Deep inside the keep of Whitewall, a pegasus sat before a table. The tiny room was lit by a single candle, whose warm, flickering glow danced on the bare limestone. Occasionally, a boom of distant thunder told of the raging storm outside, but the chamber was hidden so far in the bowels of the keep that the torrents of rain could not be heard. The only other sound was the scratching of a quill.
My dearest Apricot,
This is the fourth draft of this letter. All of them have begun the same way: I miss you. I miss you so much that it hurts, like a piece of me is gone, like a hole has opened up inside me. I want to see you, to hear you, to feel you again—but I fear that I will not. The griffons come for us, a vast army fresh and hungry for blood. We are too few to stand against their assault, but stand we must. For who else is there?
The pegasus paused her writing, reaching a hoof to the wedding band in her ear. She breathed deeply, and continued the letter.
I wish I could have seen you again before the end, but it seems unlikely. Know that my thoughts are, as they have ever been, with you and Rye. I cannot say where he is, for fear that this letter may be compromised, but he travels with one of my best Firewings. He is in good hooves, so do not be afraid for him.
She paused again, giving a weak laugh. She wished she could follow her own advice.
Do not weep for me, Apricot, for I am glad to die for Equestria. If my life can buy her a little more time to fight for freedom against the griffons, then I give it willingly. We always knew this day would come, and though we had hoped it would not come so soon, I am prepared and ready.
When you see Rye again, tell him that I love you both with all my heart. Even if I perish in the battle to come, I will always be with you, both of you.
She sat back, shaking her head. It sounded so trite, so false. She was no poet; how was she to explain? She sighed, crumpling up the letter and tossing it aside. She pulled up a new sheaf of parchment, and bent to write.
Faintly, she heard the long call of a horn. She dropped her quill and sat straight up. The horn blew again, ringing through the halls and into her little chamber. Windstreak stood, placing her helmet on and securing the strap. She rushed out of the chamber, heading into the storm.
* * *
In the highest part of the keep, the council chamber, there sat a unicorn. The chamber was empty, save for him. He had dismissed the councilors long ago, and sent most of them away with the civilians. They would have to lead his people to the relative safety of Canterlot. He looked out from the window down at the city below, peering at it through the pouring rain.
It was his city now, he reflected. Even after two weeks of frantic scrabbling to hold the Duchy together, he could scarcely believe that he had inherited so much, so soon. His father had always told him he was destined for greatness, but he had never really believed it. Yet here he was, the youngest duke in Whitetail’s history.
Of course, Celerity had assumed her title at the age of seven. He could never compare to that. There were many ways in which he could never compare to Celerity.
I am no warrior. I cannot lead soldiers. I can barely lead a single city. And he had failed at even that; everypony in Whitewall knew that the true voice of authority was the great Firewing, his appointed General, Windstreak Firemane. He was simply the figurehead, parroting her commands to his subjects.
I’m not even a duke, either. I’m a fraud, and a poor one at that. He sighed and rested his head on the window sill, listening to a crack of lightning in the distance. He had done his best, but his best was nowhere near enough. His city was soon to fall, and Whitetail with it.
To think that I should see the end of my nation… He felt so old. Once again, he was struck by the sheer unfairness of it all. There was so much he’d never done. He’d never visited the Delta to see the great trading ships, or traveled to the great waterfalls in Rivermeet, or eaten dinner with an emissary from the zebra tribes, or kissed Lady Geniveve underneath the trees of Whitetail Forest…
A white pegasus wearing golden armor flew past his window. He watched him disappear into the black clouds, flying freely away from the city. He longed to join the Firewing, to fly far away from Whitewall and his duty, to leave and never look back. But it was too late for escape. His place was here, with the last defenders of Whitetail. He stared out at the falling rain as the minutes passed.
The steady roar of water on the walls was broken by the loud call of a horn. It echoed against the walls of the city, over the banging of hammers and the ceaseless sound of the rain. He froze. What happened to three days?
He listened with trepidation, thinking—hoping—that perhaps it had been a clap of thunder, but the horn sounded again.
Sighing, Tymeo stepped away from the window. It was time, then. He shrugged on his violet cloak and left the chamber to meet his death with dignity.
* * *
The storm raged below, but above the clouds the sky was deep blue and calm. Perched upon a fluffy bit of cumulus, a dark blue pegasus with a gray mane meditated.
From below, there was a glint of gold. He gazed curiously, wondering if the Captain was coming to deliver new orders, but the pegasus approaching him was white, not blue. “Ah,” he said.
The newcomer landed beside him on the cloud, drenched from head to hoof. “It’s really coming down under there.” The white pegasus shook himself off, splattering water onto the reclining Firewing. “Ah, sorry, Bergeron.”
Wiping away water from his face, Bergeron said, “Why are you here, Wheatie? Does the Captain need us?”
The young Firewing shook his head. “No. I haven’t seen her all day, actually.”
Bergeron relaxed. “Ah. Then you’ve come to enjoy the view?”
The two of them looked out over the vast, unbroken sea of clouds. They were gray or black, occasionally flickering as lightning flashed inside them. Wheatie whistled. “Two whole days and it still hasn’t let up. This is some storm. Where’d it come from? We sure didn’t make it.”
Bergeron’s brow furrowed with worry. “It means there’s trouble in Cloudsdale. I’m starting to think they have larger concerns than managing the weather right now.” His words were accented by an ominous rumble of thunder.
His companion shivered. “Could they be that far north already?”
“If they’re not fighting through the forest? Certainly. They could be moving up through Weatherforge as we speak.”
Wheatie shook his head. “It’s all falling apart. And the soldiers… they think we can stop it, put the world back together just the way it was. How? How?”
“I don’t think we can,” said Bergeron. He gave Wheatie a sad look. “We’ll hold out as long as we’re able, but then? I don’t know, Wheatie.”
The younger Firewing toyed with a piece of cloud. “How long have you been in the ‘Wings, Bergeron?”
Accepting the abrupt change of subject, Bergeron leaned back. “Oh, almost as long as the Captain. Nine years… the time’s passed so quickly.” He gave a reminiscing sigh. “We’ve gotten into so many scrapes over the years. Have you ever heard about the battle of Trottingham?”
“Yeah.” Wheatie tried to smile and failed. “A battle against hopeless odds.”
“And we survived. Who knows? Maybe this will actually work. The war’s not over yet, Wheatie.”
The younger Firewing slowly shook his head, but kept staring down at the vast sea of storm clouds. “You brought the Firewings to Trottingham’s rescue. Who’s coming to ours?”
At a loss for words, Bergeron gave a weak shrug and sighed.
“It’s just… it’s different, you know?” Wheatie looked up at the sky. From this altitude, it was a deep, dark blue. “Being afraid you’re going to die … and knowing.”
Bergeron made an unconvincing noise. “Wheatie… It’s not lost yet. We could still win this.”
Wheatie snorted. “Firewings aren’t supposed to lie, Bergeron. It’s okay. I’m not cracking under pressure or anything. We all knew this was a one-way trip when we left Canterlot. It’s just…” He exhaled. “I wish I’d had more time.”
Bergeron thought of his daughter, recently married and living in the capital. He’d looked forward to having grandchildren. He gave a slow nod. “Yes.”
“Are you afraid?” asked Wheatie.
“Afraid?” Bergeron turned his head up to look at the wisps of cirrus above. “I’ve been all over the world. I’ve seen icebergs, as big as entire cities, floating on the sea. I’ve seen mountains ten thousand meters high. I’ve seen vast, open plains of golden grass, where the zebras run strong and free. I’ve been to beaches, canyons, forests, jungles, and caverns so large they could swallow Canterlot. I’ve flown through blizzards and hurricanes, felt volcanoes and tsunamis, seen the Princess raise the sun. This… This is just a new adventure.” Bergeron smiled at Wheatie. “No. I’m not afraid.”
His companion gave him a bleak look. “I am.”
Bergeron abruptly stood. “Look.” In the distance, he could faintly make out a sparkle of green.
Wheatie saw it too. “She’s here.”
“Come on. We need to alert the Captain.” The green speck was rapidly resolving into a distinctive and familiar shape.
“We were supposed to have another day.”
“The scouts were wrong. Let’s move, we need to sound the alarm.”
The two dove from their cloud, piercing the black sea below. Rain poured around them, and a blast of thunder nearly knocked them senseless, but they fought through the clouds. Their progress was slow, but after a minute they broke free of the furious clouds and into the storm below. As they descended, the long wail of a horn called out around the city.
* * *
An earth pony stood a lonely vigil on the wall. Her skin was drenched, her armor slick and shiny in the rain, her mane stuck fast against her neck.
Rain means life. She’d heard that, somewhere. She couldn’t remember where. Maybe it was from a book, one of her old dog-eared novels about high romance and chivalry. She knew they were silly, but they were her private comfort, her little secret world where there were laws and justice and sanity. Where nopony had to live in fear from dragons, or griffons, or any other monsters. Would they have books on the other side? She hoped so.
The pony exhaled, watching the mist of her breathe dissipate in the chilly air. The first week of December had come, and even this far south the air was becoming cold. At least the rain wasn’t freezing as it landed; an icy wall could be as dangerous as any enemy. The booms of thunder and the rushing winds were finally blowing away the leaves of the surrounding forest, still green without the intervention of the pegasi. The bare branches of the trees swayed unsteadily in the torrential downpour. Rain means life, but winter means death. She’d read that one, too.
A crack of lightning made her duck under the lip of the wall. Normally you didn’t have to worry about getting struck, unless you’d made the weatherponies really mad; but this was a wild storm like she’d never seen before. It felt angry, battering against the walls as if trying to knock them down. She peeked up and over the wall again.
A brightly colored pegasus was flying in her direction. Not one of the Firewings, his armor was steel instead of gold. She peered through the rain to get a better look. There was another flash of lightning, and she felt a moment of panic at the thought of him being struck by it, but when she blinked away the afterimage he was still there. He didn’t look like he was flying all that well, perhaps he’d hurt his wing?
He reached her in a minute, soaring over the wall. His legs swung down and clipped the edge, and he tumbled toward the edge. She leaped forward, grabbing his hoof between her own, and pulling him up and over the lip of the wall. They collapsed in a heap, landing in a puddle.
“Careful, there!” she said, shaking him. “You okay?”
“She’s here!” he whispered, his eyes wide. “She’s come!”
“Wait, I know you—aren’t you supposed to be scouting for the griffon army?”
“Too late. Too late. Not enough time. She’s here.”
“What? Who’s here?” She found herself having to shout over the roar of the wind and rain. She leaned in close to catch the pegasus’s answer.
“The dragon!”
The wind seemed to fade away, replaced by a roaring in her ears. She slowly stood and looked south. It couldn’t be, not yet. Not yet.
The clouds exploded. A massive green shape blew through them like they were nonexistent, its great wings beating the air like thunder.
Plumline raised her horn to her lips and blew. A long, clear note echoed from the city walls, rebounding, magnified, into the air above Whitewall. As the dragon drew closer, she blew another note, a wail of warning. She drew in her breath, and set the horn to her lips for a third blast.
She never got the chance. The dragon, moving as fast as the wind itself, smashed into the wall.
Fragments of limestone flew into the air, the bits and pieces of her city soaring out as if trying to escape the dragon. Plumline had just enough time to look at the dragon’s glistening scales, marveling at their beauty in the rain, before she went over the edge.
She fell forever.