas of the isles. Joining with the Channic, the combined force began their next task: the retaking of Baysmouth from the usurper Madelin Wright…”


— Excerpt from "The Brony War," by Lorelove