//------------------------------// // Chapter XIII: Post Nubila Phoebus // Story: Ordo ab Chao // by Integral Archer //------------------------------// “No Article, Section, or Amendment shall be construed, nor Amendment be instantiated, to abridge any Article or Section of this Constitution.” —Article XV, Section I of the Constitution of Meeting Tribes of Immediate Siblings In the early hours of the morning of August the twentieth, 181 BC, a young private smoothed out his gray uniform on the floor of his tent and made sure that there was not a single crease in its red stripe, while his comrades lay fast asleep in their tents scattered across the streets of Canterlot, exhausted and relieved upon reaching the end of their long struggle. When he finished, he put it on and was instantly soothed by the warmth of its fibers, as if they were stroking him in congratulations for what he had just accomplished and in encouragement for what he was going to do next. He put on his cap and started to walk down Mane Street. His rifle was slung over his shoulder and loaded; but the steam that was rising off the streets and the sound of the creaking of buildings, waiting for the slightest nudge to knock them down, told him that this precaution was probably unnecessary. When he reached the foot of the tallest building in the city, he stepped back and looked up at it; and, for once, he was not intimidated by its height. This building, full of nearly four hundred office units, had been used for many purposes, constantly exchanging hooves to suit whatever purpose had been demanded of it by the economy of the city: Originally, it had been used as the location of hundreds of different radio broadcasting stations; then, it had been a medical building, specifically, one specially equipped to fight pandemics. Before the elections nine months ago, it had been the headquarters of the largest banking firm in Canterlot; and, from shortly before the protest up until now, it had been completely abandoned. On its roof was a long, narrow, chrome spire which shot straight up into the sky, more often than not beyond the clouds. It seemed to pierce straight through them, breaking up the clouds the weather factory happened to send by Canterlot that day, leaving long gashes in their surfaces as they drifted away, which seemed to serve as a warning to interlopers who would dare to consider encroaching on the building and its clear goal that it was very well-armed. The private looked up at this building and, instead of seeing the powerful monolith daring anypony to stand in its way, he saw a gaping hole in its side, water dripping out of it and papers being blown away into the night by the capricious winds that held domain at that altitude. Instead of the bright chrome spire, which shone like a beacon of victory even in the darkest hours of the night, he saw nothing but black against a black sky: the spire had been covered in soot from the dust in the contrails of the countless number of shells that streaked by it so that now it was completely black. The sun would rise in about half an hour and, for the first time, the spire would not amplify and reflect its beams to whomever looked at it; before it would eventually collapse due to damage, decay, and lack of maintenance, the spire would now absorb and block the light of sky, drawing the gaze of anypony who happened to look in that direction, and it would leave a sinking feeling in their hearts, leaving them to wonder what went wrong. The victory beacon had turned into one of distress, warning the city and its residents that they were not safe, and that the building could not watch over them any longer. There was a reason that the private did not feel the building’s usually imposing presence: it had been disarmed and was now awaiting death. As such, even as he climbed up the sixty-seven flights of stairs to reach the observation deck and felt the stairs creak under his hooves, he did not feel the building would swallow him whole at any second; he felt as if the groaning of the building was one of pain, that it had submitted and was begging for him to show it mercy. When he reached the observation deck, he saw the light from the impending sun had caused the clouds on the horizon to grow a dull purple. He could not see the impact craters scattered around the city, caused by the hundreds of shells that had bombarded it for hours, but he could nonetheless tell where they hit: the city of Canterlot, for as long as it had stood, had always inundated any observer who was fortunate enough to look at it with its countless number of lights, signaling activity. The private could tell where the shells had landed from where there was blackness, nothingness, in the light grid which separated all the lost lights, which flickered in the wind, seemingly calling for one another. He took a deep breath at the sight, and he envied his comrades who would wake up that morning victorious—while he had one final mission to do. He unharnessed his rifle and set it down on the floor of the observation deck, leaning the barrel against the guard rail. He then turned around and cast a worried eye up the spire of the tower. Up close, the charred black column looked even more menacing; and, for a brief second, the soldier thought about turning around and heading back down the stairs, so that he may be there when his friends woke up. He shook his head, removed his cap, and wiped the sweat from his brow, closing his eyes and letting the high altitude winds blow through his mane. After scanning the base of the spire for five or six minutes, he saw that there was a line of decorative grooves lining one of its sides, running its entire length and ending at a flag pole—on which sat the tattered flag of the United Republic of Equestria. He began to climb. The grooves fit his hooves perfectly, and he started to make his slow, deliberate ascent to the top of the spire. A quarter of the way up, a powerful spine-chilling wind buffeted him. He pulled his body closer to the spire and pressed his face against the chilling metal, while the wind blew the cap off his head. As he watched it spiral into the dawn, he looked down at the city, and his body froze with fear when it became clear to him how high he was and the physical danger that it had presented. He looked back down at the observation deck, not far below him, and his foot almost went down a notch, as he thought about how easy it would be at this point to climb down and catch his breath. But then he looked back up at the top of the spire, at the flag of Equestria which flapped in the breeze, as if it was provoking him to come up there to start a fight. He swallowed; and, after noticing his throat was dry, took a drink from his canteen harnessed to his belt, then raised a shaky hoof to reach the next notch. One rung at a time, he thought, one rung at a time. That rung was easy. This next rung will be easy; that was indeed easy! Step, lift, clutch, repeat, and the flag looked less grim and less omnipotent with every single iteration. He reached the top; and when he stared right into the fabric of the flag, its tip skimming the front of his nose, he used his forehoof not holding onto the notch to lift it out of its holder. With a great swing, he maneuvered it out of line with the spire. Then, with an implacable eye, he studied its features. As its little torn pieces thrashed helplessly in his clutches, he saw past its facade and he saw the truly impuissant core that lay within it—and there was absolutely no qualms in his mind when he unfurled his hoof and watched it plummet. The threads twirled haphazardly as it fell, like the forehooves of a drowning pony looking for anything to grab onto, as it was dragged down by the reality of gravity—before hitting onto the floor of the observation deck, the pole sending out splinters horizontally as it shattered. When the private looked down on the flag, he could see that it was no longer twitching. Sheltered by the solid concrete guard rail, the wind did not fill its sails; it lay there, lifeless, as cold and dead as the bodies of the Union soldiers lying in the fields around Equestria, who had died so that it may not have. Just then, the private saw the sun peek its head out from the cusp of the horizon; and, as the light raced across the city, it seemed to illuminate his face with a large smile. With his free forehoof, he opened a pouch on his belt and pulled out a small brass bugle. He turned to face the sun and pressed the bugle to his mouth, with his other forehoof wrapped around the metal bar of the empty flag holder. With all the energy and passion he could convey through his lips, he played, loudly and clearly, the song he had heard every night when he had been a recruit in the Eighteenth Baltimare Volunteer Infantry Regiment. This song, a traditional tune played in every single camp in the Union Army, signaled the onset of dusk, the call to every Union soldier to unlace his boots and to retire for the evening. When he had heard the bugler in his crow’s nest sounding this tune across the camp, in his days before he had seen the magic of friendship, he, and all other federal soldiers, had known that it was time to end the day, to return to their cots and to sleep until they heard the call to war again in the morning. But, as the private hung there, blaring out this tune across the city so that every single one of the soldiers in their tents would awake to hear it, it was no longer a command of withdrawal, to recede into the night: at this time, in this context, being played by a private proudly wearing the insignia of the Army of the Friendship upon his breast, having just toppled the selfish flag of the Union, perched on the summit of the ruins of Equestria’s most arrogant and egotistical building, and who was now sending this song across the city as a message to his companions, it was a cry of victory. * * * The first ray of the light of dawn hit Enforcer square in the eyes through the large window behind the desk in the Horseshoe Office. He was standing in the threshold of the door immediately opposite the window, and he instantly slammed his eyes shut, rubbing them vigorously with his left forehoof. He felt the veins in his temples throbbing; and, with each pulse, his teeth clenched harder together. He turned around to face the hallway, and he saw three stern faces staring back at him. He blinked rapidly; and then he recognized them as the three ponies who had found him slumped over on his desk, with a half empty bottle casting an oblong shadow over him in the light of a single lantern burning on the table; had picked him up, had shaken him out of his torpor; and, almost quite literally, had dragged him to this room. Enforcer had heard their voices in his half-conscious state, and he had heard himself mumble something in response; but, as he stood there now and stared at them with a blank look on his face, he could see in their postures that they expected something of him; however, he could not ascertain as to what. “Why did you bring me here?” he whispered groggily, his voice registering in his consciousness this time. Directly in front of him stood two ponies, one unicorn and one pegasus, both with rifles slung over their backs. The pegasus was a pale purple; and her mane was a dark orange, which looked brown, covered as it was in dust and dirt. Across her face were many cuts and bruises, and on her right hindleg was a loosely tied bandage. The unicorn was a dark blue and, unlike the pegasus, was in his full fatigues, albeit with each brass button missing so that the front of the gray coat swung freely like a vest. His oversized gray cap that accompanied his uniform fell down over his eyes and his blonde mane stuck out through a thin hole in its top, suggesting that it had been punctured with a bayonet. Behind these two figures was a tall earth-pony: he was dressed in a full dress uniform, impeccably pressed and adorned, with shiny pieces of colored metal across its breast and his shoulder pads. His mane was perfectly combed, with not a hair out of place, and had a sleek shine. The shine was reflected by a thin layer of water that covered it, which told Enforcer he had just stepped out of the shower down the hall. Enforcer recognized him as the lieutenant who had brought the president to Princess Celestia. “Thou are going to help us look through Discord’s office,” said this last pony. “Since thou were so close to him, it will be easier for thee to find articles of importance. Thou need to make thyself useful, to do thy part for the Friendship.” Enforcer shrugged lightly, his shoulders aching the more he moved them, and he stared at the soldiers, impassively. “Well, come on, you old geezer,” said the unicorn. With his forehoof, he turned Enforcer around to face the interior of the room and then gave him a firm shove, which sent him head first into the room. Enforcer stumbled a few steps inward, trying to regain his balance, and then fell face first into the room’s carpeting. As he peeled his face off the carpet, he heard sounds of laughter coming from behind him. “Wow,” he heard the unicorn say. “Are all you pegasi so clumsy?” “Not usually,” he heard the pegasus reply. “For whatever reason, gravity seems to pull him harder than the rest of us. Having trouble there, Solid-Bones?” As he heard pejorative laughing erupt from behind him, Enforcer frowned; he had not heard that insult since elementary school, on the day when his wing had cramped in mid-flight and he had plummeted like a rock right through a cloud. The phrase was immediately hurtful to any school-aged pegasus that had heard it, resulting in the object of the insult suffering irreparable scars that were carried all through adulthood; and, under normal circumstances, it would have filled Enforcer with rage if it were not for the fact that when he put weight on his forehooves in order to lift himself up, they shook uncontrollably and unreliably. When he shifted some of the weight to his hindlegs, they too shook as if they were about to crumble like an condemned building. With the unreliability of his own limbs, the way he could no longer trust them to perform his basic tasks, as if they were as despondent as his own mind, made Enforcer shrug off the insult, as he believed his bones were anything but solid. After a pathetic flailing of his extremities, which only exacerbated the laughing, Enforcer made it to his hooves and looked at the two rifleponies. They were no longer laughing; with the short attention span peculiar to foals, they were not looking at him anymore and were now looking out the window to the rising sun, which had now completely cleared the horizon and was now filling the office with its candescent light. Enforcer looked back toward the window; and, at his hooves, he now saw the shattered chandelier, with its glass strewn across the room. It was only now he noticed in how much disarray the office was in: in addition to the gaping crack in the middle of the window, many of the filing cabinets had been knocked over, spilling their once deliberate contents all over the floor. Enforcer’s heart fluttered for a second as he glanced at one of them and saw that it contained sensitive material, but then he breathed a sigh of relief, figuring that the two unwashed grunts in front of him would never be able to read it. “Amazing,” said the unicorn, “look at that sunrise: the start of a new day and the beginning of a victorious Friendship.” “And we’re stuck here, doing clerical work,” grumbled the pegasus. “We should be out in the streets, celebrating with our friends who we’ve fought and died along side of. I’m a soldier, not a janitor! It’s not fair!” And she kicked over a small table with a lamp on it that she was standing next to, that somehow had miraculously not fallen over in the bombing. The table toppled to the ground, its circular top breaking off and pathetically rolling a few feet before spinning in on itself and settling on the ground. The lamp’s lightbulb shattered against the floor, sending out its shards of glass to intermingle with those of the chandelier’s. “Hey!” Enforcer snapped, feeling a small, reassuring surge of that youthful energy that he had thought had completely drained from his body. “Have a little respect for this room! Whether you like it or not, this room is still a part of your history. You may have defeated it, but at least let it be until it’s decommissioned and repurposed. Don’t add insult to injury!” He breathed heavily, and he bared his teeth at the two rebels who stood in front of him. He expected them to relax and to give a nod of deference, but when he saw their features harden and pure anger brewing in their eyes, his energy completely drained in an instant; and he keeled over, put a hoof to his mouth, and erupted into a horrible coughing fit. His throat burned with each spasm, and he convulsed there helplessly. The only thing he could do was to wait for it to stop. When it finally subsided, his looked up at them, his eyes bloodshot and watering. He expected to see at least some signs of pity mixed with the anger after that spectacle, but all he saw was a look of condescension, along with the aforementioned anger. “I’m going to pretend thou didn’t say that,” said the pegasus, raising her eyebrow at him—and she pulled a filing drawer out of the wall and held it upside down until its papers dropped to the floor. The unicorn looked at Enforcer, shrugged his shoulders, and then bent down and started gazing at the documents. “You’re to take this room apart, paper by paper,” said the pony in the dress uniform, standing outside the room. “Anything you find of interest should be reported to me immediately; and I shall take it to Captain Pierce, who will take it to the general, who will take it to Princess Celestia should he find it noteworthy. Is that understood?” “Yes, Lieutenant,” the two rifleponies grumbled. “Do not try to hoard anything for yourselves, to sell as war-mementos or any other juvenile purpose your stupid little heads might think up. Everything you find goes directly to me. If you choose to go against this order, it will be considered as treason, and it will be dealt with accordingly.” “Yes, sir,” they said. The lieutenant nodded to them and headed off down the hallway. The two rebels started toward the filing cabinets. “At least make sure you know where everything was,” piped Enforcer, meekly. “I spent months organizing them perfectly, getting the filing system just the way I like it. I can find anything, anywhere, and within seconds, so I’d appreciate it if you kept everything straight—” They did not even find him worthy to warrant a second glance and began to pull out the shelves. “Oh, forget it,” Enforcer mumbled. “I was the only pony who understood it, anyway.” Enforcer moved toward the large desk in front of the window. He saw the antique chair behind it lying on its side, presumably knocked over during the bombardment yesterday. He bent down to lift it up, and he heard and felt a loud crack emitting from his spine, accompanied by a dull ache. He grit his teeth and tried to ignore it, looking over toward his two helpers to see if they had noticed. The unicorn was poking through an overfilled folder with his bayonet, and the pegasus was looking at an old desk sculpture, hoof-carved from wood. Enforcer maneuvered his shoulders behind the chair and heaved it upright, and he was surprised at how heavy it felt now, despite having performed this action many times over the course of many years. He then slid the chair out of the way of the desk. As his eyes wandered around the room, he then noticed, against the north wall, a large canvas laying face down on the floor. Behind it, its string was poking up in the air, as if begging somepony to orient it upright. Enforcer swallowed nervously; and, as he went over to it and grabbed the string with his teeth, he hoped that it had not been the painting he thought it was—but he knew very well that he was lying to himself. After pulling it up and putting it against the window, he walked around to the other side of it, and he looked straight into President Platinum’s eyes. She still had the calm, reassuring stare, as if she had not even been dazed by the fall of her capital city. “That’s Platinum!” came a voice from behind him; and Enforcer turned around to see the unicorn staring at him, grinning avariciously, his eyes wide with hunger. “Oh, how I’ve always longed to do this.” And he began to walk toward Enforcer, who was still crouched in front of the canvas as if to protect it. “Wait!” yelled the pegasus, holding out her wing in front of him, blocking his path. “That’s the princess’s ancestor, isn’t it? She’ll want that for herself. If nothing else, she deserves the right to put her hoof through it herself.” “Ah, come now!” the unicorn whined. “It’s a dirty relic of the awful Union, as dirty as anything else here. Who cares about rights? I found it first, and I get to have it!” “Oh no thou don’t!” the pegasus yelped, and she jumped off her hooves and barreled toward Enforcer, the unicorn in hot pursuit behind her. Enforcer dove out of the way just in time as the pegasus landed head-first into the painting, the unicorn landing on top of her almost immediately afterwards. He watched them scramble over it, trying to yank it out of each other’s grasp. They pulled each other’s manes and maneuvered themselves into the center of the room, playing a game of tug-of-war, the painting serving as the rope. And all Enforcer could do was shake his head sadly. Enforcer turned back to the large desk and looked at its drawers; and he noticed that, on each one on the left side of the desk, there was a small white label; and, on closer inspection, he saw that the writing was not his—it was the president’s. He bent down and pushed his face an inch away from the drawers, squinting so that he may be able to read the tiny writing. There were four drawers on the left, arranged one on top of the other and increasing in size as they went down, and they were within close reach of anypony sitting at the desk. The topmost drawer read: “Illegible Documents (give to Enforcer).” Enforcer gave a silent, sad chuckle as he read this, and he clasped his forehoof around the handle and pulled open this drawer. When he looked inside, he gave an audible laugh when he saw that the inside was completely empty. Enforcer looked up and saw the two soldiers staring at him with puzzled expressions on both of their faces. They had stopped their quarrel under unknown terms and were now standing over a couple of black strongboxes with a series of buttons corresponding to numbers written directly above them. The canvas was lying on its face in the corner closest to the door. Amazingly, the picture, despite the battle that had just taken place, had no visible tears or scars. “Just,” Enforcer mumbled, “just some amusing memories . . .” The pegasus gave him a dirty look, made a clicking sound with her tongue at him, and then looked back at one of the boxes. She unharnessed her rifle; and she hovered slightly above the carpet, the air from her wingbeats ruffling a few papers around on the floor—much to the chagrin of the unicorn who was glancing over them—grabbed her rifle with both of her forehooves, and then slammed the butt of it against the lid of the box. The rifle bounced off harmlessly, leaving no scratch in the metal. After tucking the rifle under one of her forelegs, she wiped the sweat off of her brow with the other. Then, grasping the rifle more firmly, she brought it down on the box again—and then a third time. Enforcer turned back to the drawers, not even aware that his face gave a convulsive twitch every time the grating sound of metal on metal filled his ears. The second drawer, slightly bigger than the first, was labeled “Speeches.” The third drawer was labeled “Congressional Documents.” The fourth drawer, bigger than the first three combined, was simply labeled “Misc.” Enforcer gave a shrug of his shoulders and wrapped one of his forehooves around the handle. He gave it a tug; and, when he found that it did not open, he put his other forehoof around the handle and pulled with all of his might. The drawer creaked, and then began to open slowly. Enforcer, delighted at his progress, sat down on the ground, out of breath. He loosened his tie and then got back into his crouching position with his two forehooves around the handle, ready to try again. After two or three minutes of hard pulling, he had opened up the drawer a satisfactory amount so he could see inside. He stood up, panting, and looked into it. The drawer was compacted with beige folders, all filled to the brim. There was no empty space in this drawer, and the folders were so tightly packed together that they looked like they would forcibly eject out of their positions if they were so much as tapped. Enforcer gave a weak smile: this was one thing that he remembered he was good at. He glanced around him, looking for a suitable place to work. Upon finding nothing, he stepped back—hoping that it would increase his visual span of the room—and his legs bumped into something. He spun around and saw the chair that he had put upright moments ago. He grabbed its armrests and was about to pull it toward him when he stopped and gave a good hard stare at it: It was a wood chair with a plush pink cushion. The wood’s varnish made the surface immaculately smooth, and the wood glowed almost a bright red due to it. The arm rests were curved downwards and ended in a rough curl, almost like a lion’s paw. The legs stood perfectly straight and were all exactly equal lengths. The back of the chair was also lined with the pink plush, like the seat cushion; and it curved backwards and flared out at the sides, giving the illusion that the occupant of the chair had broad, commanding shoulders. Every detail about the chair, every curve and every carving, gave signs of an expert hoof, giving the same amount of care to the chair as he would with his own child. Thus, it is no surprise that this was the president’s personal chair. It was this reason that Enforcer stopped himself from plopping down in it immediately to assume his clerical duties. He looked at the chair and he took a step back from it. It had been the same chair that President Cadenza had sat in while she had waited for the police to arrest her, and it had been the same chair that President Heartfelt had sat in, pouring over stacks of military documents and written speeches during the earliest hours in the morning. The sun would rise; and, from this chair, President Heartfelt would see Enforcer sitting across the room in a modest, brown chair with a white polyester cushion and a black fabric net in its backrest, staring back at him through nearly-shut eyes with dark bags underneath them, with the only thing keeping them from shutting into a deep sleep would be the smile underneath them, directed toward President Heartfelt with pure admiration. This lesser chair also saw the presidential assistant casting a filial glance at President Cadenza who, while being escorted from the Horseshoe Office, looked back at him for some reassurance and who shed a silent tear when she saw her assistant looking back at her with his mouth open, dying for her to explain what went wrong. In this chair, now sat a disheveled, foul-smelling unicorn, who was prying at the crack in the strongbox with his teeth. Enforcer sighed. There was no honor, no heroes in the world anymore. He turned around and gently lowered himself into the president’s chair. As soon as he touched the cushion, his body instantly surrendered; and he gave another sigh but, this time, in total relaxation. The chair was truly fit for a king—or rather, a president. This repose only lasted for a second; then, Enforcer eyes weakly opened as he remembered the monumental task ahead of him. He put his hooves around the arm rest and, with his hooves pushing against the floor, dragged the chair to the desk. He leaned down without getting up—but not without that cracking noise in his back along with the dull ache—and, with both hooves, grabbed as many folders as he could. With great effort, he lifted the folders up out of their place, with the intent to place them on the desk. Halfway up to their destination, he was forced to stand up on his hind legs and flutter his wings to support himself, so that his entire body would contribute to this task, which used to be so simple to him once upon a time. Finally, he brought them above the desk and was relieved to let them drop. He expected a startling thud when they hit the desk, but all he heard when they made contact was the quiet sound of papers rustling. He grunted and then leaned down to grab some more folders. When he had finished pulling out the last of the folders, he collapsed back into the chair, exhausted. Between the two stacks of folders that formed towers on the desk, he looked over to his two companions. The unicorn was still sitting on the chair, apparently having given up with the strongbox, and was now dopily looking through one of the folders in front of him. Enforcer watched the unicorn’s eyes carefully for a few moments, and not once did he see a single flash of comprehension pass across them. Enforcer shook his head disappointingly and looked over at the pegasus, who was standing and looking filially at the assorted sculptures in a glass case near the door. Enforcer grabbed the top file off the stack and opened it. “Form J128 . . . 129 . . . 6503 . . .” he mumbled to himself, as he had done every day for more than forty years. Like any experienced clerk doing repetitive work for an extended amount of time, Enforcer turned his conscious mind off and let it operate on its own through the routine tasks. He even became unaware of his own mumblings. Like clockwork, the stack of unread folders slowly began to shrink; while his new stack of files—already perused—grew at an equal rate to the one that was waning. When he got halfway through the stack, Enforcer was startled when he was thrust back into his conscious state. His experience told him that this only happened for one reason: there was clearly a discrepancy in his organization system. His heart started to pump viciously, and he leafed through the stack of folders he had already read looking for something he may have missed. Finally, it occurred to him that he had dropped a piece of paper or had forgotten to pull it out of the drawer. He looked down, and he put a hoof over his chest in relief when he saw a lone piece of paper in the drawer. He hastily leaned over, picked it up, and was about to turn his mind off a second time when another discrepancy appeared, regarding the action he had just taken. He looked back into the empty slot, and he noticed that he had lifted up the piece of paper, leaving the compartment empty—and exposing a small latch on the bottom of the drawer. The latch was painted brown, the same brown as the wood that surrounded it; and, had it not been covered by the folders, it probably would have been missed by a casual observer. Enforcer leaned over to the right of the desk, pulled the largest drawer on that side open—with, surprisingly, relative ease—and, seeing that it was completely empty, looked at the bottom. He, through five administrations, had always regarded the desk as perfectly symmetrical, but as he looked into this other drawer, this image was shattered as he saw that it had no accompanying latch. Instinctively, he leaned back over to the left drawer and pulled the latch. He heard the sound of a gear turning and almost immediately afterwards felt something soft hit his hooves that had been resting on the ground. He looked down and saw a small brown book, a bright red ribbon snaking out of one of its pages. Enforcer got out of his chair, bent down, looked up at the underbelly of the desk, and saw a single flap dangling wide open. The hinges were on the inside, meaning that the door would have been nearly invisible to anypony looking at it in its closed state. Enforcer grinned at such a clever contraption and his acute abilities of discernment for having found it, as he closed it shut with a satisfying click. Then, he reached for the book. He opened up the cover and read: Disce’s Diary KEEP OUT (Yes, that includes thee, Enforcer) Enforcer giggled when he saw that in place of the titles on the three i’s, the president had chosen to use hearts in a pink pen. He smiled at the president’s foresight at specifying that he specifically not read the contents of his diary. All of the sudden, as if struck by a spear straight through his chest, Enforcer dropped the book to the floor and gave an inaudible gasp, as the full implication of what the book was finally settled in. His hooves turned icy cold, and his face and ears burned fiercely; the symptoms of a dark secret nestling in his brain finally started to show. His hooves shaking, he reached down and picked up the book. Holding it behind the desk, obscured from view, he shot a furtive glance back at the soldiers. When he saw that they still had not bothered to pay any attention to him or his activities, he propped up a folder against his desk and put the book behind it. He summoned up the courage to turn to the second page; and he read the following passage, spanning nearly four pages, while looking up at the soldiers after reading every two words: What, are you illiterate? I told thee not to read this! If thou are still reading and thou happen to still be alive, that must mean that I’m not around to strangle thee personally. And the only reason I can think of which causes me to be absent is that I’ve been captured or killed. Consequently, the only two ponies I can think of who would be able to get this close to me to be able to read this is Luna, my dear friend and vice president, and Enforcer, my loyal servant. However, the only one observant and thorough enough to find this would be Enforcer; and, therefore, it is to him that I address this forward. The entries in this diary date from December the 26th (thou will know this as the day the first act of war, that dreadful spell, was implemented by the Union) until now, whatever this day is. By now, if everything goes according to planned, I will have become a being of unspeakable evil and destruction. I am completely aware that there will be no return down this path, but I have chosen the path regardless as I feel that there is no other option. Enforcer, thou hold in thy hooves the physical manifestation of my inner thoughts and feelings, which I’ll do my best to keep updated as I am consumed by this voracious power. If this book fell to thee under unpleasant circumstances, then I must say that I am truly sorry, Enforcer: thou will never be able to understand how much it hurts me, knowing that thou should succumb to the negative effects of my ensuing chaotic whim. I know that now it will be of no assurance, but thou need to believe me when I say that everything that follows, everything terrible that will no doubt ensue, is absolutely necessary: for thee, for me, for every single citizen of Equestria. After the date December 26th, nearly everything I say to thee and the ponies around me, nearly anything that comes out of my mouth will be a lie. This is precisely why I’m keeping this diary: the following pages contain the untarnished truth, the honesty that still lives inside of me and which can never completely be silenced. Truth isn’t dead, Enforcer. It sticks around through good times and bad; it’s that nagging feeling thou get in the back of thy head that thou can’t seem to get rid of. But for my purposes, it needs to be locked away, forever hidden from view. And that’s why I’ve kept this diary: to lock the truth away, to keep it in a dungeon of my choosing, where I am its only guard. As president of the United Republic of Equestria, I order thee to do one last thing for me, dear presidential assistant: thou need to guard this book with thy life until thou can see it personally delivered into the hooves of Luna. Tell her what this book contains, and tell her that she needs to read it. She will no doubt stick up her nose, telling thee that I’ve already told her what the truth is, but thou need to be insistent. Thou need to make sure that thou do not leave her side until she takes the book from thee. This book is written for her and her only. Which brings me to thee, Enforcer. Thou do not have my permission to look through this book. Obviously, evidenced by the fact that thou are still reading this, I’m powerless to stop thee; but, if I wasn’t, believe me that I would. Thou are smart, Enforcer; but thou couldn’t possibly understand, or live with, the truth. There’s a good reason why I’ve incarcerated the truth: it, under no circumstances, can be granted parole to anypony but Luna. It would be too dangerous. Thou has spent a good portion of thy life living a lie, Enforcer, and it would be too traumatic for thee, or anypony else, to be exposed to the truth. General Hoop, when I exposed him to the truth outright, confirmed my suspicions about its danger: he was unable to cope with it; and it caused him, the strongest soldier that we ever had, to take his own life. Enforcer, I’m not telling thee to not read this book because of some massive secret; I’m telling thee to stay away, because I care about thee, and the last thing I want to see happen to thee is to meet the same unfortunate end that the general did. After thou deliver the book, go home, Enforcer. Go live the rest of thy days in whatever peace thou can still possibly find in this world. Thou have always been loyal, and there’s nothing I appreciate more than that. Out of every single pony in Equestria, there’s nopony that deserves tranquility more than thee. Good luck. For what possibly may be the last time, Disce Cordis, president of the United Republic of Equestria Enforcer looked up from the book with a blank stare on his face. Then, after looking intently at the two soldiers and waiting for them to both turn their backs simultaneously, he surreptitiously slipped the book into his jacket’s breast pocket. * * * Princess Celestia stood on the roof of the Presidential Mansion watching the sunrise. She closed her eyes as she allowed its rays to embrace her fully, smiling as she felt its warmth on her face. She turned to her right and saw her sister. Princess Luna’s forelegs were sprawled out over the balcony’s guard rail; she was staring at the ground, presumably at the massive impact crater right in front of the mansion, still giving off its black smoke. “That’s beautiful,” Princess Celestia said, wistfully, turning back toward the rising sun. “Oh, my sister: thou have no idea how much I’ve missed the sunrise. Not a moment went by during my seven months in our family’s bunker that I didn’t consider opening up that trap door and exposing myself to the Union Army, just to be able to see this.” She rubbed her eyes with one of her forehooves, trying to massage out the bags underneath them. “In an environment sequestered from the rest of the world, which is only lit by lamps that burn eternally, time has no meaning. The concepts of ‘day’ and ‘night’ become meaningless, and one simply works when one needs to. But it’s all over, my sister—we’ve won. Finally, now, we can rebuild.” Princess Luna said nothing and still glared down at the crater. “Why are thou so melancholic, sister?” said Princess Celestia, turning her head toward Princess Luna. “We have achieved a victory today, and the future is nothing but bright.” “I’m just thinking about all those who have died to get us here: those who are unable to celebrate what we have achieved,” she murmured, still not looking her sister in the eyes. “It is true that we have made some sacrifices, but they have all been necessary, for thou can see the new world that has emerged out of it.” Princess Luna turned her head sharply toward her sister and stood up straight. Her brow furrowed; and, in a caustic voice, she said: “Why do thou speak as if the lives of those dead ponies belonged to thee? Why do thou speak of them, not as separate entities, but as a part in a collective? They were all individuals, every one of them, with a mind and consciousness, which had been abruptly destroyed without warning or reason. They were fighting for themselves, for a better future, one that they will never get to see. How can thou speak so nonchalantly about them?” Princess Celestia turned toward her sister. Her mane blocked out the sun and shrouded her face in complete darkness when she said: “I’m sensing doubt, Princess Luna. I’m sensing a bit of hostility and fear on thy part. Is this true?” “I’d be lying if I said there wasn’t.” Princess Celestia sighed, and she bowed her head to the ground. “Princess Luna, thou know that this can’t work unless thou are in it fully and unwaveringly. I thought thou promised me that thou wouldn’t go back, that thou would stay with me and our family, and that we would support thee if thou needed it.” At this, she looked back up at Princess Luna. When Princess Luna saw that there was nothing in her sister’s eyes but a full expression of familial love, she closed her eyes, trying to hold back her tears. “Thou are right,” Princess Luna said. “Thou are absolutely right.” “So, can thou do this?” “Yes,” she choked, “yes, I’m with thee. I’m with thee until the very end.” “Good,” Princess Celestia said, a warm smile appearing across her lips. She raised one of her forehooves in front of Princess Luna. Princess Luna looked back into Princess Celestia’s eyes once more; and, when she saw that that reassuring expression had not left her face, she leaned over and gently kissed her sister’s hoof. “So, what happens now?” Princess Luna said, turning back toward the balcony. Princess Celestia looked back toward the sun, and she said: “I go make the announcement.” “What will thou say?” “Well, I was hoping thou could help me with that. I’ve got the details worked out quite extensively in my head; I just wanted to run them by thee, to make sure that thou know exactly how we will usher in a new Equestria.” Expecting a response, Princess Celestia glanced over to her sister. Princess Luna was still staring at the crater, as if she had not heard a word. “I will go to them,” Princess Celestia went on. “I will go to them and tell them that friendship has emerged triumphant. I will say that we, thou and I, will be their guiding hooves as, together, we rebuild the country from the ground up.” “Are thou going to tell them that thou executed the president?” Princess Luna said in an off-hoof monotone. Princess Celestia turned with a stern look; and a mixture of incredulity, confusion, and suspicion caused her brow to narrow and her nostrils to flair. “Excuse me?” she said. “That’s what they wanted, right? I mean, there’s not a pony in the Army of the Friendship who did not dream of coming here, to Canterlot, and ending that miserable creature’s life. Is there nothing they want more than to hear thee shout that fact from the rooftops of his conquered castle?” “I thought about that, but I ultimately decided against it.” Princess Luna turned back to her sister, her jaw wide open. “Excuse me? Why ever not?” “I fear that if I come off as dogmatic as he did, as blood-thirsty as he was, it will scare them. There’s no common cause they all share. They don’t know what they were fighting for, and if I say something extreme, it will inevitably scare a great deal of them to hear their inner most thoughts. Thou saw how easy it was to incite them to rebellion, Luna. If they even suspect any bit of hostility, pugnaciousness, or authoritativeness on my part, it won’t be long until they rebel a second time. They’re like anxious cats, Luna: if thou make a loud noise, they’ll jump. It’s best to take this slowly. If I were to tear up the COMTOIS—figuratively, of course—in front of them and then proceed to crown thee as queen of Equestria, they’ll fight, as they’re so ready to fight against anything they perceive as an authority figure. If we press the issue gently, they’ll wake up one day, who knows how many years from now, and realize that they’re living in a monarchy—and if we play this right, they won’t be able to imagine living any other way. But we must be patient, sister.” Princess Luna’s features relaxed, and she bowed her head in respect to her sister. “Thou are right. I don’t want another conflict; I want to live in peace.” Because she was looking at the ground, Princess Luna did not see the flash of reservation across her sister’s face. All she felt was a calm, firm, hoof on her shoulder and her sister saying: “That’s what we all want, dear sister. Now, come look at the sun with me; we have a lot of work ahead of us, and we won’t be able to see it like this for a while. Look at that! Do thou see how the rays, skimming off of their surfaces, make the clouds glow with that beautiful pink-red hue? The future is going to be bright, and we’re ready for it.”