Morning Song Counselling, Rolling Brook, Four and a Half Years Before the Events of A 14th Century Friar in Celestia’s Court…
“You haven’t been able to get even a single word out of her?” Song asked, her eyebrows raised in surprise. “As in, she hasn’t verbally responded to anything you’ve said, or as in she hasn’t said a word period?”
“Not a single one of my soldiers has heard so much as a single word out of the poor girl’s mouth,” replied Captain Argent Sabre, her voice muted in the confines of Song’s office. “We suspect she was taken from her village in a raid, as that would fit the broader pattern and her accent wasn’t native to where we found her, but we don’t know for sure. The only reason we know her name is ‘Alsahra’ is because she wrote it down for the Legionnaire who found her.”
The magenta-coated unicorn captain looked unusually somber as she sat across the desk from Morning Song, PsyD. The doctor noted that Argent’s armor, the steel barding of the Royal Expeditionary Force, had lost much of its luster. The armor’s red-and-gold trim looked faded, and the red crest of her helm was ragged.
Given that the captain had just come from a warzone, most would not have thought much of it. But Morning Song was a psychologist, and she’d come to know Argent Sabre very well over the last few months. Whatever ferocious combat she saw over the borders, the REF captain’s battle harness was always immaculate by the time she made it back to friendly lines. Rolling Brook, the town where Song practiced, was some thirty miles from the border. Which means that she hasn’t taken the time to polish her barding or fix the crest, reflected Song. That, more than anything else about Argent’s comportment, worried her.
“Well,” earth pony psychologist remarked, leaning forward in her chair and tapping one alabaster hoof against the desk, “it’s not uncommon for trafficking victims to be afraid to talk.” Argent said nothing, but averted her eyes. That’s not a good sign. “But the fact that you travelled back here to tell me personally means there’s something more going on.”
Argent nodded. “Quite so, I’m afraid,” she replied, her customary Trottingham aplomb doing little to hide her discomfort. “You see, Alsahra is skittish and fearful around everypony, as is to be expected, but she still speaks to some, I’ve been told. It’s…” she bit her lip, then pulled off her helmet, letting her silver mane flow freely as she ran a hoof over the helm’s ragged crest. Song waited, knowing that there was no point in rushing her. “…it’s my soldiers she’s afraid of.”
Song’s gaze softened. “Well, I can only imagine how hard that is, having the ponies you’re rescuing being afraid of you.” It’s not the first time it’s happened, but maybe it’s just now getting to her. “Just remember that seeing armed ponies is likely to set most of these victims off, especially the ones that don’t speak Ponish and don’t understand they’re being rescued. Other patients you’ve brought me have—”
“You don’t understand, Song,” Argent snapped, her crimson eyes blazing as her gaze met Song’s. “It’s my soldiers specifically that she’s afraid of.”
Song blinked. “What?”
“Oh, she’s fretful and nervous and largely silent amongst other members of the Task Force,” continued Argent, “but she breaks down sobbing every time she sees Equestrian infantry. I had to pull two Germane Stormtroopers from the field just to escort her back here.” She gave a bitter snort. “The fact that they were less threatening to her than my ponies doesn’t sit right, and that’s not anything against the stormies.” Her eyes narrowed. “She’s terrified of Equestrian soldiers, Song, and I bloody well want to know why.”
Morning Song sat back in her chair and brushed at a golden lock that had slipped free from her predominantly black mane – an unconscious gesture of orderliness that manifested in the face of confusion. Equestrian peacekeeping forces were a welcome sight in most war-torn countries, given Celestia’s millennium of consistently honorable foreign policy. Generally, the only creatures that weren’t happy to see them in such situations were the despots and warlords who provoked their involvement. Thus, while it wasn’t uncommon for victimized ponies like Alsahra to be fearful of armed creatures, they generally calmed down once they discovered those soldiers were Equestrian.
For this to have the opposite effect… Song shuddered at the implications. “I’ll see if I can get her to open up to me,” she said at length. “Remember, though, she may not want to talk about what happened to her, or even where she came from. It could take months, even years to get her to open up. I know you need information but…” she shrugged.
Song knew that the practical part of the captain would hate waiting for intel – after all, her troops depended on it. But Argent was an honorable and compassionate soul who remembered a soldier’s first duty. She would never allow Alsahra to be hurt further by pressing too hard. The captain dipped her head gratefully and said, “Thank you, Song.”
“Thank me when I’ve helped her,” responded the psychologist, rising from her desk. “Take me to her.”
They made their way through the clinic to the patient’s room. Sure enough, a hulking white stallion in the distinctive black armor of the Germane Sturmtruppen Korps stood guard at the entrance. While they were still several yards away, Argent stopped. “This is as far as I go,” she announced, staring at the door. “I… I don’t want to risk upsetting her if she catches a glimpse of me.” There was a tremor in her voice as she spoke. Song put a comforting hoof over her friend’s withers. Argent didn’t seem to notice. “Celestia, what happened to her?” she whispered.
“I’ll do my best to find out,” Song assured her as gently as she could. Argent gave her a sad smile of gratitude and departed.
Once Argent had gone, Song took a deep breath and approached the door. The Stormtrooper was a fearsome specimen, bearing many scars. A wicked-looking Zweihänder was slung at his side while an arming sword rested nearby against the doorframe; he looked eminently capable of wielding both. But his smile was genial as he greeted her, “Guten tag, Ärztin Song. Here to see Alsahra?” His accent was thick, but hardly indecipherable.
Song nodded. “Please.”
He knocked gently on the door. “Oberleutnant Klinge. Die ärztin ist hier.” A smattering of Germane was heard in response. “She says you go in, Doctor. I remain here.” His eyes were sad as he added, “Alsahra not do so good with stallions. Oberleutnant Klinge better for calming her.”
“Thank you, Trooper,” Song replied, pushing her way inside.
Oberleutnant Klinge, a pale-grey pegasus mare with black mane and violet eyes, was seated on the floor in the corner of the room. She’d dispensed with her armor and stacked it on the far side of the room. There was no weapon in evidence, and Song guessed that the arming sword leaning against the wall outside was hers. Klinge’s wing was laid over the back of a tiny brown mare with blue hair, who had huddled fully into the corner. The little mare was trembling, emitting a sound too weak to be a whimper, but too fearful to be mere breathing.
In the last months, Song had become more familiar with that sound than she ever thought possible.
Morning Song exchanged a silent greeting with Klinge, then stepped deeper into the room, making her hoofsteps as obvious and non-threatening as possible. “Alsahra?” she called out, her voice bright and gentle. The young mare froze in terror, and Song’s heart bled. “<My name is Morning Song,>” she said in Alsahra’s native Somarelian. “<May I come in?>”
For a moment, nothing happened. Then, Klinge’s wing shifted, and from beneath it poked Alsahra’s head. The instant Song saw her face, tears threatened to consume the psychologist. It wasn’t the scars, nor the eye swelled shut by a beating, nor the emaciation, nor even the brand on Alsahra’s cheek. Song had seen all those things before and, horrible as they were, she’d become somewhat accustomed to the horror. No, what set Song off was that Alsahra wasn’t a mare at all.
She was a filly.
A filly who was old enough that she might be mistaken for a small, young mare, yes, but a filly nonetheless. Sweet Celestia, those animals stole this poor filly—
Song chopped off the selfish thought. Agonizing over what had happened to the girl would appease her own outrage, or at least seem to, but it wouldn’t help Alsahra. So, she swallowed her tears, put on the sunny smile of one greeting an old friend, and said, “<Hi, Alsahra. It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’d like to talk to you, please, if that’s okay.>”
Alsahra stared at her for what felt like an eternity, searching Morning Song’s face for any sort of deception or malice. Song bore the scrutiny patiently. She’d wait all day if she had to. Alsahra looked over at Klinge, who smiled encouragingly. Finally, the filly gave a timid nod.
Song’s grin broadened as her heart broke. “<Thank you, Alsahra,>” she said, stepping softly over to sit on the floor in front of her, taking care to keep her head at the filly’s level. Alsahra tried to dip her head in greeting, but the movement ended in a frantic jerk as she blinked tears from her good eye. No monster will ever hurt you again, Alsahra. I’ll find out who made you afraid, and they’ll never hurt anycreature again. “<Thank you very much.>”