//------------------------------// // Book Two: Chapter Fourteen: Sweetie Belle and the Song of Death // Story: Myths and Birthrights // by Tundara //------------------------------// Myths and Birthrights By Tundara Book Two: Duty and Dreams Chapter Fourteen: Sweetie Belle and the Song of Death Cool, refreshing water splashed over Fleur’s face, running in soapy rivulets down her neck, back, and flanks. A weary tremor ran up exhausted legs, and Fleur leaned against the marble tiles for support. Through her snowy coat glowed deep burgundy bruises, attesting to the week of relentless training spent under Princess Luna’s guidance. An outstanding warrior, the very origin of the knight romanticised throughout pony history, Luna was everything Fleur had wished to become when she’d been a filly. Her lessons were blunt, honest, and well practiced. How many others had Luna trained over the centuries? Hundreds? Thousands? Fleur wished she were ten years younger. Maybe then there would be time enough to prepare to fight Algol. As it was, Fleur could barely consider herself a novice. Without Athena, defeating Algol was far beyond a dream, and even survival flitted further and further out of grasp. “Au moins, je rembourserai ma dette,” she sighed, twisting the taps to cut the flow of water. Wincing as she patted down her coat, Fleur barely had energy enough to lift the towel, let alone use the normal beauty spell to dry herself. Putting her mane up in a bun rather than comb it, Fleur left the bathroom. She was greeted by Timely on entering her room, the doctor waiting next to an open bag of tonics, tinctures, and bandages. There was a distinct note of displeasure every evening when he tended to her. “This is utter madness,” he grumbled, prodding her to find the worst of the bruises.. A few of the new ones on her shoulders really stung, both received when Luna had flipped her sidelong across the training hall. “I can’t fathom a mare so heartless as to bait Lady Dash into a duel, nor you being so foolish as to stand in her place. And for it to be allowed to continue! The princesses and empress should have put a halt to this long ago.” Fleur sighed, and stayed silent rather than rehash an argument they’d had every night since the challenge was issued. He knew that she was trapped, and so was Rainbow. After such a public offence, even if Rainbow issued a string of apologies Algol never could have accepted without losing all her standing in Zebrica’s court. Even in Equestria, where duels were thankfully extremely rare, peacefully avoiding the duel without anypony losing face would have been difficult. “Sadly, I will not be there to put you back together,” Timely continued, for once treding onto new ground. “Hardy received orders by curiculum only a few hours ago to make all haste back to Equestria. The ship is in a flurry; refilling the water, recalling the shore parties, boats plying to and fro, everything is rush, rush, rush and damn you lazy sods. I’m to report aboard the moment I’m done here and give Princess Twilight my leave.” A quip about Timely being relieved to escape on the Bellerophon danced onto Fleur’s tongue, and was promptly bitten back. Their acquaintance was insufficient for such a personal jest. After he was done, they bid each other a fond farewell, with promises of reconnecting in Canterlot. Only a few minutes passed before there was a knock, and a pony from Fleur’s foalhood appeared. A tri-colour mane of white-red-and blue bounced in discordant ringlets down the mare’s short neck. Her fleur-de-lis cutie mark was nearly identical to Fleur’s own mark, but where she had three golden flowers, the mare had but a single, large version. There was little humour or joy in the mare’s large, brown eyes. “Noblesse?” Fleur very nearly gaped, a twitch of surprise briefly crossing her face. She quickly regained control of her emotions, or at least their outward expression. Very briefly, a small smile tugged at the newcomer’s mouth. “Mi amie, come se va?” “Bien,” Fleur replied, with little conviction. The still visible bruises, and pungent aroma of the doctor’s salves spoke volumes of the truth. “What are you doing here?” Noblesse was an agent of the senate, tasked with insuring the interests of the senate, and to a slightly lesser extent Prance herself, were met in foreign lands. Many would consider Noblesse a ‘spy’, but her talents aligned more along the lines of information brokering, and maneuvering other ponies to her advantage. “The senate is furious with Equestria,” Noblesse explained, taking a slow turn around the room, eyeing every corner and curtain with equal suspicion. “And with you. When the senate needs you most in Canterlot, here you are traipsing around Zebrica, playing at being a knight.” Fleur’s stomach fell, and she silently cursed. She’d been so wrapped up in her own problems, the question of what happened to Prance never crossed her mind. Now that the idea was presented, a whole cascade of associated thoughts tumbled through her. Only her secretary remained in Equestria. A decent stallion, but hardly somepony who could be said to possess a talent for the intricacies of negotiations. The senate would be demanding answers, the curiculum burning frequently as letter were sent back and forth across the ocean. These were far from the worst thoughts. Fleur imagined the valleys, forests, and grassy hills of her homeland after a fight of similar scope to what she briefly experienced on Marelantis when Amon attacked her. A shiver rippled up her back, the memory of his horrific face as he tore at her soul sucking the breath from her lungs. “How much damage did Faust cause?” Fleur asked, almost wishing to receive no answer. “Faust?” Noblesse tossed up a brow, and snorted. “The reports I’ve received say it was Celestia who attacked Prance. Nopony can figure out why, however, and this has been causing even more confusion. For nearly a month now it has been a flurry of letters. Requests for information going unheeded. When I saw you at the reception for Princess Twilight, I was shocked, and relieved. It explained why communications have been so jumbled. It has taken the senate over a week to return my missives and give me orders. Do you know why Princess Celestia would attack Prance?” “Celestia? Non, Ce n’était pas elle qui avait attaqué!” Fleur said in a rush. “She was there, oui, but it was Faust who was in battle.” Summoning a servant to bring tea, Fleur bid Noblesse to sit while she recounted everything that had happened since discovering she was host to Athena’s spirit. She spared no detail, whether great or small. At the start Noblesse wore an amused smile, like somepony listening to the tall tales of a foal. Quickly the smile melted, replaced with a contemplative frown. Noblesse listened quietly as Fleur recounted the encounter with Leviathan, the battle at Marelantis, and the rescue of Faust from the Queen of Envy. She leaned closer as Fleur reached the events of the night Celestia appeared on the Bellerophon, with Faust barely clinging to life. The night and day spent in such anxiety, and then Faust’s death, and subsequent rebirth thanks to Twilight. When she was finished, Fleur waited for Noblesse to respond. Her friend was silent, eyes closed as she considered all she’d heard. At last she asked, “Where do your loyalties lay, Fleur?” Taken aback by the ludicrous question, Fleur didn’t answer at once. “With Prance, always,” she spoke with quiet assurance. “But, I consider these ponies as friends. Lady Dash saved my life on Marelantis, and I must repay her.” “Even if it means ruining the potential for an alliance between Prance and Zebrica?” Noblesse leaned forward, a hawkish gleam in her eyes. “Pardon?” “Having our ambassador to Equestria killed by the Empress’ oldest advisor, or vice versa, will have consequences. I know you too well, Fleur. You are no fighter, while I have been in Zebrica long enough to see Algol in two other duels. She is going to kill you.” Bristling a little, Fleur huffed, “Princess Luna has been helping me avoid that outcome.” There was little conviction in Fleur’s voice. She knew her chances were slim, at best. “You mean to throw your life away over a matter of an Equestrian’s pride? You are the answer Prance requires! The destruction of southern Prance has been a stark reminder that ponies are nothing to the alicorns, and Celestia has been luring the disc into a false sense of security.” Noblesse slammed her tea down with a porcelain clatter. “Don’t you see? You have the power of an alicorn in you! You could restore Prance to her rightful place! If you can access this power again, nothing would be out of your reach.” Fleur shook her head sadly, heart sinking in her chest. “Whatever power I had was borrowed from Athena, and she is gone. Now, the best way I can serve Prance is by showing Equestria that we hold no grudge for what happened to our lands.” Noblesse snorted and abruptly stood. She calmed quickly, and released a long, rattling sigh through her nose. “This is a very dangerous plan, Fleur,” Noblesse moved towards the door. “I have no authority to tell you what to do, just, be careful,” she added before leaving Fleur to her thoughts. Alone, Fleur found her heart and thoughts tossed into a flurry. Finding it impossible to settle, Fleur paced back and forth through her room, ruminating over everything said. She wished Timely was around. His council had proved invaluable during the outward voyage. Through her window, she gazed down at the Bellerophon, the ship in the process of rousing her anchors. In a few minutes she would move into the outer roads and there await the last of the shoregoing party before setting sail with the evening tide. Further off, Fleur could just see through the miasma the white towers of sails for another ship. From the way she slanted, this ship was already tacking westward. Without a telescope, the ship’s pennant was indistinguishable. But a glance down at the harbour lead Fleur to suspect it as being the Princess Platinum, a large gap now between the Santa Isabel and the shore where she’d lain at anchor. The oddity of seeing four ships-of-the-line from warring nations at anchor side-by-side was over. All too soon, Fleur suspected the Prench and Esponya ships would likewise be on their way, the diplomats they’d been carrying conveyed. It was strange, and a little off-putting, that Fleur had yet to meet any of the other ambassadors. Certainly, her role in Zebrica was strictly un-official, as Noblesse had reinforced. But, they should have been in similar social circles. Except, Fleur’s time since the initial galla had been absorbed by preparations for the duel. The damned duel that never seemed to come. Fleur’s tail snapped with irritation. Deciding to go for a stroll rather than continue stewing in her room, Fleur marched off without a clear idea of a direction. She followed twists and turns at random, mind still going over everything from the time she’d been possessed by Athena. Falling into older memories, a dopey grin grew as she thought of Fancy Pants. How her husband would hardly recognise her now! She’d changed so much in the past couple months. Lost in memories, Fleur didn’t realise she’d wandered into the unfinished wing of the palace until she almost tripped over a bucket of hammers and chisels. Shaking off her dazed thoughts, Fleur looked around, and realised she was now lost in the physical sense as well. Backtracking a little ways gave no indication how to return to the guest wing, and there were no zebras about to ask directions. There was a stillness to the air, a heavy weight of being somewhere forbidden. Biting the side of her cheek as she tried to decide how best to get back to the proper wing, Fleur heard a rattle, and hooves scraping on stone. Darting to the side, Fleur stepped into a darkened room. A few crates stood stacked to one side, while most of the room plunged into shadow, a narrow beam of golden light extending only a short distance from the door. Shame at hiding like a filly caught with her hoof in a cookie jar burned on her cheeks. Hiding was preposterous, and stupid. She had no reason to hide. Yet, the thought of being caught made her heart race, and ears flatten. Peeking through the door, Fleur waited for the zebra to pass. And waited. And waited. Brow pinching in consternation, Fleur muttered a Prench curse and started to poke her nose out of the door when chains rattled just behind her. Yelping, Fleur spun and dropped automatically into a defensive crouch. “Are you real?” Asked somepony in the gloomy depths, chains rattling again before a startling pretty soft blue face emerged into the light cast through the door. Violet eyes flitted over Fleur, desperation and despair in equal measure lighting their dark cores. Locks of tussled, violet and black mane tumbled around angular cheeks in a haphazard frame. “Or are you another spectre of madness?” Cautiously edging a little closer, Fleur took note of the thick iron chains bound to a collar and manacles around legs and large wings. The mare’s wings hung limp, as if it were too much effort to fold them against her sides. “Who are you? Why are you in this…  prison?” Fleur asked. “I may ask you the same questions.” The mare’s eyes darted over Fleur’s face again, and then widened. “Wait, I know you! Yes, Fleur de Lis, heir to Athena’s battered throne. I was there at Marelantis, and watched over you after Leviathan’s defeat and the mistress returned me to my sisters. We spoke what seems an age ago on the Bellerophon. You were one of the few ponies who could hear my sisters and I. Besides the mistress, of course.” Fleur’s mouth went dry, and she considered the mare further. “Who are you?” Fleur asked again, her tone softer, more suspicious. Fanning her very large wings, the mare sighed, and said, “You would not recognise me, though we have met before. I am Sirius, the Firestar.” Nothing could have been more shocking. Yet, there was no hint of deception, the mare’s simple, plain expression conveying that she spoke with certainty. Before Fleur could formulate her next set of questions, a familiar sing-song voice filtered through the door. “My sister,” Sirius hissed. “Hide! She must not discover you here.” Looking about, Fleur darted behind a tarpaulin covered crate. Pressed deep in the shadows between it and the wall, she had a slim view of the door and Sirius. She held her breath, a slight tremor working its way through her legs. Algol skipped into the room on light hooves, a plate of waffles balanced on her head. With a casual kick she shut the door and dropped the plate onto the table next to Sirius. Thick dust covered her, large puffs coming off her with every step, and a shake of her head sent up a cloud of sand. A heavy scent of saffron and spice tickled Fleur’s nose, almost making her sneeze. “Hello, dear sister, I brought you food.” Sirius snorted, and knocked the plate off the table. Sighing, Algol picked up an egg roll. Between bites, she said, “You need to learn eat. You will waste away otherwise. We are only demi-immortals. Our magic will keep us alive, but alive and healthy are far apart. Trust me, my words are gold.” “Why, Algol, why are you going through all this trouble? Why keep me a prisoner?” “Trouble? Hardly.” Algol rocked with low sniggers. “As for the ‘Why’, do you really want to know? Should I lay out in golds and blacks all my plans? Monologue for you? Perhaps in the form of a song? Some grand aria? No, dear sister, that would be pointless. So… smoky and thin and colourless. No point at all. You still wear the chains of our so-called ‘mistress’, while I strive to become free.” “The only chains I see are these,” Sirius shook her wings in a rattling song of iron links binding her in place. Rolling her eyes, Algol tapped an impatient hoof. “There are so many different sorts of chains, dear sister. Chains of iron, chains of silver, chains of the heart, and chains of the soul. What—” The clatter of a workhammer falling over filled the room with a dreadful din. Fleur stood, petrified, glancing over her withers to the hammer she’d nudged with her tail. Spinning back, Fleur found herself nose to nose with Algol, the demonstar grinning like a mad-mare. “It isn’t time for our duel, yet,” Algol cooed, and patted Fleur on the cheek with a wing coated in shadowy aether. Sparks burst before Fleur’s eyes, and the room spun about her. In the final moments before darkness swept over her, she heard Sirius calling out her name, then nothingness. For a brief time Fleur drifted through a hazy mist. Somepony kept repeating her name, over and over, but from where Fleur could not tell. Light surrounded her, grabbed in a warm embrace, and for a brief moment the mists parted to reveal a sunlit Gaean temple. Just as quickly the mists closed in around Fleur again, and the warmth departed, leaving her cold and alone. With a start Fleur jerked her head upwards. Her eyes stung as if sand had been poured in them, and her neck was stiff from sleeping at an odd angle. Sunlight streamed through the curtains of her room, setting off a sharp throbbing pain in the base of her skull. Groaning, Fleur cupped her head in her hooves, and tried to make sense of events. The last thing she remembered was speaking to Noblesse, followed by… nothing. She wasn’t even certain of the day, how she’d gotten into bed, or anything else between then and now. Just fragments of images, sounds, and smells such as a hallway, the scent of saffron, and a brief chilly darkness. “What was in that tea?” Fleur groaned, and sucked in a hissing breath as words proved to make the pain burn fiercer, like oil being poured into a fire. A warm shower only moderately helped. The tinctures the doctor had left behind marginally more-so. Her head was down to a mild throb by the time Princess Luna swept into the room. “Come on, Fleur de Lis, the dueling grounds await. I hope you are rested enough, as you will need every ounce of strength and all your wits.” Mouth suddenly dry, Fleur felt even worse than when she’d awoken. She took a long, sad look around the room, gaze settling on Aegis and Pallas, the shield and spear unmoved from their place next to the bed. Setting her shoulders, resigned to whatever Fate had woven into the weave for her, Fleur followed Luna towards the colosseum. Gilda stood at the edge between golden plains and shadowed jungle. The delineation was perfect, straight, like some titanic creature had swept a line across the land and decreed that each should be on one side and never meet. Damp, earthy tones of decay and savagery blended with the warm spices and dusty dryness rolling across the Savannah. A gentle breeze swept over starlit grasslands, and illuminated the tops of the solitary trees dotting the land. Even at night, it was possible to see further across the Savannah than most other lands, the miasma thinner than in many other places. To the north-west the campfires of an army encampment could be seen among the flat grasslands. In the far distance to the east she could just make out the edges of Kilagriffjaro. Between them glimmered the lights of villages and towns. “He is asking for you,” said Phoenicia's oracle, the woman melting out of the jungle to stand beside Gilda. Nodding, Gilda slipped back into the jungle. She made her way between the three dozen phoenician warriors who’d all volunteered to escort Gilda and Zubu to the jungle’s edge. Their faces were as expressionless and unreadable as ever, yet, Gilda detected a tenseness in the air, a pregnant weight like the moment before a plunging dive. A short way inside the jungle lay their camp, an unhappy hollow sheltered by towering trunks and vine veils. There, at the heart of the hollow, lay Zubu on a bed of moss with a blanket of soft fronds. Around him curled Orenda, chin resting on his shoulder. Her ears perked up, and she gave Gilda an unusually somber look. Gilda hovered at the hollow’s edge, her heart a tempest of clashing emotions. She’d known Zubu such a short time, yet he’d marked her deeper than nearly anypony else. As she watched his chest heaved with a rattling sigh, and for a heart rending moment Gilda thought him gone. He gave a wheezing cough, and Gilda sighed with relief. He was not yet dead. Stepping to his bedside, Gilda said, “Master, I have come.” Zubu’s milky eyes flitted open, the sight at last gone from them both. He searched for her, but could not see. Feebly, he reached instead with his good hoof. Gilda clasped it in a talon, and there was only a little strength left in his grip. “Sorry, apprentice, Zubu is unable to finish your training. So much left to teach, and so little.” He tried to crack a grin, but it was twisted with pain. Teeth grinding to control the pain, he took a shallow, steadying breath. “You have a choice to make. Continue down vengeance, or find something better.” “We’ve been over this before, you old mule,” Gilda replied. There was no meanness, but a playful, sad lilt to her voice as she fought back the press of emotions in her throat. “Someone has to get Talona away from those griffons.” Zubu let out a bark of laughter that turned into a cough. “Has never been about that filly. Knew her less than a day. About your cousin. About Blinka.” Gilda did not argue. It would have been a futile gesture, and he needed to conserve his strength. “Well, I’ll have you there to make sure I do the right thing,” Gilda gave his hoof a tight squeeze, and refused to let go. “No, this is where my journey ends.” Zubu laid back, and slid his eyes shut. “No great battles or sacrifices. Just an old body finally giving way to nature. How all should end. Zubu, the wise and ancient, is content.” He was silent for several minutes, chest rising and falling with ever more shallow breaths. When he next spoke it wasn’t Gilda he addressed. “Orenda, my oldest friend. Go to Zecora and Sephra. They will keep you safe until you can find a new partner.” Weakly, Zubu brushed his hoof over Orenda’s cheek, and she let out a sad mew. His eyes drifted shut, and with a soft, final sigh Zubu sank into the bedding. Arching her entire body, head lifted to the stars, Orenda released on unearthly sound that was neither howl, nor was it a scream, but something more terrible to hear. The kitsune’s soul tore where Zubu had been bonded, and this she conveyed to the disc in an agonized lament that seemed to last for ages. When it ended Orenda vanished, the kitsune entering the misty Winterlands as she started the next stage of her journey. Gilda’s own expression was as stone, even as her heart pounded against her chest. Every instinct screamed for her to do something. But, there was nothing to be done. So passed the last shaman of Zebene. A rock twice her size crashed down next to Sweetie, just a few inches from her head. Laying on her back, sweat streaming down her face and flanks, she hardly had time to contemplate the near miss. With a burst of youthful strength, she rolled to the side before the second such rock crashed down where she’d been. Deep shadows fell over Sweetie as her attacker flung himself high with a beat of strong wings. In his talons he clutched the haft of a short spear, the head some distance away where it and her gladius had been flung moments before the griffon’s partner began hurling stones at her. Manacles around the griffon’s wrists and ankles rattled as he flew towards Sweetie. Bounding to her hooves, she snatched up her borrowed short, broad sword in a deep aura. It blazed to her side in a steely flash. Yelling with anger through building exhaustion, Sweetie struck the griffon on the jaw with the flat of her blade. Beak and bone broke in a sickening thwack. Sliding with the griffon’s momentum, the rough edge cut a long gash down his jaw and shoulder. Hot blood splattered over Sweetie’s face and blinded her. Falling into a writhing heap, the griffon clutched his face. Steaming in the chilly mountain air, Sweetie spun towards the last griffon, swiping the blood from her eyes with the back of a hoof. Only half-blind, she made out the glint of approaching steel. She intercepted his spear a hair’s breadth from her throat, twisting and driving the sharp head into the damp earth. Steel rang, and then there was a wet squawk followed by a heavy thump as her blade pierced the griffon’s belly. Talons clutching at innards threatening to spill across the dirt, the griffon squirmed in a rapidly growing pool of blood. Breaths coming in long, laboured wheezes, Sweetie staggered a few steps, then slumped against her sword, using it as a brace to prevent her from falling over. From the shadowed sidelines emerged Apple Bloom and Scootaloo, the pair darting towards Sweetie. They made it only a few strides before being yanked backwards off their hooves. Around their throat glowed red slave collars. Behind her friends, the slave-master smirked through his broken, disfigured beak. His single eye gleamed with cruel humour, and his dark tongue darted as if he were part snake. Corpulent and callous, he was only the second most hated ‘pony’ Sweetie had ever met. “Good, now finish them,” The slavemaster commanded, indicating the wounded griffons with a wave of his slaving rod. With but a word he could activate Sweetie’s slave-collar, filling her with sharp pain as muscles spasmed and magic was sapped. More than the lash, Sweetie feared the use of the collar. Wearily, Sweetie went towards the griffons. She said nothing. Felt nothing. She made herself hollow. They looked up at her with pleading, broken gazes, begging silently for mercy. There was an odd peace about her as she placed the sword to the griffons’ chests, and then leaned on it to plunge it through flesh and sinew. “Good girl,” the slavemaster purred, gesturing with the rod at Sweetie. Around her horn glowed an iron band, and her magic was suppressed. A gasp burst from Sweetie and she driven to her knees as if a mallet had struck her horn. Grinning at her suffering, the slavemaster slid the rod into a loop on his harness. Scoffing at Scootaloo and Apple Bloom as they writhed and dragged their hooves across their collars, he gave the word to end their torture. Sauntering into his warrens, the slavemaster barked orders to other slaves to clean the mess. The other slaves rushed to follow the commands, taking away Sweetie’s gladius, and dragging the bodies towards a cart stacked with other dead bodies. Southstone had no shortage of new slaves as her armies expanded ever northward, pillaging the lands of the other airies. Those Sweetie killed were easily replaced. Bouncing between Apple Bloom and Scootaloo, Talona let out a pleased squeal. She wore Scootaloo’s armour, resized even smaller to fit her tiny body. Durandel bounced along at her side, the end of a new, jeweled scabbard thumping with each step against the ground. “Yay! I was right! I knew you were a good champion,” Talona grinned from ear to ear, heedless of the dead griffons. Talona was Diamond Tiara, if she was also two years old, and had a love of blood-sports. Sweetie didn’t respond, only inclining her head in the slightest of bows that would be accepted. She eyed Durandel, and yearned for the strength to wrench it free. Wobbling on her hooves, ready to collapse, Sweetie said, “If it pleases your Divine Highness, I need to recuperate, or I won’t be anypony’s champion much longer.” The words grated in Sweetie’s mouth, spilling from her as if they were gravel, though they sounded pleasantly respectful. The punishment for being disrespectful still burned across Sweetie’s flanks where she’d been whipped for previous snarky responses. Behind Talona, the slave-master scowled, and his talons twitched towards the many-headed whip attached to his flanks. Frowning a little, Talona whined and shook her head. “But, I wanna see you fight!” Through his sneer, the slave-master let out a short, shrieking laugh. Waving to a couple skinny, battered creatures to come forward, he said, “Don’t worry, princess, I’ll make sure these ponies put on a good show for you.” Sweetie’s breath hitched in her throat, and in that moment she knew she was going to die. Barely able to stand, still sore from the wounds taken in Lemaria, with newer bruises and cuts added on top, it was impossible for her to last more than a few seconds against even the most abused and weak slave. She was saved by the ringing of a gong, signalling the start of court. Ears perking up, Talona let out a pleased chirping sound, as though she was a griffon herself, and said, “Ooo, have to fight later. I need to judge the bad griffons.” And with that she skipped out of the slave-pens and into the castle. Not waiting for any contradicting commands, Apple Bloom and Scootaloo helped Sweetie from the arena and to the little closet of a room they shared in the servants quarters. Barely large enough to fit their cots, with a door of thin wood that did little to keep out the cold, there was no comfort or privacy. Apple Bloom and Scootaloo moved quickly, and silently, the former binding Sweetie’s newest cuts and anointing bruises while the other used a bucket of water and rough bristle brush to wash Sweetie down. When they were done neither lingered, and hurried to return to Talona, lest the filly grow upset at the absence of her latest toys. Secretly, Sweetie was glad her friends weren’t around. Sweetie pressed deep into the lumpy straw mattress, eyes pinched tightly shut as she fought back the images of the griffons’ final moments. Tears sprang down her cheeks, running in thick streams as she was overwhelmed by surging melancholy. She hated being alone, having nopony to turn towards for a simple hug, but also despised the idea of anypony seeing her in such disarray. Or knowing what she’d done. Apple Bloom and Scootaloo needed her to be strong. Resolute. Unwavering in her devotion to keeping them safe and sane, even as the disc seemed so utterly mad and uncaring. Later there would be time to mourn her innocence, and the lives she’d stolen. A furious hoof swiped away the tears, and with a growl in the depths of her throat, Sweetie forced herself to rest. Who knew when Talona would next demand to be entertained. Dreams washed over Sweetie. Turbid, shifting, unsettling dreams. Ghostly faces emerged from falling muddy sheets; Rarity, diamond dogs, griffons, and others dead far longer. They screamed at her. Howled and clawed. Sweetie had no defence against their onslaught. She weeped, and begged forgiveness they would never grant. Quickly the dreamscape shifted as a small bird darted from between ghosts. Sweetie turned away from her tormentors, and followed the bird. Darting between trees, the bird alighted on a branch over a crystal smooth pond. Cautiously, Sweetie approached. Two versions of herself gazed up at Sweetie from the pond. The first wore an innocent smile, Cutie Mark Crusader cape draped over her back, and eyes bright with hope. Her bouncy mane was expertly maintained by her loving sister and doting father. There was a brightness to her, a jovial laugh and skip to her step. Beside her was a filly who at first seemed identical, except she was worn and haggard, with mane cut short and eyes cold, hard, and mirthless. Her mouth was pinched tight, as if smiles were some foreign luxury heard of only in stories. Faint scars could be made out on her shoulder where Apple Bloom had removed the crossbow bolt. Against her flank rested Durandel. This filly sent a shiver of fear up Sweetie’s spine. As she watched, the first version of herself began to fade away, smile replaced with sadness. The other grew more solid, real. Hooves burst out of the pool and grabbed Sweetie around the neck. “We can never be weak again!” Sweetie’s mirror-self yelled. “When we are weak, ponies we love suffer! We must bear the burden of their safety. If we do not, then Apple Bloom and Scootaloo will die.” Sweetie’s mirror-self held her with incredible strength, legs corded steel against Sweetie’s neck. No matter how she struggled, it was impossible to break free. Before her eyes, her mirror shifted, eyes turning a bloody red, and face twisted in monstrous aspects. Fangs parted black lips, her mane flying about as if in a howling wind, and the ridges of her horn became blades. With a yell Sweetie jolted out of the nightmares, sweat running down her sides and face. For a period of time unknown she remained in bed, staring up at the dark ceiling, mind churning in formless circles, repeating over and over the same phrase, ‘I just had a dream.’ By itself this would have been unremarkable, except she’d already dreamt in the last year. Pushing herself up, Sweetie made her way out of the servant’s quarters and up to the walls overlooking Southstone Spires. The griffon servants sneered, and a couple spat in her path, but Sweetie gave them no thought. They were just angry, jealous, or hated that a group of ponies had found such ‘valuable’ positions. Sweetie almost felt pity for the miserable creatures. Finding a secluded spot on the wall where the guards wouldn’t see her was tricky. She found such a place between a crate of rotting crossbow bolts and one of the towers. Frosty mountain air whipped through her mane and stung her searching eyes. Out there, somewhere, was trouble. Sweetie could feel it in her horn. It was only a few minutes before Sweetie spotted it. A wall of fog raced across the savannah from the north-west. Emerald flashes within the fog illuminated the shapes of a ghostly stampede. Within moments it engulfed a distant town and altered direction towards Southstone. Faster and faster the fog rolled, climbing up the mountain slopes and spilling over the roads. A small caravan was caught, little black specks staggering and then falling to the ground before being consumed by the grey-green vapours. Warning bells began to ring across the city as the lookouts at last perceived the approaching danger. The gates began to close too late. With a crackling hiss, the fog crashed through the gates and burst into the city,. The sickly grey cloud, lit by a pale green glow, roiled and boiled through the streets and up to the castle gates. Overhead, clouds gathered. Whispers skittered across the darkening city, like a plague of spiders driven out of the deep, dark places hidden from sight. They crawled in icy waves across skin and into the inhabitants ears. Flee this place, oh, flee this place, Flee this place, oh, flee this place. The Lord o’er the Dead has come. Flee this place, oh, flee this place, Flee this place, oh, flee this place. Or join us all and one. Over and over, the whispers repeated, growing and growing until they were as a screaming wind, a howling tempest loosed from the underworld. Sweetie bolted from the wall in search of her friends. All around her, the guards raced to and fro, confusion gripping the castle’s defenders. A few threw spears into the mists or fired crossbows in futile gestures. She found her friends huddled in a corner of Talona’s room, pressed tightly together. The little filly shivered, her face white beneath her coat, eyes pinpricks of terror, and wings hugging her body tight enough to leave bruises. Apple Bloom and Scootaloo argued in low growls over what to do; look for Sweetie, or try to escape now. Relief flooded their faces when they looked up and saw her. “He is here!” Talona wailed, bolting out from between Scootaloo and Apple Bloom and down the corridor. “Hades is here! The God of the Dead is here! He is going to get us!” “Come on,” Sweetie said to her friends, voice raised to be heard over the screaming whispers. “Whatever is going on is centered on her.” “Then shouldn’t we get as far away from that psychic-path as possible?” Scootaloo waved her hooves furiously. Rolling her eyes, Apple Bloom demanded, “An’ when has that ever worked out for us? I wouldn’t be surprised if we ain’t the cause of this somehow!” “We’ve not even done anything, this time,” Scootaloo countered. Grinding her teeth, Sweetie marched out of the room. They didn’t have the time for their usual banter. Apple Bloom and Scootaloo were quick to follow. They passed griffon after griffon, guard and servant alike in a state of incomprehensible panic. No one challenged the fillies, too busy clawing at their ears or cowering in blind terror. Sweetie dashed into the training grounds, and screeched to a stop. Talona stood at the center of the arena, staring at a cart on the far side. The cart held the grisly remains of the griffons she’d killed, a limb dangling over the edge as if the occupant was only asleep. Sweetie wrinkled her nose in distaste, and focused on Talona. The alicorn filly shrank into a small ball, and began to scoot backwards. The whispers suddenly stopped, a pregnant pause quavering over the city as it held a collective breath. And then came a crashing roar as the castle gates shattered in a ringing bang heard near and far. Hoofsteps rumbled, and a new voice rose over the city. A voice terrible in its power and hatred. Whoever approached was singing. His voice could be heard in every corner of the city, in the deepest dungeons and highest towers, with equal clarity. Magic carried the song, and gave it a deep boom exalted by horns and drums that resonated in Sweetie’s marrow. Broken lay bonds over death, Sleep no more in realms of grey, The living be your righteous prey. The Horns of Tartarus do sound, And lands of death lay unbound. Shattered lay chains over death! They thought to steal my light. So grasp shield and spear, And throw on cloaks of fear. Doom and death rumble on the drum, And thunder rages as you come. To reclaim she who is mine by right. Now fury fills my heart once cold, Fury burns with rage untold. Fury hot and red does sing, And clamours for only one thing; Revenge! Revenge! To lands of Life we make our way, And thusly ends this final day. With doom and gloom and boom of drum. To doom and gloom and boom of drum. Revenge! Revenge! Until a second death; Revenge! “Get up, princess,” Sweetie tugged at Talona, but the filly only let out a wail, and curled tighter. Cursing the stupidity of the very young, Sweetie began to pick up Talona with magic, only for the ring around her horn to painfully end such attempts. Uttering a serious of low curses at forgetting the dampening ring, Sweetie rubbed her head. She was grateful she hadn’t tried to do anything strenuous, like cast a spell. Not that she knew any. “Here, let me,” Apple Bloom said, bending down to help. Movement on the cart used to haul away the dead made the fillies freeze. A limb twitched, and a griffon flopped to the ground. Unsteadily, the griffon pushed itself up with his back to the fillies. He shuffled a few steps away, then paused, and turned towards the fillies. For a moment Sweetie thought the griffon to still be alive, that her stroke had not been lethal afterall. She was unsure if she experienced a wave of relief or worry. The gore flecked beak, milky pale eyes, and ragged hole through which Sweetie could see the griffon’s split, unmoving heart killed any such ideas. The dead griffon jerked towards her, head swinging in a sloppy arc. Feet dragging in the blood soaked ground, he reached towards Talona with broken, mangled talons. Scooping Talona up, Sweetie darted to the side. She was quickly passed by Scootaloo, her friend shrieking as she galloped past stalls filled with wretched slaves and into the room used by the slavemaster. Apple Bloom next to her, Sweetie changed direction to follow Scootaloo. It was a terrible place to go. Inside they’d be trapped, the only way out back into the arena. “That is a zombie!” Scootaloo gasped, chest heaving in terror and back pressed to a wall. “A. Real. Zombie.” “What in Celestia’s mane is going on?” Sweetie demanded, turning to Apple Bloom. “I know I’ve been saying this a lot lately; but how the hay should I know!?” “What are you lot doing here?” The slavemaster growled as he appeared in the doorway, scarred face twisted into an angry sneer. His talons twitched towards the command rod. Compelled by fierce instinct, Sweetie reacted without hesitation. Sparks popped in front of Sweetie’s eyes, the ring on her horn attempting to nullify her magic. Though weakened, Sweetie flung the door shut with a wet crunch, edge striking the slavemaster on the neck. The slavemaster blinked, and then toppled over dead. His head lolling grotesquely at a wrong angle. For a moment the fillies just stood, and stared at the slavemaster’s body. “Princess, take these collars off my friends and me,” Sweetie ordered, her voice colder than the frosty mountain air. Talona gaped at Sweetie and pressed her tail between her legs, ears folded back in petrified submission. From the slavemaster’s body they retrieved the keys to their collars, and one by one they were unbound, and Sweetie’s magic dampening ring removed. Calmly, Sweetie yanked the command rod from the slavemaster’s harness and snapped it in her magic. She then dragged the body into a corner. “Who have you become, Sweetie?” Apple Bloom asked quietly, when the last collar fell away. “A monster,” Sweetie answered, voice just as soft. She turned to Talona, and took back Durandel and Scootaloo’s armour. Talona only gave a low squeak of protest at losing her trophies. “There is going to be a lot of fighting to get out of this city. Wait here a moment while I clear out the arena.” Stepping out of the slave-pens alone, Sweetie cast her eyes about for the zombies. The griffons she’d killed earlier shambled around the arena, both near the passageway back into the castle. Drawn by the scent of life, the zombies twisted towards Sweetie. With unearthly shrieks they broke into a lopping sprint. Muscles and magic burst into equal action. Growing accustomed to sudden, violent motion, Sweetie darted beneath the zombie’s sloppy swing. Only a few weeks prior, she’d never have imagined herself becoming used to fighting, to the rush of combat, the singing song of pounding blood, and dancing on the edge of life and death. She wondered if Rarity had ever felt the same way in her adventures. The zombies had no conception of dodging, or danger. Durandel came down on the first zombie’s shoulder, and he fell into two halves, spilling entrails and gore with a sickening splat. Without slowing, Sweetie felled the second in similar fashion. Heedless of their dismemberment, the zombies continued to move until Sweetie drove Durandel into their heads, bursting them like overly ripe melons on a hot summer road. Panting, Sweetie spent only a moment to gather her wits before collecting her friends. She hovered on leaving Talona behind. The filly was nothing but trouble. She’d tormented Sweetie and her friends for the past couple weeks. Forced Sweetie to hurt and kill. Yet, Sweetie knew in her heart that Talona was only a filly, a child who didn’t understand the consequences of her actions. Nopony had ever taught her the difference between right and wrong, good and evil. She couldn’t leave a foal behind. “Let’s go, girls,” Sweetie said, leading the way back into the castle. Unsure where else to go, Sweetie decided to head towards the vault, and hide there. Maybe they could fix the gate—somehow—and escape that way. Barring that, they could come up with some plan of escaping the city. Or wait out whatever calamity was striking the city until the princesses came to the rescue. A city of zombie-griffons seemed like the sort of thing that would attract the attention of at least one of the princesses. To reach the vault they had to pass through the throne room. As they neared the throne room the entire mountain quaked and a violent roar made Sweetie’s bones shake. The noise was all-encompassing, and for a brief instant Sweetie expected the castle to collapse around her. Bursting into a gallop, she charged ahead. She didn’t slow when the tremors ceased, or even for the door to the throne room, shoving it open with her aura before she’d even reached it. She did slide to a halt when she entered the throne room. Unprepared for Sweetie’s sudden stop, Apple Bloom, Scootaloo, and Talona ran right into her, the group bowling over into a heap. Struggling to pull themselves apart, the group of fillies were ignored by the large crowd filling the throne room. The entire griffon court was gathered and arrayed around a midnight black alicorn. Silvery mane flying about as if caught in a winter storm, cloaked in a thick shroud of dark aether, Hades loomed over the king and queen, the pair held in his hissing aura. Nestling herself between Apple Bloom and Scootaloo, Talona did her best to disappear. “It was a good effort, Amon,” Hades snorted at the king, “But you are just a marquis, and I am the King of Tartarus. Were you at your full strength this may have been an interesting challenge, but crippled? And in a mortal host? How low the mighty have fallen.” Talons scraping in futile gestures at the aura around his throat, the king snarled, “This world is ours, Hades. Sending me back solves nothing. More and more of us slip through the cracks of your prison. Tartarus can no longer contain demonkind.” “Then I simply have to mend the cracks. Thank you for telling me, Amon. Give my regards to Leviathan.” Hades tensed his wings, and a sickening crack filled the throne room as the former griffon king’s chest burst open. Sweetie clutched Apple Bloom and Scootaloo tighter, and they held Talona in terrified hooves. She twisted them all away so they didn’t have to see what was happening. Her breaths came in shallow gasps, and, try as she might, the image of the king’s final moments were seared into her. A thick, white crystal floated towards Hades, corrupt green veins pulsing across the surface giving it a mockery of life. Hades then turned to regard the griffon queen. He took a deep breath, and spoke in a low growl. “You sought to abuse the power of a god, to corrupt her, to turn her into a tool for petty conquest. You thought to use your mate as host to a lord of demonic pits. You hungered for glories and powers fit only for the gods.” With each accusation, Hades loomed larger and larger. He vibrated with anger, and magic crackled along the edges of his dark wings. With a boom, he proclaimed, “I grant you only death! I curse your kind. I curse your city. Your hunger will never abate, your thirsts never slack. There will be no release. Not by sword, nor time, nor spell. Neither alive nor dead, you will be forced to watch the world as ages pass. Frozen, as if in amber, in an agony of want you’ll exist, you and your kin bound to this city until the stars grow cold, the mountain erodes into plains, and the sun vanishes from the heavens in a bloody froth.” Magic so cold it burned struck Sweetie’s back, and reached out over the city and down Kiligriffjaro’s slopes and to the savanna. At the epicenter, Queen Hydrosa howled, her body writhing at the primal energies cascading through her. Bones snapped to a sickening refrain, her dying screams turning into a gurgle that was silenced by the tolling of a bell. Three times the bell struck, its ringing tones coming from within Sweetie’s bones. When the last note faded a silence more pervasive than that which hangs over graveyards left a void. Raising her head, Sweetie looked on in horror at the griffons. They lay in trembling heaps, spasms shaking dead limbs in paroxysms of life. Hades stood unmoving before the central heap that was the queen, a slight sneer simmering with a cold light in his blue eyes. The queen raised herself up uncertainty, and slowly, around her, so did the other griffons. She looked the same, unchanged, but for the last traces of a receding green glow. Her talons twitched, tested the air, and she smiled. In a sudden flurry of violent motion, the queen slashed at Hades. Razor sharp talons halted a mere breath away from the gods throat. Her face contorted with shock that morphed into rage. She tried again, with identical results. When she pounced an unseen force flung her away. Her arm halted when she attempted to hurl a bust of her dead husband. No matter what, she was prevented from harming Hades. Striding past the fuming queen, Hades mounted the dias and swept aside the twin thrones with a casual wing. In their place he conjured a throne of swooping silver and hard-edged iron. After he took his throne, Hades placed the stone he ripped from Amon onto the leg rest next to him. He then raised his voice, and called out, “You may enter now, Soir.” The large doors protested as they were pushed open a crack, and Soir slinked through the gap. She hesitated at all the griffons, and kept a wide space between herself and them as she made her way across the throne room. They stared at her, silent, unmoving, held in place by Hades’ curse. Sweetie frowned at the filly, wondering how she was connected with the God of the Dead. “Je n’ai toujours pas vu Twilight,” Soir said when she reached the bottom of the dais, her voice sweet and innocent amidst all the horror. Sweetie’s ears flicked up at hearing Prench, her mind racing faster as she tried to figure out what was going to happen next, and why the filly was looking for Princess Twilight. “She is coming. Look over there, those ponies are dear to her.” Hades indicated Sweetie and the others with a wingtip. He then beckoned them to approach. Understanding the command for what it was, Sweetie released her hold over the others, and said in a low hiss, “Come on, we better not make him angry. He seems as bad as Nightmare Moon or Discord.” Hades inspected the fillies one by one, pausing for a moment with Sweetie, and saying, “I met your sister. She was brought before me in Tartarus. It is thanks to her I am here.” Tongue suddenly leaden, Sweetie didn’t know how to respond. Anything she said wouldn’t have mattered, as Hades moved on to Talona. “And my, aren't you a curious thing! How is my little great-niece doing among these savages?” “You don’t want to eat me?” Talona poked her head out from between Apple Bloom and Scootaloo. “But, mama always said you were the meanest, cruelest, most dispicablest pony ever.” Smiling, surrounded by the court of undead griffons, Hades asked, “Whatever gave her that impression? I’m a very proper, respectable god.” “Yay! Uncle-Lord Hades isn’t a bad god, after-all!” Talona clapped her small hooves, and then made to bound up onto the throne, much as she would with the griffon king and queen. Giggling, she was caught in an aura, and set down next to Soir. “Hello,” Talona looked Soir over head to hoof, and then bowed, “I am Talona, Daughter of Wisdom and War, and goddess-princess of Griffonia. Who are you?” Taken aback, Soir introduced herself in an uncertain mutter. She was watching Hades with something like pity, mixed with horror tinged by fear. Hades addressed his new court in a voice that boomed out over the city and slopes beyond. “These five are my treasured guests. See to their every need and comfort. I command it so.” The griffons bowed. It was impossible for them to refuse, bound to Hades adamantium will. Across the city salty rain began to fall, growing from a soft patter into a thick torrent of mothers’ tears.