//------------------------------// // Strength Training // Story: A 14th Century Friar in Celestia's Court // by Antiquarian //------------------------------// Cloak sat alone in the room he shared with his brother in the lower districts of Canterlot. It was close enough to the underground martial school they ran for the Vox to be convenient, but far enough away to provide some insulation from a raid should the Guard somehow catch wind of the plot. It also provided some much-needed distance from the youthful energy and misguided optimism of the Vox. Cloak had come to appreciate that distance more with each passing day. At first, he’d found their naivete pathetic. Then, he found it aggravating. Now, other emotions had taken up unpleasant residence in his mind. Emotions he wasn’t sure he could properly put into words. Offense at their blindness, perhaps? Astonishment that they didn’t recognize they were being played? Pity? At times he would find himself hoping they’d wake up and smell the horse crap. Then he’d strangle those treacherous thoughts, because a Shade shouldn’t care what happened to them. They were weak. They deserved this. Right? When he allowed himself to pity any of the Vox, he pitied Sandstone and Sea Breeze. The young couple were earnest and well-meaning, and seemed especially out of their depth. At other times, the thought of them made Cloak’s lip curl in scorn. Fools! he would think. Do they not see how their concern for others makes them weak? But then, a voice would remind him that the love he and his brother shared was their greatest strength. Angrily, he would round on the happy couple in his thoughts, decrying their pathetic willingness to serve a cause that did nothing for them. Yet there’s something familiar about them, isn’t there, came the mental reply. That naivete, that belief that the world can be just and kind… you know what that’s like, don’t you, Cloak? You used to feel that way too. Cloak ground his teeth in frustration. Yes, I did feel that way. Because I was a child. Because I didn’t know how the world worked. Because everything I loved hadn’t been taken away from me! You still have your brother, he was reminded. Yes. His brother. The only other survivor of that night. The one who’d covered him with his wings for warmth as they shivered in that blasted ditch, watching their home be consumed in fire and blood. And where was Celestia’s light for us that night?! Where was the strong hoof to defend us?! Where was our Harmony?! Nowhere! The only strength in this world is what you take for yourself! Is it strength to strip away the innocence of another pair of vulnerable ponies? Yes! thought Cloak with all the vehemence he could muster. But the word left a bitter taste in his mouth. A knock at the door interrupted his thoughts. Dagger poked his head in. “Ready to go, bro?” Without thinking, Cloak responded, “Ready to go manipulate some poor dumb misguided idealists into being our spear-fodder?” Dagger blinked. “Um… yeah. You ready to go do that?” Cloak gave his head a shake to clear it. What’s wrong with me? “Yeah, coming.” He rose to his hooves and followed his quizzical brother out the door. As they walked, Dagger shot him an odd look. “You okay, bro?” “Sure,” lied Cloak. “Just tired is all.” “Well, you should hit the sack early tonight,” advised Dagger. Then, with a cheeky smirk, he added, “The Revolution needs you, after all.” The image of a burning Canterlot home filled his mind, with Sandstone and Sea Breeze cowering in a ditch before it. “Yes, it does.” Dagger fought the urge to keep shooting glances at his brother as they worked their way out of the dimly lit apartment building. The long walk from the fifth floor of the empty old tenement house gave him plenty of opportunities to fight it. What’s eating him? he wondered. If I didn’t know better, I’d think he felt sorry for the idiots. To an extent, Dagger could see where the impulse came from. Initially, he’d found the Vox pitiable. Now, he just found them laughable. If they can’t be bothered to think for themselves, they deserve what they get. And, hey, if the Revolution succeeds, maybe they’ll come out on top. Or, he amended, the most ruthless ones will. There’s always gotta be somepony on top. Dagger rather planned that somepony be him. And Cloak. I’d never want the top without him. Still, the young Blade Initiate could not help but hope that some of the more likeable Vox survived the coming battle. A couple actually had potential to be decent Disciples, maybe even Initiates, and it always paid to have loyal lackeys on your way to the top— A chill ran down his spine and his animal instincts screamed in his ear. Predator! they warned him. Predator stalking you RUN! The beast loomed in the shadows of the hallway behind him, waiting to strike. Dagger spun, knives primed to fling at the target. Cloak whirled next to him, his eponymous cloak snapping in the air as he charged his horn and aimed at whatever Dagger felt. Dagger wasn’t sure if Cloak had sensed the same thing he had or was just reacting to his movements, but it didn’t matter. There was a palpable wrongness in the dim hallway, and Dagger had no intention of dying here. The hallway yawned dark and empty behind them, with no windows and no lights to illuminate its length. Even so, the shadows were too deep, too absolute to be natural. A pale hoof emerged from the blackness and Dagger tensed to strike— Only to tense from fear when he saw who it was. “Grand Shade Kiln,” Cloak managed with a bow. The words snapped Dagger out of his stupor, and he likewise bowed. Kiln regarded them with his furnace-like eyes and overlarge pupils, face inscrutable. “You raise your weapons to me?” he asked. His tone was not accusatory, but his voice rolled like thunder. Cold sweat dampened Dagger’s coat. “Apologies, Grand Shade, we did not recognize—” “Do not apologize,” rumbled Kiln. Dagger fell silent. “That is weakness. And you…” his low chuckle resonated in Dagger’s skull, “are not weak.” Dagger wanted to thank the Grand Shade, but his mouth was too dry to speak. Kiln stepped closer, and the floor shook from his magnitude. The creaky old building ought to have echoed with his hoofsteps, but instead the world felt muted and the sound close, like sitting in a closet full of woolen coats with nothing but the amplified sound of one’s own breathing and heartbeat to break the silence. Every loud noise was distant and unreal, while every soft noise resonated in Dagger’s head as though it was within his very bones. The Grand Shade loomed over them, a mere foot away. It was all Dagger could do not to collapse under the weight of his presence. His instincts bade him shut his eyes and cower. But he would not. Kiln had said they were not weak, and Dagger would prove it. Forcing his coward eyes up, he gazed deep into the yawning blackness at the heart of Kiln’s eyes. Vertigo struck, and Dagger’s muscles contracted with the nauseating sensation of freefall, but he did not look away. Kiln allowed the scrutiny, then broadened his lips in an over-wide smile. “As I said, strength. You will do well.” What happened next, Dagger could not describe. The closest he might have come would have been that Kiln blinked Dagger’s eyes, and suddenly the young pegasus was gasping for air, barely able to keep himself from vomiting and Cloak had to hold him up. Kiln now stood several feet away with his back to them. “You will not teach the Vox today,” declared the Grand Shade. “Instead, you will carry out an execution.” Dagger tried to answer, but was shivering too much. Cloak spoke for both of them. “Who is the target, my lord?” “A troublesome businesspony who has been asking many questions about one of our projects. He and a certain Member of Parliament have been reaching beyond Equestrian borders with… unfortunate consequences.” He paused, long enough that Cloak opened his mouth to ask a question, only to be cut off. “Another operative is dealing with the second problem. You will deal with the first. Today. At precisely four o’clock.” A note slid across the floor to stop at the brothers’ hooves, though Dagger hadn’t seen Kiln move. “Discretion and fear are paramount,” Kiln rumbled. “More important than the target’s body is that your own are not taken. If he should live but the message still be delivered and you escape, that would be preferable to the Crown recovering all three of your bodies.” Kiln glanced over his shoulder, and under his gaze Dagger almost retched. “Succeed, and be rewarded.” “It is our honor, Grand Shade,” said Cloak. “Our honor, Grand Shade,” croaked Dagger. Kiln smiled, and Dagger heard his own blood rushing in his ears. “It is,” pronounced the massive pony. Then he stepped into the shadows and was gone. With his departure, the natural sounds and sensations of the world returned. Dagger immediately collapsed, gasping for breath. Cloak hovered over him, firing up a spell with his horn. “You looked into his eyes, didn’t you,” remarked Cloak. It wasn’t a question. “You didn’t?” wheezed Dagger. “No, dipstick. I’m not stupid,” snapped Cloak sourly, using his magic to ease his brother’s suffering. Dagger felt his muscles start to relax and the nausea begin to dissipate. “I’ve heard the Acolytes talk about what happens if you look too deep. Even when he’s muting his power, weird crap can happen, and he wasn’t being subtle today. You’re probably going to be feeling it the rest of the day.” What Dagger felt right then was the need to cough. He covered his mouth with one hoof and gave several rather satisfying hacks, hoping that Cloak didn’t see the flecks of blood splatter against the russet-furred backdrop. “It was worth it,” he declared with as much force as he could muster. “What?!” exclaimed Cloak. Aghast. “Why?!” Dagger grinned crookedly. “Because now he knows he can take us seriously.” Cloak shook his head and picked up the note. “I worry about you, sometimes. Let’s just find what poor fool we need to snuff so we can get to work.” “Wonder who the MP he mentioned is?” said Dagger. Come to that, I wonder why he mentioned him at all. We didn’t need to know. “No clue,” said Cloak as he scanned the note. “But, whoever he is, I hope the pony they sent after him knows what he’s doing. I wouldn’t want to make Kiln mad at me.” Dagger couldn’t suppress a shudder. “You have no idea.” Jacques winced as the needle and thread was pulled through his flesh. Hardened though he was, pain was still pain. “Sorry, darling,” apologized Rarity as she stitched his wound shut. “I’m afraid the rocking of the train is making this a little more challenging than I’d like.” “You’re doing a fine job,” he assured her. “By your deftness I guess you’ve done this before?” Rarity shrugged. “I told you I have a temper. Despite what Applejack may say, I’ve been known to dirty my hooves on occasion. And, ever since we became the Bearers, we’ve had our little adventures. Some of which we came back from in better shape than others. Though never…” her eyes drifted towards the door which led to the baggage car. Clearing her throat, she brought her attention back to the task at hand. “Anyway, it’s not the first time I’ve stitched a wound.” She indicated Oaken with a tilt of her head. “I just wish your healing magic was as effective on mundane injuries as it was on dark magic.” Oaken flexed the foreleg he’d used to shield himself and the others from the magic darts. It still bore the marks of the injury but, thanks to Jacques’ magic combatting the power of the Dark weapons, it would heal much quicker. “Well, I just wish I had a better track record not getting stabbed by these guys,” the soldier groused. “So far I’m 0 for 2.” “Look on the bright side,” Jacques advised him. “Last time you were hospitalized for weeks and could barely walk. This time you’ll have a limp for a couple days at most. Next time it will be a papercut.” Oaken chuckled. The friar turned his attention to Windforce. “Feeling better, Sir Windforce?” The pegasus’ injuries, thankfully, had been mostly bruises and scrapes. He’d taken a beating, but it was nothing that rest, ice, and time would not cure. Windforce sat in their midst, not-so-subtly within their defensive bubble. He took a long sip of his tea, then set it down slowly. “On a relative scale, yes,” he replied, his voice muted. “But I suspect my hooves will be shaking for some time.” “That’ll pass, sir,” Oaken assured him, surreptitiously topping off the MP’s tea. “Most ponies get the jitters when they almost die. Perfectly normal.” The four of them had taken over the dining car. Windforce’s status as a prominent Member of Parliament and Oaken’s role in protecting said Parliament had given the Lunar Guard jurisdiction over the train for the duration of the journey. Even if it hadn’t, nopony had been foolish enough to argue the point. Once the train arrived in Canterlot the passengers, under orders from Oaken, would be told to remain in their seats until such time as the local constabulary could arrive to process the crime scene. Or, more accurately, until the REF ponies who were to meet us at the station secure the area while Colonel Query and his trusted investigators decide what to do, thought Jacques. In the meantime, there’s no reason we can’t get started. “Sir Windforce,” he began aloud. “Just Will or Windforce, please, all of you” corrected the pegasus. “You saved my life. I think we can dispense with the formalities.” “Will then. Did you recognize the assassin?” Windforce grimaced. “Never seen him before, but that’s hardly surprising. I’ve made a lot of enemies over the years. Wouldn’t be the first time a cartel hired somepony to ease me off this mortal coil. Though this is the first time they’ve been brazen enough to strike this deep in Equestria.” He massaged his bruised throat with a hoof. “Closest any ever came, too.” “His accent was Equestrian,” pointed out Oaken. “Local hitter?” Jacques shook his head. “It sounded personal. Or rather ideological. Even if he was a hireling, I doubt his interest in you was purely mercenary.” He frowned. “A pity we cannot ask him.” Windforce took another sip of tea. “Yes, well, we might not have learned anything from him anyway. Ponies who dabble in dark magic tend to be a disagreeable lot.” The friar exchanged a glance with the others. We never told him that was dark magic. “You’re familiar with his methods, then?” “Not those specifically,” replied Windforce, “but slavers are a nasty bunch. Some of the more powerful cartels have gained power by crossing lines nopony should cross.” His voice was steady, but his teacup shook as he raised it to his lips. “I’ve seen things I can’t unsee. Let’s leave it at that.” They continued their speculation and questioning for the rest of the journey, but turned up no solid theories. Their efforts were somewhat hampered by the fact that Jacques and the others weren’t sure if Windforce had been briefed on anything regarding the Shades. Odds were he hadn’t, and none of them wanted to be the one to break the seal of secrecy. Eventually, they drew up on their destination. Jacques had grown accustomed to seeing Canterlot from afar, but this was his first time really seeing the city. The sight took his breath away. The Equestrian capital was a shining pearl of a metropolis - a hybrid of Constantinople, Rome, and Antioch forged of ivory and gold, jutting from the side of a mountain, supported by craft unthinkable to human minds. Though the part of him which had become more accustomed to the possible impossibilities of Equestria knew that the shining city was simply the product of magic, ingenuity, and a peaceful domain, the part of him which still lived in the lands of Provencal and the Outremer saw Canterlot and concluded he’d been given some taste of heavenly Jerusalem. In spite of all that had happened on their journey, he could not help but move to the window and gape like an awed country child seeing a great city for the first time. Rarity, it appeared, was not immune to the effect either. Stepping up beside him, she smiled proudly, remarking, “Quite a sight, isn’t she?” Jacques’ eyes drank the scene in – the waterfalls, the pegasi flitting about the towers, the impossible construction of the tiered city protruding from the living rock of the mountain. “More than you could ever hope to know,” he murmured. The train wound its way into the station and slowed to a stop. Rather than disgorging all its passengers as was customary, the conductor hopped off the train alone to speak to the local Guard contingent. Conveniently, Captain Argent Sabre just happened to be waiting there with a group of six REF soldiers, originally a courtesy escort for the Ponyville trio. Argent’s face was suspicious as the conductor approached, then flat when she heard what he had to say. She immediately detailed a pegasus from her squad to fly off, presumably for reinforcements. Then she sent a pair of troopers to accompany the conductor back to the engine , while her big red-coated sergeant summoned group of nearby Solar Guards to secure the train. The remaining two ponies, a dark blue-green earth pony with a red mane who Jacques recognized as Corporal Thresher and a wild-looking pegasus mare with a white-spotted tan coat and grey mane, accompanied Argent to the dining car. Upon entering, Argent attended to the MP first, her tone as quietly professional as ever. “Sir Windforce. Do you require medical assistance?” When he shook his head, she turned her attention to the others. “I’d ask the same, but,” she gestured to Jacques’ and Oaken’s self-applied medical treatment, “it seems you have that in hoof. I’ve given orders that the train be moved to the nearby railyard. We’ll process the passengers and crew there.” As if on cue, the train shifted back into motion, much to the confusion of the ponies who’d been waiting for their friends and loved ones at the station. Once they started moving, Argent spared a more personal glance at each of them, starting with Windforce. “Well, Will, I always did say you should invest in a permanent security detail.” Windforce gave a weak chuckle. “I daresay you’ve convinced me, Argie.” “Friar, Rarity,” Argent continued, “it is a pleasure to see the both of you again, though I wish it was under better circumstances.” “Quite,” agreed Rarity feelingly. “Ah, but where would the fun in that be?” quipped the friar. Argent and Rarity both shot him annoyed looks while Windforce laughed tiredly. Thresher and Oaken both displayed their mastery of the art of non-reaction, which seemed to be required of junior enlisted ponies. The wild-looking pegasus mare, for her part, let out a raucous guffaw. “Fun ’e says! Leggy blighter after me own ’eart!” exclaimed the mare in an accent that Jacques couldn’t place. “You’re alright, mate!” The REF captain shot her subordinate a hard glare. “Sergeant Miru, refrain from your usual indecorous behavior.” Miru saluted. “Sorry, mum. Won’t ’appen again.” “I highly doubt that,” remarked Argent quietly. Shaking her head, the captain resumed her business as the train pulled to a stop in the yard. “Now then. I’ve sent for reinforcements to help process the rest of the train. In the meantime, brief me.” They did. Argent’s face didn’t change from its mask of control, but Jacques noticed that she reached up to tap a ding in her armor more than once. Once they’d finished their explanation of the attack, she asked how much the other ponies on the train knew. “We didn’t tell them much,” reported Oaken. “Four junior crewmembers know there was a violent disturbance in the baggage car. I identified myself and Sir Windforce to two senior crewmembers to assert jurisdiction.” He waved his injured forelimb. “A few passengers saw me bleeding. Somepony might have recognized the MP. We gave out no other details.” Argent sighed. “Best we could hope for under the circumstances. We’ll wait till Ernie gets here to do the rest of the debrief.” They didn’t have long to wait. Colonel Earnest Query arrived a short while later – a heavyset, balding stallion with glasses whose bemused expression belied the sharp intelligence in his eyes. After being introduced to Rarity and Jacques (he knew the others already) ‘Ernie’ wasted no time extracting the story from the travellers, even gleaning some bits from the context that they’d missed. After a thorough round of questioning, he gave permission to have Windforce escorted home. “I’ve already had my ponies secure your manor,” he promised. “Once you get there, sit tight. We’ll have round-the-clock REF presence with you.” “Thank you,” said the MP with a relieved sigh. Argent addressed her troopers. “Miru? Thresher? See to it Sir Windforce makes it home safely.” The pair saluted, and Miru confidently declared, “No worries, mum. We’ll ’ave him home in five ticks. This way, sir, big fan o’ your work by the by, real honor ta be your escort.” She glanced at Jacques and his companions and flipped a cheeky salute with one wing. “Thanks for having ’is back, mates. ’Specially you, ya leggy bloke. Always noice ta ’ave the undiscovered race turn out ta be friendly.” “Um… you’re welcome?” ventured Jacques, who was reasonably confident that he understood about 60% of what she said. “Miru,” glowered Argent, “out.” “Righto, mum. Cheers, mates.” Before leaving, Windforce made a point of trading grips with his three rescuers. “Thank you. All of you,” he said earnestly. “If you ever need a friend, you have one in me.” With that promise given, the MP and his escort departed. Once they’d left, Query heaved a deep sigh and took off his glasses to polish them, shooting a rueful glance at Argent. “Never an easy day, eh?” “To quote the late great Master Chief Frogmane, Ernie, the only easy day was yesterday.” “True enough,” chuckled the colonel. He shifted his gaze to Jacques and Rarity. “Incidentally, it’s a pleasure to make both your acquaintances. Hardly the best circumstances, but these are difficult times.” Rarity thanked the stallion graciously, but Jacques remained intent on the investigation. “What do you believe happened here, Ernie?” “I have my theories,” replied the stallion, rising from his seat. “I always do. But I’d like to see the crime scene before I share them.” He gestured to the door which led to the baggage car. “If you’d accompany me, Friar, Captain?” “Certainly,” chorused the pair. Nodding politely to Rarity and Oaken, Jacques and Argent followed Query to the door. Just as they’d reached it, however, Rarity stopped them with an abrupt statement. “I’d like to come with you,” she said. Jacques and the other ponies exchanged glances. “There’s really no need, Miss Rarity” Query said carefully. “Jacques is perfectly capable of walking me through what happened without you seeing the final unpleasantness.” “I don’t deny that,” she replied. “It’s just… I think I should see how it ended.” Jacques felt his heart sink. “I fear it is a rather grisly sight, madam,” he warned her. Rarity looked up at him, her eyes afraid, but firm. “I know,” she said quietly. “But if we are to fight the coming darkness, I had better be ready for such… grisliness.” Oaken winced. Argent looked at Rarity as though she wasn’t sure whether to object or approve. Jacques just sighed, thinking, I thought you might say that. He turned a questioning gaze to Query. Though plainly unhappy, the colonel replied, “If you’re sure, ma’am, then I won’t stop you.” Taking a deep breath, Rarity declared, “I’m sure.” Gesturing for her to follow with a tilt of his head, the aging intelligence officer led the way. The crime scene, fortunately, was just as they’d left it: smashed, battered, and toppled stacks of luggage, several discarded knives, and, protruding from walls and baggage, darts which resembled some sort of crystalized dark liquid. And, of course, the body, thought Jacques. As the friar warned, the unicorn’s corpse was not a pretty sight. The long black dart he’d impaled himself upon speared up like a stalagmite, protruding from the crown of his head like a second horn. Barely an inch of it was visible, but his skull provided a grim metric by which to extrapolate its greater length. Blood had run down his head and pooled on the floorboards around him. Worst, however, was the face. Rigor mortis had been unkind to the unicorn. His limbs were locked in the unsettling posture of his death spasms. His glassy eyes were fixed upwards on where Jacques had stood when they’d had their final, fatal confrontation. His lips were pulled back in a manner that bared his teeth in a snarling, defiant grin. Ghastly, thought Jacques, shaking his head. And unnecessary. I had no desire to end the life of a helpless captive. What folly drove him to this? The friar could not mull long on this question, however, as he heard behind him the raspy breath of Rarity. Grimacing, Jacques turned to see the poor mare frozen, her sides heaving with rapid breathing as the corpse held captive her gaze. Unbidden, memories sprang to Jacques’ mind – his gentle brother on the day of the bandit raid; a young sergeant after his first battle with the Saracens; a fellow knight bleeding out next to the man he’d just killed. Time and time again, Jacques had born witness to that first sight of violent death. Each time it was different. Each time it was the same. Jacques reached out a hand. “Rarity—” The mare spun and sprinted back the way they’d come. Oaken turned and followed. The abrupt twist upon his injured leg made him wince, but he didn’t slow. “I’ve got her,” was all he said as he ran after the fleeing mare. Query sighed at Rarity’s exit. “I was afraid of that.” “Better now than in the heat of battle,” Argent pointed out, her quiet tone showing an empathy that her words glazed over. “I’d rather have spared her that, but we don’t have the luxury. From what I’ve read of the Shades, it’s hardly the worst first exposure she could have had.” Jacques, thinking on the grim account of Argent Martel, was forced to nod in agreement. All the same, I’ll speak with Rarity about it later. For now, however, he had to put the poor mare out of his mind. Addressing the colonel, he asked, “Have you any new theories forming?” Query studied the dead stallion closely, stepping around him to see him from multiple angles. In particular, he examined the head, leaning in close and squinting. Abruptly, he said, “Friar, you can dispel magic, right? How about detecting it?” The man stroked his beard thoughtfully. “Yes and no. I have a passive sense of when magic is being performed around me, but it’s not always obvious. I can, for example, sense the dark magic of the darts, but it’s faint, to the point that I might not notice if I wasn’t paying attention. Why?” “Because I think there’s a glamor spell on him,” answered Query. “Think you can say for sure?” Jacques rolled his shoulders. “I’ll certainly try.” He went over and knelt by the corpse, careful to avoid the blood. He held out his hand to hover a hair’s length from the body and concentrated on the flow of magic. At first, he felt nothing. But, as he moved his hand along the length of the corpse, he detected faint traces of a magic which felt similar to that which Oaken’s and Ironhide’s armor used to give the Lunar Guard their uniform appearance. Similar, but different, he realized. It feels more like the shadowmancy that Twilight has been practicing. Only this is… darker. Whatever this stallion used, it was not the pure version of the art that Luna and Miss Sparkle use. “I have something,” he said before relaying his observations. “Thought so,” smirked Query. “Rip ’er off.” The friar obliged. He rose to his feet and pointed his open hand at the body. His hand glowed a pale white, and he closed his eyes to better visualize the enemy’s spell matrix. Once he had a clear image of the target, he grasped it and yanked, tearing the illusion away. There was a sound as of a ripping canvas, though he wasn’t sure if anyone heard it but him. When he opened his eyes, where once there had lain a sea green stallion with dark blue mane, now lay a gold stallion with brown mane. “Hah!” exclaimed the triumphant colonel. “I thought he looked familiar. Meet Golden Glow, formerly Sergeant Golden Glow of the EUP Guard.” Argent’s lip curled in disgust. “Not another bloody traitor. I don’t suppose he’s about to make our jobs easier by being a known associate of Specialist Bound Probably-a-Traitor Glyph?” “Nope,” replied Query. “Drat.” “Glow’s story is actually kinda sad,” Query explained. “He was a competent soldier, good NCO, followed orders well, etcetera. Served in the Equestrian Army for four years, the last one of which he spent with the 5th Fillydelphia Dragoons during Operation Featherfall.” Argent’s ears went back. “Oh,” she said quietly. Jacques raised an eyebrow. “Forgive me, but my study of history did not cover that particular operation.” “I’m not surprised,” said Query. “It was relatively recent and not something the EUP brags about. How familiar are you with the present state of the old griffon kingdoms?” Jacques folded his arms. “The basics. With the exception of a few more stable ones like Griffuania or Hungriffy, most are either failed states, marauder empires, or the fractious territories of warlords and feuding clans.” Remembering Griffonstone, he added, “Some great old kingdoms we don’t even have records of anymore.” Hm. I just said ‘we’ don’t have the records. Assimilation comes swiftly in these lands. Query nodded. “That’s the short of it. We’ve tried to bring the factions to the negotiating table for decades with little success. At this point, we mostly focus on keeping things from escalating. Militarily, we try to keep out of it except to keep the banditry and conquering in check and protect emergency relief expeditions. Featherfall was an attempt to break the status quo and convince two of the larger factions in old Griffonsreach to stop fighting each other. Good intentions, poor execution.” “Meaning the prat they put in charge was an utter incompetent,” interjected Argent sourly. “He and his cronies leveraged it for personal gain, ignoring the advice of the local Equestrian negotiators and violating the mandate set by the Foreign Office. Worse was his handling of the Dragoons. All the red tape he bound them in practically castrated the poor lads.” “I wish I could say she was exaggerating,” grunted Query. “It was the sort of caricaturish armchair soldiering that every grunt has nightmares about but that seems too unreal to actually exist. Put yourself in Glow’s horseshoes: you spend your days trying to crack down on bandit raids, run patrol, and pull security with an ambassador breathing down your neck, questioning every decision, spreading your forces thin, insisting you ask for permission to engage even if you’re plainly under attack…” he shook his head. “And, all the while, you’re doing it in the midst of hostile griffon territory, surrounded by creatures you might never have seen before deployment and now only see the worst of – griffon raids, thefts, infighting, you get the picture.” Jacques did. It was all too easy to see people as less-than-human. It must be even easier when they are entirely different species. Query resumed the story. “By itself, none of that probably would have made him worse than your average malcontent. Then came the Baker’s Crossing Incident – a supposed peace summit that turned out to be both griffon factions trying to ambush each other. Intel later suggested that neither side wanted Equestrians harmed but,” he shrugged, “heat of battle. Six Dragoons were killed, all from Glow’s platoon.” Jacques winced. I think I can guess where this tragic tale goes. “That was the last straw for Celestia and the Foreign Office. The princess overrode the ambo’s supporters in Parliament and sacked him. She sent a Griffish Isles diplomat in his place, but the damage was already done. Golden Glow left the Army in disgust, hating foreigners, foreign missions, foreign races, and foreign affairs. He puttered around causing trouble and looking for like-minded ponies. He found them in the Blank Slates.” “I’m unfamiliar with the name,” said Jacques. “They’re not really around anymore,” explained Query. “Bunch of hardliners who started out wanting the same thing Golden Glow did, then took it to the next level – sabotaging businesses who traded over the borders, assaulting politicians who opposed their views, and burning EUP recruitment stations.” “Domestic terrorists,” spat Argent. Query smiled dryly. “At the time they were just alleged domestic terrorists. The Blank Slates were darn good at covering their tracks. It was a long time before we could prove anything. We scooped Glow up a couple times during the investigation, but he always gave us the runaround and we had to let him go. When we finally put together a real case against the Slates, we captured and tried most of their leadership and a good number of their rank-and-file, but a lot of the lower-rung goons vanished. Glow was one of the ones who managed to slip the nets.” He nudged the corpse with one hoof. “Never thought I’d catch up to him here.” “Seems his sins caught up with him,” declared Argent, her voice coldly satisfied. Jacques shot her a glance. “I agree that he brought himself to this end, Captain, but we must remember he chose a wicked path in vengeance for what wickedness was done to him. While the ultimate responsibility for his evil remains his own, we ought to be mindful of our own lives, and how things might have gone darkly for us if we’d faced our own trials less worthily.” He sighed and regarded the stallion sadly. “Obviously, it’s not an excuse for what he became, but it does explain how he got here.” Argent looked at him askance. “I’ve lost ponies to the incompetence of superiors, both civilian and military, and lost plenty more to foreign aggressors. I didn’t blame another race or turn on my nation.” “And for your strong moral character and wise choices you should be grateful,” the friar pointed out with quiet firmness. Argent huffed and looked away. Jacques turned back to Query. “Do you think he was still affiliated with the Blank Slates?” Query shook his head. “It’s possible, but I doubt it. We dismantled them. Even if we hadn’t, this dark magic is leagues above anything they ever pulled off. Sure, I’ll bet he jumped at the opportunity to hit Windforce, but I think he had new backers. Three guesses who I have in mind, and the first two don’t count.” Jacques stroked his beard. “It would make sense for the Shades to recruit a former soldier for his combat experience. He would also have been the logical choice to assassinate Windforce. With his past, it would be easy to pin the blame on vestiges of the Blank Slates if he was caught.” “Deniability,” Argent summarized. “But that still begs the question… why? Why Windforce? Why now? Do the Shades have an agenda like the Slates?” “Not if they’re anything like the Shades of old,” replied Jacques. “His recruitment is more likely a matter of convenience, which implies that Windforce either made himself an enemy of theirs in some other manner or…” “… or he was part of a larger scheme,” finished Query, who’d been thinking along the same lines, “meaning the real objective is something else entirely.” The three regarded Golden Glow’s corpse in silence for a moment. Abruptly, Argent exclaimed, “I bloody well hate spycraft.” On the balance, Rarity was rather pleased with herself. She managed to make her way off the train and to a relatively secluded part of the rail yard before her legs seized up, her back arched, and she vomited up the meager contents of her stomach. It took longer than expected. Despite how little she’d had to eat or drink in the last few hours, her body seemed bound and determined to expel each and every last ounce of it, along with whatever other fluids it could find. At some point during her violent digestive expulsion, Rarity became aware of the crunch of hooves upon gravel next to her and a pair of hooves holding her mane back. She was mortified, grateful, and far too busy coloring the rail yard to see who it was. After what felt like an eternity, her heaving came up dry, and then subsided into panting and quivering. Tears rolled down her face, but she didn’t trust her balance enough to wipe them with her hooves, nor her concentration enough to wipe them with her magic. The pair of hooves which had held back her mane helped her step away from her leavings and sit. Gravel didn’t make for a particularly comfortable or clean resting place, but it was preferable to standing. She wanted to closer her eyes to shut out her surroundings, but whenever she did her vision was filled with the gruesome sight of the body. Is this what it’s going to be? she wondered. Is this what we’ll have to do? Rarity sat, sniffling and panting, until a hoof reached up with a kerchief to clean her face. She allowed the hoof to do so, and wasn’t surprised to recognize who the brown hoof belonged to. “Thank you, darling,” she croaked. “You’re welcome,” replied Oaken. “I’m sorry you had to see me in this… beastly state.” Oaken moved around to face her, his expression at once chiding and gentle. “There’s no shame in this, Rarity. Believe me, lots of ponies pitch their rig the first time. I know I did.” Rarity sniffled and let him clean her face. She now felt well enough to do it with her magic but, in that moment, she was glad she didn’t have to. It felt much better to be cared for, and to feel the comfort of knowing that tough, soldierly Oaken had likewise ‘pitched his rig.’ How do soldiers adjust to seeing things like that? Doing things like that. They all seem so unbothered by their profession. Jacques… Marble… Song… will I become like them? Abruptly, she blurted, “Do you suppose Morning Song got sick when she first saw… well…” Oaken didn’t answer for a moment, instead finishing his ministrations first. “I don’t know,” he admitted after a moment. “I know she’s quiet about what got her to join up, and I decided it’s not my place to ask.” “I see,” said Rarity slowly. “I suppose she’s found ways to become numb to it.” The image of the body flashed in her mind. “Perhaps I will as well.” Her words elicited a frown from the Lunar Guard. “Rarity, soldiers might adjust to killing and death if they see it regularly, but that’s different from being numb. Healthy adjustment means learning to cope. Numb means you stop caring.” Would it be so terrible to not care about a dead assassin? came the callous thought. Instantly she looked away, ashamed of the dreadful thought. But is that what I’ll have to be like? she wondered. Will I have to harden myself to this? None of her internal conflict was voiced aloud, but Oaken seemed to guess anyway. He chewed his lip for a moment before taking on the tone of a storyteller. “You know, my pops was a Marine back in the day. Still is, really, even if he’s retired.” The burly earth pony chuckled. “Boy, I thought he didn’t get bothered by anything. Didn’t feel pain, didn’t get tired, didn’t ever look weak. He liked fighting, liked soldiering, always seemed to miss war. When I asked him if he ever lost any sleep over it he said ‘no.’” Rarity looked up at that. After all, she was convinced she’d be seeing the dead stallion when she slept. I already see him when I close my eyes. Could I become like Oaken’s father? Could I stomach it if I did? Before she could continue her morbid speculation, Oaken continued, “I figured killing, like everything else, just didn’t bother him; that a tough old Gunny like him didn’t have to care about the creatures he killed. I wasn’t sure if that scared me or not.” You aren’t the only one, thought Rarity. Oaken tapped one hoof against the gravel, lost in the memory. “Then came the day I told him I was joining the Lunar Guard. I expected him to rail at me for failing to join his beloved Royal Marine Corps, but… he surprised me.” Rarity swallowed. “What did he do?” she asked. His green eyes met hers, and in them she somehow sensed that she was seeing his father as well. “He looked me dead in the eye…” Oaken grasped her by the shoulders, “took me by the shoulders, and said, ‘Son, I will pray every day that you never have to take the life of a thinking creature. I don’t want you carrying that weight. But, if you do, you’d best make darned sure you done right, or else you’ll face a reckoning when it comes your turn to die.’” Oaken leaned in, his gaze never wavering. “I learned that day that the reason he slept well wasn’t because life wasn’t precious to him. It was because life was so precious to him that he would never kill unless he had no other choice. And, because he knew he could carry that weight, he decided he would carry it so others didn’t have to. That is what made him a good Marine. Not callousness, but compassion.” Rarity felt her breath catch. The Lunar Guard continued earnestly, “Rarity, I can’t tell you how you’re going to deal with what’s going to come next. Maybe you’ll be like Song and deal with it quietly. Maybe you’ll be like my pops and seem casual about it. Or,” he sighed, “maybe it’ll eat at you. I don’t know. I wish I did. What I do know, is that, like my pops” he released one shoulder and tapped her on the chest, “you’ve got a good heart. If, heaven forbid, you ever have to make that call, I know you’ll do right, and you won’t be any less of a good pony than you are now. In fact—” Whatever else Oaken had to say would remain a mystery, as Rarity flung her forelegs around him and sobbed gratefully into his chest, gasping “Thank you! Thank you!” whenever she had the breath for it. Oaken, wisely, responded with silence and a warm embrace. Jacques and Argent eventually reached the end of their usefulness to Earnest Query’s investigation and left the stallion to his own devices. Argent informed him the travelers’ quarters had been prepared at the Royal Palace and that, with their role here concluded, it would be best to head there straightaway. First, they had to collect Rarity and Oaken. It proved not to be difficult; the pair were returning to the dining car just as Argent and Jacques were leaving the baggage car. Rarity looked rather worse for wear, with her mane disheveled, eyes red from weeping, and a sallow countenance that suggested vomiting. At present, however, she seemed composed, and Oaken’s presence nearby appeared to provide a source of stability to her. Argent, allowing her military rigidity to withdraw for a moment, stepped up to Rarity and gave her a sympathetic hug before leading ivory mare towards Canterlot Castle. Jacques and Oaken fell into step behind them as Argent held a quiet mare-to-mare talk with Rarity. The friar took advantage of the moment to have a man-to-stallion talk with Oaken. “How is she bearing up?” he asked sotto voce. “Better than you might expect, worse than you’d want,” replied Oaken. “She’s a strong mare. Stronger than she knows, I’ll bet. But I’m sure it would help for you to talk to her.” “I plan to,” said Jacques. He gave the stallion a brotherly nudge. “You’re a good pony, Oaken, and a good friend.” Oaken looked uncomfortable with the praise. “Just doing right by her,” came his humble response. “Exactly as I said,” persisted Jacques. “A good pony, and a good friend.” Then, since it was plain Oaken wasn’t the sort to relish in multitudinous compliments, the friar changed the subject, “It would be nice if the rest of this visit passed uneventfully.” The Lunar Guard shot him a sideways glance. “Think it’ll happen?” Jacques chuckled dryly. “No, but it would be nice.” Mason Grey whistled a jaunty tune to himself as he ambled home. Today hadn’t been without its frustrations and setbacks, but on the whole, he was in a good mood. Business was booming, his investigations into the strikes had born fruit, and, best of all, he would be entertaining his favorite princess later. In fact, he thought as he passed a flower stall, I think it would be appropriate to commemorate the occasion. “Afternoon, my good fellow,” he greeted the shopkeeper. “Tell me, what do you have in the way of blue roses?” The shopkeeper happily showed him over to a particular display case carrying just those items, proudly describing them as the result of a synthesis of earth and unicorn magic. “I have to warn you, sir, they are rather expensive—” “Splendid!” exclaimed Grey, tossing a pouch of bits that more than equaled the roses’ value to the startled merchant pony. “I’d be offended if you sold me anything but the best of the best. After all,” he winked cheekily, “I’ve got a date with a princess tonight!” Which was technically true, as it was a pre-arranged date of meeting, but the look on the shopkeep’s face suggested that he interpreted the term differently. Grey smirked. The rumor mill will have a field day with that one. Ah, let them talk. It will be good for a laugh. “O-of course, sir,” stammered the shopkeep. “How would you like them arranged?” A short conversation later and Grey was happily winding his way home carrying the roses, humming a romantic ballad, guileless of the russet-colored pegasus and grey-coated unicorn who stalked from the shadows.