[4.]
The words cut through me as sure and steady as her gaze.
‘You know perfectly well why.’
‘Perhaps. But sometimes it helps to hear it from you.’
‘You gave the order. You knew the risks. What were you thinking?’
‘That I wasn’t going to lose a daughter.’
‘Don’t try to—’
‘To what?’ She turns to me again, gentle, comported. ‘To lessen your grief with my own? Your husband? Your daughter? Do you really think I mourn your loss any less than my own? That your loss isn’t my own?’
‘You never even knew them.’ A chink, at last; a slight widening of the eyes. ‘You could never be bothered, up here in the safety of your little perfect snowglobe. Never seen the ribs on a yearling four days without food, never watched your loved ones snuffed out by something you couldn’t predict or control.’
‘You know that simply isn’t true.’
‘Isn’t it? When was the last time you didn’t know the outcome in advance? Couldn’t plan or predict your way around it?’
She gestures, vaguely—widely. Self-evidence.
‘So you still arrogantly—’
‘It was a routine operation, something she’d done a hundred different times with a hundred different Aspects. There was no reason that this time would have been any different.’ She paces, absently—teaching. ‘That’s why we’re investigating. We don’t know—’
‘You don’t care.’
And the pin drops for us both.
‘Of course I—!’
‘No. This—Ponyville—was just one more data point in a line. “Oh, another hundred dead. I’ll save the rest.” “Oh, another empty thousand slouching toward San Palomino, burning in Dusk-Dark spellfire. We’re still winning.” Careful, stately maths.’ I let the words hang there for a moment; the two of us, orbiting. Then: ‘What were we to you?’
‘Not experiments, if that’s what you’re driving at. Setting aside that I wouldn’t . . . I don’t have the luxury of second chances, not in this.’
‘Don’t you? You have the power for it, the magic.’
‘Not if I wanted you to be as you are—thinking, feeling, truly alive.’ The moonlight from the window etches Her in profile, a moment of lines, within and without. She looks old, or wants me to think so. ‘We learned that lesson early, Crystal and her Heart—and she as lost as they, now. One mind, one hunger, bereft of life or possibility; the both of them trapped.’
She turns to me again. ‘That’s always been the crux of it. We did have the power; we do. We could make you dance on any string, peal to any pattern, burn in any colour of the stars—played out all the possibilities and permutations. But if we had, if we denied you your battles and made all your choices, you’d—you’d have been a dead end, as much as any Changeling.’
‘And yet you’re still here. Not waiting in the wings for us to reach our full potential, but here, trying to guide us to it.’
Her head hangs, Her voice barely above a whisper. ‘Yes.’
‘And you still believe that’s different?’
‘Does a responsible mare abandon her children before they’ve learned to fend for themselves? Before she can be sure they’ll live their lives full and happy? Does she leave them to the mercy of the wolves? The ravages of disease?’
My jaw is tight as steel cable. ‘Does she?’
There is a long moment of silence, and I think at last I may have stepped past her. But then She's turning to me again, and once again she’s calm; quieter, but calm. I have to concentrate; can’t let her distract me, can’t push all at once.
‘I take it you’ve worked out why she was there by now.’
‘The Last? Playing tender to the Tree? Yes, it doesn’t take a genius.’ Stall; pivot; thrust. ‘Then again, Ponyville wasn’t exactly overrun; which city were you planning to glass?’
A flicker; disappointment, perhaps. ‘Just the opposite. It was an extension of her work with the fifth-generation Aspects, and the archon echoes the Elements left in the tree when they were destroyed—the notion of cadence within the Harmony; isolating each note and thread in the weave of Ley-Song, drawing them forth. It was beautiful work; the best I’d ever seen from her.’
‘But?’
‘But nothing. The theory was sound, and the spellcraft thorough and as uncomplicated as ever she was capable of being. It should have worked. It just . . . didn’t. She was the closest you ever came, and she could have set you free.’
It’s a moment of weakness I’ll chide myself for until the end of my days, but even as I try to tamp them down, the words come tumbling from me in a choked and broken slurry.
‘Do you really think any of us could ever have been like her?’
Goddesses, the bloom, the brightness in her then. “Yes. Oh stars above, yes. Look at all that you do—the art, the science, the thoughts you think. Do you have any idea how rare those are? The little joys, the greater wonders? The love, the kindness, the gentle impulses? The magic of you?’ She beams at me now, eyes shining. ‘How many lives have you saved? How many bettered?’
‘And how many dead?’
She starts. There—the crack I need, at last. I tear her down with innocent eyes, rend her with a slight choke I don’t even need to fake.
‘You want us to be like you—bright and beautiful stars in an infinite sky. Great. How many bodies do we have to pave underhoof to reach Elysium with you? What happens to them?’
It strikes true. And for a crystal-clear moment, I know she knows—sees. Not just what I’m saying, but what I’m doing. For the briefest moment I let myself hope, lock my eyes to hers, scream without screaming.
Do it, you bitch. Do what I can’t.
Please.
It’s not yet light.
Wakefulness is . . . odd, this morning. Slow, maybe even languid. I suppose I’ve become so used to jerking awake at the slightest provocation—be it the little one’s explosive sunrise ambushes or the nameless little things lurking in the recesses of my own poor brain—that even the act of waking naturally is unto itself disorienting.
I can feel my heart beat warm and steady in my chest, the way yours used to feel against my back at night. A water-clock, slowly pulsing out the seconds and hours. Even here, with my face pressed deep into the hardwood, I can let out a little sigh—feel my shoulders loosen and my hip pop gently against the joint.
Hardwood? Did I fall asleep at my desk again? Heh. Silly me.
Your face swims in front of me again, smile lost under all that goat-beard fluff, lost but for your eyes. Morning, Sunshine. I reach out to bat at your nose, to start that game of soft kisses on hooves and foreheads we used to play on weekends when we had the energy, when we had the time. I can feel your breath on my—
Desk.
My eyes snap open. With a soft plip, I peel my face off the warm desk and gaze around the empty workspace, in the little cubby behind the pantry. Soft golden light spills from the table beside me out from the pantry and into the dark and silent kitchen.
Mumbling a stifled curse, I totter as quietly as I can to the pantry door, peeping out towards the foyer, the sitting room. The door is locked and bolted; the neat little pile of armour lies undisturbed beside the couch, folded square and inspection-grade. Its owner, one hoof lolling, still snores gently into the blanket bunched under his head, his side rising and falling under the other I draped over him. Good.
A few rabbit-soft, rabbit-hasty steps into the hall, undo the latch. She sleeps as soundly—murmurs a little as the door creaks open. Better.
I don’t let myself breathe again until the secret door is sliding shut behind me, then loose the most violent stream of whispered curses I feel I can risk, even counting the thick walls of my little fortified donjon. My gaze settles on the little glowing spheroid, resting contentedly in its housing. Who else? For whatever definition of ‘conscious’ the echo inside it meets, for everything its light touches . . .
I shudder, violently. The morning, the night—its doing. Hers.
I will my heartbeat to slow as I lock gazes with the thing, with the magenta-grey eyes I know I’ve seen floating there.
The last of that conversation—the compact, the penance—rings altogether too clearly in my ears, carried on the last crusty waves of fading Dream:
Redeem one, redeem us both.
Maybe we’ll both get what we want.
The secret door is shut and piled with grain, my face is washed, and my head is clear. Little cracks of fuchsia light silhouette the shutters on the west-facing wall. Anticipation and the restive energy of the predawn; something primal there, no doubt—post-sleep, pre-light, the safest time to move without drawing hungry eyes.
It’s hard to find a place in a house this size to sit, when everyone else is asleep, and all the moving parts are gruff and scraping wood. But the letter lies crisp and stately on the table where I tossed it last night, and my chair pushed away just so. It looks . . .
Do you remember those home catalogues we used to go through sometimes whenever you’d get the bee in your bonnet that we needed to swap out the furniture? Sitting among the earthenware and dinner-things, it feels almost pastoral: a letter from that friend across town, an invitation to the Gala, the acceptance letter your daughter has been fretting about for the last four weeks.
I run my hoof across it again, absently. The vellum itself is beautiful, thick and finely woven; the ink-work all very formal and official—even has that very nice illuminated ‘M’ rounding out my rank. Old royal stock, unless I’ve missed my guess; probably predates the cotton-fires at Baltimare, at any rate. And if the signature line is to be believed (and it can; who could ghost-write for Her?), I can even forgive the thicket of Ald Eqosi I had to wade through to parse it.
And then, of course, our courier. Small, mousy-haired, rail-thin—the perfect mailrunner or pathfinder. We had a few like him at the Dun, usually reserved for those rare times a Relay would be out sick somewhere across the network and unable to communicate. Usually Horse, too—even without training, they’re good at blending in, creeping through caves and underbrush the rest of us would never think to scuttle through.
I follow the gentle, rhythmic trail of sunset-purple flame purring gently at the tip of his horn, beating a steady tattoo in time with the rise and fall of his chest under the thin blanket. Even High Command can’t afford to be choosy these days, it seems. His aura’s a similar colour, conforming to him like a sheath; I sweep over it almost unconsciously, unmoving, taking in the tapestry of dents and whorls yellowing its pale surface. Here, an old half-melted hexburn, almost camouflaged by fur and field; there, a cabbage-sized lump of scar beneath the skin—souvenir of a medic frantic and unskilled in his art.
He groans—shudders. I must’ve brushed too close without thinking. Dumb; taboo. Not used to having someone around to notice, or to care. Still, not the best of first (second?) impressions, especially with the journey we have ahead of us. Another shudder, and then the familiar jerk of a sudden waking. His head whips around, first one way, then the other, finally settling on me. I wave.
An incoherent noise of assent. He throws back the blanket and sits up, balling his hooves against his eyes for a moment. Again his horn flickers—a rapidly-shifting aurora of purples and indigos as he finds his footing again. I do my best to ignore it; none of us can help how it manifests.
I leave him to it, taking the opportunity to get up and quietly begin opening the shutters. He groans once or twice as the light hits him, and I murmur a brief apology as I move to the east-facing windows nearest him. The Valley is dark; the water nearly invisible in the pre-sun hour. Only the faraway clouds are lit—streaks and mounds of running oranges and pinks, the last remnants of yesterday’s cloudburst.
The stallion—the corporal—joins me at the window. His eyes sweep the dark valley for a moment, then turn to me curiously. I gesture vaguely at the horizon, and he nods his assent; it’s a familiar enough reveille, and in the manner of such rotations, never too strange with a stranger.
A brief flash at the horizon; a single forking line cutting from low-hanging cloud to water. We watch together in silence as another joins it, a little ways further north; then another, and another.
‘Wow! Everyone’s up so early this morning!’ a little voice pipes up from behind us. She trots over to the window, squeezing between us and craning her neck to see over the sill. ‘Did I miss anything exciting?’
‘Just the last of the storm,’ I reassure her, lifting her onto my back. ‘Did you catch the lightning when you came in?’
‘Aww, no!’ She places her hooves on the sill, balancing catlike between myself and the wood. ‘Dang it! It’s been a while since we had a good thunderstorm! We didn’t get any lightning yesterday.’
The corporal had moved back a pace to let her pass. It was something I’d noticed on our walk back from the Dun, as well—he seems to be doing his best to keep some distance between them. Deferential, almost. He’s giving me kind of a strange look, but seems to shake it off when I meet his eye.
‘Ready for some breakfast?’ I ask, glancing distractedly back at my little amateur acrobat.
She leaps down, ignoring my grunt of protest. ‘Totally! Should I get down bowls?’
I look back at the stallion. ‘Hope you don’t mind old-style boxed cereal, corporal.’
‘Of course, ma’am.’ He bobs his head deferentially.
‘At ease. And consider it a standing order.’
‘Yes, m—yes. Thank you, ma’am.’
Nervous about that. Not unexpected; he’s been on the frontlines far more recently than I, taken his lashes with the chain of command. Probably a recent commission too, given the sheen on his rank pips. Still feels vulnerable in front of an officer—least without a gang of seven or eight of his classmates around him.
I can work with that.
We amble over to the table as the little one clatters around getting out the fixings; he settles in at the table, and I duck into the pantry to see what else we can dig up. I carefully place a serving-bowl over the letter as I pass.
‘Do you mind apples with your cereal?’ I call out over my shoulder.
A pause. ‘An apple would be wonderful, thank you.’
‘When was the last time you saw one?’
‘Does a bag of mould count? Eighteen months.’
I don’t respond for a moment, testing the last half-dozen in our burlap sack with a hoof. ‘Logistics getting that spotty?’
‘Past the mountains, yes.’
‘Are we anywhere else?’
Another pregnant pause. ‘Canterlot and the Dawnspire are both holding, yes. Las Pegasus, though we moved the civilians out a long time ago.’
The little one chimes in as I exit the pantry with three healthy apples and begin dicing them. ‘Is Las Pegasus the place you told me about? With the big gambling halls and the salt-licks?’ She looks to the corporal. ‘Are they still open? Can ponies still play there?’
He blanches, eyes wide, and after a moment I step into the gap. ‘Probably not, kiddo. Soldiers generally don’t have that kind of time on their hooves, especially considering what they’re doing with the rest of their time.’
‘Ohhh.’
She settles in at her accustomed place across from my chair. I cast a quick glance over my shoulder, letting my horn do the work for a moment. She’s got that look again—studying the corporal in exquisite detail, and obviously gearing up to bombard him with another round of questions.
I take the opportunity to steer. ‘You’ve been very forthcoming, corporal—thank you. We’ll probably have more questions later, but is there anything that you need to know from us?’
‘Well, um—’ He looks between the two of us for a moment, sensing the effort on my part but not seeming to know where to start. ‘H-how—how have things been on the road for you? Any updates?’
‘Oh, we’ve been here for a while now!’ The little one beams, her gaze never faltering. ‘I think the last house was outside of Barb—Bharb?’
‘Bay Harbour, yes.’ I chime in, sheathing the knife with the flourish and floating over three mixed breakfast bowls. ‘Well-stocked, and the aristos all tried to make a beeline for Haliflanks as soon as they got the word out of Manehatten.
He winces a little, waiting until I’m seated to start on his; the little one of course doesn’t hesitate to tuck in. I nod.
‘Yeah. We never made it that far north, but the fishers there told us what they could.’
‘Did they seem alright? I mean—’
‘Well, they didn’t start trying to sacrifice us on any crude altars to the Serpent, but I think they were happy to see us go.’
‘Were there any other kids there?’ asks the filly, cheeks puffed out with chaw. ‘I don’t remember seeing any.’
‘Probably in the houses,’ I lie. ‘You know how protective parents can be. And chew your food.’ I turn back to the corporal. ‘Jokes aside, yes, they seemed like they could hold their own—or get out to sea if things really went to shit.’
He looks at me for a moment, then nods, quietly. ‘Good.’
‘Agreed.’
‘Mhm!’
The remainder of breakfast passes in silence. The little one finishes first—including seconds—and finally drops her bowl off in the sink. So far she’s gotten the hint, but I can see her angling for an interrogation again as soon as she turns.
‘Hey, why don’t you go hit the showers, kiddo? We’ll clean up out here and figure out our next move for the day.’
She catches on immediately, and gives me her best pleading look. ‘But—’
‘No buts!’ I say, mock-imperiously, nudging her towards the hall. ‘You can give him the third degree later. For now, clean.’
‘Nyeeeehhhhhh.’
I have to chase her all the way to the bathroom door—something I haven’t had to do since she could fly a straight line. When she finally stops digging her heels into the hardwood and hops over onto the tile, I position myself squarely in the doorframe.
‘You don’t have to stick around,’ she pouts. ‘I’m going.’
‘I know,’ I reply, as casually as I can, leaning on the jamb. ‘But I have a question for you.’
She leans on the counter, trying very hard to match my look. ‘What?’
I lower my voice a fraction. ‘Just wanted to get your feel for our guest. We haven’t had a chance to talk about him yet.’
‘He seems nice.’
‘Only seems?’
‘Why does he keep calling you “Major”? That’s not your name.’
Ah.
‘Well—it’s a bit like how I call you “Princess”. You know, a nickname.’
She stares at me for a long moment, then nods.
I can see the conversation’s over. ‘Anyway—have a good shower, alright? We’ll be out front.’
‘Thanks. I won’t be long.’
I’m turning to leave when she speaks up again.
‘Be careful, okay?’
I give her my best winning smile, sliding the door shut on her piercing frown. ‘You know me, kiddo.’
When I return to the kitchen, he’s exactly where I left him, staring at the letter he’s slid over from my place. He jumps a little when I step back into view, rattling the table, his little Pyre-candle flaring spasmodically overhead.
He clears his throat. ‘I—uh. Is that—’
‘Really her?’ I chuckle, settling back into my seat. ‘Hard to believe, isn’t it?’
‘I never thought she’d be so—so upbeat?’
‘Not something the histories would be likely to go into any great detail on, no.’
He shakes his head a little, mousy mane fluttering a little with the motion. ‘No, I mean—I was a squire in the castle when I was a colt. Even on Her best days, She never seemed the type to, um. Bounce?’
That gets a laugh. ‘It’s been an adjustment, for sure.’
He scratches his head, seemingly reassured. ‘How have you managed to keep it up? All these years, and She never . . . ?’
‘Those were her orders.’
Magenta-grey, boring into mine.
‘Yeah, that was what I was—what they told me, too. I, uh . . . I’m just trying to get a feel for how to play it, I guess. It’s going to be a long trip.’
‘Well, you won’t be doing it alone. But, yes, anything you want to ask, this is probably the best chance you’ll get before we get underway.’
He fidgets. ‘Well, um. What—what was it like? Being so close to Her?’
I shrug, leaning back a little in my chair. Practised nonchalance. ‘Like raising a kid, to be honest. She’s smart, a little rambunctious. Getting towards the rebellious stage.’
Again, I catch a flash of something else. I know they wouldn’t have sent just anyone, but . . .
‘You have kids of your own?’
He shakes his head, seemingly abashed. ‘No! N-no, ma’am. Never had time, around the . . . well.’
‘Yeah. Don’t worry, it’s easier than you think, especially once you get a feel for her. Just keep her talking about books, and—’
‘What about you, ma’am?’
I let it hang there for a moment, mouth open. Then: ‘Yeah. Ponyville.’
Too-bright light.
‘Oh. Oh no. I’m—I’m so sorry.’ He looks it. ‘Um—Appleoosa. My folks.’
I wince. ‘Likewise. Apples?’
‘Married into; my mother’s side.’
‘I’m sorry. We had a few ourselves, as I’m sure you can guess. They were good folk.’
Wooden stalls, flattened against their owners.
‘Thank you, ma’am.’
Another moment. The sound of running water carries through the house.
‘But yes,’ I finally resume. ‘As long as you treat her like a person, it’s as simple as dealing with any other kid. Think you’re up to it?’
His eyes have been locked on the letter. ‘Yes, I think so. But—nothing before we reach Canterlot?’
‘Nothing,’ I affirm. ‘Did they brief you on the rest—the Egg?’
‘Yes, but—’
‘Then trust in Their wisdom.’ The oldest of bluffs. ‘Dark and Dream will see her through.’
And there again—just the slightest flash, never looking quite at me. He flickers, steadily.
‘Why now?’ Genuine curiosity; something I’ve been meaning to ask. ‘The letter doesn’t say.’
‘I wish I knew. High Command is worried, thinks we’re losing ground too fast. The Dyad weren’t . . .’ He lifts his eyes ceilingward, sighing. ‘Stardusk help me. Enthusiastic?’
‘Oh no?’ Neutral now; too obvious he’s gauging.
‘I had some trouble with it myself,’ he admits. His hoof traces a gentle circle next to the vellum. ‘Apparently the marshals made a good case—maybe in conjunction with whatever’s left of the Arcanum.’ Another fraught pause, then, finally: ‘There’s talk of another Pyre.’
I’m sitting up straight in an instant. ‘Another? Do they really think we’ll survive a second blast?’ Third.
‘The Arcanum have refined the process. Apparently.’ He shrugs, helplessly. ‘Not really my, uh, field.’
Conversational. Something. ‘What was?’
“Artist, long time ago. Used to dream about shapes. Buildings and landscapes.’
‘Architect?’
He looks taken aback. ‘No? Why?’
‘Just checking. Thought I might have run into your work.’
‘That’s thoughtful.’ He smiles. Almost like he means it. ‘But, no—I was just a kid when this whole thing got started, and uh—even if there were much call for painters these days, the Pyre—’ He gestures helplessly to the sputtering candle burning out of his skull. ‘I don’t have quite the fine control I used to.’
‘Monuments?’
‘They stopped after—well.’
‘Ponyville?’
‘Yeah.’
The gorge rises again. ‘Sorry—that was indulgent.’
‘I don’t mind.’ True? He seems more at ease.
Switch tacks again, keep him off-balance best I can. Why is he so hard to read? ‘So—the Pyre.’
‘I know. When—’ he swallows, carefully. ‘When I received the letter, I was told I could take my time. That the line would hold more than long enough with—with the last infusion.’
She burns, and so do we.
‘Not through official channels, I take it.’
‘No.’
I feel my heart rate increase; feel the heat brush along my shoulder, feel the light in the room wax, just a little. I try to keep my voice level as it pulses behind my eyelids.
‘And they sent you with the message.’
‘Yes.’
‘In person.’
His eyes snap back to me, and I see the wall go up. There. ‘Yes.’
I sit very still, very careful. ‘Then I suppose that means—’
‘Only after we’ve returned her safely to the Mount.’
I set my jaw; feel something crack. ‘I see. Anything else?’
A turn, then. He almost looks apologetic. Almost. ‘More that can be said on the road. But . . .‘
‘But?’
His gaze doesn’t falter this time, even as his voice performs its all-too-characteristic waver. ‘I have to know—did it . . . was it easier? All this time, having Her to yours—’
I’m on my hooves, and it’s a wonder they don’t go through the table. The chair behind me bangs off the sideboard. He doesn’t run; doesn’t blink.
The water shuts off.
He takes the chance to break the gaze; I don’t attempt to re-engage, instead opting to right the chair and—shaking—collect up the plates for the sink. The warm rush from the tap and the familiar clatter of earthenware fill the silence.
The little one emerges not long after, mane wrapped in a towel. She looks first to me, then to the stallion still sitting at the third side of the table. ‘Is everything alright? I heard a bang.’
I open my mouth, but he cuts in first. ‘N-no, little Miss. Something fell, in the sink.’
“Oh . . . alright.’ She looks to me for confirmation. After a moment, I force my jaw to unlock. My hooves move mechanically over the dishcloth, the sponge, the little flecks of non-abrading soap.
‘It’s alright, hon. Get yourself dried up and we’ll talk about getting set for the next step.’
She nods, looks between us both again, and disappears into the back. A small trail of water is the only evidence of her passage. There is another long moment of silence, and the distant sound of a bedroom door gently meeting lintel.
Then:
‘”Hon?”’
I don’t know if he says it. I don’t know if he thinks it. But I do hear it.
Her light blooms around the hidden door.
The plate cracks in my hooves.
It comes in waves after that.
The plates are scraped and washed, a neat pile catching the rising sun. The shattered fragments are swept and disposed of; the bucket stands ready. At some point he rises, and dons his armour. It slides effortlessly over him, lacquer and oil, and I catch sight of the two shining metal studs at his collar. Newsteel is easier even than onyx, I suppose. Or more abundant.
I spin.
He won’t look at me, and I can’t read your face. Those little moments of fury were the worst: the deaths, the arguments, the choices. Never the crises themselves, but always the moment just after—the decision made, the shrapnel just beginning to fall. Nothing at your side but for the dagger—you never carried—no stains on his vest save those of a continent’s worth of undergrowth.
Who is this stallion I married?
Light pours from my right, invisible, hot, knowing, yearning—purpose again, cathode-bright, coursing through air and sinew and bone and horn. Bluebell flames lick the air around him, engulfing; my horn is light as air, as it has been in days, weaving over my head like thick poison joke.
And among all of it, bounding, She. To every question a clever rebound, every excitable spark a careful-lancing snuffer. She knows the a-hoof, and a winding road ahead, but the joy is in the knowing, the game, the summiting.
And from the back he watches me still, sees the lines and patterns that emerge as I veer to automatic, as we skirt around the house and read and catalogue and confirm—bundle up and tie off and cover. Dead-house, panic-box, and all stowed away.
And when I come to, we’re in the garden.
‘Just like we did at the last house,’ I say, placing the little faded rucksack beside her. ‘The more we can fit in the wagon, the better off we’ll be.’
She nods, and smiles, and flies off.
One task left to perform.
Though little, there were materials we’d agreed were needed from the Dun—things we couldn’t get elsewhere and would need for the road. No more words between us; he knows it well as I.
He follows me around the back of the house to the barrier, obviously taken with the tall, shifting evergreens. I can trace the patterns in his eyes, the little flecks of hope for a stray bird or squirrel.
I hold out a hoof to forestall him, gesturing to the faint shimmer of the dome I know he can see. He nods absently, neck still arched to peruse the treeline, and I let my horn begin to glow.
It’s odd to have another Unicorn in such proximity; I can feel his field rubbing unconsciously against mine, around the wards—lonely, eager, dog-curious, tracing contours. If the confused smile he’s wearing is anything to go by, he’s assessing the spellwork, as well.
I open my eyes again, gesture to him, step through. He follows directly in my hoofsteps, watching the grass as he goes. Suppose that means he does know his way around a spell-trap; after yesterday’s performance at the Dun I was starting to wonder.
I turn to start raising the wards again; he disappears behind me, eyes still skyward. I trace him by his field, feel the little flare of brightness behind me as he scans through the undergrowth.
‘Major? Permission to speak freely?’
His tone is conciliatory, even apologetic. I nod, silently, eyes still closed. He walks over to face me, standing parallel to the invisible bubble-sheen wall.
‘Look, I—I know you’ve had it rough. Real rough.’ He sighs. ‘What I said back there? It wasn’t fair.’
‘Corporal—’
‘Please, Major.’
I relent.
‘It’s rough, out west. Rougher than I’ve let on—didn’t want her to hear. We finally lost Pitsbull about a year ago, and the Griffons did . . . something along the coast to try and keep them from coming ashore. The bodies—’ His voice cracks slightly. ‘The seaponies are gone. We know there are a couple of dragons trying to do their part in the north, but it’s just so bleak, y’know?’
A sniffle, and a silence. My closed eyes, the shimmer and focus of my horn, are all the privacy he seems to need. I can guess.
‘I guess what I’m trying to say is, knowing that she’s still out here—that she’s coming back?—is going to bring so many people back from the brink. There are so many ponies out there just on the verge of giving up. It—it lit a fire in me I didn’t think I had. And—and—’
And before I can stop him, he pulls me sideways into a tight embrace. I struggle to keep my footing, my horn sputtering against the wards and the pressure. Even through his armour, I can feel the raggedness of his breathing. I know.
‘Thank you,’ he chokes out. ‘Thank you for keeping her safe. We were all so worried about her. We shouldn’t be at each other’s throats. I’m sorry.’
I pat him gingerly on the back as he finally bursts into tears, shifting slightly so the studded leather isn’t digging quite so hard into my shoulder. As the sobbing grief continues, I finally shift to face him; the last of the wards are up, now, but my horn remains aglow.
‘Corporal. Look at me.’
He lifts his head from my shoulder, red-eyed, not breaking the desperate embrace.
‘It’s okay. It’s going to be alright.’
The emptiest words, and the easiest. I know how to make them sound reassuring.
‘I’m sorry,’ he whispers.
‘Me too.’
If he senses the tapered length of metal rising into the air behind him, blade poised in the kill-spot just behind the head, he doesn’t have time to react. My horn glows brighter . . .
It’s over in an instant; the single thrust is all it takes. His body twitches silently for a moment, and I see the magical aura around the sword flicker as the autonomic vestiges of his magic struggle to countermand mine. Then, with one last, futile convulsion, he slumps against my shoulder like the sack of wet leather he has suddenly become.
The world swims, daintily, as I pull the sword free, bury it again beneath the earth underhoof. I do it carefully, trying not to disturb the body, to make the leakage any worse. I pull the undershirt from beneath his armour, wrap it around his head; it staunches the worst of things. Hurriedly, looking over my shoulder toward the house, I heft him onto my sweat-soaked back and head into the forest. His one dull eye stares at me accusingly.
You know perfectly well why.
He’s both lighter and heavier than I expect; the small, mousy build they favoured in scouts and officers serves me one last time. I can’t believe I ever thought he reminded me of you. The dangers of going too long without seeing a stallion, I suppose.
I’m well within the treeline now, and far enough from the house that the noise of my flight won’t reach her. I break into a run. The swimming world blurs further still, haphazard: the vanishing sky streaks blue and grey between the thicket of branches above, the paint running at last; the sea-dark foliage rips past on either side in an endless tattoo. A chorus of croaking corvids float about in an ash-blanket hail as I crash through a thicket.
The corridors of the castle loop endlessly around me, a maze of twisting passages all horribly, tangibly alike. The faces run on tapestries, each bust a spy or warden. I’m silent and swift, my cup o’erruneth with proximate Purpose; and it does what caution and hatred alone will not.
Swords flicker in and out of sight around me, clattering along trees and thrashing through branches, and I force them down down down into the earth again, where I buried them a lifetime ago, another defence, another ward around my heart, around the child.
The door slides open like a dream, and I knife through it, airborne, the sword arcing with perfect grace toward Her throat.
Shades dance around me, ghost-eyed and hollow, as a white-water roar fills my ears. A decade’s ceaseless nightmare chattering hammering through my bones like a thousand arrow-shards blown from a rusty tin can. Changelings quiver in the trees, and a dead rabbit’s neck twists impossibly to follow me as he disappears down a dark, dark hole.
I’m slamming into the wall, as She rises gracefully, effortlessly, tossing aside the shattered blade. The look in Her eye is one of terrible sadness, and questions, and the echoes of motherly fury.
‘Why come all this way, just to die like this?’
I’m on all fours, retching into the river. The meagre trail follows the wrapped and muddied body, and both go tumbling over the falls.
I’m writhing in front of the Pyre, feeling the vestiges of Her burn their way into my mind, my horn, as she looks on, burst-eyed, melt-fleshed, screaming from the fire. One spark, one torch, reflected a thousand-thousand times across all of Equestria—a bequest.
I’m teetering on the cliff-edge, knowing that the sweet release of that clatter-bright mirror will only ever be that close: I can’t do it now any more than I could in the howling ley-fires of the Ponyville glasslands.
I’m holding the thing—the excuse—in my forehooves, knowing the favour She thinks she’s done me, knowing I can still prove her wrong. It mewls, shedding ember and possibility, its magenta-grey eyes staring into mine. The Egg, the once-and-future, the memory, roils in its birth throes, and the body wails a pain it does not understand.
I’m wandering the forest, gathering myself, caking on façade—so much mud to cover so much blood and water and spite. But I’m the mother again and it’s time and I have to, for however long it takes for her to grow up and learn and feel the weight of everything I’ve kept from her—everything I’ve kept her from.
You always said it was give and take.
Maybe we’ll both get what we want.
Maybe we’ll both get what we want.
I stand before the wall.
The sun is high.
My hooves are clean, my back; the shaking has mostly passed. Even you seem to have receded for the moment.
I give it another minute, to be safe.
Then I let out a rattling breath, and summon a tune to hum as I set about taking down the wards.
The little one greets me, zipping over the house and looking around expectantly for the rest of the erstwhile party.
‘Where’s the soldier?’
I smile, fondly, ruffling her hair. ‘He heard a Princess needed rescuing and had to go off and be the hero.’ Not entirely untrue. ‘But he said he might be back someday.’
‘We didn’t have to go with him?’
‘Well, I’m no Major, now am I? He couldn’t exactly order me.’
‘And I’m no Princess!’ She beams at me, and her eyes could pierce the stars.
I look past her, smiling, leading the way back to the front of the house. ‘Not at all, kiddo.’
The grass is soft and pliant underhoof. There’s a soft fragrance of flowers on the air—beautiful and welcome, even if unnatural for this time of year. The hair ruffles my mane, brushes gently against my tender, pulsing horn. So many beautiful distractions.
She hesitates a moment as we reach the porch, looking out over the Valley—at the squat little hump of the Dun crouched, tumorous, along its length. Somewhere behind me potentiality burns, sharp and spiteful, digging behind my eyes, my horn, knowing.
Good.
‘Did he say when he’d be back?’
‘Not really. It sounded like an emergency.’ I let out a long breath. ‘But until then . . . why don’t you go and get unpacked? Then I have to ask you an important question.’
She looks concerned again, and her voice is very small. ‘What question?’
‘Oh, nothing super special,’ I say nonchalantly, brushing some imaginary dust off my shoulder. ‘A fun question. An exciting question. An awesome question.’
She leans forward, hanging on my every word. ‘Yeah?’
I lean forward too, and bump noses with her, nuzzling affectionately for a moment. Then, a wide grin spreads across my face, one she quickly matches when she hears what I have to ask:
‘Where should we go today?’