//------------------------------//
// Ominous Horizons 
// Story: A 14th Century Friar in Celestia's Court 
// by Antiquarian 
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Pre-Chapter Author’s Note: If you're going to be up too late reading this because I posted it late, make a good choice and go to bed. It will still be here in the morning. 

It’s been a while. In case you forgot what anybody looks like, remember this exists: Antiquarian's Guide to Ponies You Vaguely Remember. 

Also, you may want to check out this blog post before reading this chapter if you haven’t already. 





The moment Jacques returned to his quarters, he was accosted by a worried Rarity (and Oaken, who seemed more perturbed than worried). Jacques did not relish the prospect of filling Rarity’s head with more troubles, but he reasoned that she would worry more if left to speculation. So, he told them of the assassination attempt on Mason Grey, glossing over the stallion’s disrespectful behavior by simply saying that Mason had “been feeling well enough that he declined further medical attention.” 

Rarity took the news of a second attempted murder better than he expected, though she was by no means at ease. Jacques guessed that it would likely behoove him to find time to talk to her about the experience later, but at the moment she seemed more in the mood for something to take her mind off the whole affair.  

Fortunately, a distraction arrived not long after in the form of the armorer, Steel Weave, and his team, who just so happened to be his wife and children. 

Steel Weave was not what Jacques expected in a blacksmith. Even with Rarity’s warning that he came across more as a garmenteer than an armorer, Jacques was not prepared for the foppish dandy of a unicorn who stood before him. Steel Weave’s white mane was immaculately coiffed, his mustachios perfectly curled, and his pointed goatee neatly trimmed. His pale blue coat was well-groomed, and the salmon-colored peacoat and ivory collar he wore made him look like a gentlecolt sailor of the Coltibbean… or rather, like a stallion who fancied himself a gentlecolt sailor of the Coltibbean.

His wife, an earth pony named High Crest, didn’t exactly scream “armorer” either. She wore a string of pearls and a sea-blue and green dress to contrast her sandy coat and curly nutmeg-brown mane. Every part of her mane and coat were as immaculately maintained as her husband’s. Her garb, while subtler, was still woven with intricate patterns that suggested waves on an inland sea. 

Behind the couple stood three burly young stallions – an earth pony, a unicorn, and a pegasus – who were obviously brothers. Despite the difference of appendages (and ages, apparently), they looked eerily similar, with soot grey coats, coal black manes, and brown eyes. Unlike Weave and Crest, the three young stallions did look the part of blacksmiths – they were clad in working garb, carrying tools, and appeared much dirtied from working at the forge. 

The trio identified themselves as Forge, Temper, and Quench. It took a great deal of self-control on Jacques’ part to not gawp at the knowledge that these shaggy, soot-coated ponies were Weave and Crest’s children.

Weave’s manner seemed haughty at first. He moved in the languid fashion of one who had become bored with the world. His eyes were half-lidded, and he appeared to look down his nose even at those taller than him. Yet he was gracious in his speech and courteous to all – he spoke with Argent in a fashion befitting her rank, but, though he did not use the same phraseology with commoner Oaken, he was no less polite. 

The armorer-couturier had met Rarity at a fashion expo some years ago, though Jacques quickly gathered that they had not spoken since Rarity became a Bearer. Now reacquainted, Steel Weave kissed her hoof and thanked her for her proud service to the nation, after which he noted that he’d watched her fashion career with approval since their last meeting.  He was so impressed by her work, in fact,  that he suggested embarking on a joint venture at some point in the future. Rarity responded by jumbling her words in excitement and emitting more than one unladylike squeak before she got her nerves back under control and replied with her trained decorum. Weave politely acted as though her brief bout of nerves never happened. 

Demure High Crest, for her part, supplied more visible emotional engagement, balancing her husband’s languid stoicism (though never in such a manner that would seem indecorous in Canterlot high society). If he mentioned business, she made small talk. If he remarked on some non-business detail, she made noted something that struck her with inspiration for fashion or smithing. 

Soon the air of Jacques’ sitting room was filled with conversation, largely carried by Steel Weave and High Crest. Tea was ordered, and soon topics ranged from the current fashion scene to the oddities of the Equestrian Parliament to planned changes in the EUP uniforms. Even Argent was drawn in, though Jacques found himself increasingly bewildered, until he started focusing more on the odd couple than on the conversation.  

To Jacques, it seemed that Weave and Crest were engaged in a bizarre dance of social refinement, which had all the trappings of ‘proper’ high society, but without the arrogance which so often accompanied it. They never stepped on each other’s hooves, never missed a cue, and, Jacques noticed, they never stopped analyzing. 

The languid eyes and the demure tone hide a pair of keen observers, thought Jacques. They to hone in on the littlest of details – a useful skill in metalworkers, but also in spies. It is well that they are trustworthy and that what we are talking about is public knowledge, else who knows what little things we might have let slip by mistake.  

He also pondered the couple’s sons, who stayed mostly silent as they drank their tea. They looked as bemused as Jacques felt, but the friar couldn’t help but wonder if they, like their parents, observed more than they let on. 

Jacques was starting to lose himself in his ponderings when Steel Weave abruptly set his teacup down, stood, and gestured for Jacques to come to the middle of the floor. “Now,” said the stallion is his quiet voice, “let’s have a look at you, shall we?” 

Feeling quite adrift, Jacques obediently strode to the center of the room. Almost immediately he was surrounded by the armorer family, who padded up silently to examine him from every angle. They circled him, casting their gaze over every inch of him, all the while muttering calculations and suggestions to each other in low tones. Much of their speech was indecipherable to Jacques, either because it delved into an aspect of metallurgy or magic that was beyond his knowledge or because it was in some sort of verbal shorthand which only they seemed to understand. 

Periodically, one of them would ask him something – the questions ranged from his fighting style and preferred combat forms to the sensitivity of his skin. Jacques answered as best he could. Eventually, their questions came to be about his magic, which he answered only after Argent assured him that the Weave Family Armorers had served Celestia faithfully for generations and were fully cleared for the work. 

Then came the measurements. Between magic, earth pony speed, and pegasus flight, the process did not last long, but it still left Jacques feeling manhandled and slightly sore. There was another barrage of questions (all asked in the same refined tones as before), and then they were done.

At least, they were done with the man himself. 

“Might we please borrow your sword a moment?” asked Weave. Too tired to do more than nod dumbly, Jacques handed the blade over. 

For an instant, a flicker of visible emotion rippled across Weave’s features, and Crest’s demure poise flashed briefly with giddiness. The sons all smiled like children on the Feast of St. Nicholas. Then the moment ended, and the five clustered intently around the sword, murmuring to each other in their bizarre shorthand as they passed the blade around. The earth ponies bit the blade as though to taste the metal, the unicorns scanned it with their magic, the pegasus pinged the metal with one hoof and listened to its timbre.

Jacques glanced at his companions to gauge their reactions. Rarity and Oaken were simply staring in mute fascination. Argent also seemed fascinated, though she her fascination was tempered by a ‘seen-it-before’ attitude. 

“We shall take the commission,” declared Steel Weave, startling Jacques from his distraction. “Tonight, we shall forge a chainmail hauberk for you as a stopgap armor until we can complete your full suit of plate armor, complete with shield.”

“And multiple surcoats of course,” added Crest, as she examined the back of one forehoof, “in case one gets sullied whilst engaged in combat. You must be able to look your best when setting forth to do battle with the forces of darkness, after all.”  

“The chainmail will have only standard defensive enchantments on it,” continued Weave. “The plates and shield, however, we will match to your own magical signature and abilities. That passage you mentioned speaking of Divine armament shall provide a suitable template when combined with the readings we took of you today.”

Jacques blinked several times before he realized that Weave was referring to the Scriptural references to the ‘Armor of God.’ It took him even longer to remember that those passages had, in fact, come up in the course of the conversation… before they started talking business. Wait, were they getting a sense of my armor preferences from small talk? How in—

“Regrettably, we cannot give you an exact time estimate for the commission, as these are unfamiliar enchantments we will be experimenting with. My best guess is—”

“—a month—” supplied Crest.

“—and if you require a more complete suit in the meantime,” resumed Weave, “we can discuss another stopgap. At the time that the armor is completed, you will need to present yourself to us so that we may stamp your signature on it, allowing us to attune the enchantments to you specifically. At that time, we can do the same for your sword.” 

Weave fell silent and stared at Jacques. It took the friar a moment to find his voice. “I… uh… I thank you for your labors on my behalf, and await its completion with eagerness.”

“Splendid,” stated Weave held out the sword to Jacques. “Now, to the matter of price.” 

Finally, thought Jacques as he retrieved his blade. For a commission like this, I’ll be able to offload this ridiculous fortune I’ve accumulated and—

“We shall pay you five hundred bits now, and another five hundred upon the completion of the commission,” declared Weave. “The rest of the payment will be rendered by the commission itself. The collective value is just slightly above market value for the Forge Rights, as we are doing this specially at the request of the Crown.”

The sword clattered to the ground. Jacques’ hand trembled and his eyes twitched as he tried, and failed, to comprehend what Weave had just said.

Pay… me… but I’m not… no… I pay them… why pay… I don’t…

Weave tilted his head. “Friar Jacques? Is everything quite all right?”

Crest gave a light laugh and put a hoof to her husband’s shoulder. “Oh, dearest, I believe Friar Jacques is unfamiliar with Forge Rights and was anticipating paying us.”

With a fond half-smile, Weave took his wife’s hoof and brought it to his lips. “You are quite right, my dear. Friar Jacques, pray forgive my oversight and allow me to clarify. My family, and many of the other great armorers of the land, adhere to an ancient concept of ‘Forge Rights,’ whereby those who share new metalworking or enchantment techniques are to be paid for the knowledge. Between your blade and the new magical processes we shall unlock in forging armor for a unique creature such as yourself, you shall bring great fortune to this family. As such, you are owed compensation for your Forge Rights. The thousand bits are what remains of that compensation after subtracting the work hours and material cost of forging the new armor.”

“We understand, of course, that you are a man who lives by a vow of poverty,” said High Crest, flicking one of her locks behind her ear and leaning against Weave, “but Forge Rights are clear: you must be paid, and we cannot take the commission if you will not accept the payment.”  

Jacques could not respond to that. It was not that he didn’t want to. He simply couldn’t formulate the thoughts required to respond. Rarity came to his rescue, thanking the blacksmiths for their generosity and assuring them that Friar Jacques would accept the terms if they could perhaps help him sit down and put the contract in front of him. The smiths obliged, and, after a cup of calming jasmine tea, Jacques shakily signed the contract. 

With that, Steel Weave, High Crest, and their children bid courteous farewell and departed. 

The room sat silent, as everypony within it waited for Jacques to react. Jacques, for his part, stared blankly at the far wall. When he spoke at last, it was in a dazed voice. “Five ponies just politely approached me, surrounded me, accosted me, and forced me to accept a kingly gift and a small fortune.” He paused, then added, “Until today, I would not have believed it was possible to experience reverse brigandage.” 

Rarity nodded sagely. “I understand, darling. Pinkie Pie sometimes decides to give us ‘just because’ presents. It’s like a reverse mugging.” 

“Is that so?” asked Jacques, his voice still dazed. “How remarkable.” 

Oaken cleared his throat. “Um, Friar? Are you feeling alright?”

“Oh, I’m fine, Oaken,” replied Jacques. “I just came here thinking I’d finally get rid of this wealth that I’ve been accumulating despite my every attempt to get rid of it, only to inexplicably become even more wealthy thanks to an ancient law of hospitality that I can’t subvert.” 

There was a knock at the door.

“If that’s someone else coming to present me with a pricy gift, or money, or a monetary gift,” said Jacques, an edge entering his voice, “I will fling myself through the window, scale the outer wall, and walk back to Ponyville.” 

Argent moved to check the door. “If that ends up being the case, I recommend the south window – there are bushes beneath to cushion your fall.” She opened the door to reveal an earth pony in chaplain’s garb. “Chaplain Trench,” she greeted him. “You’re early. I hope you’re not here to present Friar Jacques with a pricy gift, or money, or a monetary gift.”

The stallion looked confused. “Um… I dinnae think… no,” he said at length, his brogue thickening with his consternation. 

“Splendid!” smiled Argent. “I think what the friar would really prefer would be a high-concept discussion of metaphysics and spirituality.” She glanced back at Jacques. “Would you like that friar? Would you like a high-concept discussion of metaphysics and spirituality?”

Jacques chuckled tiredly. “Yes, Argent. Yes I would. Please, Chaplain, come take a seat.”

Argent ushered Rarity and Oaken out as the puzzled Trench entered. “We’ll leave you gentlecolts to it then,” she said as the trio left. “Happy philosophizing!” 

Once they’d gone, Jacques rose to greet the cleric. The pair traded grips and introduced themselves properly before taking their seats. “Well,” began Trench. “Where should we start?”

“Let’s start with Holy Orders,” said Jacques, putting aside distracting thoughts of accidental wealth and the irony a rich man seeking poverty. “Now, I understand that you’re a Solarian, and I was wondering about the focus of your Mission…” 



 

While Jacques and Trench discussed the finer points of theology, ethics, and life as military chaplains, Rarity busied herself with her contract negotiations. She had mostly come to Canterlot to accompany Jacques, but there were some business matters that required her attention. 

The original plan had been a two-day trip, with sightseeing on the first day and business on the second. That was no longer an option. In light of the day’s events (and with Celestia’s strong urging) they had decided to handle business on day one before returning to Ponyville first thing the next morning. For security reasons, it had been arranged for Rarity to hold her meetings in the castle.

Under ordinary circumstances, abruptly moving important business meetings up a day and changing the venue might have hurt her professional reputation. Being that the change of venue was to the Royal Palace, however, Rarity guessed that her reputation remained neutral. Perhaps it even improved, she reflected. If nothing else, the deals were closed to Rarity’s satisfaction by the time dinner rolled around.  

“I’d say that went well,” she remarked to Oaken as the pair wound their way to the Princesses’ dining room. “Mr. Thread was hesitant to sign a contract with a garmenteer from little old Ponyville, but he saw it my way in the end.”

Oaken smiled dryly. “I’m sure the fact that you casually mentioned that the princesses wouldn’t mind you arriving a few minutes late to dinner had nothing to do with his abrupt reevaluation of that ‘garmenteer from little old Ponyville.’”

Rarity smirked and flicked her mane back with a toss of her head. “Well, if he was so inclined to put stock in my social status, who was I to disappoint him?” 

Oaken chuckled, then more soberly remarked, “You seem to be bearing up well.”

Sighing lightly, Rarity nodded. “Yes… yes I suppose I am. Perhaps it is simply because I have had so many excellent distractions.” Shooting a warm look in his direction, she added, “Though I suspect a great deal of it has to do with the quality of the company I’ve kept today.”

The stallion flushed slightly, but covered his embarrassment by saying, “Yes, eccentric Canterlot couturiers et armuriers have a way of setting one’s mind at ease.” 

Rarity tittered. “Yes, the Weaves are a memorable lot, aren’t they?” She gestured to the uniform Oaken was wearing – a simple green dress uniform rather than the more formal black mess dress. “Speaking of couture, I must confess a certain envy for the simplicity you soldiers enjoy when selecting proper attire. You’re told the appropriate level of dress, and that’s that. I on the other hoof, must fret over my choice of clothing.” 

“I wouldn’t worry about it if I were you,” Oaken advised. “It’s only an informal dinner. From what I’ve heard, Princess Celestia would probably prefer to dispense with uniforms and fancy dresses altogether.” 

Rarity sniffed. “Well, that’s fine to say, but this is still a dinner with both reigning princesses and a number of military personnel.” 

“Sure, but the friar will be there too, and he’s wearing a coarse black robe. Not exactly a high bar.”

“Tch! The friar hardly counts!” said Rarity. “Here, Oaken, give me your opinion,” she ordered, slowing to a stop and gesturing to the midnight purple dress she’d chosen for the evening. “Does this dress work?”

Oaken looked her up and down, then asked, “Do you want the polite answer, or the honest one?” Rarity’s eyes widened in horror, then Oaken smiled cheekily and said, “Because both answers are, ‘that dress is beautiful and it looks even better on you.’”

Rarity gawped at him for a moment, then swatted him with a hoof while he snickered. “You little rip!” she accused, finding herself laughing as well. “And to think, my first impression of you was that you were a mannerly stallion! Fritters has been a terrible influence on you!”

“Fritters is a terrible influence on everypony,” retorted Oaken as they resumed walking. “Applejack certainly has interesting taste in stallions.”

“You noticed that too, eh?” asked Rarity.

“I think even Ironhide’s noticed, and he’s usually as dense about that kind of thing as he is about fashion.”

Rarity shuddered, remembering that Ironhide thought a pleated salmon shirt paired with red-and-green plaid. “If he was truly that dense, he wouldn’t notice if they got married,” she retorted, earning a laugh from her companion. “Still,” she continued, “I think AJ’s and Fritters’ mutual interest is quite apparent to anypony paying sufficient attention.” Rarity grimaced. “And the fact that both of them seem bound and determined to ignore the obvious is vexing in the extreme. If the two of them don’t start dating soon, I might have to resort to drastic measures.” 

“Yeah, at this rate Redheart and Medevac will be going steady before they are.” 

Rarity’s eyebrows shot up and she looked over at Oaken. “You are a perceptive one. The two of them are so subtle that I don’t think even they know the interest is mutual yet.” 

He shrugged and said, “My dad’s a naturally stoic guy. I learned to pick up subtle cues pretty early on. Some ponies – like my mom – wear their hearts on their sleeves, but plenty don’t. Doesn’t mean the heart’s not there.” 

“True enough,” agreed Rarity. And some ponies may think that you’re a simple guard, but those ponies are missing out.

Even arriving late, Rarity and Oaken were not the last guests to make an appearance. Argent was absent and unlikely to come. Apparently, she’d been called away by some paperwork from the rest of her unit (which, with the exception of the platoon she’d brought to Canterlot, was still stationed on the Eastern border). Luna was also absent, though Celestia was confident her sister would eventually join them. 

In attendance were Celestia, Friar Jacques, Chaplain Trench, and five others she’d never met before. 

The first was a captain from the Lunar Guards named Crescent Strike. She was a thestral, a ‘bat-pony’ in parlance, one of a tiny sub-species of pegasi who excelled in nighttime combat (silent flying, enhanced night vision, excellent hearing, and so on). Crescent Strike was locked in close conversation with the two chaplains and, after greeting Rarity and Oaken, immediately returned to that conversation. 

Next was Edmare Burke. The aquiline-featured mare was something of a hero to Rarity – one of the youngest ponies to hold the position of Minister of Trade, the red-maned Braelic unicorn was every bit the skilled statespony her legendary father had been. She greeted them cheerfully and wasted no time pulling Rarity into the spirited debate with the Chancellor Exchequer, Plum Pitt, on the nature of fluctuating market factors. 

The Exchequer was a heavyset stallion, nearly two decades Burke’s senior. The reserved Trottish pony had been the leading member of the Labour Party ‘Whigs’ when they’d been the largest Opposition Party and Burke’s Crown Loyalist ‘Tories’ were the Sitting Government. 

Back then, Edmare Burke had been a fresh-faced new MP, and Plum Pitt a veteran statespony. Their debates had elevated them to the status of legendary political rivals, and the newsies had loved the contrast of the scrappy young Tory and the experienced old Whig verbally jousting down the hallowed halls of Parliament.

They were also good friends who held great respect for each other. Rarity found herself enjoying the lively discourse. Certainly far more intellectually stimulating than the last time I hobnobbed with the ‘elite’ of Canterlot. 

So quickly did the two statesponies draw Rarity into their dialogue that she had to make special note to observe the other dinner guests. 

To her surprise, one was a War Dog from Argent’s unit – Sergeant Miru, the wiry grey-maned pegasus mare who’d met them at the train station and escorted Windforce back to his house. Was that really just today? thought Rarity with some astonishment. It feels like a year has passed! 

Now that Miru was without her helmet – dressed in uniform like Oaken – Rarity could see that what she had earlier mistaken for white spots on the wiry mare’s tan coat were actually tattoos. Tattoos patterned on Austailian Aboriginal designs, unless I miss my guess. Few ponies bothered with tattoos – the various processes involved in ensuring that the pony’s coat would reflect the color and design of the underlying tattoo was a complicated one. Those who went to the effort usually had a story behind the reason.  

The demeanor of Miru in dress uniform was a far cry from her demeanor whilst in armor, Rarity quickly decided. Miru-in-Armor is a self-assured, irreverent warrior who probably faces death with a laugh. Miru-in-Uniform is stiffer than Rainbow Dash at a silent auction. She looks like a new prisoner in a starched jumpsuit, thought Rarity, feeling a pang of sympathy. Even Applejack doesn’t look so ill-at-ease in such circumstances. Though, in fairness, Applejack does have more experience dining with Royalty than Miru probably does. 

Fortunately for the Austailian pegasus, Oaken was a palace guard. And, since Celestia had a practice of randomly dining with palace staff and guards so she could get to know them, he’d been taught how to behave himself. Miru latched onto her fellow enlisted pony as though she was drowning and he was a life raft. Oaken, tactfully, didn’t give any indication he noticed. The pair spent most of the evening chatting quietly. Every once in a while, Miru would guffaw loudly, drawing the attention of the other diners, at which point she’d clear her throat and return to her conversation with as much aplomb as she could manage. 

Rarity found the situation amusing, but couldn’t blame Miru for her discomfort. Not only was the soldier mare dining with Princess Celestia, two cabinet members, her chaplain, a foreign dignitary – or whatever Jacques technically is – and a Bearer, but she was also doing so under the gaze of one of Canterlot’s most senior officers. 

That senior officer was none other than the current Captain of the Royal Guard, Colonel Steel Halberd. Yes, the Colonel-Captain, thought Rarity as Twilight’s lecture played in her mind, detailing how the antiquarian title ‘Captain of the Royal Guard’ had survived into modern rank structure. Why must these Guard types make their nomenclature so bleeding complicated?

Some soldiers might easily pass for civilians out of uniform. Then there were those who looked armored for war even in civilian dress. 

Steel Halberd was one such pony. The earth pony was tall, lean, and muscular. His chiseled features were blue grey, his eyes like flint, his regulation-length mane and tail the color of slate. The left half of his face was scarred, having the look of a stone cracked open and sealed with cement so as to be even stronger. He was like a boulder hewn from the side of a mountain. 

Yet for all that his countenance made him seem menacing, and for all the lethality he was no doubt capable of, there was nothing brutish of the stallion. His manner was grave, but not lifeless; stoic, but not cold. Smiles were a rare expression on his face, but genuine when they came. 

He sat quietly for much of the dinner, responding politely when engaged, but otherwise contenting himself to listen. Then, during a brief lull in Burke and Pitt’s rhetorical dance, he leaned towards Rarity, his gaze earnest, and said, “Your ladyship, I want to thank you for your brave service to the kingdom. The citizens of Equestria owe you and the Bearers a debt we cannot repay.” He spoke quietly, plainly, and the fashionista could see he meant every word. 

Flushing slightly, she replied, “You are most kind, good sir. I shall be certain to share your gratitude with my friends.” She gestured to the medals on his chest. “Though it seems that we, in turn, owe you an answering debt of gratitude. I spy both a Silver and a Bronze Star, which I surmise you earned at great peril in defense of the realm.”

Halberd cleared his throat and returned his gaze to his meal. “I was only doing what any soldier would do,” he replied. “You seem to know more about military decorations than most. Are you a student of history, then?”  

Rarity didn’t miss how he’d dutifully acknowledged her gratitude, then attempted to redirect the topic elsewhere as quickly as courtesy allowed. A humble stallion, uncomfortable with praise, she thought. Or perhaps he simply remembers too well the grim context of those medals. “Yes, well, Twilight Sparkle is the real scholar,” she said with a modest laugh. “I count myself fortunate to learn from her.” 

“Indeed, we are all students after a fashion,” said Celestia, joining their conversation. “One is never too old to learn, and history is among the most valuable of teachers.” Her horn flared, and one of the medals on Halberd’s chest gleamed. “Take, for instance, the Médaille Militaire. It is a Prench award for valor in combat, awarded principally to citizens of the Grand Duchy of Prance, of course, but also to allies. Colonel Halberd earned it, along with our nation’s Silver Star, rescuing prisoners from the infamous Gaoler’s Peak. Many of those prisoners were Prench citizens, you see.” 

Celestia’s voice was casual, like a friend sharing a piece of trivia, but Rarity’s eyes widened all the same. Gaoler’s Peak had served as an inspiration for Raid Above the Clouds, an espionage-action thriller she’d read while waiting for the next Shadow Spade novel to come out. It wasn’t her usual storybook fare, and it hadn’t given her any inspiration for a new line of clothing – well except that one abominable number based on the Legionnaire uniforms – but the story held her attention all the same. If the real raid was anything like the novel’s climax...

Halberd studiously avoided meeting anypony’s gaze. “I was privileged to command some of the finest soldiers in the world,” he murmured. “Theirs is the credit.” 

“Surely some of the credit belongs to you, old boy,” remarked Pitt. “Certainly the Prench thought so, else they would not have paid you an honor usually reserved for their own soldiers.”

Halberd’s eyes were stony. “Honor is irrelevant,” he replied. “All I did was my duty.” 

“‘My sons, be not moved by the love of renown; guard yourselves against its intoxicating folly,’” commanded a basso voice. “‘A true warrior gives no thought to glory, for his mind is bent to service, and his heart to love for those he serves.’”

Rarity turned her attention to Friar Jacques, who had made the proclamation. He reclined in his seat, idly swirling his wine glass in one hand as he appeared to contemplate the depths of the drink.

“Who said that, Friar?” she asked. “Was it a phrase from your holy book?”

The old man chuckled softly. “Nay, Lady Rarity, those words are not within the Scriptures.” He shared an inscrutable look with Celestia before explaining, “No, they are the words of one Argent Martel, a warrior of noble character from the days when Equestria was young. In his writings he sought to teach his sons what goals are worth pursuing.”

“‘Argent,’ you say?”  replied Rarity. “Any relation to the good captain?”

Jacques nodded once. “She is descended from his line. And, though many generations removed, she happily shares much of his character.” He addressed Halberd, “Argent Martel was a pony after your own heart, Colonel. Like you, he believed that true honor is only to be found it righteous living, not in fame.” 

Halberd favored the old man with the ghost of a smile. “A wise stallion,” he said. 

“Strewth, tha’s defo too smart for a galah like me,” said Miru with a cheeky smile and a thickening accent. “I jus’ love a good row in the arvo, eh? I’m a digger, not a dag.” She made the remark as though she expected to get a laugh, or at least a nod of agreement, but most of the other guests just stared at her, perplexed as to what her bewildering slang might actually mean. Clearing her throat awkwardly, Miru took a long pull of her beer and then found a sudden interest in the artistic stylings of the ceiling. 

Though Rarity was mildly curious what the Austailian soldier meant – and whether she’d even spoken Ponish – her mind was chiefly occupied with thoughts of honor, fame, and duty.  Rarity had long sought to be the type of pony every pony should know. And, while she was willing to admit that she was subject to the vices of pride and vanity, she was also inclined to think that perhaps some forms of public recognition could be a good thing. Not that I’m entirely sure how to articulate that, thought the fashionista, especially when two bonified heroes seem so inclined as to shun the spotlight. Still...

In the midst of her musings, she became aware that Celestia’s eyes were on her. The princess didn’t say a word, but Rarity still felt compelled to speak. 

“Mightn’t some aspects of renown be valuable?” Rarity suggested. 

Halberd looked unimpressed by the proposition, but Jacques gestured for her to continue, asking, “How so?”

“Well...” Rarity said slowly, wishing she’d arranged her thoughts better before speaking. “Why don’t we consider...” she glanced at the two Members of Parliament and found inspiration in their earlier conversation about commerce, “... why don’t we consider a business. You might make the finest dresses, or the best clocks, or the most delicious food in the world, but if nopony knows you provide those quality goods and services, how will they come to benefit from your skill?”

Heads nodded around the table. “An interestin’ point, Miss Rarity,” said Burke with a smile. “But what product might ya be sellin’ with those shiny bits on Hal’s chest?”

Rarity chewed the inside of her lip a moment before suggesting, “A role model, I should think.” She indicated Halberd and Jacques with a flick of her ears. “Folk of your caliber may find duty and virtue an obvious calling, but not everypony finds it so apparent, as this day’s events proved with...” she shuddered, “regrettable clarity. You may chafe under the burden of recognition, but I think the honors heaped upon you serve as a sort of... signpost to virtue, as it were.” 

“Well said!” praised Celestia with a proud smile. “Indeed, that is one of my chief pleasures in awarding such decorations. To the one receiving the honor, it is a reminder of Equestria’s gratitude. To Equestria, it is an example of the sort of righteous living which Argent Martel praised.”

“That may be,” acknowledged Halberd, “but I still wish it were somepony other than me held up as the signpost.”  

Plum Pitt chuckled. “Perhaps you should consider your acceptance of praise to be a form of ongoing service. Reframe the narrative so as to appease your discomfort.” Halberd didn’t look convinced, but he smiled politely anyway. Pitt pivoted his focus to Jacques. “And you, my good fellow – I’ve heard you gave four rapscallion lords quite the lesson in virtue today. Perhaps you deserve your own victor’s laurels for such a grand deed.”

Jacques chuckled. “I wouldn’t go so far as to call that a ‘grand deed.’”

“I’ve met the lords in question,” remarked Burke dryly. “If ya made ’em reconsider their asinine worldview, ‘grand’ may be under-selling the gravity of the deed.” 

The friar held up a hand as a ward against the praise. “All I did was pass along some advice.”

“Ya simply offered words o’ counsel to lost lads?” prompted Chaplain Trench.

“Exactly,” replied Jacques as he lifted his wine to his lips. 

Trench smiled. “Then I’m afraid you must accept the praise, Friar. After all, to save lost souls is the highest vocation,” he pointed out mildly. 

Jacques shot Trench a ‘whose-side-are-you-on’ look, then sipped his wine without comment. 

Crescent Strike took advantage of the break in the conversation to stand and dip her head respectfully to Celestia. “Begging your pardon, Princess,” she said, her voice a rolling alto, “but my shift is due to begin soon. With your permission, I’ll take my leave.” 

“So soon?” said Celestia, glancing at the clock. “Ah, how the minutes tick by. It is a shame you hadn’t the time to finish your dinner.” 

Rarity glanced at Crescent’s plate, then did a double-take when she saw half a roast chicken sitting there. Ponies weren’t strictly vegetarian – their advanced brains (and magic) required a lot of protein, and one way to get that (as well as other dietary benefits) was meat. Fish was the most popular by far, though chicken and pork were also common. Rarity’s guilty pleasure was bacon, a rare indulgence, and one she zealously concealed from her friends. Still, other protein-rich foods like eggs and beans were far more common daily fare, and meat was a ‘once-in-a-while’ dish for most ponies. 

Bat-ponies, it appeared, were the exception. Or at least Crescent Strike is. In addition to the chicken, Rarity also noticed evidence that Crescent’s plate had begun the evening with a hearty helping of bacon. Now, only two strips remained, the last survivors of the thestral’s onslaught. 

Two lonely strips of bacon... if only you were on my plate, I would keep you company. Rarity daintily wiped her mouth with her napkin to cover the saliva pooling on her lips and tried to focus on her disappointingly vegetarian entrée. 

“Duty never rests, Your Highness,” Crescent Strike said. “Though, if you’ll forgive the impropriety...” she pulled an overlarge kerchief from her uniform and wrapped up the remains of her chicken and bacon inside it. 

Farewell, delicious pig nectar, thought Rarity longingly. She dabbed at her lips again. Sweet Celestia, I have a problem. 

Halberd looked annoyed at Crescent’s casual bundling of leftovers, but Celestia seemed amused. “May your midnight snack sustain you through the long watch of the night,” pronounced the princess with mock seriousness.

Crescent Strike bowed low. “You are a gracious audience, Your Highness,” she said before bidding farewell to each of the guests in turn. 

Rarity belatedly realized that she hadn’t spoken with the thestral other than to say ‘hello’ and ‘goodbye.’ Perhaps the next time I am at the palace, we shall have a chance to talk, thought the unicorn. She seems like an interesting pony to know. 

As Crescant Strike was on her way out, the doors to the dining room opened and Luna swept in, with an expression that was equal parts amused and tired. Crescent stopped and saluted. Luna started to acknowledge the salute, then glanced down at the bat-pony’s bundle of food. The night princess sniffed the air speculatively, then gave Crescent a dry look. “Meat again, Captain?” she asked. “Are you quite certain there are no griffons among your ancestors?” 

“Protein is mission-essential equipment to a watchful Guard, Your Highness,” replied Crescent. 

“Indeed,” replied Luna with a hint of a smile. “You had best be about your duties, then, while your mission-essential equipment remains palatably warm.” Once Crescent had gone, she chuckled and made her way to the table. Jacques and the ponies began to rise to greet her, but she waved them back down and took her seat at the opposite end of the long table from Celestia. “Threstrals! A pragmatic and loyal folk, to be sure, but I will never cease to be amazed by their overfondness of meat.”

Celestia smiled. “It is refreshing to see that some things change little throughout the ages.”

“True,” agreed the lunar princess, “Though, unfortunately, another thing that remains unchanged is the demanding schedule of royalty. I apologize for my tardiness. Some ponies have a way of dominating your time.”

Rarity couldn’t help but notice that Celestia’s smile became a touch forced. “Yes, and how is Mason?” the elder princess asked.  

Luna quirked a sardonic grin as the servants brought her meal. “Irascible,” she replied, “but when is he ever not?” 

“Indeed,” remarked Pitt a touch darkly. 

Burke snorted. “At least today he’s got an excuse. That boyo’s always slaggin’, even if he’s got no cause to.” 

The dark-coated princess’s face flashed with brief annoyance, though who it was directed at Rarity couldn’t say. 

Chaplain Trench cleared his throat and sat forward. “Begging your pardon, Princess Luna, but Mister Grey had a rather close brush with the Pale Horse. Do you think he’d like a reverend’s ear for spiritual matters?” 

Luna took a bite of her dinner before answering. When she did, her eyes were on Celestia, not Trench. “Mayhap he would. Mayhap not. Either way, you’d have to catch him before he shipped off to Manehatten.” 

Celestia actually dropped her fork at that, her mask of calm slipping for just a moment. “Manehatten?” she demanded. “He’s travelling?” 

“That’s a choice,” muttered Oaken under his breath. Rarity nodded in agreement. 

The alabaster alicorn didn’t appear to hear; she was too busy pressing Luna with questions. “When is he leaving? And why?”

Miru gave a cheeky laugh. “Hope I don’t get picked to pull security for the mad lad,” she remarked. “Babysittin’s bad enough when the bloke don’t ’ave a death wish.” Feeling Halberd’s hard gaze on her, she cleared her throat and corrected in a deadpan tone, “I mean… I volunteer to escort him. Dodging assassins makes me giddy. When do we leave. Hoo-ah.”   

Luna shot Miru a glance that suggested she wasn’t quite sure what to make of the pegasus, then took a sip of wine before answering, “That... won’t be necessary. Mason’s bodyguards have already begun arriving in Canterlot. His muscle-bound security chief alone looks fit enough to handle an army by himself.” Addressing Celestia, she said, “I don’t think it wise for him to be traveling, but he is quite adamant. He will go.”

Celestia’s lips were set in a thin line. “Perhaps if I were to offer him an alternative—”

“If I was not able to persuade him,” Luna interrupted, her eyes narrowing, “you certainly won’t manage it.” 

An awkward silence followed, broken only by Trench nervously clearing his throat as he poured himself another beer and pretended not to notice the sudden tension between the two sisters. Celestia’s face tightened; then she turned her attention to her food. “You are right of course,” she acknowledged, her voice betraying nothing as her ordered mask returned. “Forget I mentioned it.” 

“I know one pony who won’t be traveling any time soon,” declared Pitt, navigating the conversation to calmer waters. “Windforce is rather shaken; it takes a lot to rattle poor Will, but this did a fine job of it.” He gestured to Rarity, Jacques, and Oaken. “I shudder to think what would have happened to him if you three hadn’t been there.”

And I shudder thinking of what happened when I was there, thought Rarity. She pushed her plate away, suddenly not hungry enough to finish her meal. Now why did they have to go and bring that up when we were having such a lovely time? 

Oaken cleared his throat and rested his hoof a little closer to hers – a subtle gesture which signified the comforting nudge he couldn’t give her without drawing attention. Rarity felt a slight smile tug at the edge of her lips. 

“Treachery in the ranks,” tutted Pitt. “A terrible business.” 

“Aye, t’was a foul thing right enough,” agreed Burke. “Another disgrace ta the Guard.”

Halberd frowned. “With respect, Lady Burke, you should not speak as though such treachery is a common occurrence.” 

Burke cocked an eyebrow. “I’m not sayin’ it is, but there are bad apples in any bunch.”

“That wretched fool left the military years ago,” rumbled Halberd. “You won’t find his like amongst the Royal Guard now.”

To Rarity’s ears, there was an undercurrent to his words, like a counterpoint made in an unspoken argument. She sensed that somepony had questioned the loyalty of the soldiers under his command. But who? she wondered. Celestia? Has she shared with him some suspicion of traitors in the ranks? Some threat by the Shades? Or does keep such suspicions to herself, and that is the source of Halberd’s ire? Celestia’s neutral face revealed nothing, but Rarity could not help but feel some confidence her guess was close to the mark.

Or maybe I just want a puzzle to distract me from all this talk of treachery and murder. 

Burke met the colonel’s gaze evenly. “Nopony here doubts the honor of our brave lads and lasses on the whole, Hal, but Equestria’s had her share of rotten fruit. That didn’t end with the Sangbleu Rebellion. We’ve had oath-breakers in our lifetime, not just the princesses’.”

Miru opened her mouth to add to the conversation, and Rarity wondered what inopportune observation would spring from the pegasus’ lips, but none came. With a guilty look at Halberd, the Austailian mare stopped herself, feigned disinterest, and started shoveling a second helping of dinner onto her plate rather than speaking her mind. 

Now what was that about? wondered Rarity. 

Unfortunately for Miru, Rarity wasn’t the only one who noticed. “You looked to have something to add, Sergeant Miru,” Luna observed. “Pray tell, what is on your mind?”

Miru’s ears went flat. She glanced again at Halberd, then back at Luna. “Beggin’ your pardon, Princess, it ain’t gone right whenever I opened my sorry gob tonight. I’d just as soon keep me go shut if it’s all the same to you.” 

Luna raised an eyebrow. “It is not all the same to me, little pony. I have been gone a millennia, and much has transpired in that time of which I know little. Speak plainly. You have nothing to fear here.” 

Wincing at Halberd, Miru spoke. “Well, Princess, it’s just that… well, Lady Burke mentioned oath-breakers and I...” she took a deep breath. “I got to thinkin’ about the Bloody Baron, Your ’ighness.”

At the mention of the Bloody Baron, faces hardened around the table, all save Jacques’ and Luna’s. And mine, I suppose, Rarity guessed, since I haven’t the foggiest who they’re referring to.

“Who was this ‘Bloody Baron,’?” asked Luna, quite helpfully from Rarity’s perspective.

“A back-stabbin’ traitor,” spat Burke. “He used ta be a member o’ the Peerage, till ’e an’ a bunch of ’is mates took up peddlin’ flesh down south in Somarelia.” Friar Jacques stiffened as if the news meant something to him, but the old man said nothing as Burke continued the narrative. “Sold ’undreds inta slavery before the War Dogs caught up to ’im.” 

Luna’s face became a deathly visage, and Rarity could have sworn the room darkened. The Diarch of the Night ground out a word in Old Ponish. Though Rarity did not speak that long-dead tongue, Luna’s grim tone made it easy to guess the word was far from complimentary. 

Miru turned to Halberd, her face apologetic. “I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t want to bring it up.” 

Halberd had been sitting in a stony silence since the topic was brought up, but Miru’s words shook him out of it. “Why apologize to me?” he asked, seeming genuinely take aback. 

“I just—” the mare winced. “I’d heard you and he were old friends before… you know…”

“Before he betrayed every virtue, every oath, every blessed thing in the world?” finished Halberd, his voice oddly calm. “Yes. We were friends. Brothers, even. But whatever affection existed between us died when he did.”

Pitt raised an eyebrow. “I thought he was still alive in prison.”

“He is dead to me,” said Halberd flatly. 

“He ought to be dead in body as well,” declared Luna, her face contorted in suppressed rage. “Aye, and a wretched death at that! Has justice become so lax in this Age that such filth should be allowed to live?”

Rarity and many of the other ponies winced at the dark pronouncement. Equestria technically allowed for capital punishment, but it hadn’t been used in many, many decades. The kingdom incarcerated conventional criminals. Those guilty of treason and other grievous crimes sometimes received life sentences (occasionally more than one, just to be safe), but faced a gaoler rather than an executioner. Even existential threats like Discord were sealed away rather than killed whenever possible. Sometimes non-lethal options weren’t possible – Sombra came to mind – but killing was a last resort.  

Execution was considered taboo, a remnant of an old time when wars were more frequent, and dungeons could not always be relied upon to contain the malice of the wicked.  Even back then, it hadn’t been a common occurrence in Equestria. It simply wasn’t a thing ponies considered on the regular. 

Celestia frowned at Luna’s grim declaration and opened her mouth to respond, but Jacques spoke first. 

“In my land, we tell a story of Jesus, whom you know as the Source,” the old man said, his voice low and thoughtful. “There was a woman who was caught in an act for which the penalty was being stoned to death – a most wretched way to die.” Rarity winced. “The punishment did not fit the crime, but it was the law of that era, and this woman was guilty of the charges they leveled against her. So, vengeful leaders of the community – men who bore a grudge against Jesus – brought the woman to Him. They did this so they could demand that He pass a verdict on her. They hoped that, in His manner of passing judgment, He might say something they could use against Him.”

Rarity shuddered. “How awful, that those wicked leaders would use her life as a pawn!” she exclaimed. “Especially with such a cruel fate awaiting her!”

“A vile act indeed,” agreed Jacques, “but...” the old man smirked at some unknown joke, “it didn’t go as they had planned. Rather than saying something they could use, Jesus said, ‘Let he who is without sin cast the first stone.’” The friar chuckled. “Of course, there were none in the crowd who could claim to be without sin. None, of course, except for He, the Author of Life. One by one, the crowd melted away, leaving only the woman and Jesus.”

Oaken nodded admiringly. “Now that’s how you sway a crowd,” he murmured. 

Rarity made to speak in agreement, but Luna’s words cut her off. “What did Jesus do with this guilty woman, when the crowd had gone?” the princess asked, her face serious.

Jacques smiled. “He turned to her and said, ‘Woman, where are your accusers? Has no one condemned you?’ She answered, ‘No one, Lord.’ Then He, the Just Judge, said, ‘Neither do I condemn you. Go and sin no more.’”

Luna frowned. “That is all? He did nothing else?”

“Should He have?” asked Jacques, his lips hinting at a curious smile. “What purpose would that have served? The Author of Life does not desire the death of sinners, but that they may be converted and live. Even great sinners may yet be redeemed.”

The friar tapped a finger on the table and continued, “My religion is full of repentant thieves, murderers, and scoundrels – sinners who turned from evil and spent the remainder of their lives offering healing, comfort, and aid to those in need. Some did so in prison. While they served out sentences  - righteous sentences – for their crimes, they found freedom from their vices and attended to the souls of their fellow convicts. Would it have been better to kill them? To erase their future good in order to avenge past evils? Would that be right? Would that be just? Since punishment had been dealt and they were prevented from committing future evils, why not allow the hope of redemption?” 

“Yet you bear a sword,” the dark princess challenged, her eyes narrowing. “Unless it is merely decoration, you are prepared to kill.” 

“Yes, I have been forced to kill, and may yet be forced to do so again,” Jacques admitted, his tone sad. “My faith permits violence, even killing, in that great extremis when there is no other known means of preventing a truly grievous evil. There are some dangers which must be answered too quickly to show restraint, and some enemies who would remain a grave danger to people even if you could imprison them. There are, tragically, diabolic threats which must be answered with a sword.”

“But,” warned the old knight, his eyes flashing, “it is never to be done lightly, never to be done but in the gravest of necessities. Those of us who bear the sword must remember that we, too, shall one day face Final Judgment. On that day, we shall be called to account for every drop of blood we’ve spilt. Do we dare slay without restraint? What right have we to lay about death as though we have no fear of it?” His gaze bored into Luna. “Who among us sinners, having other means of stopping an evil, has the right to cast stones?” 

For the second time that evening, silence descended on the dinner party, and this time not even Trench broke the stillness. Rarity swallowed. Jacques had not named Luna, but no one present missed the rebuke leveled against one who had once been called the Nightmare. 

Luna said nothing. Her eyes were locked on Jacques. None dared break the silence. Rarity could not even bring herself to see how Celestia was reacting. 

Then, after what felt like an eternity, Luna gave a wry smile and dipped her head slightly to the old man. “Certainly, I do not have the right. You chide me well, Friar. Perhaps you have amassed more wisdom in your sixty-odd winters than I have in my millennia.”

Jacques grinned. “And yet, for all my supposed wisdom, I cannot fathom how your mane ripples like that, so who is the real fool?” 

It was a weak joke, but it served its purpose because Luna laughed anyway. Rarity shared the palpable sigh of relief let out by the whole dinner party. 

“If it’s any comfort yer ’ighness,” said Miru, risking speech, “I wager ’is lordship the Bloody Baron would’ve rather died than lived with bein’ humiliated by ole Songbird. She gave ’im a proper skull bustin’ if ya catch my drift.” 

“That does please me,” said Luna. “This time, you were right to... how did you put it? Right to ‘open your gob.’” Miru pumped a victorious hoof in the air as Luna turned teasingly to Jacques and asked, “Will you now chide me for gloating over a vanquished evildoer?”

Jacques declined with an open hand. “I think I have tried the patience of royalty enough tonight. Perhaps another time.” 

“Perhaps we should leave all serious talk for another time,” suggested Celestia, her voice so believably calm that Rarity might have been fooled into thinking it had been a normal dinner party if she hadn’t sat through the last several minutes. “Plum Pitt, tell me, how is your family enjoying their holiday to the Isles?” 

“Oh, quite well, Princess,” replied Pitt, smoothly transitioning conversations. “Of course, it’s dreadfully rainy there, but they always find something to occupy their time...”

Rarity was happy for the change of topic. She’d had quite enough of death on her mind. 

All the same, one question persisted in the recesses of her mind for the rest of the dinner. It never made much noise, nor was it much of a distraction. But, still, it remained.

Was the ‘Songbird’ who ended that villain’s terror our own Morning Song? 

From the looks on Oaken’s and Jacques’ faces, she guessed they were wondering the same thing. 





The rest of the dinner passed without particular note and, unlike many dinners Jacques had shared with great nobles of various realms, it did not drag on for long after everyone had finished their meals. 

Whether this relative brevity was due more to various attendees having busy schedules or to the heavy topics of the evening leaving them worn out, Jacques could not say. 

Whatever the case, he was not objecting to the early adjourning. It had been a long day, and the old man was feeling his age. I don’t think I’ve felt this tired since recovering from my injuries that fateful first day in Equestria, he mused. How very long ago that feels, though in truth less than a season has passed since my coming here.  

He said little as he, Rarity, and Oaken returned to their accomodations. The two ponies intended to stay up a little longer – Rarity to sew, and Oaken to keep her company. 

Privately, Jacques speculated that Rarity was putting off going to bed because of her traumatic day, not that he could fault her for that even if he wanted to. As she was responding well to Oaken’s stabilizing influence, Jacques elected to leave the matter in the stallion’s capable hooves. So, the old man retired to his room to say his Liturgy and head straight to bed thereafter. 

Prayer did not come easily to Jacques that night. He was distracted, restless, his mind busy cycling through the many troubling events of the day. Pleasant experiences – like the visit by the armorers – were overshadowed by darker thoughts, and prayer was interrupted with brooding.

He thought of Lord Rampart and the other Primarchist nobles. This ought to have been a pleasant thought for him, as he’d been able to help them reexamine their lives, but instead his mind seemed to focus only on the troubling outlook they’d been raised with. Unpleasant memories of what such arrogance had wrought in his homeland bubbled to the surface of his consciousness like rot in a swamp, tainting his focus with their stench. 

Likewise, Luna’s vengeful talk at dinner troubled him. In his own world, it was not unusual to see people too quick to demand the gallows. Indeed, the warnings of saintly folk like Aquinas – who reaffirmed the Christian necessity of mercy – went all-too-often ignored by people eager to use the blade and the noose. Learning that ponies were wont to use other methods of punishment had been a welcome surprise for him. This, in turn, only made Luna’s wrathfulness more jarring. 

Knowing that two assassinations had been attempted in the heart of Equestria was deeply disturbing. To try and slit a prominent man’s throat was shocking enough in France. That it had been tried in Equestria, within flying distance of two alicorns no less, was worse. The brazenness of the act said worrying things about the confidence of the Shades – for there was little doubt in Jacques’ mind that they were behind the attacks. 

These grim thoughts were cause enough for worry, and did much to distract him from his prayers. Yet they paled in comparison to the sorrow brought by the death of Golden Glow – the assassin from the train. Poor lost soul, thought the priest sadly. So consumed with grief and revenge that he would take his own life rather than be imprisoned by the gentlest of races. An unnecessary death, with no rhyme or reason. Had the madness taken him, in the end? I pray so, I think, for perhaps if he was truly mad, with no real control of his mind, he might escape culpability for his final sins, and perhaps be saved from destruction. 

So deep were Jacques’ sorrows and the grim fixations of his mind that he ended up repeating much of the Liturgy of the Hours thrice over, simply because he would lose his place and have no memory where he had left off. 

Some time during his prayers, he heard doors opening and shutting as Oaken took his leave of Rarity for the night and returned to his own quarters. Jacques had planned to be asleep before then, yet he could not even finish the Liturgy. 

Eventually, the distraction became so severe that he had to pause his evening prayers to address those troubling thoughts. Enough of this! he thought angrily. Saints above, help me tame these errant thoughts! 

Yes, the Primarchists are a nasty bunch, but I’ve dealt with worse, and the fact that those four young lords were so receptive gives ample cause for hope. 

Princess Luna was mercifully open to reason, and if she was over-hasty in her initial judgment it is quite understandable – righteous anger is a virtue, but it is so easy for it to turn to vice when one’s blood is up. She nearly lost a close friend of hers today, and God knows I’ve had to guard myself against wrath when those I love have come to harm. 

As for the assassins, well... perhaps I have allowed myself to become too accustomed to the gentleness of this land. I know well the diabolical evils of the Shades of old – why should such a mundane act as murder cause me any surprise? 

And Golden Glow... poor, wretched Golden Glow... I must trust to the mercy of God. His fate is no longer in my hands. 

Lord God, I am but a weak and sinful man. In You alone is found salvation. I entrust these worries and cares to You, through whom all is possible.

He finished his prayers with less difficulty. The frustrations of the day, while still present in his mind, were at least muted enough to allow him some measure of focus. Upon concluding his Liturgy, he went straight to bed. 

Sleep proved elusive, however, as the disquiet lingered on. Jacques lay still, staring at the ceiling as his mind wandered a seemingly endless labyrinth of speculation and half-formed concerns. He lost count of the Pater Nosters he mumbled before eventually drifting off to an unrestful slumber. 

Such dreams as he had were dark ones – grim, foreboding things which faded when he woke, startled, several times over. Each time, he had no clear memory of what had disturbed him, only a vague sense of people falling down paths of sin and destruction, headless of his pleas to them to turn back to the Light. 

After what might have been the fifth or seventh time enduring this, he threw off his covers and rose, grumbling, to his feet. As he donned his robe and sandals, he turned from grumbling to mumbling, and in that groggy voice offered his sleeplessness to God for... somebody. He’d let God decide who that ‘somebody’ was. He was far from being in a prayerful mood, but he mumbled his offering all the same –an act of faith rather than emotion. 

The friar left his chambers and stepped into the hallway as he girded on his sword. He intended to take a short walk – it appeared to be approaching the dawn hours – but halted when he saw Oaken at the end of the hall, staring out the window at the stars. Jacques padded across the soft carpet and stood by the stallion at the window. “Having trouble sleeping?” he enquired.

Oaken smirked slightly. “That’s the funny thing about being a Lunar Guard. This,” he gestured to the night sky, “used to be my working hours. I slept half the day and worked all night. Even after being in Ponyville for weeks, even after adjusting to the new schedule... some nights, my body still thinks I’m back on Night Watch.” The pony shot Jacques a rueful look. “When the Guard drums something into you, it stays drummed.” 

“Yes, I imagine it does,” replied Jacques.

“How about you?” asked Oaken. “I know you get up early to pray and whatnot, but this seems early even for you.”

Jacques waited a moment before answering, “It was an... eventful day. When so much happens, it can be hard to put it all to bed.”

Oaken nodded slowly. “Yeah... yeah it can be.”

In that moment, Jacques saw Oaken was... tired, and not simply the ‘lack-of-sleep’ sort of tired. “Oaken, I apologize for not asking earlier, but how are you bearing up in all this?”

The earth pony seemed to chew on his words for a moment before saying, “I’d say ‘I’m fine’... you know, that generic response guys give that’s only sometimes true... but I feel like that wouldn’t get past you.” 

Jacques chuckled. “You never know. I am rather out of sorts. If you foolishly felt like some ill-advised attempt to mask your pain past me... now may not be a bad time to do it.” 

“I’ll keep that in mind,” said Oaken, half-smiling. He was silent a moment before admitting, “I’m zero-for-two with these Shades, Friar. It’s my job to keep folks safe, and I feel like I’m failing.”

“My dear friend, must I remind you that Windforce, Rarity, and I are all alive, as are Argent and Ironhide? I’d hardly call that a failure.”

Oaken shook his head. “When the first Shade hit us in the throne room, we had a chance to capture him and get intel. I screwed that up by getting caught. Celestia had to torch the guy to save my flank...” he hopped up onto his hind legs to rest his forelegs on the windowsill, “and now we’re fumbling around in the dark playing guessing games while our enemies maneuver. Some guard, eh?”

The friar frowned. “As I understand it, you saved Argent by knocking her out of the way. Had you not done so, then she would have been the prisoner for whom Celestia slew that pony.” He folded his arms. “Or, worse yet, the Shade might have killed her – a far heavier blow than the loss of whatever intelligence he may have possessed.”

Oaken grunted in reluctant acknowledgment. “I suppose you make a good point.”

“Of course I make a good point,” said Jacques with feigned offense. “Didn’t you notice? Even alicorns respect my wisdom.” Oaken chuckled. More soberly, Jacques added, “Besides, if anyone squandered a good chance at capturing one of our foes alive, it was me.” The earth pony looked up quizzically. “Golden Glow held no hostage with which to force my hand; he simply acted faster than I could anticipate. Does that make me a failure? Of course not! Perceptive though I may be, I am no mind-reader. Sometimes...” he sighed, “sometimes there’s just nothing you can do.”

“No point in losing sleep over it?” suggested Oaken.

“Exactly,” agreed Friar Jacques.

The two soldiers stood in silence for a moment.

“I can’t help but notice we’re both out here losing sleep over it,” observed Oaken.

“Yes, but at least we know we shouldn’t, so we can claim a moral victory.”

“Mm,” smirked Oaken. “Better than nothing.” 

A door creaked open behind them, and they turned to see an exhausted Rarity emerging from her room. The mare blinked blearily, cast her gaze around until she found them, then ambled over, massaging her right temple with one hoof. “Good evening, gentlecolts. I see you’ve started ruminating without me. Mind if I join you?”

Jacques winced. “I am sorry if we woke you, Lady Rarity.” 

Rarity gave an elaborate scoff that sounded rather like she was attempting to be a sort of verbal percussion section. “Nonsense, darling. You didn’t wake me. I’ve been—” she yawned mightily and rubbed her eyes, “I’ve been tossing and turning all night, hardly sleeping a wink, and being woken in a cold sweat by nightmares whenever I actually manage to nod off.” 

“Sorry to hear,” said Oaken, sympathy plain on his face. “You want to talk about it?”

“In truth, there’s little to talk about,” yawned Rarity. “I can’t remember any of the dreams in detail, and they’re all over so quickly that I probably wouldn’t have much to say even if I could remember.” She eased herself into an upright sitting position on the floor. “I imagine that’s why I haven’t seen Luna tonight – they’re over too quickly for her to be summoned, or perhaps she’s simply busy with the dreams of others. What rotten luck, eh? Enough trouble to ruin my beauty sleep, but not enough to summon help.” She yawned again, then waved a hoof as thought dismissing her own difficulties. “But what about you two? Why are you up and about at this beastly hour?”

Jacques and Oaken exchanged a rueful look before the latter explained, “Same deal as you. Rough dreams. Can’t sleep.”

Rarity let out a tired laugh. “Ah, what a fine trio we make – all grown folk with a goodly share of dangerous adventure under our belts, and none of us can sleep.” The three shared a dry chuckle. “Well... what shall we do then?”

There was a pause as they mulled over potential options. Oaken was the first to come up with an answer.

“Raid the pantry?” he suggested.

Jacques raised an eyebrow and Rarity tilted her head to the side. “Um... why?” she asked.

Oaken shrugged. “Why not?” 

The friar, as the oldest and most experienced person there, took it upon himself to offer the only reasonable answer to that question.





Senior chef Soup Tureen blinked the sleep from his eyes as he plodded to the kitchen. He’d been woken from a peaceful slumber by the nagging suspicion that somepony was doing unauthorized cooking in his domain. Knowing that he wouldn’t be able to get back to sleep unless he checked, he’d thrown on a bathrobe and headed down to the kitchen to check.

Ponies called him a perfectionist, and in his more honest moments he had to admit they were right. Of course, when those new, doltish cooks are burning salads, it seems we need a perfectionist around here! He rubbed his eyes. Maybe I need a vacation – some time away from rookie cooks and smoldering lettuce. 

As Tureen approached the kitchen door, he heard voices within.  Rookies! he assumed with a grimace. Nopony should start cooking staff breakfasts this early! Thinking you can impress the boss by getting a head start, Chopped Salad? he thought, assuming one new cook in particular was responsible. You should be called Charred Salad! I know you must’ve put the others up to this! They always listen to you better than they do to me! Well, nopony’s gonna be impressed by a cold breakfast! And is that bacon I smell? See, this is why I can’t take a vacation, these idiots will—

He pushed the door open... and froze. 

Three creatures stared back at him, each rooted to the spot as though paralyzed: a brown earth pony stallion speckled liberally with batter as he put the finishing touches on a precarious stack of chocolate chip pancakes; an alabaster unicorn mare, who seemed to be frozen in the act of inhaling a stack of bacon; and a tall, two-legged... something, who stood stalk-still with a turkey leg hanging out of his mouth as he fried more bacon, presumably to feed the voracious unicorn’s insatiable appetite. 

Both Tureen and trio stood completely still, staring at each other with wide and guilty eyes, none daring to breath. Only the guttering of the burner on the stove top gave any clue that time had not, in fact, stood still. 

No one said a word, but the Soup Tureen quickly got the idea that he had stumbled upon something he should not have. He stepped back with utmost slowness and allowed the door to creak safely shut behind him. 

Once he broke line-of-sight with the pantry-pillagers, he turned around and walked back to his room with such speed that an observer might have been forgiven for thinking him a sprinter. A vacation, yes, he thought. I could use a vacation. They can manage without me for a few days, can’t they? I mean, those new guys are more than capable of picking up the slack, and I really do need to lighten up...





Fortunately for chef Soup Tureen’s blood pressure, the pantry raid did not last especially long. The travelers had already been planning on catching an early train back to Ponyville, and as such did not require hours upon hours of puttering around the kitchen to keep them occupied. 

They returned to their rooms – or, more accurately, to Jacques’ sitting room – about half an hour before the sun rose. There, Jacques quietly said his morning prayers, which he permitted the curious Oaken to observe. Rarity had also intended to observe, but, perhaps put at ease by the rhythmic psalms and hymns, or perhaps simply at ease in their presence, dozed off on her chair. After the friar finished, he and Oaken chatted in low voices so as not to wake her.

The Weave Family Armorers came by shortly after dawn to deliver Jacques’ chainmail hauberk. Several REF stallions arrived at the same time to collect Rarity’s luggage. The friar left them to it and went to his bedroom to don his new armor. 

He was immensely pleased with the workmanship – the hauberk was lightweight, flexible, and allowed for great ease of movement. The links were strong and expertly layered to provide excellent protection for his torso, arms, and legs to just below the knee. There was also a chain coif to protect his head.

Perhaps most conveniently, he could wear the entire hauberk beneath his outer robe, with the coif tucked inside his monk’s hood. It wouldn’t provide as much protection as a full set of plates, but it was far subtler to wear around town. And, unless I am sorely mistaken, these links will take far more punishment than those forged in France. Though, to be fair, they have to contend with magical creatures far stronger than the human combatants I once faced, so I suppose it somewhat evens out. 

Returning to the sitting room, he was immediately greeted by the unspoken inquiries of the armorers. “I must commend your craft,” said Jacques, answering their mute questions. “Never before have I worn mail so strongly made, and yet so inoffensive to wear. I hardly even feel its weight, and it restricts my movements not at all.”

“Splendid!” replied Steel Weave. “We think you’ll find the protective enchantments and forging equal to the blows of your average foebeast, though we’d advise you not to push the limits too far – against sufficiently powerful magic or inordinately heavy blows, it will begin to fail.”

“You’d certainly fare better with this armor than without it in such circumstances,” added High Crest while idly fanned herself with a hoof-held fan, “but my husband is right. There is only so much one can do with a single night’s forging for a hauberk.” She folded her fan and tapped it against the friar’s chest. “There are simple mending enchantments on the armor, which will allow any vaguely competent blacksmith to repair it without too much bother, assuming the damage is not too extensive. We still recommend working on the armor yourself as much as possible, even if you’re just assisting the blacksmith. The more you work on it, the better it will work for you in return.”

Jacques gave a bemused smile as he rolled up one sleeve to examine the mail. “What a novel concept,” he remarked. “Armor that works better if I spend time tending it. Shall I sing it lullabies as well?” 

“So long as you’re not tone deaf, yes,” replied Steel Weave.

The friar blinked rapidly. “I was joking.” 

Weave waved an airy hoof in the direction of his earth pony son, Forge, and his wife. “If this armor were simply a product of unicorn or pegasi magic, it would be a joke. But, since two experienced earth ponies were involved, it is no joking matter. Opinions differ on how much of a difference it makes, but the idea is not without merit.”

“You might ask Lady Pinkamena Pie for insight,” suggested High Crest. “Rock farmers of her lineage are some of the finest bards of rock and stone as you shall ever find, so naturally she must know something of the songs of iron and steel.”

“Oh, naturally,” said Jacques, somehow managing to keep a straight face. Just when I thought I was growing acclimated... “Well, thank you once again for your time and talent. I assure you, it shall be put to good use.” 

The trio exchanged farewells with the family, who departed shortly thereafter. Once they’d gone, Jacques turned to Rarity, raised a quizzical eyebrow, and gestured after the armorers as though to say, “What do you make of that?”

Rarity shrugged. “Don’t look at me, darling. After a few years around Pinkie, you just take it as a matter of course that she possesses powers beyond what ought to be possible. Most Ponyvillians learned long ago to stop asking questions.”

Oaken chuckled. “I’m not sure if that’s more funny or scary. Either way we should probably get a move on. They’ve probably managed to fill the luggage car with Rarity’s bags by now.” 

The unicorn mare looked down her nose at him, no small feat given that she was shorter than him. “Are you implying I overpack, Master Oaken?”

Oaken scoffed as he shouldered his own satchel and led the way out the door. “Imply that you overpack? Perish the thought! No, I was simply reflecting on how fortunate it is that the good friar is disinclined to take a sky chariot, or else we’ve have needed to mobilize an entire squadron to convey your luggage back to Ponyville.” He chortled as she jabbed him in the ribs. “It is a shame, though – flying would be faster.”

“Yes, much like how falling off a building is the fastest way to the ground,” grimaced Jacques. “I have no desire to climb inside one of those flying death machines.”

“I just think it’s funny the man who has traveled across worlds doesn’t want to fly.”

Jacques gave Oaken a look that suggested he thought very little of that view. “My dear Oaken, if I had known what travelling through that portal was going to entail, Father Methuselah would likely have needed to give me a hearty shove. In this instance, we have been blessed with both an alternate means of transportation and the option to avoid being born through the air on a glorified wagon. I, for one, mean to take advantage of that fact.”

The trio made light talk as they wound their way out of the palace. Rather than leaving through any of the main entrances, they were to depart via a side gate in the gardens which would take them more directly – and more discretely – to the train station via carriage. They would board the early train and be back to Ponyville in time for brunch. 

At the side gate they were met by Argent and a trio of REF ponies who were there to escort them to the station. They had expected to see Celestia as well, but the princess was nowhere in evidence. “Good morning, Lady Argent,” said Jacques politely; he ignored the wan look the captain gave him. “I take it the princess had other business to attend to?”

“Politics, I’m afraid,” replied Argent. She smirked. “It seems Count High Castle wanted to speak to her. He claims that yesterday some bald ape worked over his son, the Lord Rampart, as well as his companions, the young Lords Summervale, Silk Stocking, and Meadowcreek. Gave them quite a thrashing, so the story goes.”

“Is that so?” replied Jacques innocently. “How terribly shocking.”

“Yes, quite shocking,” agreed Argent, nodding sagely. “But that’s not the worst of it.” She leaned in conspiratorially. “Count High Castle said this bald ape then went and planted subversive ideas in his son’s head – insane things like, ‘common ponies are people too,’ and ‘the nobility have an obligation to serve the common folk’.”

Jacques tutted loudly. “Did he now? What is this world coming to? We must keep a weather eye out for subversive bald apes – there’s no telling what they may do.” He gestured to the escort, who all wore toothy grins. “Do you think these few soldiers will be enough to safeguard us from these anarchist apes?”

Argent shook her head regretfully. “I think if we see one, we shall simply have to run, lest we overhear him say some rot like, ‘the state belongs to the citizenry, not the other way around.’”

One of the junior REF ponies feigned swooning. “No more, Captain, I beg of you! These subversive ideas are too much for a common fool like me! Soon I shall be thinking of forming an angry mob, with pitchforks and torches and the like!” 

His sergeant jabbed him. “You ain’t paid to think, Shield Wall. Now help Miss Rarity into the carriage like a good little commoner.” 

While good little commoner Shield Wall dutifully assisted Rarity in boarding, Argent pulled out a book entitled Great Boxers of Equestria and handed it to Jacques. “With compliments from Chaplain Trench,” she said. “Don’t worry, it’s an inexpensive gift.” 

“It had better be,” muttered the reluctantly wealthy Jacques darkly.

Argent smirked. “The chaplain is of the opinion that, if you’re going to be thumping Primarchist skulls with those oversized simian hands of yours, you ought to at least do it properly.”

Jacques took the proffered book with a smile. “A thoughtful gift indeed. I must repay his courtesy when next I see him.” 

The ride to the train station was uneventful. Rarity was trepidatious about another train ride, though she tried to hide it, but she calmed down considerably when Argent told them the engine was mostly pulling cargo. The sole passenger car had been rented exclusively for them – courtesy of Princess Celestia – and the handful of crew were old, reliable railroad workers who had been cleared by Colonel Query’s staff. After bidding a fond farewell to Argent, the Ponyville trio boarded the train and headed for home. 

As they clattered along the tracks, Rarity sank into one of the plush chairs – one facing the rear of the train – with the air of one too exhausted to bother pretending otherwise. “Never in my life have I been so eager to leave Canterlot,” she admitted. “Not even after that... regrettable incident at the Gala.”

Gala? wondered Jacques, who sat across from the alabaster mare, facing forward.  

Oaken chuckled as he sat down next to Rarity. “If it’s any consolation, that Gala was probably the most fun Ironhide and I had that whole year.” 

Rarity raised an eyebrow. “I find that rather surprising, as I assumed the guards would have had quite a lot to clean up.” 

“The on-duty guards did,” clarified Oaken, “but Ironhide and I were on mandatory seven-day sick leave after an incident involving green hash.” Rarity’s eyes bulged and she opened her mouth to ask the obvious question, but Oaken pre-empted her saying, “Don’t ask. You’ll sleep better. Actually, we recovered by day four, but we still weren’t allowed on-duty that night.” He smiled. “We were bored though, so we parked ourselves on the Gala perimeter with couple bags of popcorn and watched the stampede until Captain Strike caught us and told us to beat it.” 

“Fascinating, really,” deadpanned Jacques, who had been listening with a bemused expression on his face, “but, for those passengers who were in Provencal at the time of this stampeding Gala, would you mind elaborating?” 

Rarity groaned and momentarily buried her face in her hooves, seeming torn between embarrassment and amusement. “It was a dreadful evening, darling, on which many mistakes were made by all of us. The first inkling of trouble we had was when dear Princess Celestia sent Twilight a pair of tickets...” 

The passenger car was soon filled with merriment as Rarity related the absurd antics of the Bearers and their misadventures leading up to and during the Gala. 

Occasionally, Jacques turned away from the telling and looked out the window towards Ponyville. He seldom caught a good look, as he could only see the town when the train turned enough to give him a line-of-sight, but he was able to see that dark clouds hung over the rural community. 

It must be a scheduled storm, he thought, being rather proud of himself that he scarcely shuddered at the recollection of manufactured weather. I don’t recall such a storm on the schedule, but then, I don’t really pay much attention to the forecast. 

All the same, it seemed rather ominous that such a storm would be brewing over Ponyville so soon after the grim happenings in Canterlot. The notion pricked his alertness, and n he found himself paying less attention to Rarity’s humorous story as he focused on getting a better look at the storm whenever possible. 

“...so he takes the rose, bites off the stem inserts it into his own lapel...” Rarity was narrating, “... and says,” she adopted a mocking tone, “‘Thank you. It goes with my eyes.’”

“Rather self-aggrandizing of him,” remarked Oaken.

And rather harsh of that storm, thought Jacques as lightning forked in the grey-black clouds. The closer we get, the less that looks like a normal storm. 

“... then, when there’s a drink spilled right in front of us, this insufferable ponce...”

I don’t see any rain, yet the lightning flashes. It’s not the right weather for heat lightning in Canterlot, and I doubt it would be that different in Ponyville.

“... he uses me as a shield!”

Oaken scoffed. “Poor form! Being the shield is his job.” 

Those clouds seem to swirl around the center of town, and the flashes have grown more frequent and intense since we departed hours ago. As he watched, a bolt of lightning flashed red, sending smaller ripples of red lighting through the dark clouds. Jacques narrowed his eyes, searching for some intelligible clue in the clouds. What madness is this? Surely that is not nat—

—In his mind he saw a black amulet bearing the visage of a winged unicorn, its red eyes burning with unholy—

Jacques grimaced at the sudden headache and looked away, rubbing his eyes. What fresh foulness did that portend? 

“Friar Jacques?” asked Rarity, her face concerned. “Are you quite alright?” Before he could answer, she winced and said contritely, “I shouldn’t have been gossiping, I know, it was just such a frustrating evening that—,”

The monk waved her words away. “It’s not that, Lady Rarity, it’s...” Oh, heavens, after the night she had, I hate to ask this. “Lady Rarity, please tell me: was there a storm scheduled in Ponyville today?”

She frowned, confused, then turned to look. “No, not that I recall, why do you—OH GOOD HEAVENS!”

Oaken followed her gaze. “What’s wrong? What’s... oh.” 

The clouds had darkened from grey-black to black, and now swirled like a rolling vortex over the town. 

“What on earth is that?!” demanded Rarity. 

As they watched, the black clouds were brightened with another ripple of red lightning. 

Jacques sighed as he rose to his feet and went to confer with the conductor. “That, I fear, is Dark Magic.”