//------------------------------// // Epilogue // Story: The Age of Wings and Steel // by DSNesmith //------------------------------// -Winter- Volund grunted as he pulled the strap taut. He frowned as he looked down at his legs and the braces tied around them. In the three weeks since the battle, his wounds had begun to heal, but the lacerated muscles would not recover quickly. It would be years before he could move without the braces. They were awkward, even painful at times, but they allowed him to walk without assistance. And he needed to stand today. He looked around his bedroom, a modest living space in his small house on the top level of Norharren. Volund did not have a great number of possessions, but those he did own were displayed proudly on his walls and in his cabinet: the polished plates of his armor, a vast collection of medals, and the simple steel chain of his knighthood. Gently, he withdrew the chain from its stand, bringing it over to his bed. His axe already lay on the sheets. Volund held the chain aloft, wincing as his leg strained against the brace. He grasped his axe and pressed the edge against the chain, pushing hard and sawing the head against the steel. After a few moments, he pulled the axe away and let it fall to the bed. He looked down at the fresh notch in the link, and held the chain close to himself. He bowed his head with a sigh. He wanted to wear his armor, but it would be too heavy for him to remain standing through the entire ceremony. His dress blues and chain would have to be enough. Volund dressed slowly, and not solely because of the pain in his aching limbs. With his formal attire on, fitting uncomfortably over the leg braces, he set the chain around his neck, clipping it to the uniform in the proper way. He pondered the axe for a moment, then shook his head and left it on the bed. It was a sunny day outside. The sky was clear as far as the eye could see. In the distance, the Jotur mountains could be seen, peeking over the horizon. The beauty seemed incongruous to Volund. Days like this should have been dim and gray. The streets were full, as usual, but the townsponies stepped out of his path as he walked. Some nodded to him; others bowed. He returned the nods, and acknowledged the bows with a tip of his head. He reached the outer limits of the city, where the procession waited. It was a long line of blue-clad ponies, bearing standards of the House of Blueblood and expressions of quiet solemnity. At the head of the procession stood the four pall-bearers, dressed not in blue but black. Each pair had a long rod across their backs, supporting the weight of the stone slab and the shrouded form they carried. Volund reached the front of the line, finding his lord at last. Emmet Blueblood looked older than Volund had ever seen him. “My lord.” Emmet gave him a weary nod. “Thank you for coming, Volund.” Volund looked back at the black shroud. “Are we ready to begin?” “At noon.” Emmet turned his head to gaze up at the manor on the hill, waiting. The slow ringing of a large bell broke the air. The duke closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. Volund swallowed. “It’s time, then.” With steadiness borne of long practice, the procession moved away from the city gates. It was an hour’s walk to the hill that served as the tomb for Norhart’s lords, over the dusty road, a journey both physical and mental. Volund stayed close at his lord’s side. The calm, clear voice of the singer rose over the procession. She sang a mournful lament, a song filled with weight and loss. The sharp notes broke in the air like glass, each shard of music piercing Volund’s heart. When they at last reached the tomb, a large hill with many doors in its sides, Volund’s legs hurt fiercely. He bore the pain in silence. He was here today to comfort, not to be comforted. The procession came to a halt in front of the small door on the far western side of the hill. It lay open, waiting, like the black maw of a tiny dragon. Emmet and Volund stood to the left of the door. Volund held his head upright at attention. Before them, the rest of the crowd formed two lines on either side of the door, like a channel from one world to the next. The pall-bearers approached slowly, walking between the walls of ponies. The song continued, fading in volume as they reached the mouth of the tomb. The pall-bearers paused before entering. Beside Volund, Emmet had begun to shake. His face was trembling, as he tried to maintain his dignity. Volund restrained himself from extending a hoof. Emmet stepped forward, and reached down to grasp the shroud. He pulled it away. Clement’s body, protected from the ravages of time by merciful spells, lay upon the stone slab. He was dressed in his full armor, the shining white steel gleaming in the sunlight. His neck was wrapped in a small blue flag bearing the symbol of his house, concealing his wounds. His axe was laid on his chest, his legs crossed over it. Emmet leaned down and kissed his son’s forehead one final time. Then he stood back, and nodded. The pall-bearers notched the edge of the slab into the waiting rails inside the tomb. They slid the slab forward into the small space, pushing it forward until all that was visible were Clement’s steel horseshoes. They shut the door with a grinding of stone, and the song came to a halt. It was done. The crowd waited for minutes, silently paying their respects. As the afternoon wore on, they began returning to the city, one by one. By the time the sun had begun to set, only Volund and Emmet remained. The duke broke the silence. “I wanted so much for him. He was to be the greatest of my house, my redemption, my gift to Equestria. I put my duty as duke before my duty as a father.” Emmet’s voice quavered. “And now… all I can see is a little foal, begging me to tell him another story about old battles and heroes.” Volund put a leg around the duke’s shoulders. Emmet broke. He sank to his haunches, shaking with grief. “I only told him I loved him once since he took his oaths.” “But you told him.” Volund squeezed him. “He knew you loved him, Emmet.” Emmet’s head bent as sobs wracked him. Volund stood silently beside him, resting a hoof on his shoulder. The duke of Norhart wept before the grave as the sun vanished over the horizon behind them. At last the sobs subsided. Emmet’s head hung limp, as he exhaled shaky breaths. He stood slowly, lifting his head. Volund offered him a handkerchief, which he accepted. While he dried his eyes, Volund looked off in the distance to where Norharren waited, barely visible in the twilight. “Will you be going to the peace conference in Southlund?” “Yes,” said Emmet with surprising firmness. “I must.” Volund looked at him. “For vengeance?” “No.” Emmet sniffed. “Six hundred years ago, we made peace with the remnants of the Gryphan Empire. That treaty doomed them to starve in the desert, crowded into inhospitable land they were never meant to inhabit. We drove them into this war, Volund. This time… this time, we’ll do it right. I’ll make sure of it.” “How?” “Their armies will be disbanded, completely and permanently. We can’t allow this to happen again. Their slaves will be released. Their former soldiers can provide the labor we need to rebuild the south.” Emmet breathed out. “And we will open trade with them. We’ll share our harvest, our industry, and bring them out of the hole we’ve put them in. Grypha and Equestria will meet the future together, side by side, instead of fighting each other.” Volund raised an eyebrow. “A tall order.” “I expect the details will take months to work out. Some of the nobles will take a great deal of convincing. But I will see us make a lasting peace. I will.” Emmet looked down to the tomb, and his face creased with sorrow. “For my son. To make his sacrifice worthwhile.” “I think he’d be happy to hear that, Emmet.” Volund smiled sadly. “If you ever need to talk…” “I will, Volund. Thank you.” Emmet turned. “I must return to the city. If I’m to reach the conference by the end of next week, I’ll have to leave tomorrow. Good night, Volund.” “Good night, Emmet.” The duke gave the tomb one last, long look, and left. Volund stood alone by the stone door. Oh, Clement. I’m old, broken. You were young and whole. You should have left me. He pressed a hoof against the stone. But that would have gone against everything you were. So… thank you, my lord. Thank you for my life. I’ll make it count. He sighed and turned to leave. As he walked down the hill, back toward the road, he lifted his head. His ears perked up as he caught the faint sound of thudding hooves. His eyebrows furrowed, and he swung back around to see who was on the hill with him. Behind him, the hill was empty, but as his gaze turned up his mouth opened. Above, in the skies of Norhart, beautiful sheets of shimmering color danced in the skies. The sound of thudding hooves faded as he watched, and the lights slowly waved their way north. Volund blinked, then smiled. He raised a hoof to his forehead in salute. “Farewell, Clement.” -Spring- Eberhardt surveyed his hall with pride. Saddlestead stood tall and solid on the shore of the lake, rising high above the waves. The sea-sprayed wooden walls were covered with intricate carvings, but not completely. There were still stories left to tell. The section of the wall that interested him was covered with temporary platforms and steps, as his hold’s most skilled artisans worked their craft. Gradually, the forms of four ponies were beginning to take shape. One was an earth pony, her curly mane carved in exquisite detail. Most of the ponies on the wall were serious and grim, but this pony wore a smile at Eberhardt’s insistence. The second pony was a pegasus, his wings spread wide as he swooped through the air, the small star on his chest signifying his order. The third pony was another earth pony, wrapped in a cloak and wielding a sword. The three stood beneath the vast shape of a mountain, one that reached up the entire height of the wall. On the mountain’s peak stood the fourth pony, his horn and his little wings still in the process of being carved. The hammer in his mouth was raised high above the mountain and the world below. Eberhardt smiled. He’d never dreamed the skalds would find him worthy of joining those upon the wall. He’d never dreamed of being king, either, but here he was. “King Eberhardt,” said a familiar voice. It was one of his huskarls, arriving silently as if springing up from the tundra dirt. “Thanes Kilgar and Brevik have arrived at last. Brevik’s still claiming that Kilgar started the conflict when he sent his farmers onto Brevik’s land. Kilgar says much the opposite.” Eberhardt nodded. “And likelier than not, both are at fault. Come. Let us discover the truth.” They headed back to Saddlestead, but as Eberhardt passed the wall, he gave another private smile. Good luck, my friends, whatever your futures hold. * * * Weatherly’s hooves rang on the stone stairs as he raced up through the keep. He reached the top at last, panting, and paused a moment to catch his breath. He continued on, at last coming to a wooden door and pushing it open. “Duke Bellemont!” Tymeo, sitting at his study’s desk, looked up. “Yes, Weatherly?” “They’re here!” He beamed, still breathing hard. “They’ve come back!” Ashen, Tymeo leaned forward. “The griffons?” “No, of course not. The refugees!” Weatherly’s smile grew wider. The duke looked baffled. “The refugees? The ones we sent to Canterlot? Weatherly, they never made it. The Princess said they never received any.” “They didn’t get to Canterlot, no, but—oh, come on, the councilors can tell you themselves!” Weatherly wheeled a leg. Tymeo, his face wary with hope, stood and followed. They left the keep and raced down through the city toward the outer wall. Tymeo ran up the stairs, hiking up his robes with his mouth. They reached the top at last, and looked out over the coming swarm of ponies. Tymeo’s mouth opened with delight. “Duke Bellemont,” said a voice from behind them. The minister of agriculture was bowing. Tymeo bowed to her as well. Weatherly smiled. Tymeo raised his head, spluttering. “What—minister, this is—where have you been? We assumed the griffons had killed you all, there’s been no news for months!” The minister shook her head. “They beat us to Greenway. Our way north was blocked, as was the path west, so we turned east. The other councilors and myself thought to make for Baron Aubren’s forces in Easthill, but it was suggested that it might be safer to go instead back into the forest. We’ve been wandering the northeastern corner of Whitetail for months, waiting for it to become safe to return.” She smiled wearily. “I’m a bit tired of eating nothing but grass and leaves, but most of us have survived, and that’s what counts.” Weatherly felt happier than he had since the disaster at Trellow. “One question, minister. How’d you know to come back?” “The trees,” said the minister, pointing out over the wall to the trees of Whitetail, now fully in spring bloom. “We figured that if the seasons were getting back on track, the war must be over.” “I see,” said Tymeo, nodded absently as he surveyed the incoming citizens of his city. His eyebrows were raised in disbelieving joy. “This is wonderful, minister. I thought I’d lost Whitewall, but now…” “How exactly are they fixing the weather so fast? I thought with all the pegasi we lost at Trellow it would take them decades to get the seasons in order.” Tymeo finally broke away from the refugees, chuckling. “That’s… an interesting story. You see, Cloudsdale can, um… move, now. The griffons installed some kind of engine to push the entire city through the sky.” The minister blinked. “Well.” “The pegasi can take the weatherforging facilities all over Equestria, fixing the weather wherever they’re needed. They started with Canterlot, then worked their way down through the east side of Whitetail. It’s still going to take a while to get the whole country back in shape, but it’s a task that can be done in years, rather than generations.” Weatherly nodded happily in confirmation. “Right now I believe they’re watering the southern plains. We’re going to need a large harvest if we have to feed two nations, after all.” The minister of agriculture raised an eyebrow. “Two nations?” Tymeo grinned. “Duke Blueblood has proven rather… progressive-minded. With the Princess’s backing, he got the other lords and the griffons to sign a rather remarkable treaty. I can tell you more about it once we’ve gotten our citizens re-situated.” “Very well.” The minister bowed. “I’ll go tell the others. Shall we meet in the council chamber at three?” “Certainly.” Tymeo nodded. The minister turned to descend the stairs. Tymeo turned back to watch the refugees again. He smiled. “Perhaps all is not lost, Weatherly.” “Yes.” Weatherly looked down at his hooves. “I only wish my lady could see it.” Tymeo’s smile became tinged with sadness. “As do I.” “She’d be proud of you, Tymeo.” He snorted. “I can’t imagine why. I’m not much of a duke, Weatherly.” “My lord, if I may—Celerity’s whole life was defined by war. War against her political enemies, war against the griffons, and eventually war against the Princess, which was another war against herself. She was tired of war, by the end.” Weatherly looked down at the refugees. “You’ve helped bring peace to Whitetail, my lord. I think she can rest easy.” Tymeo brightened a little at the encouragement. “We’ve both got a little of her inside us, be it blood or spirit. With your help, I can be as good a leader as she was, someday. Will you aid me?” Weatherly bowed his head. “Of course, my lord.” Tymeo smiled again. “Then come, Weatherly. We have much to do.” -Summer- “How’s my mane look?” Rye looked at the ceiling with an exasperated sigh. “You look wonderful, Cranberry. Just relax, already.” She lifted her white dress with a hoof, letting out a little moan. “Oh, why did I let the two of you talk me into this? I just wanted a small ceremony, not some giant circus for the whole city to come gawk at.” “Oh, come on, Cranberry. It’s the Dragonslayer’s wedding! It’s a big deal.” “Ugh.” Cranberry rolled her eyes. “We should have eloped. We could’ve been halfway to the Delta by now.” Rye grinned. “Yeah, but you’d have to spend the rest of your life on the run from my mother and your sister.” “Mm,” she acquiesced. With a swallow, she said, “There’s just so many ponies out there. And they’re all going to be watching me the whole time!” “Cranberry, you’ve faced down a giant fire-breathing lizard before. I think you can handle a few thousand ponies watching from a distance. Besides, they’ll be outside; there will only be a couple dozen inside the temple.” At “a few thousand,” Cranberry had gone slightly green. Rye tried a different tack. “Don’t look at them. Just look at Inger.” Her mouth curled into a smile. “I… I can do that.” “Good. I’ve got to get to my place before we start. I’ll talk to you after, okay?” “Sure.” She gave him a sunny smile. “Thanks, Rye.” “No problem.” He grinned back. “Just remember, I’m doing this for the free food.” She shooed him with a hoof. “Go on, get!” He left the room, and then the building, and walked out into the street. With the castle still in ruins, the Princess had decided they would hold the wedding inside the smaller moon temple. It rested on the mountain, much lower than the Sun Castle had. Beneath it was a large plaza, where they were planning on holding the reception. Celestia had been personally micromanaging a great deal of the wedding plans, ostensibly because she did so for all her Firewings. Rye was vaguely aware that she’d done the same for his parents, but this—Cranberry was right, circus was the word—was on another level altogether. The reason was obvious, of course. The city of Canterlot had been through the worst siege the country had seen in centuries. Her inhabitants needed hope, something to lift their spirits, and the wedding of the hero of the Battle of Canterlot was the perfect excuse. And so Rye found himself swept up in the most colossal public event the city had hosted in generations. Crowds were gathered outside the temple, waiting for the wedding to finish and the bride and groom to emerge. Rye looked around, searching for a rose-colored mare. He paused to adjust his collar. He was wearing a set of fine green robes, gifts from the Princess’s personal tailor. She’d have only the best for her Firewings—and he was part of the show, naturally. Rye frowned, turned around, and nearly ran into Inkpot. She was wearing a cornflower-blue dress with matching flowers in her mane, and looked even more anxious than Cranberry had. Rye’s eyes rolled. “There you are! Come on, we’re starting in ten minutes. We need to get back in there.” “Oh, oh, I’m so nervous.” Inkpot nibbled on a hoof. “We’ve rehearsed this a million times. Come on, let’s go.” He dragged her back into the temple, and they stepped aside into one of the antechambers to wait for the rest of the bridal processional to begin. Inkpot giggled. “Ooh, this is exciting, isn’t it?” She bounced. “I’m just… oooh, I can’t wait till it’s over.” Rye smiled wryly. “You and me both. I hate formal clothes.” The tolling of a bell told them that the ceremony was beginning. They waited as the moments passed, then heard a faint knock on the door. Rye looked at her and nodded. “Let’s go.” He held out a leg, and she looped her own through it. He escorted her into the main chamber of the temple and down the aisle. When they reached the platform, they split apart. Rye went to stand beside Inger, who was suited up in his dress gold-and-whites. Rye winked. Inger just gave him a smile. Rye turned to look at those gathered in the chamber. His mother was sitting in the front, next to a row of another dozen pegasi. The Firewings were all here today. Windstreak’s smile was trembling, but to Rye’s relief the waterworks had yet to start. He expected that to last until Cranberry entered. Celestia stepped forward. Her mane was slowly returning to its former, glittering glory, but it was still largely pink. Rye suspected that her battle with the dragon had wounded her more than she let on; but the Princess had been running all over the country for the past couple months, helping pacify the south and begin the rebuilding process wherever she could. He supposed that might run anypony a little ragged. The Princess began to talk. Rye had the whole thing memorized by now. He felt another wave of relief that he wasn’t going to have to give any speeches today. At last, the bride entered, the white veil not quite masking her golden mane. Apricot led her up the aisle. With a smile and a few words, he released her, and took his seat beside Windstreak, who was dabbing her eyes with a cloth. Inger and Cranberry exchanged their vows, beaming at each other through the veil. Rye smiled and blinked, wondering where the dust in his eyes had come from. At last, Celestia turned to him and nodded. Rye stepped forward, bringing out the box and cushion that contained the earrings. He presented them to the Princess. Her horn glowed, and the two earrings rose out of the box. They floated to Inger’s right ear and Cranberry’s left, and snapped into place. Rye suppressed a snicker. He knew for a fact that both of them had cheated and had their ears magically numbed before the ceremony. They knew, too; he could tell from the slight twist in their smiles. Celestia smiled broadly. “By the warmth of the sun and the light of the moon, I now pronounce you mare and colt.” Inger reached forward and lifted Cranberry’s veil. She was positively glowing. Celestia’s lips curled even more. “You may now kiss the groom.” She practically leaped onto him. They kissed. Rye heard somepony crying—yes, it was his mother, blast it—and the new couple pulled apart. “Well,” he heard Cranberry whisper under her breath, “Time to go look pretty for the crowds.” “You won’t have any problem with that,” Inger whispered in return. They smiled. The whole procession left the moon temple to thunderous applause. Wild cheers from the crowd roared through the twilight air, stunningly loud. Rye blinked, trying to take it all in. The crowds parted, making way for them to walk. The bride and groom finally reached the center of the plaza, and Rye heard the music starting up. Cranberry and Inger started twirling, smiling as they danced. Then the bridesmares and the groomscolts joined them. Rye paired off with Inkpot, desperately hoping he wouldn’t step on her hooves or vice versa. Soon the reception was well under way. Rye took the soonest opportunity he could find to thank Inkpot for the dance, and retreat to the safety of the buffet table where he was in little danger of being squashed by somepony doing a two-step. He munched on a cinnamon streusel and sipped a glass of wine, sparing a glance at the absolutely gargantuan wedding cake. Ponies had been slicing away at it since the beginning of the party, but they’d barely made a dent yet. His father had outdone himself. The sun sank lower in the sky, turning it pink and purple. Rye watched the dancers fondly, enjoying the vitality that had been missing from Canterlot for so long. Eventually Inkpot made her way over to him, a cranberry tart held in her mouth. “Hey, Rye,” she murmured around her food. She swallowed. “Hullo, Inkpot.” He smiled in the direction of the dancers. “Good party, huh?” “Yeah.” Inkpot sniffed. “My little sister’s all grown up. Ohhh…” Rye caught sight of white and gold coming in their direction, and grinned. Inger and Cranberry emerged from the crowd, looking tired but happy. He dipped his head as they arrived. “Congratulations, to both of you.” Inkpot, teary-eyed, wrapped her sister in a hug. “I’m going to miss having you in the library, sis.” “I’ll be around.” Cranberry smiled. “It’s going to take those geniuses at the university at least a year to translate that book. And then they have to get the funds and volunteers together to organize a trip to Sleipnord…” “Hey,” said Rye, “Maybe you’ll get to go with them, Professor.” She blushed. “I haven’t actually finished my dissertation yet, Rye.” “I think it’s a pretty safe bet they’ll hire you once you have, ‘Berry. After all, you are Canterlot’s resident expert on Sleipnordic culture, no?” He grinned. “Besides, if they’ve been able to put up with you for six months already, they must really think you know your stuff.” She snorted. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.” Inkpot laughed. “Well, we’ve dealt with you for years, so it can be done. If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go sample some more of that cranberry stuff.” She bowed out. Rye looked at Inger. “And what are you going to be up to?” Inger looked thoughtful. “Lord Dalamant is still fighting Warlord Lionsclaw’s holdouts in the Lake Country. I might get assigned out there, next, but I doubt it. They haven’t been a real threat for some time now.” He grew a little more serious. “But the Firewings got hit hard in this war. Refilling our ranks isn’t going to be easy.” Rye shrugged good-naturedly. “I’m sure you can handle it… Captain.” Inger rubbed the back of his neck. “I don’t suppose there’s any chance your mother could be convinced to change her mind?” He shook his head with a wry smile. “None whatsoever.” Inger softened. “How is she?” “She’s doing better. Her wingbones have finally healed, but… she can’t fly as well as she used to. I caught her trying to do aerial flips one day… but she looked more disappointed than angry. I think she’s happy just to finally get the chance to spend some time at home getting stunned by dad’s cooking.” Inger smiled again. “Glad to hear it. Still… it’s a shame to lose her from the Firewings. She’s the best captain we’ve ever had.” Rye nodded. “I think she’s earned her retirement.” “True enough. I think we’ve all earned a little break.” His lips twisted. “I’m looking forward to the Carriagibbean.” Rye grinned. “Enjoy the honeymoon.” “Believe me, we will.” Inger looked up dreamily. “Sun… sand… palm trees… no snow anywhere… nice cool breezes… quiet moonlit nights on the beach…” “Well,” Cranberry smiled coyly, “Maybe not quiet.” Inger turned pink. Rye stifled a cough with his hoof. Cranberry just grinned. “Greetings, young ones,” said a familiar voice. The three of them turned to find the Princess had somehow snuck up on them. They bowed. Cranberry was the first to look up. “Thank you so much for the service, Princess.” “Certainly, Lady Dragonslayer. And congratulations.” Cranberry’s nose wrinkled. “They’re not really calling me that, are they? That surname’s more like a title, it doesn’t pass to a Dragonslayer’s spouse.” “That’s okay,” said Inger, “Sugar’s a beautiful name.” He kissed her, and she nuzzled him back. Celestia smiled. “Not officially. But, ah… I’d get used to seeing it on your stationary.” “And after all, why not?” asked Rye. “You played as much a role as any of us in retrieving the hammer from Tyorj. Actually, there’s a great song about it, already. ‘The Mountain, the Mare, and the Dragonslayer.’ Two bits says it gets played so much tonight you have the lyrics memorized by tomorrow.” Cranberry shook her head. “I nearly screwed up everything. You’re the one who got the hammer from the guardian. And…” she looked crestfallen. “I don’t hear them singing any songs about you.” “Well,” he said easily, “it’s not my wedding.” “That’s not what I meant.” She looked almost frustrated. “I keep telling everypony what really happened, but it’s like—it’s like they want to forget that you even went with us.” “It’s okay, Cranberry.” Rye took a sip of wine. “A hero and his lady on a quest to save Equestria makes for a much more romantic tale than a trio of clueless nobodies fumbling their way to victory.” “But they’re just doing it because—” she bit her lip, “because you’re a pegacorn.” He sighed. “I know.” He took another sip of wine. “It’s okay, really.” “No it isn’t. It’s not fair.” Rye blinked thoughtfully. “I don’t think it’s about what’s fair.” He thought of a young, strong unicorn, running through the forest to deliver a message; of a desperate librarian trying to save his city; of a weak young colt born in a land that favored only the strong; of a brave soldier scarred and broken by war, but never beaten. “It’s about what you do with what you’re given.” He smiled at her. “I know the truth. Inger knows. My parents know. You know. And for now… that’s enough.” She sighed. “If… if you say so.” Inger nudged her. “Speaking of the Strudels, here they come.” Cranberry looked up. “Oh! We should go thank them for that marvelous cake.” She flashed Rye another sunny smile. “Talk to you later, Rye.” They left to meet his parents, leaving Rye alone with the Princess, who had sat quietly while he was talking. She looked out over the city as the sky darkened to a deep purple. “And so your quest comes to an end.” “Yes.” Rye stood beside her, watching the horizon. “I wanted to thank you, Princess.” Celestia blinked in surprise. “Whatever for?” “For sending me on this journey. For telling me I could. For believing in me, when I didn’t believe in myself.” He drained his wineglass. “The journey’s changed me, I think. And I think it’s a change for the better.” “I hope so,” she said sincerely. “But it was never intended to be its own reward.” Rye smiled ruefully and shook his head. “I don’t want any titles or money, Your Majesty.” “Actually,” she said dryly, “what I had in mind was a job.” “Oh?” “Your mother made it known to me that what you wanted more than anything in the world was to join the military. And after this war, we certainly need more soldiers. The officers’ corps is open to you, should you accept.” Rye’s eyes opened wide. For a moment, he felt as light as a feather. Could it really be as easy as that? Just say yes, and finally achieve what he’d wanted for so long? Again, thoughts of Dawn, and Tyrian, and Breyr all swam up through his memory. The feathery sensation faded. “I… thank you, Princess. I’m honored, truly. But…” He looked out over the city, gazing down at the buildings in various states of repair. “I realize now, that the military… it was never my dream, not really. It was never what I really wanted.” “And what would that be?” “A year ago, I might have said recognition. Now? I think… purpose? Meaningful purpose. To help Equestria as best I can. And I don’t think I can do that as an officer.” “Hm.” Celestia gave him a small smile. “There is another position open.” Rye’s eyebrow rose. “Mm?” “You managed to do the impossible when you united the thanes. Several hundred years’ deeply entrenched hatred and bitterness are not easily overcome. I could use somepony with that kind of talent in a lot of places.” She turned to face him. “You’d become a sort of ambassador du jour, going wherever I need you to solve crises or diplomatic quarrels that my regular ambassadors cannot handle. It’s not a duty to accept lightly, but it’s one I think you’d be suited for.” Rye’s mouth worked soundlessly. “I’ll… I will consider it, Princess.” “Of course. I will await your correspondence.” Celestia smiled. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have an appointment with that wedding cake.” She bent her head and took her leave. Rye looked into his empty wineglass and back up to the sky, lost in thought. * * * As the Strudel family re-entered the bakery, Rye heard his mother sigh contentedly. “That was a wonderful wedding. Reminds me of ours, love.” Apricot smiled. “It was a little louder.” They kissed. Rye stuck his tongue out. His mother laughed at him. “Well, Apricot, I’m afraid I did too much dancing tonight. I’m absolutely beat. Let’s go to bed, hm?” “Agreed.” Apricot looked back as they climbed the stairs. “Rye, would you mind helping me wash the plates tomorrow? I brought my good porcelain for the wedding, and they’re absolutely filthy.” “Sure, dad.” Rye waved to him. “Good night.” “Good night.” Windstreak yawned. “See you in the morning, Rye.” They vanished upstairs. Rye sat down at the dining room table, thinking. He tapped his hoof on the wood, running the Princess’s words over in his mind. At last, he brought over a pile of stationary, inkwell, and a quill, and set them on the table. He dipped the quill into the ink and scratched out the first words. Dear Princess Celestia, He paused, looking down at the letter. It’s not a duty to accept lightly. But I think it’s one you’d be suited for. He smiled and bent his head to write.