//------------------------------// // Our Lady Of Sorrows // Story: Good Trooper Gilda // by Mitch H //------------------------------// They weren't supposed to be advertising that there was a pony princess in the city, but it was impossible to hide a shocking pink alicorn dressed in gold and black and grey in the middle of an honor guard of griffons and ponies in full dress uniform a quarter-mile long, with a squadron of Cloudsdale Chasseurs flying cover overhead. All it would take would be the addition of Lady George, and they'd have been the very embodiment of the return of the crab-back marches. They'd managed to alternate pony and griffon companies in the column of march, with the Fifth Territorials' companies just ahead of the princess's carriage, and the companies from the Marezonian Provincials just behind. This happened to put Gilda and Gleaming Shield - with her perfected anti-gonne shield spell in hoof - right in front of the princess's open-topped travelling coach, whose armored roof had been rolled back to let the VIP see her fellow-princess's duchy eye to eye, muzzle to muzzle, face to face. Minuette and the Marezonian lieutenant known as Slapshot followed immediately behind the princess's coach with the rest of that pony regiment's honor-guard. They had been positioned so that the ponies who had shown the most affinity for the new defensive magic were properly placed to cover the princess from attack from the rear. Thankfully, the majority of the procession-route from the airship field to the gates of the garrison was through the mostly-pony suburbs to the south of the city, and aside from every shop-keeper, housewife, and worker-pony in the entire district showing up for the spectacle, it wasn't as overblown as it could have been. There were enough of the civilians that Gilda was pretty sure someone had been talking; it might have been the detachments of soldiers posted at every corner, crossroad, and tree along the route. A yellow unicorn came running up beside the procession column, and jostled Gilda as she hurried past. There was an enormous boxy device in the unicorn’s hornglow, and Gilda turned her worried eyes in alarm to her officer, marching beside the lance corporal. “Ignore it, Gilda. It’s not a weapon. It’s just an annoyance.” Gilda saw what Gleaming Shield was talking about when they caught up again with the yellow mare, who had her device unfolded from its box and set up on a tripod, another big bulbous device held overhead. What was that, was it a…? A bright, blinding light put stars in Gilda’s eyes, and as she blinked and stumbled in confusion, the new unicorn was gone, her bulky devices trailing behind her as she galloped down the street beside the marching, blinking troops. “See?” said Gleaming Shield, projecting for the benefit of the rest of the flash-blinded company. “Photographers. Annoying but harmless. Keep moving, everygriffon!” The crowds got thicker as they got closer to the city, and it soon looked like some damn fool had let out the schools. The last half-mile was lined by cheering, chattering schoolfoals, giddy to have gotten out of their classes. The princess stood in her carriage with her wings twitching as she waved, to one side, then to the other, then back again, the smile on her lips never quite meeting her eyes. The yellow photographer scurried about, setting up her camera to quickly capture each little crowd of foals as they jumped and bounced to get on film with the princess. Gilda noted a strange thing as they passed each clump of civilians along the road. As the princess's carriage approached them, they raised their hooves and cheered, smiling and laughing.  But as the princess returned their waves and met their eyes, silence spread through the little crowds. Smiles slipped from faces, and eyes glistened in the fading light. The schoolfoals who crowded to get close to the princess were hit particularly hard, and Gilda's eyes were drawn to the little clots of weeping fillies leaning on each other in the wake of the princess and her publicity photographer. Maybe they were just blinking the glare of the camera flash out of their eyes. Maybe. The last few blocks were in the gloom of the sudden twilight of winter, and the crowds were deep, but even in the gleam of the flickering streetlights, Gilda could see the shock-wave of the princess's regard as they moved, and the crowds' mood shifted from the celebration of spectacle to something more… inward and confused. The princess's passage left behind her solemn, even teary-eyed ponies where there had been crowds looking for - what do crowds seek when they go to watch a parade? Validation? Hope? Fellow-feeling? They didn't get what they expected to get, of that Gilda was sure, of that if nothing else. But the photographer kept getting her shots. Gilda wondered how well they would come out, in the darkening gloom. The passage inside the garrison fortifications was subdued in comparison, and they got the princess and her entourage of stuffy unicorns and hoofmaidens and so forth ensconced in the royal apartments that every Royal Fortress had built into them as part of the basic architectural design, an entire wing of spacious rooms just below the turrets, and above the general officers' quarters.  The crowd of would-be honor guards occupied most of the officers' attentions as they did their best to peel off all the excess ponies and griffons, lest the pressure of their jostling and crowding bring down walls and bury each other in loose-jointed masonry. The Army of Occupation's G-2 section had quietly claimed the royal apartments for extra meeting and office space, and the squatting ponies had been rather stubborn about evacuating the princess's rightful suite. Gleaming Shield and the princess's head of personal security, a jovial pegasus named Spearhead, had to roust the last few intelligence boffins out of the royal boudoir they were squatting in, almost at Spearhead's namesake. Meanwhile the princess waited, patiently, greeting various ponies from the assembled honor-guards, saying little. "Well, then, my little ponies," said the princess, that paragon of pony virtues, to her remaining escort of griffons and pegasi who crowded the hall outside of her newly claimed apartments. "I thank you for your help in making today such a painless and wonderful experience. Your professionalism and enthusiasm created, within what I know to be a warzone, a moment of peace and happy meetings. Go to your bunks tonight with the knowledge that you have done your Duchess, my Aunt the Princess Celestia, and all her hopes of peace and justice, proud." As Gilda and Gleaming Shield turned to lead their griffons back to the temporary berth they had in the Fifth's barracks, the pony princess continued, more quietly, just for them. "T- Lieutenant Shield, a moment of your time, I need to discuss matters with you. Please, include whomever you think should be included in our talk, if you…" the alicorn waved a wing vaguely, trying to hint at what, Gilda didn't know. "Ah, yes, of course, Your Highness. Gilda, tell Corporal Guillaume and Lieutenants Light Bringer and Clockworks that they have command of the joint companies, and I will see them later tonight if I can get back in time, or in the morning if not. Then join us in the royal apartments. These fine troopers will know to let you in - am I correct, gentlecolts?" The pegasus guards and Gilda braced in acknowledgement, and all turned away to do their duties. When Gilda returned, one slate of duties completed and half a carafe of coffee gulped down, the red-eyed bat-hen found a new set of pegasus guards in the foyer of the princess's apartments. One nodded to the griffon while the other looked through the armored slit in the door across the back of the foyer, said something to the pony on the other side of the thick door, and nodded. The heavy door creaked open, its hinges clearly rusted from disuse. Standing beyond the doorway was one of the white-coated identical ponies, a mare with striking grey eyes and a benevolent expression.   "Lady Mirror, the Princess's guest has arrived," said the lavender-coated mare in neo-classical Roamish armor. "Oh, dearie, no," said the blonde earth pony in an even, blissful tone. "I'm not Mirror, that's my older sister. I'm Hotspur. You can tell because I'll tell you when you get us mixed up, everypony says I have to work on my temper. I'm sorry to snap at you, you're doing a lovely job, the Princess is pleased." The earth pony mare turned her regard upon Gilda, and her even smile didn't even so much as waver. "Corporal Gilda, I presume? The Princess awaits your presence, dear. Please follow me." "N-no," stuttered Gilda, put off by the unnatural affect of the princess's - what, majordomo?  Hoofmaiden? "I'm a lance corporal. But I think she's expecting me - I'm Lieutenant Gleaming Shield's bat-hen." "Are you now? Fancy that.” Just then, the entire hallway was lit up by the sudden flash of light which Gilda was beginning to recognize as a camera going off. If Gilda hadn’t experienced it before, she’d have thought somegriffon had just set off a bomb in the hall. She turned to look, and sure enough, there was the blasted photographer again. “Do you mind, you damned dweeb?” “Nope, don’t mind in the least! Just doin’ my job. See ya!” “Oh, dear,” chuckled the blonde hoofmaiden as the yellow unicorn scurried off. “Well, our Lemon Hearts, she is industrious, isn’t she? Sorry for the inconvenience, ‘Lance Corporal Gilda’. Please follow me, this way." The royal apartments were larger than an entire company's barracks, but were subdivided such that they didn't echo or give the cavernous impression of a public space. The blonde hoof-maiden's tail swished back and forth in a graceful fashion that made Gilda think of a pony romance of the First Celestia Era she had once read in Auntie Gertrude's thick-walled fortified lending library. They found the princess and her lieutenant in a shabby receiving parlor that looked like the evicted spooks had been using it as a break room. Gleaming Shield looked uncomfortable on a rather threadbare loveseat across a battered coffee table from the beautiful young princess, who was sitting placidly in a clam-like sitting chair, the name of which escaped Gilda. Fauteuil? Gondola? Bergère? Grandpa Gruff had cared so much about fine furniture, and had pored over an old catalog from his import-export days… not that she'd ever seen a stick of it outside of books. Whatever it had been in its youth, it was now a shame and an embarrassment to be used as it currently was, worn and patchy, holding the royal derriere. Gilda was embarrassed for the chair, and whoever had been responsible for seating the princess in it. The near-divine pony sitting in that once-elegant chair made Gilda think of other wood-cut scenes she'd seen in books, of the queen of the seaponies, bourne by strange heraldic figures heaving her up out of the foaming waves of the sea in a giant clamshell. Only the figures holding up the goddess were street-bums, and the clamshell a bit of flotsam held together by half-dried seaweed. And the goddess was dressed in black and grey, with black kohl or eyeliner ringing her eyes like a mournful raccoon. The latter was much more obvious here, under proper lights, than it had been back at the airship grounds, or in the procession into town. "-fool thought to tell you that." Gleaming Shield was saying, fuming. "This city is not ready for a royal visit. The griffish districts are an open fire zone, we're getting dozens if not hundreds of casualties a week, you can't drive a carriage from one side of the city to the other without getting robbed, and there are hamlets out there in the hills where travelling in less than company strength is considered invitation to open battle by the clans. I have to say, your presence here is a provocation, another one! Did that lunatic Pie dream-" "Calm yourself, Twi- Gleaming Shield. My decision to come at this time was my decision alone. We're aware of the difficulties you've encountered, but it's time to show the flag. I've been assured that the Battle of Gilbert Square was a turning-point, and we need to reap the moral victory from the physical one." "The Battle of- have you been getting letters from that imbecile Blueblood? Nopony who fought in the Crab Bucket calls it that! One slaughter doesn't make a war, we've just cracked open the cyst. The city still has the infection, it's still sick with rebellion!" "Calmness. Do you recall that little trick I showed you to get past your panic attacks?" "This is not a panic attack! This is a reasoned argument based on the fact that the city is full of snipers and bandits, and the hills full of hostile clan-griffons." "It is a risk I am willing to take." The pink princess turned from Gilda's fuming officer, and looked directly at the bat-hen, who had been trying to not get involved in the argument. "Ah, Corporal Gilda, was it not?" asked the alicorn, and Gilda's heart nearly stopped. The princess knew her name! Her presence was overwhelming, she terrified Gilda. Gilda wanted to grovel at her pony hooves, she wanted to run and hide in some dark corner where she could forget that this pony knew her name, knew who she was. Wait. She thought she was a corporal. "No, Your Highness," Gilda choked out. "You are not Gilda of Griffonstone?" "Well, yes, I am, but I'm only a lance corporal, your divinity...ness." "Cadance is fine, Corporal. And you've been promoted, because Tw- Gleaming Shield has been promoted. It was the least I could do." Gilda looked at her lieutenant, who had, it appeared, been upgraded. The purple pony rolled her eyes in disgust. "Congratulations, captain ma'am. If you have a bit, I'll be glad to sell you your first salute." "That's for ensigns, Corporal. Sit down and stop looming." Gilda sat in the shabby clamshell chair's twin, all the way across the coffee table from the goddess and her lieut- her captain.  She'd gotten herself under control by keeping her gaze upon her captain, but as she snuck glances out of the corner of her eye at the pinkness, she had to struggle for mastery all over again. It was a princess, nothing more. Royalty, like all of her abominable kin. Nothing to worship, nothing to adore. A villain in pony skin. "Tw- Gleaming Shield has much to say about you. But much of it doesn't make much sense. Can you explain?" Gilda seemed to be tripping over ponies constantly these days who insisted on riling up her officer with her discarded, forbidden name. Annoying enough to focus her attention on the situation, and not the pulsing pink challenge to Gilda's entire world-view sitting demurely in that derelict of a chair. Gilda came to as much of a species of attention as you can achieve while sitting down. "That depends on what it is I am to explain, Your Highness Ma'am." Wait, blast, that was wrong. "What are we talking about, Ma'am Princess?" Not better. "Ha! Do you know how long it's been since I've laughed, corporal? You may call me Cadance. Gleaming Shield does, when she remembers. And please, don't make a princess ask you three times. Cay. Dance." "I always remember, Cadance," sighed Gleaming Shield. "It's grossly inappropriate, but I obey my princess's orders in this as well as everything else." "Gleaming, we're practically family. You can't keep putting this distance between us." "And yet, Princess, there is a distance." "I foal-sat you! I dated your brother!" "And I was a child. When we get our cutie marks, we put away foalish things. As you should have done long ago. You don't belong in a war zone!" "Still, here I am, and here I will be until it is time for Aunt Celestia's yacht to return and send me and my ponies on my way. For whatever good that may do. You may be right for reasons other than the danger. Did you see those crowds?" "Yes, of course. They loved you as they always love you." "You're kind. I could see the tears out of the corner of my eyes. They were miserable." "It's a country at war," said Gleaming Shield, "a city under siege. They have a lot to be upset about. You know you don't make it out of nothing, right?" "I can, if I want to. If there's a fleck of something, I can bring it out. Sometimes it happens without me even trying. What if I wanted those ponies to be miserable?" "Did you? Want them to be miserable?" "No!" the princess snapped. "Of course not!" She looked aside, and looked back at the purple unicorn. "Sometimes it's a choice between anger and pain, Twilight. Do I want to pour more anger into crowds while you're all doing your best to put out these fires? Like we did at the beginning?" "Gleaming. Shield!" growled Gilda's captain through her gritted teeth. "You of all ponies should remember that. It's the reason you worked the crowds in the first place. The reason we're all here, up to our fetlocks in Trottingham slush and filth. We couldn't let it rest unanswered." "I- you know I do my best. I just wanted to do my best. I've always wanted the best for everypony, it's just that sometimes… I get things wrong. I'm tired of getting things wrong." "We weren't wrong!" barked Gleaming Shield. "You weren't wrong. This is a necessary thing. You did the necessary thing. Just as we're doing the necessary thing now. That 'better peace' than the one we started with." "Aunt Celestia told me at the beginning, told us, standing there at Minister Pants' bedside. 'There is no war preferable to even the worst peace.' I wish I'd listened to her, but Fancy Pants was so broken. I was so angry." The long-horned, wide-winged beauty looked sadly at Gilda's officer. But then, the princess had done nothing but look sad and beautiful, all day long. Gilda felt the urge to - she didn't know what. Cheer the pony up? Shake her until her teeth rattled? Shake her until she smiled?  All Gilda knew, is that she had to do something, before this discussion broke somegriff's heart. "Princess," began Gilda, feeling her way across the conversational ice, wondering where the ice was thinnest, where it was safe to tread upon. "Perhaps we could begin with defining our terms, our resources, your goals, and our needs. Then we could safely say that we've stepped beyond usages and hit upon the actual principles underlying our endeavours." Blast. Gilda hadn't intended to quote Hominy's Present Theory of War. "Gilda, damn it, you have to stop that, every time I tell ponies you're just a simple bat-hen, you start talking like a textbook. And what are you talking about… wait. Princess, Gilda tends to remember more of our problem due to the exigencies of the… the… what was it again, Gilda?" Oh. "Our princessly curse problem, lieut- captain ma'am. You've not checked your cheat sheet recently? Left withers pocket, jacket, captain ma'am." Just the subject to distract the princess from… whatever they had been arguing about. As Gleaming Shield scrabbled for her reminder-note, Gilda turned to the princess. "Princess ma'am, the problem is that we have a foreign princess in Trottingham with a cursed object which keeps ponies and griffons from remembering who she is, what she is, and many assorted other facts associated with Lady George." "Right!" barked Gleaming Shield, looking up from her cheat sheet. "George! I'd almost forgotten again. The Great Turul's heir! She's in the city. In the garrison, actually - is she still here, Gilda?" "I looked in on her briefly as I saw off the company, captain ma'am. I'm not sure how we'll engineer a meeting between Princess Cadenza and her, though." Gilda turned back to the royal princess sitting on her chair, looking a bit confused by the sudden change in topic. "Turuls are enormous, intelligent bird-folk. Their lesser breeds are known here in the west as rocs. We supposedly have one as the mascot for the Fifth Territorial. This is not, in actual fact, a roc. It is the royal heir of the Turul Flock, whom some say are the rightful rulers of the continent of Beakland." "In the middle of the Trottish Rebellion? That seems… not an ideal state of affairs," observed Princess Cadance, brushing at the black velvet of her dress. "The characteristics of her curse means that most griffons and ponies forget her existence almost as soon as she leaves their sight. It is a sort of defense." "Of sorts," snorted the princess. "I would rather like to be the subject of such a curse. There are worse blessings." "Well, it makes the rest of her life as problematic as the lack of threats to her person are a benefit; considerably more so, I would say. We've been trying to improve her situation, and putting her to gainful employment with the battalion, but this is not, not…" "The appropriate occupation of a princess of high rank and supposed prospects?" "As the Princess says." "You are not affected by this curse?" "For my sins, no, Your Highness ma'am." "Gilda doesn't like to talk about it," said Gleaming Shield, her eyes glittering at her bat-hen, "But I'm fairly sure she's the legitimate heir to the Crown of Grover." "LIES! Calumny! Falsehoods of the first feather! Lieutenant ma'am, how can you slander me so? I am not one of those monstrous royals! I'm better than that, damn it all! What next, will you accuse me of cannibalism or clipping bits?" Gilda looked back at the pink princess, and saw assailed guilt in her eyes. Huge, black-outlined, watery eyes, the kohl just beginning to run, her lower lip trembling, quivering. This was a pony burdened with something vast, heavy, the dimensions of which Gilda had only just now come to see, dimly. And however belatedly, just how her ill-considered words had added another few pounds to the crushing load. "No, no, Princess, ma'am, Your Highness - I didn't, I didn't - I didn't mean you!" And then the waterworks began. Gleaming Shield shot out of her loveseat to comfort her foal-sitter princess, who was now bawling her eyes out, weeping shamelessly, like a fledgeling too young to know better. The captain's eyes burned like coals at her treacherous, brutish bat-hen. Gilda was in so much trouble.