//------------------------------// // II ~ The Children // Story: Celestia Regina // by Sledge115 //------------------------------// II The Children It wasn’t the first time Celestia pondered lowering the Moon early, nor would it be the last. Indeed, the past two months had been the busiest sessions the Royal Court had held for as long as anyone seated there could remember, even without taking into account the transfer from the Everfree Forest back to the old capital at Canterlot. Hardly any of them – ministers and scribes – had got a good night’s sleep for quite some time, for fear that a moment’s slumber could mean a missed letter. Such as the letter now read aloud by the wizened, old grey stallion, his voice withered yet firm as the mountain oak.  “‘To the Princess of All Equestria,’” he recited. “‘Rebellion underway at Vanhoover. Northern Legion en route. Three thousand strong. By the grace and blessing of your Sun, we shall triumph.’” The letter was set down. “‘Yours truly, Captain Ironhoof.’" The chamber burst into a cacophony as soon as he’d finished, from cries of indignation from all the seated members of the Court, to murmurs of confusion from the Guards posted. All was quieted when Celestia raised a gold-covered hoof. The accursed letter had passed by unnoticed by anyone else in the Court. Unnoticed, that is, save by Greyhoof, who stood at her side for good reason. “A rebellion,” Celestia repeated, her brows furrowed. “In Vanhoover.” Greyhoof nodded solemnly. “Yes, Your Highness,” he said, his withered old voice holding steady. “It would seem that the good Captain saw it fit to march on his own accord.” Of course. In the absence of Luna, their marshal, the Royal Guard’s chain of command had been interrupted. In fact, the last anyone had heard of Vanhoover had been merely five days prior, when whispers of unrest had come to Canterlot. All things considered, Celestia could almost pity Iron Cuff, thrust into a position he wasn’t prepared for yet. Where once he commanded merely Canterlot, now he was in charge of the realm’s shield and sword. He stood off to the side, exchanging hushed whispers with Nocturne, former head of Luna’s personal guard. “Unprecedented,” harrumphed Minister Sharp Quill. “Traitors, the whole lot of them. To turn against Equestria in times like these, that’s treason, I say.” The head of education shook his head. Besides him, Minister Velvet Purse looked a little less sure, with her wings held tight against her body. “Vanhoover is our gateway for the Luna Ocean,” she reminded him. “With the Crystal Realm gone, we simply cannot afford a protracted war. Not without allies.” “Aye, and do you honestly think Ironhoof, of all ponies, should be in charge?” said Minister Feelgood. “I swear, every time he speaks a Windigo stirs.” Yet there were still others who spoke up, vying for attention. Murmurs broke out once more between the ministers. Others were more bold, as Quill stood up from his seat. “Come on, you can’t possibly think he’s the issue here,” Quill retorted, wiping at his glasses with his magic, “If Thrace or any other foreign power catches wind of this–” “What makes you think they haven’t?” interrupted Minister Attache Case, whose paperwork had increased substantially from the sheer amount of letters pouring into her office. “Stars above, Quill, they could have sent a letter to those scheming Thracians first. Goodness knows we need another war with them.” “Yes, dare I say, traitors ought to be rewarded as they… deserve…” A sharp glare from Celestia cut Quill off, prompting him to return to his seat. But his words lingered in Celestia’s mind. It had only been a little over a century ago that the last Thracian raids and invasions on their shores had ceased. It had cost Equestria much to repel their war-like cousins from across the sea. Many of those seated remembered the losses their foremothers had to bear. Including, and this loss Celestia conjured all too keenly, Luna’s elder daughter Tranquility. She hadn’t understood then. For as long as she could remember, family had always meant Luna and only Luna. Never did Celestia ponder raising one of her own as her sister did. Now as she stood alone, Celestia could only regret all the words she left unsaid, all the cracks she’d failed to see for so very long. Taking a deep breath, Celestia stood from her seat. Her gaze panned over the assembled ministers, all the guards and scribes. “I will go,” she stated. “I will deal with Vanhoover and Captain Ironhoof.” Iron Cuff spoke up, tearing his gaze away from Nocturne. “Your Highness, no– I shall–”  He was quieted by Celestia’s gaze. Soft, tender, or so she hoped. She offered him a smile. “You’ve done plenty as is, Captain, and wonderfully. But I don’t wish to risk your own safety, not when he views you as the enemy.” Few could protest that. Iron Cuff ruffled his wings, ever so slightly.  Feelgood laid a hoof upon Iron Cuff's back. “It’s a risk, Captain,” he said. “They may think you one of Vanhoover’s pegasi, or that you’ve thrown your lot in with them.” “And he’d claim it was an accident,” Celestia added.  “But surely Ironhoof wouldn’t be so careless?” Quill protested. “This is absurd! I know Ironhoof, you lot should know he’s the finest officer the Academy ever produced.” “Then you don’t know him at all, do you?” Iron Cuff retorted. “All the books in the world and you can’t read anyone.” He let out a bitter chuckle. “Careless or not, it’d be the perfect excuse.” Celestia shot him an understanding, apologetic look. With a nod exchanged, he returned to his seat. “Matters of governance shall be handled by Master Greyhoof,” Celestia continued. “The Court is adjourned. I shall see you all in due time.” The gavel was struck. There were a few protests, suspicious glances and confused looks exchanged. Yet her will was final. One by one, all those assembled left. All, that is, save for the two souls who remained within the empty chambers. “I’m sorry, Greyhoof,” said Celestia, letting out a sigh, as the last scribe closed the door behind her. Her thoughts drifted to that great northern city, as it often had these past few decades. She turned to her majordomo. He’d been one of those present that fateful night. “I ought to have handled that better. Perhaps it would be for the best if I were to retire after all.” “That is your decision to make, Your Highness,” said Greyhoof. “But if you do, then all of us shall sorely miss your guidance. Well, my granddaughter certainly would. So would Equestria.” Celestia laughed humourlessly. “If you say so, my friend. Now, it seems I must ask you for yet another favour.” Her trusted advisor merely chuckled, not unkindly. “It’s no trouble, Highness, it’s no trouble at all…” * * * * * “We’ve arrived, Princess Celestia.” Celestia looked up from examining Greyhoof’s saddlebags, strewn across the small ferry. True to the ferrymare’s words, they had arrived on the other bank of the river, right beside Vanhoover’s great walls. She picked up the saddlebags as gingerly as she could, taking care not to damage their delicate contents, and hoisted them upon her back. She looked at her erstwhile companion. A silent sort, the grey mare had nonetheless been welcome company. Celestia wouldn’t have expected anyone to be waiting for her on the riverbank, let alone to assist her in her crossing. “Thank you,” said Celestia, flashing a friendly smile, “but I don’t think I caught your name.” “Mine name matters not, Your Highness,” said the ferrymare, “only mine duty.” Such an odd accent, Celestia mused. It was soothing, and her R’s flowed like water down a hidden woodland creek. It reminded Celestia of the brogue accent of the Reindeer, hailing from their warm hearths and enchanted forests deep in the Far North. The mare before her was no doe, though. She was a grey earthpony, shrouded by a patchwork, ragged cloak. Only her hooves, muzzle, and the very tips of her ink-black braided mane and tail were uncovered, and she averted her gaze when their eyes almost met. Celestia sighed. Perhaps she should have known better from the ferrymare’s silence. “And here I must part, I believe,” she said. “Thank you, again.” She stepped onto the wooden dock, her bare hooves scratching against the old wood. But just as she stepped off, standing there in the abandoned port, she felt that strange pang of guilt strike deep within. Vanhoover had held a special, mournful place in Luna’s heart. Celestia had understood little of it, nor had Luna ever had the heart to share. Until she did, the day after their failure at the Crystal Realm, when the last of her line was extinguished. She’d screamed her heart out at her sister, that Celestia would never understand, never care for the losses she alone had to bear throughout the years. All the jealousy and grief that Celestia had chosen to look past and neglect. Who was she to take Luna’s place here as well, as she had taken all the praise the nation had for their work, all the credit… Then she heard the sound of someone clearing their throat. “Is something wrong, Your Highness?” Celestia turned around. The cloaked ferrymare, it occurred to her, was taller than most earthponies, but still a good head or two shorter than she. “Nothing,” Celestia lied. She shook her head. “It’s so... quiet here.” Indeed it had been quiet. Quiet ever since that dreadful night. The ferrymare showed no sign she understood it either – but for a brief moment, Celestia thought she saw the ferrymare glance at the empty spot by her side. “The traders were the first to bolt,” the ferrymare said. “News travels far and wide. I’d imagine Neighpon or Griffonstone would know by now.” She looked up at Celestia. From the dark of her patchwork cloak, her icy blue eyes narrowed. “You’d do well to be careful,” the ferrymare cautioned, “The Guard has given Vanhoover little reason to be trusting.” She paused. “You could have flown over the walls yourself. Why mine humble ferry?” “Trust is the key, is it not? And to be careful, well, I ought to tell you the same, Madam Ferrymare,” Celestia countered. “It’s not often that I see anyone tend to their duties so diligently amidst a crisis such as this.” “Oh, I’ve had mine fair share, Your Highness,” the ferrymare said, glancing towards the mouth of the river. “I’ve lived a treasured life. What’s another day at the job, really?” Trottingham, Celestia decided. Perhaps it was a Trottingham accent. “Yet you sound so young,” she remarked. The ferrymare looked back at her. “With due respect, so do you, Your Highness.” Celestia laughed softly. Very few would call her young, and fewer still remained by her side. The walls of Vanhoover that she now beheld were of stone only a fraction of her age. “I suppose. But do forgive this old mare for doing a young mare’s job.” “Very well. But know that people tend not to forget, one way or another. Your sister’s memory is strong in these parts,” the ferrymare cautioned.  “And where should I go, if my presence frightens them so?” The ferrymare rubbed her chin. “You should know, Your Highness. But if I must suggest, then the public gardens would do to calm one's mind.” “The gardens,” Celestia inclined her head. “Then that is where I shall be.” “A wise choice. So what would you do, Your Highness?”  Celestia looked at her one last time, smiling through lingering doubts. “My best.” * * * * * Vanhoover was an old city. The first pegasi settlers from the days of the Six Hearthswarmers sought refuge beyond the Smokey Mountains, far and away from the troubles that plagued the frozen land down South. And refuge they found, in this verdant valley shadowed by mountains. It did not escape the cold breath of the windigos, and the weather this far north did not permit the creation of the cloud cities their kind dwelt in. Yet the martial pegasi of the North were a hardy breed. Their new fortress withstood the Winter frost like few others did. When the Great Thaw came, after hesitation and doubt were cast away by awe and wonder at the sight of two regal alicorns, they too joined Equestria. Their warrior ways were all too welcome in those nascent days, defending against the monsters that roamed the lands of old. When the first merchants and explorers crossed the ocean from the Far East, Vanhoover’s gates were the first to greet them, flourishing in trade for the centuries to come. Now Celestia stood before the open gates, having departed the abandoned docks, and wondered if she were to feel welcome at all. Strange indeed. She’d expected it to be closed, sealed to all beyond Vanhoover’s walls. Yet she saw no guards, no gatekeeper awaiting her. Only open gates. Part of Celestia wondered if they intended to allow her in, even in silence. Letting out the breath she’d held onto, Celestia stepped through the gates. Little had changed in the century that had passed. It was the same city, the same roads and buildings, and though the ponies changed, their spirit lived on through the seasons. But the sight of it all pained her, what had become of it. Gone was the warmth of Summer, even as the Sun shined bright above. For the cold of Autumn loomed both in person and spirit, from the cobblestone beneath her to the winds that blew in the streets, and Celestia imagined that Winter’s breath would come sooner rather than later. Barricades of wood and stone had been erected throughout, covering alleyways and streets. Spears had been fixed upon them, presenting a message that was all too clear. Windows were broken or shut. And though she heard whispers and murmurs off in the distance, and spied glimpses of the guards posted on the walls, it may very well have been a ghost town. She steeled her will. There was much to be done first. And if her best was what she promised the ferrymare and herself, then she would do it. So down, down the winding cobblestone roads Celestia walked, as the Sun rose in the sky. With the city cast beneath the noon sunlight, Celestia spied many that tried to avoid her gaze. Guards were patrolling in mismatched armour of cloth and metal. Both veteran guards and green recruits, they all bolted the same when they saw her approach, fleeing to the safety of their barricades. Shopkeepers and merchants, some armed and others not, all spied at her through their window blinds. As Celestia passed them by, her nose caught no scent of meals being cooked, no fresh smell of oven baked-bread in the bakeries, nor warm stew. Amidst the rooftops, the faintest signs of pegasi children hiding behind the thatched roofs. Whispers and laughter, distant and close, were caught by Celestia’s ears. The few children at the balconies in the more affluent district were pulled back into their homes by their parents, before Celestia could wave back at them. And still no sign, neither feather nor hair of the Baroness. Not even when Celestia stood before the city hall, between the statue of old Baron River Feather and the steps of the imposing building. The guards had withdrawn inside upon sighting her. With little else to do but wait, Celestia shook her head and walked away, the Sun passing its highest point. A fair distance away, past the disused market-place and down from the hall, she came across the public gardens. It was a welcome respite. The gardens lay within sight of the city hall, between the merchants’ residential district and the market-place. The vibrant greenery brought by Spring and Summer was thriving, from the smallest of bushes to the tallest of trees in scattered copses, yet here and there Celestia caught sight of leaves bearing Autumn’s colours. Celestia took a whiff of its scent. Vibrant, rich, and was that lavender she smelled? So calming… Surging memories forced her to walk on. So she did, down the lonely path by the small lake. She did not stop till she arrived at the heart and froze in her steps. There was a statue that hadn't been there before. Celestia knew the statue well. It had once been placed down at the city hall, she recalled. An identical one stood in the catacombs at the Castle of the Two Sisters. A tall, slim unicorn, immortalised in black marble. In life, she had been royal blue, with the purest white socks and blaze, her mane the same as her mother’s in youth, though with strands of gray, and her icy blue eyes the most beautiful pair Celestia had ever known. The inscription on the plinth read, in the delicate and refined writing of her mother; In Memoriam Princess Equinox Healer, Teacher, Beloved Daughter Celestia pressed a gentle forehoof against it. She’d been there when it was written and the statue erected, comforting a grieving mother despite how little she understood why. There in the shadow of her niece, wiping a few tears away, Celestia leaned against the plinth and lay down. She’d have time till sundown. Reading would pass the hours easily. Of old history books and spellbook tomes, storybooks were always her and Luna’s favourites, whether it be children’s tales or romantic epics. In the light of the afternoon Sun, in the solitude of the park, Celestia prepared to read. Nothing else but the howling wind and distant, fading whispers for company. That is, of course, until she heard something stir behind her. So she stood up to meet her visitor. Who else, then, should she see but a small filly. * * * * * Small, slim, and a very pale pink, the filly couldn’t have been older than her eighth or ninth Winter. She tilted her head. Celestia followed suit. “Why, hello,” Celestia greeted. The filly recoiled a little, but did not depart. “What’s your name?” The little earthpony crept up. Such a tiny thing, indeed. The top of her head, covered by a dirty brown cap, would have barely reached the top of Celestia's golden shoes. She looked as if a gust of wind would blow her away. But a child’s courage was something to behold. She did not flinch or hesitate as she entered Celestia’s shade.  “Flake,” the child answered at last. “My name is, um, Flake, Princess.” Her eyes met Celestia’s own. Such large, inquisitive eyes, of richest brown. They reminded Celestia of Radiant Hope, her once-student. A talented mare and healer, a prodigy of the magical arts and bearer of Equinox’s legacy. She had enrichened life at the Palace, a ray of sunlight through the clouds, melting the stifling decorum with her insatiable curiosity and endless cheer. She was gone too, disappeared along with the Crystal Realm, another fading memory. Her loss had struck Celestia the deepest, even as Luna screamed at her that she would never truly understand, never fathom grief as she did. Snapping away from her stupor, Celestia forced a smile that did not reach her eyes. “Hello, Flake,” she said. “My name is Celestia.” “Oh, I know, Princess. Everyone knows.” Celestia giggled. “Oh, very well, but I do like to be polite.” She looked around, yet there seemed to be no sign of the filly’s parents at all. “Where have your parents gone, Flake?” Flake shrugged. “They’re busy. Papa works at the forge. Mama is usually at the market, but she’s taking care of my sister.” A rumble in her stomach drew Celestia’s attention. Flake blushed. “Are you here to take our food?” she asked hurriedly, biting her lip and looking away. “You can’t take them… We don’t have any left.” Celestia frowned. “You don’t?” she asked.  The filly nodded. Suddenly Celestia wasn’t so sure how long she’d been so slim. “Surely the Baroness provides for your needs?” What an irrational question, Celestia chided herself. If the Baroness had, then the child would not be here. But the child seemed to take little offense, merely shaking her head. “No,” she said plainly, “she hasn't. We were supposed to get supplies, but then they gave it away to the ponies at Uptown. They have the money, Papa said.” They always did, Celestia bitterly reflected. “I’m sorry to hear that. I thought I came as soon as I could. If I’d known, I’d have brought more with me. I’m sorry.” “It’s alright,” said Flake, as if it were the most ordinary thing, “we’re used to it. Everypony’s used to it in Low Town. Mama said maybe the Baroness is hungry too.” ‘She better be...’  Still, Celestia kept up the smile as earnestly as she could, her head lowered to meet Flake’s.  “Well, don’t you worry. Food is coming, and it will reach you and your parents, and anyone else who needs it. That much I can promise you.” “How much can we eat?” asked Flake. “My sister needs food, and we’ve been giving her a lot. But Mama says I need to eat too.” “I’m sure the ponies of Uptown have got enough already. As much as you or your family, or all your friends from Low Town would need.” “And when are they coming?” “At sundown, no more or less.” “Oh,” said Flake, her ears drooping, “That’s such a long time.” “Indeed,” Celestia agreed, with a contrite smile. “How I wish that I could lower it sooner, just for you, but alas! The Summer always has such schedules to follow.” Shaking her head, she patted the saddlebags by her side. “But I’ve got company until then. Would you like to read with me?” Flake’s ears perked up, and her face lit up with wonder. “I would! But I can’t read. Mama usually reads to me.” Celestia let out a soft laugh. She waved a wing, patting the spot next to her. “Then I shall. We’ll read until sundown, how does that sound?” But Flake looked around, her ears flicking. Her eyes were large and pleading now. “Can my friends join us?” she said slowly. “They’ve been waiting too.” She pointed to somewhere behind her. Celestia's eyes followed, all the way, until she saw curious little faces staring from a nearby copse. A tiny gasp was heard, and they all scampered behind the largest tree they could find. “Come now, little ones,” Celestia called, tittering. “Don’t be shy. Come join us here.” One by one, they stepped out. Little fillies and colts, earthponies, pegasi and even a unicorn, approaching as carefully as their little legs could carry them. A dozen children, by Celestia’s count. They came to stand behind Flake, whispering and muttering to one another. Not as carefully as they might have believed, since Celestia caught several of their words; “She’s so big.” “Why’s she here? Isn’t she s’pposed to be back at Canterlot?” “Does she have food?” “Oooh, I really like her mane. It’s so pretty!” Then their eyes fell onto her saddlebags. Bags filled with books, but not a single crust of bread. One by one, their ears drooped, the whispers quieted down, and the shadow of their cheer turned back  to disappointment. “Settle down, children, don’t worry,” said Celestia. She forced a smile onto her face, making sure not to stare at the soot and filth many of the children were caked in. Some had bandages wrapped around their barrel. One had part of their ear missing. A far cry from the children of Canterlot. All of them far too young to be toiling away in foundries and fields. “I promise, there will be plenty of food coming at sundown.” Some cheered. Some shared shy little smiles. A small, soot-coloured colt stomped his hoof. “But we’re hungry!” he exclaimed. “Can’t we eat now?” Children, so very assertive. Celestia shared a wink with Flake. “It’ll take time. I’m sorry. But until the supplies arrive, would you all care to join our storytime?” Sure enough, the murmurs and excited whispers grew yet again. “Mmm, well, alright,” said the colt, after a moment’s thought. “But food after.” “Food after,” Celestia repeated, softening her smile. “That’s a promise.” That was enough, evidently, for the colt scampered forwards and sat down, right by Flake. The little filly smiled widely, and she too followed, taking off her cap. “Alright! Gather round, children,” said Celestia, beckoning them with a white-feathered wing, “Make yourselves comfortable. There’s space enough for us all in the grass.” As the children bumped into one another for spots, Celestia withdrew a large picture-book. On its cover was the illustration of a fantastical creature. A great crow whose feathers were all the colours of the rainbow, glimmering with iridescence. “Here in these pages, I hold a story to share from the faraway lands of the bison,” said Celestia. “The story of the Rainbow Crow. Do any of you know it? No? Then it'd make me happy to be the first to tell it to you,” she said, smiling regally. “Is everyone sitting comfortably?” They nodded, and some exclaimed a cheery ‘yes!’, and indeed they seemed to be, despite the hardships their appearances bore testimony to. Celestia opened the book, beholding the rich water-colour illustrations. But as she prepared to read, her eyes fell upon Flake, sitting in the very middle of the huddled children. For a brief, fleeting moment, memories of a young filly resurfaced, whose eyes were filled with wonder, her coat the richest blue, her muzzle dotted with freckles she tried her best to hide…  “Alright,” Celestia said, feeling her eyes well up, “Now, let’s see– ah, here we go.” * * * * * In the lands down South, where the Sun shines the brightest, and the grass grows the tallest, there lived the bison. A large, noble and proud people, in Summer they thrived on the rolling hills and open fields that stretched as far as their eyes could see, stampeding to their hearts’ content. In the Great Plains they were born, they lived, and they passed on. Thus had it always been. Every year came the Winter. The bitter cold blanketed the land with ice and snow. Grass perished beneath their touch. Ponds froze where they lay. And the deep snow prevented all stampedes. This did not trouble the bison. They were as stubborn as they were proud. So when Winter came, they would huddle and share in their warmth, and with Spring’s thaw they would roam once more. But one year, the Winter did not pass. It gripped the land tighter and tighter still. All manner of creatures were to flee, for Winter’s cold was unforgiving. The bison stood their ground. Spring would come, they knew. It would free the land from this cold.  So they remained, they did not surrender to the cold, just as the Winter did not give way to Spring. And when the Summer’s harvest ran out, the bison grew hungry. Still they remained. Far above them they could see the Sun’s fire amongst the clouds. Hope springs eternal, they knew. But no matter how much they cried for the Sun, it did not hear them, its warmth beyond their reach, and the land grew colder. In their quest for warmth, the bison continued their stampedes. Each hill they crested was taller than the last, yet the Sun’s fire ever eluded them. Until at last, on the tallest mountain it was that they heard, for the first time, the dulcet melodies of the Rainbow Crow.  Such a graceful creature. Her brilliant, shimmering coat of all the colours of the rainbow sparkled like the purest gemstones, brightening the darkest of days. Her songs soothed the bison in their coldest nights. It was said that her notes could stretch on for days, her melodies reaching the most mournful lows and vibrant highs… And when she flew, the skies above parted for her. The bison saw how far the Rainbow Crow could fly. So they asked her, begged her if she could soar high above and ask the Sun to bless them with its warmth, free them from Winter’s frost. It was a task like no other. But the Crow was as kind and brave as she was loyal. Therefore she flew. Up, up and away she went, soaring above the tallest peaks of the frozen land. Past the Moon and the stars, with no perch to rest, still she went on. And as she flew, her melodies followed. She sang beautifully, hoping to draw the Sun to her. Three days passed into her flight when she heard the answer, the deep rumbling of the Sun, a luminescent orb that shone brightest in all the world, outshining even her plumage. But the Sun heard her song, and felt awed by its beauty and grace. The Crow sang a gentle melody for the old star. It had been an ageing, lonely entity, but now it found company. In return, the Sun gave the Crow a piece of its warmth, to carry where she willed. So joyous was the Crow that she thanked the Sun and raced back through the skies. The flame she brought was as blazing as it was brilliant, and left streaks of fire through the nighttime skies. As the torch burnt, though, it crept ever closer to her beautiful plumage. If she flew too fast in her haste, the fire would go out. If she were too slow, it would burn her away. Steadfast and loyal to the end, the Crow crossed the skies, back onto the frozen lands. But by then, the ash and embers of the torch had blackened her plumage. In her lungs she found only smoke. As she cried for the bison to see if they had survived, there was no gentle melody in her throat, only a hoarse caw. When at last she reached the plains, the bison wondered where their friend had gone, for her feathers that once shone bright as the morning star now were as black as night. But their confusion turned to joy and gratitude when they saw the torch burning bright and true. Together, the Crow and the bison spread warmth throughout the plains. The snow gave way anew to grass growing tall and waters flowing down the creek. Springtime had come, and no longer would the bison suffer. But it came at a terrible cost. The Crow could no longer sing, her feathers no longer shining beacons in the dark of night over the plains. The bison’s friend had returned as promised, bringing Winter to an end. So from that day henceforth, they welcomed her all into their stampedes as one of their own. And when the Sun returned in full, as the light gleamed off the crow’s darkened feathers, they saw that still it shimmered as a rainbow would. A thank you from the Sun, for her loyalty, her friendship, and her song… * * * * * “... The End.” Celestia closed the book. She looked up from it, quietly taking in the sight of her little audience. Soon the first of them cheered, and they were chatting noisily amongst themselves. “I like that story,” said a pegasus, whispering to a colt next to her. “The Crow sounds really nice.” “I want to meet a bison!” the colt exclaimed.  “Can I meet the Crow? I’d love to meet her too!” “Hah! I bet you can’t fly high up enough!” All around her, more and more of the children spoke up, their voices meshing into excitement. Celestia felt her heart flutter. As this occurred, her eyes fell upon the figure watching them from the shade of a tree, standing just off in the distance. “Princess?” asked Flake. “Is something wrong?” Celestia returned her gaze to the children. She reached out and ruffled Flake’s mane. “I’m sorry,” she said, “but I’m afraid that I am needed elsewhere.” Before she had even moved to leave, the children made their disappointment known. “Can’t you stay?” “What happened to the Crow?” “Don’t go! I don’t want to sleep early...” Celestia’s eyes met Flake’s. They were wide and pleading. “Please, Princess? It’s still an awfully long time before nightfall.” How it ached Celestia, answering the little filly in the way that she must. “I truly am sorry, children,” she said, shaking her head. She stood up to her fullest height, her shadow cast over the little ones, enveloping them. “I’ve much to do. But I promise, I shall meet you all at sundown.” “With the food?” asked the soot-coloured colt. Celestia laughed. “With the food,” she reassured. “Someone has to make sure it reaches all of you first, right?”  Flake spoke up next. “Won’t you tell us more stories?” she asked. “Please, just one more? We haven’t slept well for ages.” The answer came readily to Celestia. “Of course, Flake,” answered Celestia, keeping her voice most steady. “There’s so much more left for me to tell. So much more. Now, off you go. Tell your parents that supplies wil be arriving soon.”  It was an answer as good as any, for it was enough. One by one, the children left her side. They walked in pairs and groups of threes. The last to depart were the soot-coloured colt and Flake, and they chattered excitedly of what they might have for dinner, or whatever stories their Princess might tell them next. As they headed into the copse, Flake turned to  give one last nervous smile, and waved her cap. Celestia just about perceived an excited child’s giggle when she waved back. And then she stood alone once more. Alone, other than the figure by the tree, and their cohorts. Flanked by two Vanhoover guards, to the untrained eye, the young pegasus mare may have  looked the spitting image of the statue in front of the city hall. But she was a touch smaller, her mane and coat the colour of the falling Autumn leaves – a stark contrast to the dark grey stone of the statue, as well as the cool blue and icy white of her two guards. She herself was unadorned, but a maple-shaped brooch fixed on her mane, tied in a bun, signified her post. When Celestia strode up to her, the mare inclined her head in a respectful nod. Her eyes were as orange as the Sun once it set, which alas for the children’s sake was some time hence. She spoke, in the refined accent of Vanhoover’s Uptown. “Princess Celestia.” “Baroness Vanhoover. Good to see you at last.”