“This way!” I called. “Keep your head down!”
I half-stumbled, half-crawled my way along the wall. There was a small corridor of clear air here, but only just. Smoke, sweat, and ash stung my eyes, and my breathing came ragged. The choking black smoke hung inches above my head, and, the flames licked at broken chairs just to my right. The only sound was the roaring of the flames and the screaming of the changelings—
“Watch out!” cried Fluttershy from just behind me.
I looked up just in time to see a burning wooden beam falling towards me. It slammed to the floor in an explosion of sparks, and I stumbled backwards into the pony behind me. I snarled, lit my horn, and tossed the beam back into the blaze. I wiped the sweat off my forehead, and crawled forward again.
“There!” Fluttershy cried again.
And, at the same moment, I saw it: a shaft of pure, clean light, still bright through the smoke. The door! I licked my lips, then stumble-crawled towards it, hoping that the ponies behind me were keeping up.
I stumbled out into the open air. Instantly, a dozen hooves grabbed me and pulled me towards them. I looked up, and saw a whole crowd of ponies: medics ready with oxygen tanks and cold packs, firefighters hosing down the rug and the door, and a whole platoon of Royal Guards, spears at the ready, waiting for any changelings that might try to escape.
“No,” I said, struggling against the medics. “There’s more—”
And through the smoke and fire came a line of ponies: Fluttershy, who collapsed into a firepony’s arms as soon as she crossed the threshold. Applejack, one of her bandanas pulled over her face, supporting a barely-conscious Pinkie Pie. Rainbow, who had a few of her feathers singed off one wing. And Rarity and Blue, she covering her eyes and coughing, he shooting me an uneven grin as he passed, both of them stained black with soot. Behind them, a whole march of other prisoners, each ragged and coughing.
“I think that’s everyone,” I said to one of the soldiers. “Go ahead, and—”
But then, I heard a new sound from beyond the door—a hissing, a growling, an evil sound out of nightmares. I turned to look, then took a step forward, towards the sound—and, as I did, time seemed to stop.
I can still see it, sometimes, when I close my eyes: the inky black smoke billowing out of the hole in the door. The fireponies, their shiny red helmets and black coats, trying to keep the fire at bay with just their little back-mounted tanks of water. Blueblood, turning to me with a question on his lips. And, beyond them all, the curtain of fire that filled the hole in the massive double-doors.
As I turned to stare, the curtain of flames seemed to swell, then billowed outwards. Just as it seemed about to burst, it tore in two. The changeling queen, fangs bared and snarling, leapt towards me. Her wings and mane were burning, and deep slashes covered her face and throat, but her eyes were full of hatred and death.
I screamed.
* * *
They say that the queen was probably dead before she hit me. After all, the doctors weren’t even sure how she could walk with all those burns, let alone jump like she did. And, even if she was somehow still alive, she had impaled herself on my horn when she slammed into me, sealing the deal.
They also said that, despite appearances, we had never been alone. They said that the guards had been cooking up a plan to set fire to the throne room, almost since the changelings had taken it over, in an effort to smoke them out. That Blueblood, against direct orders, had gone to start the fire himself. That, without him, nearly everyone in that room, except myself, would have been counted an “Acceptable Casualty.” They said that, if he wasn’t already a prince, Blue would have been eligible for a medal of some sort from the Guard, but that they were currently trying to figure out a way to give him one anyways.
They also said, after the fact, that the wedding was wonderful. Rarity and Blue’s wedding clothes were ruined, as were most of the guests, so they decided to keep it casual. Everyone enjoyed themselves, the cake was delicious, and the two of them helped at least a few of the guests to get over the griefs of the day.
But I honestly couldn’t tell you if all that was true or not. The next two days were, for me, an endless nightmare of fire, and smoke, and claws, and the queen, endlessly leaping at me—
When I woke, I found they’d moved me to the Infirmary. I found that, without me around to help raise it, the sun was still coasting by on its natural momentum, though it had almost slowed to a stop despite Luna’s efforts. They told me that there was nothing wrong with me--not physically, anyways. Still, they’d had me talk to a psychologist: Dr. Winter Rose. She was already Luna’s shrink, which was probably against ethical codes somewhere, but I suppose she was still the logical choice; after all, she was already used to keeping Royal Secrets anyways.
Dr. Rose told me that it was too early to tell, but that I would almost certainly develop a condition called post-traumatic stress. She said there was a whole laundry list of official criteria for diagnosis, most of which wouldn’t manifest for weeks or months. But it was still a pretty good bet that I had it, given the way I’d reacted so far. It was normal in my situation, nothing to be ashamed of.
That might have been true—but she didn’t tell me it would come to define who I was for the rest of my life.
She was right, of course. But you probably figured that out already. Ever since the wedding, I’ve had nightmares about the queen, chasing me, laughing at me, lunging at me. I’ve seen lurking shadows in the corner of my vision, even when I was awake. And even thinking about the changelings is sometimes still enough to trigger a flashback. Dr. Rose gave me a few worksheets--and, I will admit they helped, at least a little--but I couldn’t bring myself to see her more than once or twice. I already felt like a failure, even without having to recite a play-by-play of everything I’d done wrong just for the benefit of some shrink.
The changeling queen died there that day, impaled on my horn. And yet, I couldn’t help thinking, with all the scars she’s left me, that, somehow, she had still won.