//------------------------------//
// Traitor 
// Story: The Bards of Mares 
// by Reviewfilly 
//------------------------------//

Pale moonlight fell on Fort Hill Climber, a castle of yore built from roughly-hewn rocks, serving as the proud ancestral home of Lord Hill Climber, manieth of his name.

Originally ennobled and installed here for the family founder’s chivalry professed centuries ago during the first Changeling invasion, the grim walls of the olden castle stood as an unwavering reminder, that though the Crown might be far, its blade-tipped wings stay ever vigilant over even such an outlying territory as this one.

The eponymous lord himself was standing alone, atop one of four towers of the castle, staring into the silhouettes in distance. His pale green coat made him seem almost like a ghost in the low-light, while his gold-rimmed, crimson uniform hung on him like a bloody rug.

Hill Climber inhaled the cold air deeply. The night did not bring him the peace he was hoping for. A dull ache pulsed in his horn. As he was about to exhale his sharp eyes suddenly noticed an almost invisible black column in the distance slowly snaking its way towards his castle. He almost chocked on his breath. Though he knew this day would eventually come, he did not expect it to happen this fast. The gentle breeze caressing his face suddenly felt like he was standing in front of a raging, lit oven.

His mind began to race, seeing worse and worse fates into the dark spots in the scenery in front of him. As they tormented him a single, insidious idea crystallized in his mind into a horrifying way out of this deathtrap. He trotted up to the edge of the tower and stared down. The cracked earth of the castle’s dried-out moat stared back at him, like a great black gash struck into the very world itself. He idly kicked a pebble over the edge and craned his neck downwards, listening to it silently fall for a few seconds, then hit the ground below with an audible “thuck.” He contemplated following the pebble’s example.

After all, he was a dead stallion walking, really. Even if Her Radiance came back tomorrow and cast this mare of nightmares into the deep where she belonged, his fate was still as good as sealed.

Treason.

The word hung above his head like a sword dangling tautly on a hair from his own gone-gray mane. It was such an elegant description for what he had done, the only small impreciseness being it completely ignored the fact that, instead of material gain, he did this merely to save his kin and, though his vanity fought hard before he was finally able to admit it, himself as well.

He was hoping, though the chances were only a sliver brighter, that the Crescent Queen would leave him and his household alive as a potential useful pawn, even if it meant being reduced to an absolute nobody. No, if anything, he wanted to be reduced to nothing. With all that happened, he could not care less about his centuries of heritage anymore. Being a noblepony after such a deed? It sounded like a ridiculous joke. The spirit that elevated him above the common folk shriveled up and died the moment he sold his nation out.

He brushed his hoof against the rough, almost sharp edge of the tower, beyond which yawned only empty space. This act would at least preserve a bit of his dignity. Perhaps not as much as if he attempted to fight the Night-bringer himself, but he couldn’t even kid himself that he stood a chance and any pointless acts of aggression would just further endanger the innocent and completely jeopardize the sacrifices he made and forced others to make.

His legs buckled a little, yanking him forward, but in a moment of panicked hesitation he caught himself with his magic and took a step back. His will to live was far too strong. Slamming a hoof into the unfeeling rock, he cursed everything and everyone. His fate, the very fact that he was born. He wished pain eternal on the fanged pony who appeared in his window during a night which seemed so serene and carefree, offering him asylum in return of information. Above everything he screamed inside at himself for being such a coward.

If only he reported the event!

Surely his everyoung Ruler would have understood. And even if she didn’t, maybe he could have still bought the lives of so many for the price of his own.

And yet, here he stood on the darkest night. Alive and unhurt, with his more than likely executioner approaching on his own invite. He spat into the void and harshly turned away, before storming back into the castle.

It seems like he wasn’t the only one who noticed the approaching army, as by the time he trotted down the spiral staircase, the staff inside was already in a frenzy. The few who remained anyways. Despite Fort Hill Climber being one of the humbler forts of the Crown, its corridors yawned emptily, their peace disturbed only by the occasional lonely maid or retainer hurrying through.

Lord Hill Climber gave everyone the option to leave and try their own luck elsewhere if they were too afraid to stay associated with him, with the promise that he would take their names to the grave. Perhaps in a more enlightened century such an act would be seen as a jump from the pot into the fire, but with so little options left this was the only mercy the lord was able to show to those who were no longer willing to follow him.

Those who remained continued their duties with the same loyalty, which made his heart ache all the more. He grit his teeth as he galloped past his servants, turning corner after corner, until he finally barged into the main hall.