All was quiet. Aside from the librarian at the desk and the occasional guard, she was the only pony there. She was glad it was that way. She had a reputation to uphold.
The familiar scent of the Canterlot Archives made her very content. Despite her job of blasting music in various clubs, she enjoyed the peace and quiet, especially when she got to read for inspiration. That was the fun part. She'd read all sorts of stories, from the Tale of Two Cities by Charliehorse Dickens, to The Watchmaker's Apprentice by some other author whose name escaped her. But some had provided her enough inspiration for her to deem it worth the time to come here. Her greatest hit thus far was Manticores 'n Stuff, and that had been inspired in the dustiest, oldest library in Equestria.
The pale unicorn shook her head from her thoughts and focused in on the books on the shelves she'd chosen in her mental absence. To her surprise, she was in the non-fiction section of the ancient library, specifically near the Nightmare War. It took a moment to shake herself entirely back to reality, but she did, and started browsing the titles. When she came across one she found interesting, she carefully slid them out with her magic, setting them on a wooden table behind her.
Hours passed, and she had skimmed through seven of the twelve books she'd selected, finding nothing interesting. She sighed, almost bored, setting down her most recently finished book. She picked up the eighth from the stack. It was brown-leatherbound, with significant age showing just from the leather. However, the gold-edges of the pages was still as lustrous as ever, and the gilded title on the front and spine of the old tome were still clear and distinct. She smiled softly, reading the title:
The Final Push: Memoirs of a Guard
She opened the book, curious of its contents. Immediately, she lifted her sunglasses to read the foreword:
Within this book lie the memories of an average Solar Guard at the Battle of Noc'tren. The contents of this book are my memories, and like them, shall not be censored in any way. The content may be graphically disturbing, and thusly is not for foals. Reader discretion is highly recommended and encouraged.
~Private Gray Wing, 5th Dawn Battalion 21st Halberd Squad
"Interesting," she murmured to herself quietly. She flipped the page, and continued.
--
It was dark. It was very, very dark. So dark, that even with the campfires scattered across the plains, one would still see more by closing their eyes. But I had been told to keep a sharp lookout for an anticipated air-raid. So I watched the dark, stormy sky even though I couldn't see a thing.
"You'd think the Princess would tell the weather ponies to clear the skies," my buddy and wingpony grumbled, annoyed at his blindness.
"Even the civvies around here are loyal to Luna. Celestia has no authority here until we win," I retorted quickly, keeping my sightless eyes to the sky.
"Then why the hell don't we do it ourselves?" a much younger voice reasoned. I turned to the scrawny pegasus who was just barely old enough to have joined the Guard and completed training. "We're all pegasi here."
"Because red-tape," I growled, irked by the alabaster greenhoof. "We're humped if we do it. Eagle will have our flanks if we do anything without authorization."
"But we're humped if we don't clear the skies," he countered. "The loonies cou–"
"And there's that beautiful Catch Twenty-Two," my wingpony interjected, shutting the greenhoof up. I offered one of my scratched and rough stone-gray hooves, which he promptly bumped with one of his own brown ones. He turned his gaze back to the sky, watching the expanse of pitch in its viscosity. His ear twitched, shifting his dirty, blood-stained blond mane.
"Hear anything, Tic?" I asked, knowing he did. What specifically he heard was the real question, and he knew it.
"Somepony dropped a halberd on a cloud," he answered, closing his eyes. "Enchanted weapon. Cobalt core. Loonie weapon."
"Doesn't 'Keet have a Loonie's halberd?" the greenhoof on my left asked, shifting his weight on the wooden watchtower's floorboards. They groaned in protest. "Could it be him?"
"Could, but I highly doubt. Loonies have the upper skyline right now. If it were daylight out, I'd let it slide. But it's nighttime. I smell a raid."
"Should we call it in?" the greenhoof asked warily.
There was a deafening screech from above the clouds. The instant I realized what it was, my blood curdled like lemonade mixed with milk, and my heart pounded at the bone bars of its prison cell in my chest. The purest fear I'd felt in the war was that single scream. The bitterness of coffee grinds filled my mouth and dried it in an instant. I opened my mouth to scream, but was beaten to the punch.
"IIIIIIIIINNNNNCOOOOMMMMMMIIIIIIIIIIIIIIINNNNNNNG!!!!!"
The entire camp of roughly twenty-thousand troops awoke in a flurry of action. Armor was donned, weapons drawn, and battle cries hollered to the night. The distinctive sounds of war that I knew too well for comfort. But what disturbed me more was not the scream, but the lack of diving thestrals following the sound waves. Each second without their leathery flapping was an eternity of solitary confinement in a sound-proof box. The silence was deafening. The air was charged with static, ready to burst out at any moment.
Thirty... I counted. Thirty-one... Thirty-two...
Forty seconds passed with no attack. Fifty. A minute. Everyone in camp held their defensive poses, arms at the ready, like statues. Sculptures frozen in fear as though by a cockatrice's gaze were we. Only twice did Tic's ear twitch, and that was to flick a carrion-fly away. Only eyes moved, shifting rapidly across the sky like hyperactive rabbits.
Two minutes passed without attack. Three. Five. Eternities of still hell rapidly gouged deep wrinkles in even the youngest of the soldiers. The greenhoof on my left was tense enough to appear made of solid obsidian. He gripped his bow tightly, an arrow already nocked and pulled back just far enough to be a lethal shot at one-hundred meters, but not quite enough to snap the bow.
Ten minutes passed, and a few scattered soldiers had returned to ease, but remained sharply alert. They moved a little bit, pacing maybe. But for the most part the camp remained still, watching the dark sky above.
"Oi! Parakeet Feather! Take your unit up and see what the hell that was!" the gruff bark of our griffon colonel Eagle Beak resounded. My eyes shifted to the bright yellow pegasus known as "'Keet" and his comrades, who stared at the tight-as-a-piano-string colonel as though he were mad. They were all tense. I had no doubts that everyone in camp could feel the tension and perhaps slice it with their halberds.
Another shriek echoed in the night, freezing everyone in place once again. Anyone who had their wings open before it quickly found their wings had gone yeep, clinging tightly to their sides like foals who'd just had nightmares. Even Eagle's wings had latched onto his sides, and his neck feathers had prickled up slightly. It did not help our morale seeing that reaction from the tough-as-cinderblocks griffon that had been giving us our orders for the past month of grueling battles through the heart of the shadowlands.
--