//------------------------------// // Interlude #1: Flying on the Blindside // Story: Before the Storm: The Rise of Firefly // by Firesight //------------------------------// At this point, I feel it necessary for there to be a brief interruption in my narrative. This chapter will instead be written by another pony; one who would, in time, join me in founding the Bolt Knights. A mare who fought not one but two undesirable stigmas, and came out triumphant. One who blindsided tradition, much as I did… and in the end became not just a legendary flyer but a lifelong friend. Birth of a Bolt Knight “No… you must be mistaken! ’Tis simply impossible…” “I’m sorry, but ’tis the truth. Your foal is healthy in every other respect; however, she is blind in her left eye.” “But… she is a pegasus! Pegasi cannot be blind, even in one eye! They just… can’t!” “The evidence is before you, Miss. You can see it for yourself.” “But… can it not be fixed?” “My sincerest apologies, madam. But, as her birth defect is innate and not due to physical or magical injury, there is nothing we can do.” Such was the conversation between my mother and the healer who’d delivered me from her womb. I was a healthy ball of scarlet energy, possessed of a vibrant yellow mane, one blue eye, and one blind eye. The last was certainly cause for distress for my mother. And worse, her woes had just begun. My father, the stallion who sired me, did not take the news well. He demanded I be left at an orphanage, claiming that ‘a crippled pegasus is not fit to be my foal!’ My mother refused; despite my handicap, she declared that I was of her flesh and blood, and she would never abandon me, raising me alone if she must. For her trouble, she was thrown out of his herd, nary an hour after my birth. Such circumstances would have broken most mares. Having just delivered a foal, told their foal has a permanent disability, and then cast out of the herd for refusing to abandon said foal… ’tis a wonder my mother retained her strength. Yet retain it she did, finding work in Cloudsdale to provide for the two of us. My mother is one of the strongest mares I’ve ever known; not in body or mind, but in spirit. And for that unbreakable will she in turn imparted to me, I shall always be grateful. Over the years, some few ponies have gathered the courage to ask me, “What was it like growing up with wings and but a single working eye?” My answer for them was thus: “Difficult.” As I said, I am very grateful to my mother for how she raised me. With the name Sweet Leaf, she was very kind-natured as well as strong-willed. She was a crimson-bodied mare, with a maroon mane and tail. Her cutie mark was that of a tea leaf, and after being cast out by a ’father’ whose name I’ve never thought worth knowing, she earned a living as a teamaker, eventually going on to run her own business in Cloudsdale. Nevertheless, she smothered me for the longest time, treating me as though I were but a fragile teacup. To be fair, there was reason for this; being blind in one eye, I was exceptionally accident-prone for a foal. My lack of depth perception has certainly given me more than my fair share of injuries. Broken wings, broken legs, sprains, twists… Any injury that can happen to a pegasus has happened to me at some point in my life. The majority of such injuries were during my foalhood years, and as a consequence Mother forbade me from participating in most play and sports. Injuries were not my only concern. Other pegasus foals teased me mercilessly, calling me all sorts of names. ’One-Eye’, ’Cyclops’, ’Winky’; I have heard them all and then some. To be fair, my own name of Blindside was less than flattering itself, but then, my mother oft complained of me ’blindsiding’ her whenever she came home. ’Twas in jest, of course, but it eventually stuck, and Mother decided to have it officially changed (I was originally named Fireball, reflecting my color scheme and seemingly boundless energy, to say nothing of my penchant for all but bouncing off the walls when she came home). But, my disability was only part of the problem. Somehow, it became known that my mother was raising me by herself, and had been since my birth. Thus, some foals and even adults took to calling me the hated term ’mis-born’, a word which stung me worse than any insult about my eyes. To be mis-born is to be considered somehow beneath other properly reared ponies and tainted, unworthy of knowing or of future acceptance into a relationship or herd. Rather ironic when I would one day come home a hero, and stallions would be lining up to court me. After I came home from school one too many times in tears from all the teasing, Mother decided to buy me an eyepatch. At first I wore it just to placate her; I couldn’t imagine—and didn’t have the heart to tell her—that just hiding my problem would not make the teasing stop. Much to my bewilderment and delight, however… it actually worked! I was teased far less often, for either my upbringing or my disability, once I donned the eyepatch. When I asked why, I was told that the patch made me look more rakish and intimidating; like a young soldier who’d seen battle. Like a soldier… I repeated to myself, and the thought stuck with me; I decided to look into it more later. Once I learned how to fly, of course. Mentors and Self-Mastery Flight school was a different level of Tartarus for me. My instructors seemed to not know how to handle my disability, and I was eventually foisted off on the Remedial Flyers’ course. Mother nearly had an apoplexy when she heard this; the Remedial Flyers’ course was known to be where ’problem’ foals were sent, a dumping ground of sorts for troublemakers. That said, I don’t recall my classmates, whom for the most part either ignored or tormented me, but I do recall my instructor: Thunderbolt, a lithe, lean stallion with an ashen coat and brilliant yellow mane, a kind and endlessly patient coach whose eyes seemed too old for his still-young body, on the flank of which sat a single jagged lightning bolt. I remember his first words to us to this day: “Do not let this class’s reputation deceive you. I am here to get you baby birds off the ground and into the air. Whether your shortcomings are physical or temperamental in nature, I will teach you,” he said with great surety, and though it might have been an unattainable boast coming from anyone else, somehow from him, I believed it. He did not disappoint. He worked with us one by one, identifying our problems and helping each of us get airborne, overcome not just our physical issues but our mental ones. When he came to me, he paused but was not in the least bit discouraged. “Well, now. This… will be a challenge.” I still don’t understand why he smiled when he said that. The Remedial Flyers’ course lasted several months. During that time, he focused much of his effort on me. Not on helping me fly, as I could get off the ground on my own. No, his efforts were spent towards helping me to fly well, training my other senses to pick up the slack on my left side. Under his tutelage, I developed a sixth sense of sorts—a heightened awareness to cover my lack of field and depth perception. I don’t know that I can explain it except to say that, over time, I gained a much better sense of airflow and sound than I gather is the pegasus norm, integrating it with my remaining vision to form a very clear picture of what was happening around me. Regardless of how my new abilities worked, I was soon flying, in my mentor’s words, ’like an otter swims’, effortlessly navigating the airstreams and obstacle courses alike. ’Twas when I finally reached that point that I earned my Cutie Mark as well; my reward for completing the final flying course in record time was a pair of wings with an eyepatch between them, showing that I could perform great feats of flight in spite of my shortcomings, my skills now the equal of any in my training class. After the course ended, I thanked Thunderbolt profusely for his aid. When he asked me what I planned to do with my life, I mentioned an interest in joining the Equestrian military. He looked surprised, then pleased. “Truly?” He considered me for a moment, then wrote something down on a piece of parchment. “Show that to the recruitment officer when you reach your age of maturity,” he said, rolling up the scroll before passing it to me. “’Tis a letter of recommendation for entry into the Aerial Corps, our most experienced combat arm.” He smiled, and added, “They have need of strong flyers and will be lucky to have you. ’Tis no doubt in my mind you will make many waves in the military, Blindside.” “Thank you, sir, but why wouldst you recommend me?” I asked, touched by the gesture and favor shown me. Thunderbolt smiled a bit sadly. “I was once part of the Corps myself, young one. An officer who lost his heart and retired into the reserves after one too many battles with the gryphons,” he explained somewhat shortly. “’Tis no longer for me, but methinks it may yet be for you. Methinks you will thrive there, though I shall warn you, ’tis not a decision for the faint of heart. You must be prepared for trials that will challenge you in ways beyond what you could imagine.” He paused, then added, “I would also recommend you broaden your knowledge of the military and related matters, by reading tomes on the subjects.” I very nearly blanched. “Reading? What possible purpose could that serve me?” His gaze at that remark was one of pure reproach, and I shrank back slightly. “Those wings may keep you in the air, but ’tis this that makes them function in the first place,” he admonished me, tapping my forehead as he spoke. “The smarter you are, the smarter you fly. You wouldst do well to remember that, young filly.” I nodded slowly, and in deep chagrin. It made sense, thinking about it later; after all, there wasn’t much point in knowing how to fly without also knowing why or when. And likewise, there wasn’t point in living without purpose; a goal to fly towards and something to fight for. I thanked Thunderbolt and left, not suspecting I would see him again one day. Or that he would one day be training me again, in matters far graver than this. * * * * * As the years passed, and I slowly came closer to marehood, I took my first mentor’s words to heart. Whilst I practiced flying, I also became engrossed in reading on the Equestrian armed forces and related subject matters; my mother remarked one time that had it not been for my wings, she might have mistaken my scholarly nature for a unicorn. I didn’t rise to the bait, however; part of my reading included the tale of the Hearth’s Warming, and how ’twas the unity of the three tribes that allowed us to break free of the Windigoes’ evil. Though I had seen very few unicorns or earth ponies in Cloudsdale, I swore then I would treat members of the other tribes with the same respect I would show another pegasus. As time passed, I found myself with a surprising hunger for additional knowledge, as my reading eventually expanded past military matters and history. I also learned mathematics by studying from books on finances; a fact which ended up saving Mother and I from financial difficulty on a few occasions. Mother, as I said before, had her strength in spirit, not in body or mind. That is not to say she was unintelligent or careless, but that she would sometimes attempt to live beyond her means in her zeal to provide for me. I became quick to remind her to be more prudent in such matters, and before long it seemed I was as much taking care of her as the other way around, even handling the bulk of her business affairs and doing the accounting for her teamaking shop. Despite my duties to her and my newfound love of reading, I did not neglect the physical aspect of preparing for entering the armed forces. I flew laps around the neighborhood daily, lifted weights, and performed other exercises, honing my body as well as my mind. My remaining foalhood fat burned away as I trained, replaced with sleek muscle. Some other pegasi, after hearing my intentions, decided to join me on my training and we sparred frequently, attending every air show and combat demonstration we could. Still, what began as a group numbering twenty dropped to but six over the years, as others decided that military life was simply not their calling. And then came the day I reached my age of maturity. * * * * * Sergeant First Class Heatseeker, the recruitment officer for the Equestrian Aerial Corps in Cloudsdale, looked askance at me as he sorted my paperwork. “Well, for the most part, your application would seem to have no problems. You’re clearly quite fit, and quite learned as well, if your writing is any indication. However…” he trailed off, searching for the appropriate words, his gaze repeatedly going to my covered eye. “However,” I broke in, my single visible eye narrowed, “the fact that I am blind in one eye is a complication, correct?” He coughed slightly. “Er, well, yes… please understand, we have never had a pegasus with such a disability apply for the Corps before…” “’Tis always a first time for everything, Sergeant,” I said smoothly. “And I wish this first time to belong to me. I expect no special treatment; I will succeed or fail on the same terms as any other recruit. I simply asked I be judged on those same terms as well.” “There is some truth in that,” he admitted. “Very well, your flight and written test scores are certainly more than adequate and I shall send your application through. However, I would brace yourself for letters, several of them, asking if this is what you truly want to do.” I smiled, and pulled out the letter Thunderbolt had written years ago. I’d kept it safe in a lockbox in my bedroom, my most prized possession awaiting for years its opportunity to be used. Sliding it across to him, I wasn’t able to keep the smile off my face as I said, “Send that along with the paperwork.” Blinking, he broke the seal on the letter, and read it. His eyes widened. “Lieutenant Thunderbolt…” He read the signature in surprise. He then looked over the paper at me, and I saw him smile. “Well, this should do wonders for your acceptance, my dear. Thunderbolt was well-respected during his time in the Corps and his departure was a great loss to us. If he is recommending you, then I for one shall trust his judgement.” I nodded and grinned, reaching across the desk to bump the recruiter’s offered hoof. “Thank you for your consideration, sir.” Trials of Training Just one month later, a recruit class of one hundred pegasi, myself included, stood in ranks at the entrance of Fort Stratus, as we were given a rather harsh dressing-down by the resident Sergeant Major, Rolling Thunder. He was older and perchance less fit than most military ponies, having a slight paunch, but his voice boomed like his namesake. He was coming down the line in reverse alphabetical order, insulting each trainee in some creative fashion or another. When he came to me, he paused. “Trainee, what in the name of the sun and moon is that?” he asked, pointing at my head. “Sir, ’tis an eyepatch, sir!” I replied smartly. Stating the obvious, I quickly found, was a good way to get glared at. “I’m aware of what it is, trainee. I’m asking what is it doing on your face?” Instead of answering properly, I simply pulled the eyepatch aside, revealing my blind eye. There were gasps from my neighbors, who had apparently thought I was just making a fashion statement of sorts. Rolling Thunder, too, seemed notably startled, losing his gruff drill sergeant persona for just a moment. “Trainee, how long have you had this… problem?” he said somewhat tactfully. “Sir, I was born this way, sir!” I told him without any hesitation or shame. “And ’tis no problem at all!” He got up in my face at my declaration, shock morphing to disgust. “So you’re saying you’ve been half-blind since the day you were born. A disability that, among pegasi, could be fatal to both you and those around you—especially in combat! What in Celestia’s sweet name makes you think you can get anywhere in the Corps?!” he all but snarled in my face. I heard a number of my fellow trainees mutter in agreement. One male voice called out, “Yeah, filly! You should get your other eye checked, because this isn’t the place for a cripple!” That comment rose my ire. Replacing the patch, I broke my bearing to glare back at Rolling Thunder. “Sir, ’tis no hinderance or disability at all! Wouldst you like a demonstration, sir?” He blinked, and then smirked, apparently thinking he was going to wash me out quickly. “Fair enough.” He led the class to a sparring ring, and gestured for me to get into the center. Looking out over the class, he eventually pointed to another trainee. “You! Trainee Shrike! Get in there!” As the trainee approached, I saw he was a stallion. He was also the one who had insulted me, as I recognized his voice when he spoke up on entering the ring. “Hope you weren’t planning on making a career out of this, one-eye,” he said as he cricked his neck twice and gave me a mocking grin. I held back my ire; one thing I’d read repeatedly was that those who lost control of their emotions gave control of the fight to their enemy. “I was, in fact, planning to do just that. And just what do you intend to do about it, Shriek?” I deliberately misstated his name. Methinks I’d sparred with, but never fought, a stallion before—fighting a male was something mares just didn’t do—but here I found there was no hesitation at all. I would grind his nose into the dirt if that’s what it would take to make clear to all I was no cripple. His eyes narrowed. “It’s Shrike to you, cyclops!” he snarled, as Rolling Thunder looked between us. “If I win, you turn around and walk right out those gates right now!” he pointed at the front entrance through which we had passed not an hour earlier. “Agreed,” I told him without any worry or hesitation, a gleam in my good eye. “And if I win, your name is Shriek for the rest of training!” I added, to snickers. Even Rolling Thunder smirked, though he was apparently as certain as the other recruits that this wasn’t going to be a contest at all. “Trainees Blindside and Shrike! This is light contact sparring only!” he admonished us both. “Flight cannot leave the ring or clear the top of the boundary poles or ’tis an automatic forfeit. There is also to be no bloodshed; the bout is won by a ten-count knockout or submission! Are these terms understood?” He looked to us both, awaiting our nods. “Then GO!” he brought his hoof down with a sharp slash. He was right that it wasn’t a contest at all, just not in the way he thought. What happened was less a fight, and more an example of stage comedy. At first I simply ducked and wove my way around Shrike’s attacks, making a point to keep my blind eye pointed towards him the entire time, evading him with the exclusive aid of my other senses and almost otherworldly awareness I’d gained over the years. I didn’t retaliate; I just dodged him repeatedly, driving home the futility of his efforts. With every missed and increasingly wild swing, my opponent grew more and more enraged. Off to the side, I could see Rolling Thunder shaking his head in amazement and disgust as Shrike screamed obscenities at me. Then Shrike said something I had to respond to. “You arrogant horse! Stop dodging and start fighting!” The entire field went silent, as I finally turned my good eye toward him, narrowing it. “Wouldst you like to repeat that, Shriek?” Steam blew out his nose. “You heard me! You’re just an arrogant, cyclopean, stick-figure horse who has no business being here!” he bit out, stomping his hoof repeatedly in anger. I could have said the same thing of him as a male among mares, but I didn’t, deciding I would once again answer with my actions. One moment I was standing before him and the next, I was inside his guard, striking his flight muscles and knocking his forelegs out from under him. As he toppled forward with a pained cry, his wings numbed and now unusable, I latched onto his flailing limbs, pinning them behind his back and over his wings. He slammed face-first into the sandy ground, with me sitting on his back, holding his forelegs there—‘twas certainly a strain given he was a stallion and thus stronger, but I had leverage and plenty of practice—as years of personal training and sparring matches with my friends served me well. This had two effects; the first was that he’d stopped screaming, too stunned by what had just happened. The second was that the rest of the ponies present, Rolling Thunder included, were staring in astonishment at how fast I’d moved and how easily I’d pinned his larger form beneath me. Finally, another awestruck trainee began counting seconds out loud. After a full ten seconds, Rolling Thunder remembered himself. “That’s the count! Trainee Blindside wins the bout!” With his declaration, I got up off of newly-minted Trainee Shriek, who rose unsteadily to his hooves, staring at me in shock. I gave him a smile. “Don’t worry. You aren’t the first pony to be blindsided by me, trainee Shriek.” I drove home the terms of my victory with a sweet smile. With those words, I exited the ring as a glance back showed him staring after me in frustration and at least one small measure of awe. * * * * * Compared to that eventful opening, the rest of basic training passed without incident for me. My days were almost all the same, an endless but monotonous array of morning drills followed by afternoon classes and evening exercises that quickly blended into each other, occasionally interspersed with mealtimes, inspections and instructor screaming. Our routine didn’t really change until the final month, when we began to have actual field exercises and combat drills pitting us against our instructors. Those were more interesting at least, as tactical problems gave me a chance to exercise my intellect in unexpected ways. Aerial Corps basic training lasts ten weeks, which is standard for the Equestrian military; only the Royal Guard has a longer training period. During those ten weeks, I proved myself to be one of the best trainees in the class. Whether it was sparring or classwork, physical training or weapons drills, I excelled in all areas, even weather wielding. Rolling Thunder made it a point to drive me harder than the rest of the class; this was, as I later learned, so that he would not be thought to be taking it easy on me due to my disability. I did not mind, and in the end, it paid off. I graduated with the rank of Corporal, one of only five in the class to do so. Over a third of the one hundred pegasi had washed out during training, leaving but five and sixty to graduate. ’Twas, according to Rolling Thunder, a larger than average washout rate, but not the worst he’d seen. We were given leave to celebrate our graduation, and nearly all of us retired to the local watering hole outside Fort Stratus, Trots’ Pub, still attired in our new dark blue dress uniforms and white fur dye, the signature color of the Corps. ’Twas a time for our trainee class to celebrate our accomplishments, spending one last night together before we went our separate ways and assignments. Some veterans joined as as well, to congratulate us on joining them. And ’twas whilst we were downing a mug of apple ale, one of the them mentioned something startling. “So everypony’s heard of Sergeant Major Windshear, right?” It was a rhetorical question: not a pony who went through training at Fort Stratus remained unaware of that name. An entire training field had been renamed in honor of the now-legendary pegasus, a Defender of Harmony winner whose exploits were discussed in hushed tones—a stallion who by all accounts had nearly single-hoofedly saved a settlement and defeated an elite gryphon warrior; a stallion who had been Knighted by Celestia herself and now trained new pegasus members of the Royal Guard at Fort Spur. “We have. What’s your point?” Private Shrike asked. To his credit, he hadn’t quit after the humiliation I dealt him, redoubling his own training efforts in response. In fact, a subsequent sparring match we’d had just before graduation had been a far closer affair; one that had ended in mutual respect. “Well,” the veteran mare said in a conspiratorial tone, “I have a cousin who just graduated Royal Guard training. And he told me in a letter that one recruit had to have a full combat duel with Windshear in order to graduate.” I snorted into my glass. “Methinks that trainee left Fort Spur in bandages and tears,” I mused, to the laughter of the others. “Not so,” the veteran said with a shake of the head. “According to my cousin, she bested the Sergeant Major!” Everypony, including the bartender, stared at her in shock. “Truly? ‘Tis not a jest?” asked a dumbfounded Shrike as we realized she was serious. “Sergeant Major Windshear was bested in single combat?” “She?” Myself and several other graduates echoed at nearly the same time. “I was under the impression that the Royal Guard accepted only stallions at Fort Spur.” “My cousin, Hazewing, swears to Celestia that ’tis the truth, on both counts,” the veteran said with a nod. “A female Guardspony recruit defeated Sergeant Major Windshear in single combat… and graduated with the rank of Sergeant. He says he saw it all.” The bar fell silent for a moment. “If even half of what you say is true, I’ll drink an entire flagon of the house brew,” another veteran said. This earned a startled laugh from everypony; the house brew had the consistency of tar, and ’twas rumored that a goldfish lived in the barrel. “Does this mystery mare Sergeant have a name, according to your cousin?” I asked her in curiosity. She looked to the ceiling. “Methinks he said her name was… Firefly.” Fateful Meeting Two weeks later, I received my first marching orders, and they did surprise me. I had thought that given my bookish nature, I would either be assigned to division headquarters or go on to more specialized training in fields like logistics or intelligence. But ’twas not to be. My performance in basic convincing my superiors I was prime combat material and a promising young NCO, I was instead named a new squad leader, to be deployed to the Equestrian frontier immediately. As a corporal, I was assigned a squad of three flights, comprised of two PFC’s and ten Privates—one of them was Private Shrike, rather ironically, but we had long settled matters between us and he accepted his assignment amicably. The only stallion of my squad, he would even become my third flight leader before long. Our destination was Outpost Epsilon, on the Gryphon border. My surprise must have shown on my face, because Rolling Thunder hastened to assure me that ’twasn’t a dangerous posting—that they hadn’t lost a single soldier in ten years as ’twas “but a backwater base” on the furthest fringe of the frontier. Its remote locale, I was told, made it ideal for new Corps pegasi to get some seasoning; recruit graduates often took a six-month tour of duty there before moving on to more hazardous assignments. Despite the promise of safety, I had mixed feelings as my squad and I boarded the carriage early the next morning, wondering what awaited us out there. Certainly, the gryphons were our prime potential enemy, and much of our training at Fort Stratus was directed at them, though we certainly received instruction regarding other races like dragons or diamond dogs. ‘Twould be a lie to say some part of me wasn’t eager for action whether it was at Epsilon or some other future posting, wanting to put my training and hard-earned abilities to the ultimate test. But another part of me wondered how it would change me and was wary of the danger we would face, especially given the veterans had some truly harrowing stories to tell of gryphon raids. To be in command of an entire squad changed things as well. I trusted my own abilities in a fight, certainly, but now I had to learn to lead other ponies properly. It was more responsibility than I’d ever known before, and I didn’t yet know if I was the equal of it. Such thoughts weighed on me heavily during our daylong flight to the border. It would be a longer trip still, as it turned out; the unicorn naval airedale piloting the transport told us we were also stopping at Fort Spur to receive a Royal Guardspony graduate. This made me wonder idly if I would be meeting the ’Firefly’ that had been foremost among all the gossip in the armed forces as of late. It seemed unlikely, but somehow the thought stuck with me… and was quickly confirmed as she indeed did join our journey. I’ll never forget the moment I laid eyes on her. As she climbed into the carriage, I knew her to be a mare from her slight frame and rounded snout. I could, however, see the muscle that bulged beneath her armored form, and knew she was far stronger than her frame would suggest… and the look in her eyes told me that the had a spirit and strength of will to match her powerful body. And as our eyes met, I felt a tingle in the air, like I’d just entered the presence of fate itself. Perchance it was my heightened awareness, perchance it was just a premonition that soldiers sometimes sense. But somehow, at that moment, I knew the mare before me was meant to make history. And somehow, I also knew that I would be there with her when she did.