The Rariad

by Tundara


Part Seven

The Rariad
By Tundara

7: Gaea

Nopony ever expected the Twelfth Battle of Salamis, waged on a warm spring day two hundred years after the Great War came to its cataclysmic close, to be a deciding point on which the Spinning Wheel of Fate turned. There, at the tiller of his galley, stood King Mystalicus, helm tight on his head and a tormented grin playing at the corner of his mouth. 

His fleet was small, a mere hundred vessels, against twice their number of Spartans. The blue sails of those loyal to Athena were vastly outnumbered by those bearing the red and gold mark of Ares. Even the numbers within the ships were vastly disproportionate. Only a few of the Athenian vessels had even a dozen hoplites, and their banks of oars were sadly depleted. In contrast, the Spartan ship fairly swarmed with soldiers, with many more having been left behind for lack of room when they’d departed their city. 

Even as they closed, neither side pinned any great ambitions behind the battle. 

The Spartans were a race bred for war. They were the chosen sons and daughters of Ares, and revelled in battle and slaughter. Battlefields were their temples and war a hymn in their god’s honour. To die on the battlefield, with head held proudly high, was their only chance of drawing Ares’ gaze and perhaps his favour whereby they’d be admitted for a time into his palace on Olympus. There they’d bask in his glory with the other heroes of song and legend before rejoining the cycle of life and death.

On the other side, the Athenians fought to protect their homes and family. No glory awaited them, and every pony readily accepted that they possessed no alicorn to provide a shield beneath guardian wings. All they prayed to accomplish was to stem the Spartans’ advance for a short time.

Few of the cities that worshipped the Lost Gods survived. Two centuries had taken their toll, as so too had the victors with their plundering. Ponies moved by the thousands in vast herds. Some founded new cities worshipping one of the surviving gods. Others joined those that had remained neutral throughout the Great War, or the cities fortunate enough to not have lost their protectors. While the likes of Rhodes, Cnidus, and especially Alnyxandria swelled, Eretria and Miletus vanished into history. Even Athens was naught but a gaunt fragment of her former glory, desperately clinging to the fleeting shadow of glorious memories belonging to days long since past.  

At Mystalicus’ birth, the oracle prophesied that he would either leave Athens and live a life unremarked by history or the gods, while Athens drowned in the blood of her daughters and sons never to rise again, or stride into battle and lose all he held dear, but Athens would be reborn, stronger and more vibrant than ever in a land where she’d be safe from her ancient rivals. He’d lived his life by those words, and made his choice years ago when he stood as a scrawny young stallion at Athen’s gates, torn between joining a procession of ponies heading south to find a home elsewhere, or staying to fight in the place of his aging father. 

Uttering a prayer to Zeus, Mystalicus signalled the drummers to increase their tempo.

Oars slapped against the murky waters, propelling the fleet towards the Spartans.

There was a momentary calm, and Mystalicus raised his face to the fresh sea-spray, enjoying the salty tang to the wind. 

And then the moment was gone.

Galleys ranged side by side as the fleets smashed into each other. 

The booming crunch of bronze shattering oak reverberated through his body. Holding a hoof-clasp so as not to tumble into the churning waves, Mystalicus and the dozen hoplites around him cheered their pointless success.   

Spartans paddled around the galley as it moved on, shouting curses at their hated enemies. 

Arrows, spears, and spells flew as thick as swarming wasps. Barbed arrowheads sank into shields both physical and magical in nature. Conjured lightning and fire splashed in flickering displays. Here and there screams rose above the tumult. Spears and bolts of bronze topped wood and magic hurled back and forth. Galleys exploded with unnatural flames, bodies falling from their splintering sides. Ponies screamed as they plunged into the blood churned waves. Instinct and intuition lead the day, prayers roared by the dying to uncaring gods going unanswered. 

Gentle rain began to patter over the battle. Two dozen ships had already been sent down to Poseidon's realm, with an equal number soon to follow. Hundreds of dead floated among the debris, and those clinging to life howled for rescue.

Time seemed to slow, each grain of sand scraping through the hourglass and then floating down to join moments past. 

Mystalicus’ voice grew hoarse from all the shouting. 

Beside him Prias, who’d been with him since foalhood, died. They’d played together in the sun soaked fields outside Athens walls, a pair of colts enjoying a brief moment of respite in the endless cycle of war. He’d been there when Mystalicus married, smiling with such pride at his friend, and he’d been their on the hundred battlefields they’d shared in the years since. And now he fell to Tartarus, and no history book would record his name. To Mystalicus’ other side his eldest son bravely fended off a Spartan hoplite. Mystalicus later didn’t recall letting loose his spear, nor the splatter of the other soldier’s blood across his face. 

His mind was fixed. His purpose immutable. 

He had to protect his home and all those huddled behind her damaged walls.

“Valiant father, King Mystalicus, Son of Neocles, we range too far from our battle-brothers, growing isolated with our boldness!” His dearly beloved Hector bellowed to be heard over the incessant din. “We must withdraw to our lines or be crushed in the tumult by the far greater numbers of the loathsome Spartans, for that is all they have on this day. While our skill is so much greater, they are over twice our number and threaten to overwhelm us as wolves will a lone lion. Like the mighty phalanx on land, we must range our ships side-by-side so that one galley may protect the other.”

As he spoke, Hector hurled a bronze headed spear, touching the rune engraved upon its white oak haft so that it flew faster than any mortal could hurl a spear otherwise. As if Niomedes, Goddess of the Hunt and daughter of mighty Zeus, had loosed the weapon herself, it flew with uncanny accuracy so as to strike Euclid and his brother Thales, the twin sons of proud Pyrram, on their galley two hundred yards away, pierced through shield and body, and affixed them to the mast as if they were some horrific new limb on a tree.

Mystalicus began to refute his son’s assertion, but his words were stolen unformed by the heavy crunch of wood as their galley was hit along the far side by one of the many Spartan vessels. Oars splintered as hull ground against hull in showers of sharp wood. Mystalicus and Hector ducked behind their shields, and then raised their spears to fend off a wave of Spartan hoplites leaping onto the deck of their galley. 

Heavy set, a huge brute of a Spartan fixed his gaze on Mystalicus and charged with a roar. Archemil was the stallion’s name, a great lord of the Spartan hosts who had time and again battered the weary Athenians with his soldiers and bronze clad hooves. He fought more like an Earth pony than a true Unicorn, kicking, biting, and yelling wildly in his frenzy. 

Sparks shot off Archemil’s greaves and finely etched chestplate as Hector’s spear stabbed forth. Eyes wide and nostrils flared, Archemil brought down his hooves, horn alight with magic to give him supernatural strength. The deck of the galley buckled beneath Hector, and an untimely swell of the heaving seas knocked him to his knees. Continuing the fall, he rolled and in this manner avoided being trampled by the far larger stallion. He bounded up, spear and wooden shield at his sides, and found himself beset on either side by more of the Spartans. 

Behind the crowd of Spartans, on the bluffs overlooking the wide bay in which Athenians and Spartans fought, Hector saw the colourful coats of the mares watching the battle. Among them he knew his own beloved Hypocemia was waiting for his return. 

They’d been married but three days before he snuck from his home to join his father. 

With her new mother-in-law she prayed, their hooves clasped tight, to any of the gods who’d listen to protect her new husband. For her hoof he’d given a bridepence of two flocks of sheep and an acre of good, arable land flush with wheat. To her, her parents had given two hardy earth pony slaves and small box of jewels as her dowry. It was a pittance, but much more than most other families could spare.

At their wedding the Oracle said the union was blessed, and that from them would come a future queen of the Athenians. 

Empowered by the idea of his young wife watching, Hector threw himself against the Spartans. 

While his son waded into the crowded deck, Mystalicus rushed Archemil. With all his might he thrust at the exposed gap in the throat of Archemil’s barding. At the last moment Archemil shrugged his powerful frame and threw himself into the strike, taking it deep into his shoulder where the haft snapped in Mystalicus’ tight aura. Ignoring the wound and the hot blood pouring down his leg, Archemil battered Mystalicus’ shield with blows that cracked the solid wood frame. 

A hungry grimace split Archemil’s mouth that turned into a howl of rage as Mystalicus clamped down on the broken haft of his spear with his teeth and tore it free with a sharp jerk. Archemil’s leg collapsed beneath him, and as he fell forward Mystalicus plunged the remnant of his spear into his opponent’s gaping mouth. Thick blood coughed from Archemil, and still he refused to die. He lurched back to his hooves, hatred filling his eyes. 

Again Mystalicus tore out the spear, and again he plunged it into Archemil, and this time the massive stallion fell dead. 

Breathing heavily and smiling at his triumph, Mystalicus turned to help his son. He saw Hector among a host of dead Spartans. Asaeus, Autonous, and Opites; Dolops, son of Clytius; Opheltius, Agelaus, Aesymnus, Orus, and Hipponous all lay broken about his hooves.  Breathing as heavily as his father, Hector wore the same grin. The Spartan’s galley drew away, its soldiers dead. 

As it did so a path opened between the Athenian galley and that of Princess-General Dapolleta, Daughter of King Agethemus of Sparta. She stood next to the tiller of her galley in a glittering raiment of aurichalcum mail. On sighting the king of the Athenians and his son she conjured a bolt of lightning that shot from the tip of her horn.

Hector noted Dapolleta’s magic and saw it blaze towards his dear father. With a cry he threw himself into the path of the spell and caught it upon his breast. His body convulsed, the tip of his tongue bitten off as every muscle seized. He fell into death with fur burnt away, skin blackened and peeled as if by a butcher’s knife, and his empty eyes staring up at his father.

Mystalicus’s blood boiled and his throat was stripped by the command for his ship to charge. 

Only child of King Agethemus, Dapolleta was a mare of which few could measure, standing a head taller than even most stallions, thick about the shoulder, and carrying the prideful arrogance for which her race was known. She sang the praises of Ares incessantly, laying on his altar at night, offering herself body and soul to him. By him, it was whispered, she’d born a son, the young but strong Biston, whom the Oracles said would found a city on a distant lake and in his lordly father’s name defeat all their neighbors so long as they wore the mark of his eye on their flesh.  

Their eyes connected with his the same moment Mystalicus hurled Hector’s spear. The bronze head glinted in the afternoon glow as it rose up, and then came tearing down to strike her in the breast. 

A savage grin covered Mystalicus’s muzzle, and his heart swelled with the pyrrhic victory, as the Spartans closed in around his isolated galley. Mystalicus closed his eyes and thanked Athena and Zeus for gifting him the chance to avenge his son. 

From overhead came a booming blast of lightning. 

Unseen to all, clouds had gathered, and now they threatened to spill out into a wild storm of tearing, bitter winds. All the surviving ships reacted at once, battle frenzy giving way to caution as they sought to escape the sudden storm’s wrath. In this way Mystalicus was spared from joining his son in death.  
 
The bay began to pitch and tumble, waves slapping together and sending up towering geysers of foam that splashed down over the ships.

The clouds were torn asunder from within by a burst of golden light around a core of the deepest shadow. All those below looked up and beheld a rift in the sky and through it a brass palace among burning fields and a grand network of sulphur filled canyons. Like a giant mirror struck by a stone the rift shattered, but not before something fell through.  

Two specs, one white and the other blue sped towards the flotsam choked waters. At the last moment they grabbed each other, and for an instant Mystalicus thought he saw wings of purest white flare before they struck the ocean. 

“All ahead!” He hollered, thrusting a hoof towards where the ponies had landed. 

He was certain that it’d been a pair of ponies, and given the nature of their arrival, he held fast to the faith that the gods would guide him to them. 

Battered by the fierce winds and waves, and their battle fever cooled for the day, the Spartans withdrew, unaware anypony had fallen from the rift. On the deck of her ship, Dapolleta wrenched Mystalicus’ spear from her chest. To either side of her mystics cast spells of healing, closing the wound but leaving a garish scar. An inch to the right and his spear would have sunk into her heart, and freed Gaea of her tyranny. Pushing a mystic aside she went to the railing, and glared with primordial hate at the diminishing sides of Mystalicus’ galley. 

“Ares, grant me the chance to carve my blade through that stallions throat,” she demanded, a wide grin on her blood stained teeth. “I will have you yet, Mystalicus, last king of Athens.”   

In the middle of the storm, Mystalicus’ galley bucked and tumbled in the tumultuous waves. Only with the guidance of the gods could anypony hope to spot somepony lost in those waters. Oars called to halt, Mystalicus leaned over the side and peered into the murky waves. Pieces of wreckage from the battle mingled with drowned ponies making it near impossible to spot the two ponies that had fallen from the storm. A stifled curse held just under his breath, Mystalicus waited and searched. The gods would guide him. They had not totally abandoned him yet, he was certain. 

Minutes passed, and the two figures failed to emerge. 

His heart hammered in his chest and his hopes began to flag. 

One of his dearest friends came up to him and laid a hoof on his withers.

“Mystalicus, I do not know what you hope to find,” said Argentes. “This battle is done and even the gods withdraw to holy Olympus so they may reckon among themselves who won honourable glory or deserve a coward’s reward of having their name stricken, so as to wander penniless the rest of their days until they come upon Hades’ halls, with none to lament their passing. I am thankful that we Athenians have known only brave hearts, though we are so sorely pressed on all sides by our many enemies. Hector’s loss has driven you mad, I fear, with grief. Do not shed tears for your son, for he was the bravest among us, and though Ares favours the Spartans over all, he would have taken notice of Hector so that there is a place in Elysium for him.”

Swinging his head wildly, Mystalicus gave a throaty growl and said, “I saw them land right here, Argentes. They came from a storm forged by mighty Zeus, who is father to all and patron to travelers. He has not abandoned us, but sent us some boon that we may at last hold victory over those despised Spartans. It must be so, or what use is there in this endless war?”

Argentes shook his head, mane clinging to his sweat soaked face in tight brown curls. “Zeus cares little for us. None have heard from the King of the Gods in centuries, Mystalicus. Whatever games he uses to entertain himself do not involve we mortals. For that we should be thankful, as the God of Storms tends to break those with whom he plays.”

Mystalicus’s spirits grew low, and he knew in his heart that Argentes spoke true. 

They’d been friends since foalhood, when Mystalicus’s father had taken in the scrawny Argentes following the destruction of his home. Always more cautious and prone to contemplation rather than action, Argentes had proven time and again that his wisdom was to be heeded. Whether it was matters of war or state, his insight often landed accurately. Yet, he also rarely disagreed with Mystalicus, the two so often of the same mind. If she were still on Gaea, it was certain he’d have been blessed by Athena. 

Head lowered in thought, Mystalicus knew his friend to be right. No god, Zeus least of all, sent aid to the likes of them.

Athenians were the forsaken.

The unloved and godless. 

Overhead the storm parted, returning the bay to a sunny afternoon.

Then he heard Rarity cry out, “The boat! The boat! Over here!”

At once the galley flew forth, Mystalicus reached out with his magic, and Rarity and Trixie were lifted from the still heaving waters. Before her hooves touched the deck, Rarity was as dry as if she’d never fallen into the bay, her wings resting easily against her side and mane falling about her neck in amethyst curls. Mystalicus was struck dumb, his mouth falling open and his mind blank with incomprehension of the being standing before him. 

Rarity stunned all who looked upon her with her overwhelming radiance. The weak willed were instantly smitten and devoted only to her, all others cast from their thoughts. Oarsponies dedicated themselves to her alone, forsaking all others. She failed to notice this at first, far more intent on helping her sodden friend. Trixie hacked up water, and gripped Rarity’s offered leg tight in her own as she attempted to stand. 

“Trixie, are you alright?” Rarity asked, looking over her wounds suffered casting the spell to escape Amaymon. 

“You can stop fussing, Rarity,” Trixie attempted to brush off her friend’s concern, but her legs almost gave out at an untimely roll of the galley. Leaning against Rarity, Trixie grumbled, her ego bruised just a little.

Doing her best to hide a smirk, relief washing away all the tension brought about by their escape, Rarity turned to thank their rescuer, only to find Mystalicus prostate on the deck, while those at the oars did their best to imitate the gesture. 

“Whatever are you doing?” Rarity arched her brow and tilted her head elegantly to the side. A slight blush colouring her cheeks, she asked Mystalicus and the crew to rise. None so much as responded. She knew they’d heard her from the way they stiffened. Jovial in her relief at escaping Amaymon, Rarity laughed louder, and said, “Please, stop, you’ll make a mare blush with all this fawning.”

Hesitant, Mystalicus raised his head, though he did not look past Rarity’s fetlocks. He worked his mouth, but no words came forth. Over and over in his head rang tales in which the gods had gone among ponykind in disguise, only to later reveal their true nature after some test was either passed, or more usually, failed.  

“I do not think they can understand us, Rarity,” Trixie grumbled in a loud whisper.

Fixing Trixie with a withering glare, Mystalicus said, “We can understand you with perfect clarity. Only a fool would dare speak so freely to one of the alicorns, glorious gods and the divine rulers of all ponies.”

“Right,” Trixie drawled out the word, edging a little away from Mystalicus. 

“Well, thank you for helping us, but we really must get home.” Rarity swung her head around, peering at the horizon as if trying to make up her mind. “Where on Ioka are we exactly?”  

Brow pinched tight, Mystalicus peaked up a little further, just enough to see the amethystine locks of Rarity’s mane. “Ioka? I do not know of this place. You are in the bay of Salamis, which resides between decayed Athens and bloody Sparta.”

Rarity sighed, and Trixie slapped a hoof to her brow. “We’re not on Ioka,” both stated together. 

“Of course! It can never be easy, can it? Noooo, we have to fight tooth and tail just to make the tiniest progress, only to find we’ve gone the wrong direction!” Trixie continued with a blistering series of curses, stamping her hooves and pounding the broken rail. It was at this point they noticed the dead Spartans being heaved over the far side of the galley, bodies splashing without ceremony into the murky waves. 

Keeping the dismay out of her voice, Rarity asked what had happened, and learned of the battle which their arrival had interrupted. She was silent after the brief recounting, and then looked out over the bay. Not a word was spoken by her or anypony else on the galley as they made their way to Athen’s docks at Piraeus. 

They were met by crowds of mares and foals, anxiously awaiting the return of their stallions and fathers. Queen Hecuba and Hypocemia stood at the end of the docks, faces aged with worry. Their relief on seeing Mystalicus at the rail turned to grief as Hector was carried down the gangplank. 

Tears streaming from her chin, Hypocemia made Mystalicus proud as she lead her husband’s body towards the long walls stretching between the port and Athens. Unlike many other mares who broke down at the sight of their husbands or sons mangled bodies, she remained strong despite the agony of loss tearing at her heart. Head held high, she cried, “Make way for the heroes of Athens, the glorious sons who have given of body and life to safe-keep our homes! Make way!”

Heads bowed, the crowd parted to allow the funerary procession through. More and more dead were brought off the galleys on litters draped in white cloth, until a long line snaked its way through the docks and towards the Long Walls to Athens. Mares wailed and threw themselves over the litter carrying their husbands, sons, or lovers.    

And then all the sobbing came to a sudden end, leaving a vacumous silence behind. 

Rarity stood at the top of the dock, looking over the crowd with pity. 

“Look, mama, an alicorn!” Cried a young filly, jumping into the semi-circle formed by the Athenians. The filly’s mother let out a strangled gasp and shushed her daughter, pulling her back into the ring of ponies about Rarity and Trixie.

Turning to the nearest grieving widow, Rarity said softly, “I am sorry for your loss.” To the crowd she added, “If there is anything I can do to help, please let me know.”

“Oh mighty goddess, gifted beauty of the highest heavens; my beloved husband, Ennomus, is he in glorious Elysium? Did he please you, great one, and find his honourable reward in the afterlife? Does he find succor among the other worthy dead? I beg on knees scraped raw in the gravel, mighty queen among the gods, tell me. Or, send me to be at my husband’s side, he who has been most dear to me since I was a filly.” Pleaded the widow as she threw herself to the ground before Rarity. 

“What of my Socus?” Cried another. 

And still another begged, “My son, my only son, Cherisdamas? What of him? He is neither among the honoured dead nor do I see him on the ships. What has happened to my Cherisdamas?”

Eyes growing wide, Rarity backed away from the crowd, her mouth working soundlessly as her voice faltered.

“Daughters of Athens,” said Mystalicus, “still your wagging tongues! By noble Athena, whom vanished in the night of star-fall, who gifted our ancestors with all manner of glory; you dishonour the ponies who gave of body in defense of our home. May Hades claim you all for entertaining doubts of their courage. Valour did they carry with their spears and shields when they boarded the ships built by hooves scraped raw in toil. Cease your wailing and instead celebrate; or you shall come to lament this day and pull out your manes in shame. Carry the honoured dead to the fields of grey stones so they may rest with their fathers and mothers. One night are you granted to see to the care of their remains; as on the marrow we celebrate. Now, away, away! To the Long Walls and Athens beyond!”

The crowd nodded along to Mystalicus’ speech, and with far less wailing, heeded his command. 

Rarity pressed her lips tight as she was guided to a place before Hypocemia at the head of the funerary procession. Craning her head around she saw Trixie with Queen Hecuba. There was a stuttering limp to Trixie’s gate, and her expression was downcast. 

“Really now,” Rarity turned to Mystalicus, “was all that necessary?”

He considered her for a long moment, gaze flickering to the ground a couple times. “You are the strangest of gods indeed,” Mystalicus’ frown deepened, and he retreated into his own thoughts. 

Thankful that he’d kept his answer brief, Rarity decided to spend the long walk from Piraeus to Athens taking in the scenery. 

The first thing that caught her attention was the state of the homes in the port town. Patchwork paint flaked off the walls leaving large gaps of mudbrick visible. Likewise, the doors were weatherworn and bare, with only hints of bright paints still barely visible. Rarity had seen many towns in similar states in the last few years, especially on her trip out west to Appleloosa. Not poor, per se, but simply harried and well-worked. It reminded her a little bit of the oldest parts of Ponyville.     

Streets were kept swept of dirt and mud, with grooves worn into the stonework by successive generations trotting the same paths. Here and there gnarled trees caused small heaves in the carefully placed cobblestones where their roots had grown thick. Awnings in front of homes showed where, on a normal day, peddlers would sell their wares. 

Off to one side, overlooking the bay, stood the tallest building in town. Stout limestone columns held up a roof of red clay tiles. A temple of some sort, but to who, Rarity couldn’t begin to guess. She decided to refrain from asking, as it wasn’t the sort of question an ‘all-knowing alicorn’ was supposed to ask. 

She let out a long sigh.  

The fervour of the crowd prickled at the edge of her senses like a summer’s breeze. It was an odd air, the highest hopes mixing with the deepest despair. Some ponies skipped and danced, especially the young. Others hung their heads, tears matting their faces. Every few moments somepony laughed or sobbed. 

Rarity chewed on her lip. Demands and expectations circled in her thoughts. What would they expect of her? The fragments of Serene’s memories told her that Gaea was a highly religious world, the opposite side of the rim in many regards from how Celestia and Luna were treated in Equestria. Alicorns were no mere princesses who ran the government, with only vestiges of religion  on the periphery. Here they were Gods, and were expected to act accordingly. 

She’d barely had time to process escaping from Amaymon, and now she had an entire city already staring at her with bated breath. 

Part of her said, ‘Well, why shouldn’t they? We are glamourous, smart, and stunning, afterall.’ 

She wanted to believe that voice, but concern knotted in her stomach. Again she looked over her shoulder to Trixie seeking… something. Without her hat or cape, Trixie seemed much diminished by her stay in Amaymon. A haunted shadow covered her expression, and she didn’t respond to the ponies trying to talk to her on either side. 

Rarity had to force herself to think of Sweetie, Ponyville, and dresses—anything to keep the memories of Amaymon at bay. To her surprise it was rather easy. Like putting a dress away in a box. 

Twilight once mentioned being able to put thoughts or memories aside at will. Was this something about being an alicorn? Being able to just quarantine bad experiences? That certainly couldn’t be healthy! Rarity knew better than perhaps most that trying to push the past into a box was just inviting trouble in the future. Thankfully, there was a pony she could talk to about Amaymon. 

Stuck at the front of the procession, Rarity decided to bide her time on talking with Trixie until they could find someplace private.

Connecting Piraeus to Athens lay a road protected on either side by a stone and mud brick wall. Every fifty meters stood a squat tower topped by a catapult. Straight as an arrow, it covered six kilometers between the port and Athens. To the east another wall could be discerned, creating a triangular space filled with fields and orchards that provided the city with food. On the other side of the wall the fields were left to nature, with many large patches of blackened ground left by fires. Ruins peaked out of the tall, unkempt grasses. In the distance to the north a rocky line of mountains ranged like marching soldiers west to east.      

“How long have those fields been abandoned?” Rarity asked Mystalicus. Any conversation was better than worrying about her mental well-being, or how they’d get to Ioka. 

“My father, Neocles, took a group of strong ponies out to the territory that had been owned by his father’s father, whom none now remember, and reclaimed the land. It was where I was born and spent some of my youth before we were driven back behind Athens walls by the loathsome Spartans. Several other families had settled as well, and they too were forced to flee, their homes burnt and all they owned ransacked. Since then nopony has dared settle the lands outside the Long Walls, fear of the Spartans causing them to cower like foals behind crumbling walls. Soon enough the Spartans will decide to destroy Athens, tired of the games of war and our flagging ability to give them the true battles they crave.” 

“How horrible!” Rarity exclaimed. “Why would anypony be so cruel?”

“As flight is to the birds, cruelty and war are simply the Spartans’ natural inclination. To honour Ares, great lord of slaughter; they bred savagery deep into their blood.” 

Somehow, Rarity doubted the Spartans were as terrible as Mystalicus portrayed them. Nopony was wholly evil and cruel. There was certainly more to the story.

Or, maybe she was wrong. 

The leftover memories of Serene were fragmented and chaotic in nature, creating an incomplete impression of Gaea. What Rarity could piece together was that on Gaea the alicorns held far greater sway over the lives of ponies, but also kept themselves separated on their mountain strongholds. 

Each alicorn had their own followers molded in their own images. Ares was a brute In the scant fragments left by Serene. It followed that a city devoted to him would also be horrible brutes. 

Rarity shuddered, her thoughts briefly flitting to Asmodeus, and his own atrocious nature. 

Reflexively she grabbed hold of the memories of Amaymon, and bottled them among the others. 

Taking a deep breath, Rarity decided to do something she’d never been allowed to try before; she spread her wings, and with a bounding spring, leapt into the sky. She’d seen Rainbow Dash fly so many times, and listened to a few of the early lessons Twilight received, that she was certain it would be easy. 

Her first downstrokes were sloppy, putting her into a roll that she frantically corrected. Uneven, she tottered from side to side, and slowly leveled off. Just as she was getting confident, a strong gust lifted her higher. Instincts at last asserted themselves, Rarity thrusting her wings further out and entering a stable glide. 

Beneath her the Long Wall stretched in a perfect line between the port and Athens. To her right the pastoral lands were a verdant green mixed with yellows and the vibrant colours of flowering trees. To her left the lands were swathed in scrubland dotted by more ruins amid burnt patches. 

And ahead lay Athens herself. 

The city was situated mostly on the northern side of a tall hill. Ringed on three sides by white limestone cliffs, a tall, white columned gatehouse on the western side gave access to a complex of temples situated a fifty-hoof tall bronze statue of Athena in armour, plumed helm, her spear Pallas and shield Aegis at her sides. The statue gazed from the hilltop down onto an open air Ecclesia, where the stallions of Athens would gather to decide important matters. Or they had in Athena’s and Serene’s time. From her vantage, Rarity could see that a few of the columns surrounding the site had fallen over and never been re-erected. Brightly coloured tents now stood where debates had been held in years past, foals darting about as they played, with a few older mares keeping watch. At the base of the ramps leading up the hill stood a half-circle, open air amphitheater. A wide road ran from the former site of the Ecclesia to the theater, continued to the base of the ramp, and then around the hill before passing through the mass of buildings forming the rest of the city. Ringing the city was a thick wall supplemented by a series of ditches.

Looking back Rarity noticed everypony was watching her, the procession halting in it’s march along the walls to stare. 

It was then Rarity realised she had yet to see a single pegasus. Even Canterlot had dozens flying about at any time, and it was considered a heavy unicorn town by Equestrian standards. Yet there wasn’t a pony to be seen flying over Athens.

Trying to tip over into a gentle turn instead put Rarity into a sharp spiral, and her contemplations of the city and the lack of pegasi had to be put aside as she struggled to descend, and then land. 

“Oh no, oh no, oh no!” She repeated as the ground grew closer far quicker than intended. 

Barely able to level off, she decided to use the wide road as an impromptu runway. A runway presently covered in ponies waiting for the return of those who’d gone down to Piraeus. 

“Excuse me! Out of the way!”  

Eyes going wide, the thin crowd of ponies scrambled off the road as she came down, hard. Her hooves skipped, skidded, and then screeched on the dusty cobblestones before she came to an indelicate stop just in front of the amphitheater.  

Letting out a relieved sigh, she turned to apologise to the nearest ponies, and found them prostrating just as everypony else had done on first seeing her. 

“Right, you’re just going to have to get used to this, I suppose,” Rarity muttered to herself before switching a smile she’d use when greeting customers to her beautique. “So sorry if I startled you,” she said, in variations, as she trotted her way back along the road to where it joined those of the Long Walls. 

Nopony dared respond.

Her smile began to fade a bit after several apologies went unanswered. 

And then the foals swarmed towards her. Energetic, youthful exuberance overcame caution, and they sped out from around their parents to mob the alicorn that had landed in their city. They babbled and chattered, laughed and sang, and danced up and down and between Rarity’s legs in their excitement. 

“Whoa, excuse me, careful please,” Rarity found herself saying as she avoid stepping onto or hitting a foal. 

For their part the foals just laughed, fled a short distance from her, and then dashed back, the game renewed. 

Seeing their foals playing around Rarity broke the adults out of their stupefied prostrations. Panic filling their gazes they snatched up the foals, just like the mare in Pireaus, and profusely apologized, again, just like the mare in Pireaus. Whining, the foals reached out their hooves towards Rarity. 

“Oh, it is quite alright,” Rarity laughed, and wiggled a hoof at the closest of the foals. “They are such darlings, I am not mad at all.”

Relief washed over the crowd, and they began to join her as she made her way along the road to where it met those coming from the Long Walls. A decent gathering had formed by the time she met up with Mystalicus and Hypocemia. The festive atmosphere of the ponies around her stilled as they saw the bodies being carried by the funerary procession. Rarity’s own smile faded away and she stepped up beside Mystalicus.

She didn’t say anything as they funerary procession reached the graveyard on the east side of the cliffs of the hill, built around a temple to Hades, where the first rays of the sun would reach in the morning. Here the procession broke apart, each family carrying their dead to their own ancestral tombs. Along the way they gathered several bundles of wood placed near the gate to the graveyard. All night long pyres of the dead burnt. 

Rarity and Trixie didn’t stay the entire time, only for Hector’s funeral. She wet her lips and sent looks several times to Mystalicus, Hecuba, and Hypocemia for a clue as to what they expected her to do, if anything. But they stayed frustratingly silent. Hecuba and Hypocemia anointed Hector with oils and incense, and then Hypocemia lit the pyre. 

The strong smell of burning meat struck Rarity, turning her stomach over. 

Other than being a little pale, Trixie hardly reacted at all to the rituals and cremations. 

Once the pyre had been lit, Mystalicus and Hecuba went to Rarity and Trixie. 

It was Hecuba who spoke first, saying, “Great queen of the alicorns, a thousands words of gratitude would be but a paltry beginning to our thanks for your presence at this otherwise miserable occasion. Few are those who can claim the blessing of a god undisguised at the funeral to their son. Hector was truly among the most blessed of ponies. I do not mean to keep you if there are matters to which you must attend; holy Olympus must seem hollow without you in its gilded halls. But, it would be a great honour should you wish to join us for the feast in Hector’s honour in our home. We have little that can be worthy of you, but we shall do our very best, as taught to us by mighty father Zeus, who protects all travelers. Would this please you?” 

“I would be delighted,” Rarity answered at once, modulating her tone to be appreciative and solemn. 

Mystalicus and Hecuba’s palace was situated on the far bank of a slender river. It was a decent sized home, two-storied, with rooms situated around a large garden in the center. A fig tree provided shade to a bench, with a well providing water to the palace. On the far side of the garden, a pair of stairs led to an inner balcony gave access to the upper rooms. Just beyond the garden was an open-air hall of some sort bedecked with couches, rugs, and pillows. Down the middle ran a long, low table. On the arched entrances to the space were shutters, allowing it to be closed off and kept warm in winter or during bad weather. Four columns held up the roof, giving it a tall, breezy quality that would be cool in summer. 

A number of earth ponies hurried about preparing dinner, shooting surreptitious looks at Rarity and Trixie. There was no malice, just frank curiosity, in their glances.  

It was vastly different from the overwhelming opulence of Asmodeus’ palace.    

Tension she’d been unaware of holding at last left Rarity in a breathy gush. She collapsed onto a cushion at the head of the table. Years of constantly being on edge, of having to be poised and guarded at all times, leaving her suddenly weak. 

“It’s over,” Rarity giggled, drawing a confused look from the unicorns around her. 

All except Trixie who merely nodded as she sat down next to Rarity. 

Reaching over, Rarity grabbed Trixie’s hoof in her own. “We really made it. We really escaped Hell.” 

Again, Trixie responded with a silent nod. Her gaze was far off, a haunted light in the back of her eyes. 

“I couldn’t have done it without you, darling.”

Shuddering, Trixie said, “The great—I, uh, I think I would rather go to sleep. Th-thank you for inviting T-Trixie into your home, I, uh, I just…” Trixie’s voice trailed off into a pained whimper. She fought to keep back tears, emotion welling in her face and tensing the lines of her jaw. 

Hecuba and Hypocemia shared concerned glances. Hecuba leaned over and whispered in her husband’s ear. He nodded brusquely, and said, “Hypocemia, show lady Trixie to your own rooms, and you will sleep in the guest rooms tonight with Hecuba and I. It is the best we can offer to you, great queen of the heavens and your servant, are our own rooms.”

“Oh, I won’t hear of it, darling!” Rarity countered at once. “We will take the guest room, and you will keep your own. I’ve been camping many times when out on adventures with my friends, and if I had to sleep in the garden, that would be fine. Honestly, it is appreciated, but I wouldn’t dream of forcing you out of your own bedchambers. There is such a thing as being too generous, you know.” 

A little smile quirked the corner of her mouth at her private joke. 

Trixie had already stood, and was being led towards the stairs to the upper floor. 

Suppressing a sigh, Rarity hoped Trixie would be better in the morning, but knew it was unlikely. The things they’d seen, that they’d suffered, and been forced to do in Amaymon couldn’t be erased by distance or a single night’s rest. 

While Hypocemia showed Trixie to the guest rooms, Mystalicus mixed some of his best wine with water and poured it for Rarity and his other guests. The feast hall was full, even with Trixie gone, with important members of Athens surrounding the low table. There was Argentes, his coat freshly washed of blood and sweat from the battle, along with a pair of other soldiers. The old stallion Chryses in white priestly robes, and Chryseis, his youngish daughter in the same attire. Penolota was seated next to Hypocemia, her station elevated with her daughter’s marriage to Hector, short lived as it had been. Then there was Antenor and Polydamus of the King’s Council, and served as advisors on domestic affairs of the city. 

Once Hypocemia had returned and seated herself the food was brought out by several earth ponies. The meal was plain, consisting of breads, pickled figs, cabbage salad, fried asparagus, cheese, and boiled quail eggs. After the rich foods of Amaymon, prepared in a hundred different ways, it was refreshing to have something so simple and homely to eat.

Mystalicus and Hecuba both attempted to apologize that there was nothing more substantial they could offer, but Rarity laughed them off. “Darlings, it is perfectly alright,” Rarity said as the plate heaped highest was passed to her. “What kind of guest would I be if I complained? Such boorish behaviour has always upset me.”

“Then, perhaps you would regale us with stories? From what lands do you hail, great queen among the gods?” Asked Antenor, leaning forward as he dipped his bread into a thick soup.

“Equestria,” Rarity supplied at once, and when the ponies about her waited for more, she added. “It is the home of Celestia, Luna, and Cadence. It takes up most of the westernmost continent of Ioka.”

“Another world entirely? Not just a different land on Gaea? This is shocking.” Antenor leaned back on his cushions and grew contemplative. 

Hypocemia filled the gap, receiving a few sharp glances as she asked, “I wonder who are Celestia, Luna, and Cadence. These names are unfamiliar to us. Do you know of them Chryses? Have the gods ever whispered their names to your ears?” 

The ancient stallion rocked on his cushion and tugged at his long beard. “It isn’t unusual for the mighty gods to keep the names of their distant kin from my ears. Indeed, why should they bother to tell any mortal of their brethren? Do you go about to the lizards sunning themselves around a pond and tell them all the names of your cousins and distant relatives?”

“So, you don’t know how to get to Ioka, then?” Rarity reasoned. She never had much hope that the Athenians would know. Until only recently, other worlds had been unknown to Ioka afterall. Why would it be any different on Gaea?

“Such knowledge is not meant for us, great queen,” Chryses shook his head. “Only your brothers and sisters on high Olympus may possess the answers you seek.”

“I would be wary of Chryses’ council,” Mystalicus growled from his place at the center of the table. “You claimed the gods blessed the union of my son and precious Hypocemia, but how can that be when my brave Hector has been felled so young?”

Hypocemia gasped, and a murmur of discontent washed around the table. A few of the stallions nodded, while others shook their heads. Almost everypony gave quick glances towards Rarity, wondering what her reaction would be. Rarity quirked a brow and looked towards Hypocemia. 

She was starting to get a feel for the Athenians and how they spoke. It was a bit like the few surviving pre-classical plays from early Unicornia. On a hunch, Rarity blinked and looked at the weave of Beauty. She was immediately struck by the difference to the weave from how it had manifested in Amaymon. 

The sharp, jagged elements that had been considered beautiful to demonkind were absent, and in their place was a gentle, flowing blanket of energy that permeated everything. Comforting whorls, and ugly knots abounded around the ponies at the table, and the table and hall itself in ever fluctuating patterns. Around Hecuba and Hypocemia the patterns were purer as both were seen as very beautiful by the ponies of Athens. A strong aura surrounded Mystalicus with his cutting figure and keen intellect that drew ponies to him, and had catapulted him to the position of King. Around Atenor were a series of discordant nodules hinting at some deep, ugly flaw. There was something of a shine that drew Rarity’s gaze back to Hypocemia, an inner radiance that was only just beginning to blossom, but would grow stronger and stronger until anypony would be able to see it. After a moment Rarity grasped the cause. 

“You’re pregnant, darling,” Rarity pointed with a wing to Hypocemia’s stomach. “A day or two, at the most.”

Hypocemia blinked a couple times, and then repeated in a half-daze, “Pregnant? But the holy season of life is not for another three weeks.” Tears pricked her eyes, and she let out a joyous sob. 

“It happens on occasion,” Rarity happily continued. “I had a distant cousin who got pregnant out of season.” 

This admission brought frowns around the table and a few muttered words between neighbors.        

“Then you spoke truly, dear Chryseis, when you said mine and Hector’s union were blessed by Aphrodite herself.” The tears burst forth, and Hypocemia scrubbed at her face to clear them away. 

Before anymore could be said, before explanations given or plans formed, a piercing shriek cut through the night, originating from Trixie’s room.