//------------------------------// // 2-13 // Story: The Sparrow in the Storm // by The 24th Pegasus //------------------------------// Sparrow blinked, then blinked again. There was no way the pony sitting at the table was who Crane said he was. After all this time, after six long years, there was no way their paths were ever meant to cross again. But even in the orange glow of firelight, even through the smoky haze that filled the tent with its warm, ashy feathers, even through the sickness that clung to his face, Sparrow recognized Singing Sparrow sitting across from her. Time had not been kind to the stallion, but under the thinning patches of his coat and the red marks and nicks that decorated his muzzle, Sparrow saw the face of the legate whose legion had pulled her from the rubble of her sunken village, and who had personally watched over her until the legion returned to the next closest town. That face and its gruff kindness was etched into her mind’s eye, and even though the one opposite her was scarred and weary, its curves and edges didn’t lie. But the stallion was ravaged, practically decayed, by time, trial, and disease. The patchiness of his coat continued down his neck until it disappeared under a heavy cloak wrapped around his frame for warmth; even then, minute shivers made his limbs tremble and his ears twitch. Dark patches ringed his eyes, and every movement he made seemed wracked with exhaustion. A small plate of untouched food sat undisturbed at the corner of the table, picked over by curious flies looking for something easier than the shivering, writhing bodies outside. “Hey!” Crane snapped, frowning at Sparrow and shaking her out of her shock. “Are you just going to stand there? Show the legate what you got.” “S-Sorry,” Sparrow stammered, and she shrugged the canvas bundle off of her back, gently held it in a soft aura of pink magic, and set it down in front of the legate. She pulled back the canvas corners, and moments later, an icy chill billowed from the exposed steel as it mingled with the hot and humid air inside the tent. The legate narrowed his eyes at it, and Sparrow anxiously cleared her throat. “Typhoon gave me her sword to prove that my message comes from her, not from Legate Lost Winds or anypony else in his camp.” The legate’s wing brushed over the pale blue metal, and he momentarily closed his eyes and took a slow, shaky breath. When he opened then, he gave Sparrow a small nod and covered the sword back up with canvas once more. “I believe you,” he said in a deep but wavering voice. “Nopony would be able to get this sword away from her without her permission.” Sparrow momentarily cringed when she remembered trying to do just that in Boiling Springs, and she shivered at the memory of icy fingers of hate curling down the grooves of her horn when she seized the blade in her magic. “Yeah, that was the thought…” “What I would like to know, though, is why the Commander would choose Legate Winds’ camp to make her quarters, and why she could not bring this message to me personally,” the sickly soldier said, and he did his best to raise his posture into something more authoritative. “If you don’t mind satisfying my curiosity before you deliver your message.” “Well…” Sparrow fidgeted, unsure of how to phrase it, and worried about offering an unsatisfactory answer to the legate and Crane, the latter of whom seemingly loomed over Sparrow’s shoulder. But the legate gave her a patient raise of his eyebrow, and as Sparrow remembered the kindness he once showed her a lifetime ago, she felt a little more confident about saying things that might otherwise ruffle feathers. “The truth is, we interrupted a skirmish, and Legate Winds’ soldiers chased yours off. We didn’t know what was going on, so Typhoon and I followed them back to their camp. They made a lotta talk about their cause and their fight to try and convince Typhoon to take command, and now Typhoon thinks that if she came here herself, they’d follow her with the army.” She hesitated before adding, “They, uh, want to keep her to themselves. They don’t want her to hear what you guys have to say, I think. So that’s why she had me sneak out of camp to talk to you.” After a moment, the legate gave another nod of his head and adjusted the cloak over his shoulders, moving quickly to hide the shivers in his limbs. “I feel better knowing that Legate Winds had no say in what you’re about to tell me, then,” he said. “And slightly more confidence that she is not asking me to surrender. I respected Typhoon when she was my commander. She was a good leader, fair, competent, and honorable. But if Lost Winds twisted her to his cause, then even my loyalty has limits.” “She was… not enthusiastic about what Lost Winds wants,” Sparrow admitted. “They wanted to make her their empress.” Crane’s soldierly discipline broke down, and she let out a guffaw. “Really? They offered her that? After what happened between her and her brother?” A little shake of the legate’s head was enough to remind Crane of her position, and the legionary stiffened and withdrew into the background again. But Sparrow nevertheless answered her. “Typhoon told me about Cyclone… but yeah. What Typhoon wants most of all is the fighting to stop. However that happens, whatever it takes, that’s what she’s here for. That’s why she wants to arrange a meeting between you and her and Lost Winds to try to get it to stop.” The Legate quietly contemplated that for some time—long enough that Sparrow wondered if she needed to try to say more to convince him or not. She could hear Crane fidgeting behind her, the mare’s armored plates gently clinking together as she anxiously awaited an answer from her ailing legate. When Singing Sparrow did give it, his voice was weary and tired. “If the Commander wants to negotiate terms, I’m afraid I cannot do that while Lost Winds’ legion remains a threat.” “They won’t be a threat if Typhoon puts a stop to the fighting!” Sparrow protested, and she stepped forward, on the verge of putting her hooves on the legate’s table and leaning over it, until the startled rattle of bladed wings behind her reminded her to not make such sudden movements. “She wants to stop this stupid fighting over Dry Fens altogether so you and Legate Winds stop tearing the countryside apart over it. If she can stop the fighting, then you can instead use your legions to keep the frontier safe!” “What do you think my legion is fighting for, girl?” the legate snapped back, an edge of ire sneaking into his hoarse voice. To Sparrow’s surprise, he summoned the strength to stand up, though his legs shook as they helped support his weight. “I’ve put my legion here to save Dry Fens from being one of Lost Winds’ conquests. Without us, his band of reavers and zealots would have sacked it long ago as they tried to loot the supplies and weapons they need to make their Cirran dreams a reality. We’re the only thing stopping a warlord from carving out territory in Equestria’s frontier and planting a tattered Cirran flag in the middle of it.” “And how much longer are you going to be able to do that?” Sparrow asked. “Dry Fens is in terrible shape. I can see the sickness spreading around here. Even you weren’t safe from it! Meanwhile, Lost Winds has been training new centuries and getting stronger by the day. Eventually he’s gonna realize that you’re all sick and starving and he’s gonna put an end to you. What does it matter if you die fighting if at the end of the day, you’re still dead?” “It’s still more honorable to say you died fighting evil rather than live while it festered. Even if you don’t win, at least you may weaken it so somepony else has a chance to kill it,” the legate said, and with a grunt, he fell back to his seat. “And what happens if nopony comes?” Sparrow pressed him. “What if you had a chance to put an end to this without swords and died for nothing?” Behind Sparrow, Crane stepped forward. “Do you want me to remove her, sir?” After a moment, the legate waved his hoof. “Yes, I think that would be best, soldier.” But when Crane tried to lead Sparrow away, the young unicorn shook her wing off and frowned at the legate. “Is this what you’re going to do, Legate?” she asked him, baring her teeth as frustration cracked through diplomacy. “Fight a hopeless battle even if it gets everypony killed just because you don’t want to talk? Because Typhoon killed the Legion and you don’t know what to do with what’s left of yours except die fighting?” “That’s enough,” Crane growled, and Sparrow winced as she felt the point of a wing blade scale needle into her neck. But it was not enough, and in a ploy of desperation, Sparrow blurted out: “What happened to the pony who stepped on a spider for a terrified little filly cowering in your tent after her town sunk into a barrow?” This time Sparrow gasped as Crane drove the point further into her neck and used the pain to turn her around. But she didn’t take more than two steps before the legate stopped her with a gruff “Wait.” Crane paused, though she kept her bladed wing jammed against Sparrow’s neck to control her movements, and she looked back at her commander. “Sir?” “I’ve changed my mind,” Legate Sparrow simply said. “Leave her be. I think there’s more we need to discuss.” The soldier reluctantly relaxed her submission hold on Sparrow’s neck, and the unicorn slipped away from Crane’s bladed wings as soon as it was safe. “What more, sir?” Crane asked. “It’s clear that Typhoon expects us to surrender. The rest of Lost Winds’ soldiers think they can beat us in the field. We should be preparing for another battle, not entertaining talk of surrender.” “Thank you for your input, soldier, but you are dismissed,” the legate said, and when Crane’s eyes widened in surprise, his bloodshot ones narrowed. Nothing more needed to be said; with a sharp frown but a soldier’s salute, Crane exited the tent, sparing only a scornful look at Sparrow before she did so. When she was gone, the legate squinted at Sparrow, his eyes meeting hers; after a moment, he gave her a simple weary nod. “I don’t remember who you are or what town my soldiers pulled you out of,” he admitted, “but I remember your eyes. And I remember the spider.” The corners of his mouth twitched upward for a second as he added, “I never would have imagined that the scared filly with the mismatched eyes would one day be the traveling companion to my commander.” “Y-Yeah, you and me both,” Sparrow said, and after glancing around the tent, she pulled over a chair with her magic and sat down across from the Legate. “I didn’t… Well, I guess I wasn’t expecting you to be the legate in charge here when Typhoon asked me to bring her message to Dry Fens. I just…” Her words failed her in an overwhelming surge of emotion. Sitting in Legate Singing Sparrow’s tent, she felt like she’d been brought back in time, to moments after his soldiers had pulled her from the rubble that was once her home. But so much had changed in the six years between now and then. Sparrow was older, stronger, and more tempered by the hardships of life than a sixteen-year-old filly had any business being. And the legate, once a firm rock she’d clung to in the aftermath of the trauma that had killed the filly once known as Hydrangea, had weathered down into crumbling stone under hardship, duress, and disease. In the end, she found herself asking the only question she could, one she wanted to know the answer to for so long. “What happened to you after you saved me?” she asked him. “How did you go from pulling a filly out of a spider’s barrow to clinging onto a town in the middle of nowhere?” The legate rubbed at bloodshot eyes with the back of his fetlock, and Sparrow could see the memories of years weighing heavily upon his shoulders. “I kept fighting in the War of Silk until it was over,” Singing Sparrow said. “I fought alongside Queen Platinum’s Royal Guard and watched how they put an end to the fighting when we couldn’t. When the Commander said it was time to either hang up the wing blades or join the Royal Guard as the air corps, I did the former. I’d had enough fighting for one life. I just wanted to work my own plot of land in the frontier. Most of my soldiers wanted the same, too.” A shiver wracked through his body, and he shielded his muzzle behind a tattered wing as he started to cough a sickly, wet cough. Sparrow’s eyes widened in alarm as it kept going, and she wondered if she should get somepony before the legate managed to suppress it and take a few rapid breaths. He shivered again, before continuing his story as if he hadn’t interrupted himself. “So I did that. I didn’t have a wife and was too old to court one, so I mostly labored by myself on a small plot of land and avoided the trouble in Everfree. Talk of civil war, political infighting in the capital, separatist movements along the coast—I wanted none of it. Fighting the buffalo and the spiders sated my youthful thirst for glory and taught me an important lesson about the horrors that accompanied it. There is no glory to be had in killing your fellow pony because royalty and nobility are feuding over who gets to have the largest throne, and I hoped that I could die without being dragged into it.” He gritted his teeth as shivering pains slithered across his barrel and down his limbs. “I didn’t get my wish,” he said. “There were many legionaries who were angry that the Legion had been supplanted by the Royal Guard. They blame Queen Platinum and the unicorn nobility for the Legion’s dissolution. Lost Winds is one such pegasus. He and other pegasi kept their swords when they left and almost immediately started using them to cut out territory in the frontier for their own little fiefdom, their own Cirra. I’ve no doubt they see themselves as their own Roamulus from our pegasus history, forging a new empire out of the untamed wilds with sword and lightning.” “So how did you get involved?” Sparrow asked him. “What made you pick up your sword again?” “Because Dry Fens is my home now,” the legate said. “This is where I retired from the Legion. And when I heard what was happening across the frontier with Winds’ legion, I started organizing its defense. I reached out to old friends, officers and legionaries who fought with me against the spiders and mustered an army to oppose him. I never got quite the same number of soldiers as Winds did, but I like to think my skill outmatches his. I’ve been able to use the town to hold out against a larger army for months now. I was hoping that, given enough time, my resistance would deter him and break apart his legion of thugs when they realized Winds wasn’t giving them glory and trophies in the field. I was wrong.” Sparrow’s ears folded back as she thought about the morale of Camp Stratopolis’ soldiers and how its strength had only grown since Typhoon’s arrival to Winds’ legion. “They don’t care about that,” she told him. “I mean, I’m sure some do. But there are pegasi there who are still all in on the Cirra reborn thing. They think sticking with Winds is going to make it happen, and a new Cirra is going to make everything better.” She shrugged. “I’m not a pegasus so I don’t get it. I certainly don’t care about any Diamond Kingdoms stuff. I barely know anything about it.” “For centuries, the pegasi lived in an empire steeped in pride, patriotism, and military prowess,” Singing Sparrow said. “Its destruction was deeply traumatic to our entire people. I can’t blame those who are lost without the Legion for clinging onto our history for something to give them purpose. I just wish it wouldn’t come at the cost of turning the frontier into a warzone.” “But there are a lot of ponies who just want to make the frontier safer and think that Winds’ legion is the best way to do that.” As she said it, Chinook came to mind. She knew he wasn’t a thug, and even if he bought a little too much into the Lost Legion’s version of reality, she knew that he just wanted to help keep the frontier safe like the Legion used to do. And she knew he wasn’t the only pegasus in that camp that thought so. “They’re tired of the fighting, too. They’re good ponies. But they believe that you’re a bunch of bandits and traitors who have seized Dry Fens and Lost Winds is trying to siege you out to liberate it.” She glanced away in shame as she admitted, “That’s what I thought too, when they first told me about it. It just seemed simple, black and white. I guess I put a little bit too much faith in what Centurion Tern and Legate Winds were saying.” Singing Sparrow let out a sigh, though it ended in a grunt and a wince as pain flickered across his face. “Lost Winds was a very capable administrator,” the legate said. “I didn’t interact with him much when we both served in the Legion. I commanded a field legion; it was my job to move around the countryside and respond to threats with force. His legion was mostly used to garrison forts and secure trade routes and roads. But he was very capable of picking competent subordinates, and even though he’s rather soft spoken, he’s very charismatic. It’s my fault for underestimating that when I chose to make a stand against him. I thought I could beat his legion with swords, but evidently, his words have proven stronger than my blades.” He coughed again, once more shielding his face with his wing. When he lowered it, he only had energy for a small shake of his head. “I can’t go to a meeting with him on Typhoon’s request,” he finally told Sparrow. “It’ll be nothing but surrender. Lost Winds will take the town, absorb my legion, and grow stronger. He’ll grow one step closer to making his Cirran dreams a reality. But if I can at least make a stand, maybe we can bloody him enough to set him back long enough for Everfree to solve its problems and reassert itself over the frontier.” “Why does it have to be like that, though?” Sparrow protested, exasperation growing in her voice. “Typhoon doesn’t want a Cirra reborn. She doesn’t want this fighting to continue. She wants to negotiate an end to the fighting and have you two actually use your legions for keeping the frontier safe instead of ripping it apart.” She paused, biting her lip for a moment as she thought, then pressed forward from a different angle. “They worship Typhoon in that camp. She’s Hurricane’s daughter. They already see her as their empress, even if she refuses the title. And there are a lot of pegasi in that legion that genuinely want to help but are misguided. If she wanted to broker peace and reorganize your legions, don’t you think the soldiers would listen to her?” “Will Typhoon stay to command us?” Singing Sparrow asked. “Will she be the one holding things together?” “I… don’t think so,” Sparrow admitted. “She’s made it clear that she wants to keep going further west. But she’s got some plan to work out a deal for both sides. Otherwise, she wouldn’t send me to ask you to meet her.” With a deep breath, Sparrow leaned in, pleading with the legate with her eyes as well as her voice. “Please, if you want to stop the killing, if you want to save lives like you used to save them years ago… please give her a chance.” There was silence in the tent, heavy and smothering like the fingers of warm smoke wafting through the air from the fire keeping the sickly legate warm. Finally, though, the legate sighed and reluctantly bobbed his head. “I suppose a meeting to see what she wants won’t hurt. But we meet on my place of choosing. North of town, there’s a small farmstead at the crossroads on the hill. I will only meet with Typhoon and Lost Winds. If he brings anypony else from his camp, if he parks his legion in the fields beyond or the clouds above, I will not see him nor Typhoon. If Typhoon wants a diplomatic solution to the fighting, then we’ll end this like diplomats, not with soldiers or armies.” “I’ll tell her that,” Sparrow said, and a relieved smile broke out across her muzzle. It wasn’t a promise to stop the fighting, but it was an agreement to a meeting; the real deal that would stop the fighting would have to be brokered by Typhoon herself, and Sparrow knew that the Legion’s last commander had infinitely far more clout than she did. It was a step in the right direction, and she didn’t know whether to find it ironic or fortuitous that Singing Sparrow, the pony who had saved her from death long ago, was the one to see her now. If the meeting went well, and a true peace could be established, then it was not lost on her that she would be repaying the favor to the stallion she took her name from. Perhaps the legate was thinking the same thing or something similar, because as Sparrow stood up and took Typhoon’s sword in her magic, he cleared his throat. “Before you go, filly, I have to ask: what is your name?” He shrugged his wings and added, almost with a small touch of embarrassment or awkwardness, “I never learned your name when I gave you shelter in my tent six years ago. It would be an affront to fate, I think, if I still didn’t know your name after we impossibly crossed paths a second time years later.” Sparrow paused, and then she shuffled her hoof. “My name’s Hydrangea,” she said, and after a moment of hesitation, she felt a warm blush build in her cheeks. “Well… was. These past few years, I’ve… been going by Sparrow.” Her coat felt like it was going to spontaneously combust in embarrassment after admitting to the legate that she’d taken his name, and she wanted nothing more than to flee his tent before he could respond. But she waited, cringing inwardly—at least until Singing Sparrow offered her a small, reassuring smile. “I’m honored, Sparrow,” he said. “And I’m happy to have finally had the fortune to meet you after so long.”