The Castle Canterlot

by Honey Mead

Chapter 14

Darkness prevailed over the whole of the disk. A full twenty four hours since the last of Sol’s light had danced across Ioka’s mountains and plains, slipping off the edge into the unknowable beyond. In the sky, there were but the stars and Selene, unmasked, her true face laid bear and all the stranger for it. And how she shined, all silver and white, illuminating the streets like never before, but not enough, never enough. The darkness remained, heavy, oppressive beyond what a mere lack of light could attest, a weight that pressed upon them like… like…

Scribble Blackwell sighed, her sleep addled mind failing, stumbling for but a moment and losing the momentum that had safeguarded her thoughts. The hour was unknown to her, the small alarm clocks with illuminated tines and numbers hidden behind her spouses’ heads. It had to be after midnight by now, for all that meant in a world without a Sun. Later, in the hours to come, these thoughts would coalesce more fully into worries about food supplies and the potential effects on a pony’s state of mind, but for the moment, as she lay in a muddled state surrounded by her loves, they meant little beyond how much she would hate having to wear a watch and finding one that her husband wouldn’t complain about every time he saw it.

The mare half draped across her barrel shifted, a cream foreleg squeezing her ribs while the associated nose, already buried in her neck and mane, tried to nuzzle deeper still. Scribble’s hoof, already cradling her wife’s head, stroked the pale-strawberry locks in search of some distraction for her mind. This, it turned out, was a mistake.

With an groggy murmur, Rosanthum roused unwillingly from the edge of sleep and tilted her head to dig the tip of her horn into Scribble’s cheek. “Last night was bad enough, Inky. Go to sleep.”

The Madam Speak of the House of Ladies, one of the most powerful mortals on the disk, wilted into the mattress, crestfallen and petulant, yet unwilling to risk waking her wife anymore than she had and hoping that that was the last she’d hear from her until morning. Closing her eyes, Scribble listened to the comforting sounds of life filling the room, the sharp yet hushed synchronized ticking of two alarm clocks and the soft breaths of the three ponies that surrounded her, even her second wife’s occasional snore and her husband’s ever present murmuring were welcome, little accents that, after so many years, helped ease her toward sleep. Or should have, would have any other night. In the subsequent minutes that passed like hours, she transitioned from counting sheep, to recalling the first night of her second honeymoon watching Sol set over the ocean, to thinking of nothing at all.

None of it worked, and restlessness quickly got the better of her, translating into tiny, ineffectual attempts to get more comfortable.

Rosanthum nipped at Scribble’s neck, pinching a tab of skin hard enough to elicit a hiss. “That’s it,” she added immediately after letting go, “let’s go.”

She was already halfway out of the bed before Scribble could grab a hold of her hoof and stop her. Their eyes met in the half-light. In those two seconds that she held on, Scribble silently plead with her wife to stop, to return to bed and let this pass. The look Rosanthum returned dispelled her hope, and she followed, reluctantly slipping from their bed and into the hallway.

“Correct me if I’m wrong,” Rosanthum said once the door closed and cut them off from their still sleeping spouses, “but I was certain we talked about this.”

She stood at the top of the stairs, paused with her eyes focused on the barely visible stairwell.  Closing the gap, Scribble affectionately bumped her nose into Rosanthum’s hock. The gesture was not appreciated, her wife’s tail snapping against her face as she started down the stairs, Scribble close on her heels.

“Rosa…”

“No. You promised you wouldn’t do this anymore.”

“That’s not fair.”

Rosanthum stopped at the bottom of the stairs, spinning to face her, their noses nearly colliding. “Fair?” she asked, her angry tone bridled by her whispering voice. “I don’t give a damn about fair. You promised. You swore to all of us that you wouldn’t do this anymore.”

“And I’ve kept my word, haven’t I? I know I messed up yesterday, and I’m sorry about that, but this,” Scribble waved a hoof over her head, “this is not the same.”

“This is supposed to be our time, Inky. Equestria and Celestia get you all day, but when you are home, I want you to be home. That’s what you promised. No more late nights. No more disappearing into your office all day. No more not coming to bed every other night. No more missing our children’s—”

“I’m doing the best I can! What more do you want from me?”

“I want you to stop paying me lip service and do what you promised.”

And Scribble could not let the opening pass.“But I thought you liked my lip service.”

A dollop of strawberry spread across the cream of Rosanthum’s cheeks, an adorable glow undermining her ire and drawing a silly grin from her wife. There was nothing for it. All Rosanthum could do was throw her head back and whiny in exasperation, stomping ineffectively against the bottom step. With a final snort, she spun around and marched off toward the library. Scribble plaintively calling her name did not slow her at all, hampered as it was by the amusement infecting her voice.

Rosanthum didn’t so much as acknowledge her wife’s existence until they were surrounded by walls of books. A pair of table lamps were set alight, and she was sitting in Scribble’s own wing-back chair. For Scribble, there were only two seats left to choose from, either the long couch adjacent to her wife or the loveseat with the coffee table between them. Her humor flagged quickly under Rosanthum’s glare, nearly driving her to the loveseat, as though the table and distance would offer any sort of protection. Instead, she settled on the couch, drawing into herself as the silence settled between them.

And there they remained, Scribble shifting uncomfortably as Rosanthum all but tapped her hoof until her patience finally snapped.

“Out with it. Tell me what’s wrong.”

“What am I supposed to say?” Scribble slumped and dropped onto her back, stretching across the length of the couch. Her hooves became animated, waving as she spoke in unintended imitation of her father. “The whole disk has been flipped like a bit and no one knows which side will land face up. Celestia is missing, and without her Sol might as well not exist. This was never part of the plan; all of it just assumes that Celestia will be there. We’re all galloping blind! What am I supposed to tell Script? She’s been working so hard—”

“Inky!”

“I know. I know.” Scribble forced herself to calm, her eyes closing momentarily and her lips moving in silent prayers to Celestia and Faust. “The Princess is fine,” she finally said out loud. “She always has been. How could she not be? She has to be.” Her calm started to fracture, and with it her legs waving once more. “But what if she’s not? What if she’s not coming back? I know! I know. I shouldn’t even think such things, but just yesterday the idea that she would be so much as a minute late was unconscionable, and now she’s missed an entire day. An entire day, Rosa! She’s a Goddess for Harmony sake! She supposed to be eternal, as ever-present and permanent as the ground beneath our hooves. That’s what they’ve been telling us since forever.

“She’s the cornerstone of our government, our country, our every thought and conception of the world is built upon the… the… the verisimilitude of her being. Our treaties and agreements with every other nation are based on the universal belief that Celestia is as permanent and reliable as Sol, and now?” Scribble’s hooves spread wide before dropping limply off the back and front of the sofa. “Now, who knows what will happen. Our hold over the Queendoms was predicated on Celestia. As if that wasn’t already enough of a mess, who knows how the Zebras and the Griffons will react? The Pegasus Horde is as likely to implode as it is to decide to ‘relocate’ into their neighbors’ territory again. What of the Neighponiees? The Indoponiesians? And none of them count for a stalk of wheat compared to Cadence. Faust save us from the young.”

Throughout her wife’s rant, Rosanthum had remained silent, smiling despite herself at Scribble’s display. Her annoyance had started to retreat back on the stairs, allowing concern to take its place. She held on to it, of course, fully intending on addressing it again at a more appropriate time. For now, however, she slipped from the chair and stepped toward the couch, asking, “Young?”

“You know what I mean.”

“I do.” Sitting beside the couch, she nuzzled Scribble’s cheek. “Now why don’t you tell me what’s really keeping you awake?”

Scribble leaned into the gesture, whispering, “I’m afraid. I’m terrified that she will decide we aren’t necessary.”

Rosanthum pulled back, her muzzle twisting skeptically. “Don’t be ridiculous. The Council has been a part of Equestria since Princess Celestia took the throne. She can’t—”

“But she can. Even if it isn’t explicitly written in our laws. Celestia could have dismissed us with a single word and no pony would have dared to stand in her way. Our power exists only because Celestia granted it and nopony has thought to question it, yet. If everypony stopped listening to us we would be nothing more than a group of rich ponies shouting at a deaf crowd. That Cadence is not Celestia makes her no less a goddess. Her authority is innate, and no matter her history, ponies will follow her over us without hesitation. All it will take is the wrong push and it’s all over, and you know how some of my colleagues are.”

“But—”

“But nothing. She’s an alicorn, Rosa. I might be able keep our holdings, but beyond that?” Scribble hooves shifted aimlessly for a moment before curling tight against her barrel.

“She can’t be foolish enough to cast aside what Celestia preserved for so long.” Rosa took one of Scribble’s hooves with two of her own, grasping it tightly between them. “She will see the wisdom…” She trailed off at Scribble’s shaking head.

“No. I can only see her growing frustrated. The phrase is ‘as patient as Celestia’ not ‘as patient as a goddess.’”

Rosanthum’s eyes drifted along with her thoughts, traveling across the room and tracing over the shelf-lined walls and the dimly lit books. “You know,” she said, smiling sadly, “I should be happy about this, you know.”

“Heh. I suppose so. If I were the suspicious type, I’d think it was your plan all along.” Rosanthum’s confusion showed as she refocused on Scribble. “I can see you now, sneaking into the restricted archives, attending clandestine meetings with unsavory wizards, making dark pacts with demons and worse, all just to force me out of my office once and for all. It has your name written all over it. Just like when you slipped Love Potion Number Nine into my tea.”

Rosanthum’s hoof shot to her muzzle in a failed attempt to stifle a snort and hide her blush. “Faust, you still remember that?”

“Remember it? I can still taste it!”

“It wasn’t that bad!” Rosanthum whined, trying to pull her hoof back and hunch in on herself. Scribble was having none of it. Keeping hold of her hoof, Scribble dragged her, protesting all the while, up the couch and into a warm embrace. “How was I supposed to know it didn’t work like that?”

“You mean other than your mother spraying it into her mane every morning?”

Rosanthum’s plaintive whine only made Scribble’s grin wider as she closed her eyes and sighed. Both fell into an all too brief quiet after that, relaxing into each other’s warmth and comforting presence.

“You can’t let it end like this,” Rosanthum whispered just as sleep began to take her.

“I won’t, I promise.”

Large though the room might have been, it was possessed of a smallness that needled an itch between Snow Blind’s wings and tested her restraint. Such common maladies should have been beneath her, relegated to the undisciplined feather-brains who couldn’t so much as keep their hooves on the ground for more than a minute at a time. Yet, standing as she was, stock still and waiting, she couldn’t set it aside as she liked. Driven on turbulent winds, her thoughts could not escape the world outside, the open skies she hadn’t cruised in far too long. A successful career had done nothing to appease her baser desires.

Laid out before her, asleep… no, not asleep, unconscious, was Captain Igneous Quartz. The brutish earth pony mare looked no less intimidating for her broken, bandaged, and senseless state. Cotton swaths covered her forelegs from hoof to shoulder, with long crosshatching streaks of dark-red stains. Similarly, her torso could not be seen for the plaster cast that stretched from her haunches to collar, immobilizing her every limb in a bid to protect the multitudes of broken and cracked ribs inside. Not taking any chances, the nurses had bound her to the bed with cloth restraints; though, if it came to that, Snow doubted they would do more than delay the mare, but perhaps enough to sedate her once more. To hear the medics talk, Quartz had been a right demon to treat, fighting against every stitch and patch of gauze. Ambassador Kara would likely protest such a tame descriptor, if she was in any condition to speak.

The whole mess left the Commandant General uneasy. On the one wing, all had worked, more or less, and any victory was to be praised. Equestria’s hold over the Griffons was secure—for the time being—and that self-righteous bird had been put in her place. On the other wing, it had been a dangerous and downright foolhardy gambit. Throwing an earth pony up against a griffon… and betting Equestria’s leverage over the Griffon Empire on the outcome? There were no words to sum up the level of stupidity on display. Had the captain failed or the fight taken a deadly turn… the ramifications didn't bear considering.

“My dame, it is time.”

Subtle Plume. Once upon a time, Snow had thought well of her, a mite soft to be sure, too predisposed toward talk over action, but not a bad sort. So much time spent among unicorns had served her poorly. There were no words to convey the magnitude of this latest disgrace. A pegasus asking an earth pony to fight a griffon in her stead? Had Quartz volunteered there would have been no dishonor in bowing out, but Plume had planned for her to fight from the start, and that went beyond the pale.

She turned away. Already, thoughts of Quartz and the recent past were being subsumed by what lay ahead. Shear Winds, her secretary, held open the door for Snow and quickly fell in at her side as they trotted out of the infirmary and barracks.

A cool breeze buffeted her the moment she stepped outside, making her pause. On reflex, her wings lifted from her sides, primaries fanning to comb the currents of air. The itch from the infirmary simultaneously disappeared and redoubled, chuffing the discomfort while braying for her to take to the open skies. Pride held her hooves to the ground at first, born of a deep seeded desire to know that her actions were her own. That pause was nothing else, however, her wings soon carrying her aloft with Shear Winds at her side.

Below them, the budding vestiges of normalcy were only just sprouting under Selene’s silvery gaze as the night shift, more accustomed to the shadowed atmosphere, began their shift like any other night. They were not ignorant of the day’s events, mirroring the skittishness of their day bound counterparts. How could they not? All of Equestria, perhaps Ioka, must be shaken. In a world shrouded by night, where a literal shadow hung over everyone, optimism was at a premium and every glance toward the future: uncertain.

It never should’ve gone unchecked for so long. She did not blame the common pony. Their very nature was that of a terrified herd. Always on the edge of panic, ears sharp for the sound of danger and legs primed to run. Only when a stalwart pony stood at their head could they hope to overcome their base drives and aspire to something greater. Unfortunately, that truth had been forgotten, lost under the Princess’ constant shepherding. Now, faced with the prospect of going on without her, they looked toward their leaders, the plump cowards who played at power under Celestia’s careful eye, as though a sly tongue and sharp wit are qualities enough to rule, much less rule well.

The pair flew over and past patrol after patrol of royal guards policing the grounds. They must have mustered every able body at their disposal to display such a presence. It did her heart good to see it. Why there had been so much resistance to doing the same for the city, and indeed across all of Equestria, she could not fathom. Ponies needed to know, or at least believe, that they were safe, that their leaders were taking action to protect them, come what may.

Soon enough, the castle grounds were behind them and the Offices Public below. Turning toward Cloud Hall, their course angled too steeply for the hall proper, instead aiming for the squat building of stone to which it was tethered, a concession to their land bound kin, and the ponies awaiting her.

It had been too good to be true, the peace and quiet that finally settled only a minute ago. With High Admiral Lulamoon back on her hooves and pacing along the far wall, it was only a matter of time before the… discussion was resumed. Nothing short of a royal edict could get her to keep her mouth shut.

At least some of the blame could be saddled on the pegasi and their choice of decorations. Or, rather, the lack thereof. The office was empty of any sort of decor beyond the barest necessities. The desk had an in and outbox, paper, quill and ink, a writing pad and even a stick of sealing wax. There were a pair of chairs positioned before the desk with a small table between them, off to the side where Melee paced, a set of cushions surrounded a low coffee table. And that was it besides the Equestrian and Conclave flags on either side of the balcony doors. No painting adorned the walls, no trinkets on any of the tables, no magazines or books, no certificates or honors on display, nothing to show that the room belonged to anyone. Which was, in fact, the case for every office on the lower floors of Cloud Hall.

Not a single member of the Conclave maintained an office below the fourth story, the dividing line between cloud stuff and brick and mortar. Those first three floors were treated as a sort of common space, owned by none and available to all. Whether the practice was ascribed to laziness, tradition, or vainglory depended entirely on personal disposition.

For the High Admiral, it was the latter, and she made no effort to hide it.

In truth, her presence in Canterlot was something of a surprise. She’d been on vacation for more than a fort’night—scuttlebutt claimed it was a less than voluntary break, though opinions on the cause were split between royal decree and spousal demand—and it was not supposed to end for another. And the isolation showed. Her mane, usually trimmed as close as any seamare’s, had grown a noticeable forelock, just behind her horn, that required continual adjustment to keep from dangling between her eyes, causing her to no end of irritation. Likewise, her fetlocks verged dangerously close to the line between ruggedly handsome and unsettlingly uncivilized. The state of her coat was no better, pocked with whirls and clumps of hair desperately in need of a good brushing, or better, a full spa day. Whether clothing would have helped her demeanour, there was no guessing, but at least she would have been presentable with more than her sword belt to cover her hide.

Not that she was alone in her lackadaisical mein.

Fjord, First General of Her Highness’ Army, could make no statement against her appearance. The ‘right-old-cuss’, as he so enjoyed calling himself, slouched heavily in his chair, rear hooves propped on the desk. Fresh and clean though he himself was, his uniform was far from it. Unbuttoned and untucked, the left side had fallen completely open, dragged off his belly by the weight of medals it sported. His tri-corn cap sat more on his muzzle than his head, shading his face entire, save the tip of his bent nose and the lit cigar clenched between his grinning lips. Even his lapels had been turned up as though to ward off some non-existent wind.

Seated beside him, the recently promoted General Clink might have been seen as following her commander’s lead, by her rumpled and disheveled—if still buttoned—uniform. She wasn’t. Her lack of press was chronic and, when coupled with her age and rank, said quite a lot about her. She was also the only of the four to have refrained from speaking thus far, mostly because she was too focused on the paperwork she’d brought along.

There were two others present, though separated. Pegasi commandants by uniform, neither had stepped into the office, choosing instead to share each other’s company out on the balcony.

Admiral Gracious Spear observed them all from as much of a distance as he could manage without simply leaving, failing to keep his frown from twisting every time his eyes landed on one of his ill kempt peers. His own uniform was meticulously cared for and pressed, tucked in with every medal polished and ribbon as bright as the day he’d earned it. The model of how every officer should carry themselves.

He shared Melee’s restlessness, but not her lack of discipline. He sat with his back against the right wall, positioned to keep both the door and the balcony within sight, certainly not simply to keep the generals between himself and the High Admiral.

Thankfully, before said mare could start in on another rant, movement from the balcony drew everyone’s attention. The Commandants welcomed Snow Blind with sharp salutes as she landed on the balcony, quickly falling in behind her and her lieutenant. Everyone straightened up at her arrival, save Fjord who might have looked asleep were it not for, at that moment, taking a long draw from his cigar and blowing it out in a stream of thick smoke.

Before Snow could even take a seat, High Admiral Lulamoon stepped forward, brash and discourteous as ever.

“What’s this all about?” she demanded before Snow could even take a seat. Her shift to so aggressive a posture loosed her forelock again, letting it half obscure her right eye where she left it rather than risk losing the initiative. “Today’s been long enough as is. My husband and bed are impatient for my return, and this little cabal is wasting my time.”

Snow’s already sour expression dipped further the moment Melee opened her mouth. “This is far more important than your personal life, Admiral.”

“Says the old maid.”

A guttural snort broke the pair’s staring contest, turning all attention to the still reclining general. “Come now, lass, there's no call to be gettin’ snipey.”

“Blow it out your plot, Fjord.”

And there it was, the same old play on a different stage. There might as well have been a script for the next five minutes for all the variation it had gotten in the years since Gracious began attending such meetings. Fortunately, or unfortunately depending on perspective, he saved them all from having to witness it again by reminding Melee that he was there.

“Here we go.”

“When I want your opinion,” she growled, mixing contempt in with her already peaked ire, “I’ll give it to you.” Gracious refused to back down, not from her—never from her—but neither did he offer a retort in kind. Taking his silence as acceptance, she returned her focus back to Snow Blind. “Well? Out with it.”

The two exchanged glares, impatience meeting calm and failing to make the latter break. Just as Melee grew too frustrated to wait any longer and started to repeat her demand, Blind stole the wind from her sails, almost making her physically stumble. “I brought you all here to discuss the safeguarding of Equestria’s future.”

Leaning forward, her interest apparently peaked, General Clink asked the obvious question. “I don’t believe I follow. Is that not a matter for the palace?”

Snow conceded the point with a slight bow of her head and shrugging. “Under normal circumstances, yes. These are hardly normal circumstances, however. The palace is in no state to recognize, much less properly respond to, the looming threat on the horizon. Time has become a finite resource that we can not afford to squander on pointless debates. We must act, and we must do so quickly if we are to survive.”

“Aye, that lot would take an hour to debate the temperature of a fire as it burned the building down around them.” Fjord paused to sit up a little straighter, pushing his hat up enough to look at Snow. “But you’ve yet to say a damned thing of worth yourself.”

Once more, the Commandant General made a concessionary gesture before speaking. “Celestia is gone, ladies and gentle-stallions. She is gone, and we have no way of knowing when or if she will ever return. Ignoring for the moment the immediate concerns of warmth and light and the panic that is sure to come, we must consider how all of Ioka will react, and we must be prepared. How much food can we grow without Sol’s light? How long will our stores last? Just as important, how long before the rest of the disk grows hungry? How many countries already depend on our farms to feed their bloated populace? Ink on a page will have no value to the starving masses. And how long before the greedy grow bold?”

“Faust, this is a waste of time,” Melee said, turning toward the door.

“I was not finished, Admiral.”

“Oh?” she asked, stopping a step from the door and turning. “Well, let’s run through this little fantasy you’ve conjured up. Even if the queens managed to pull their heads out of their plots to notice Sol’s absence, they couldn’t afford to turn their attention away from each other long enough to so much as contemplate launching raids against us. And by the time they realize their collective folly, they’ll be too broken to be a threat. Likewise the griffons will never set sail in force, not with the zebras next door, and when have you ever heard of even a pair of dragons working together for anything more than sex? That leaves the Diamond Dogs who probably don’t even know what Sol is, much less understand what her absence means to the rest of us, and the neighponese could not store enough food to survive the journey. Now, Commandant, if you want to keep playing ‘emperor’ be my guest, but I will not—”

“I commanded your presence for—”

“You command nothing, you over-stuffed windbag!” Melee roared, her face briefly contorting in rage before settling into one of slow, simmering ire. “You can play commander all you want up in the Conclave, but down here you are nothing but a trumped up politician with delusions of grandeur. When was the last time you flew for more than leasure? When was the last time you spilt a foe’s blood, or so much as watched as your soldiers fought and died or listened to the roar of cannons and the whistle of arrows cutting inches from your ear? Oh, that’s right. You haven’t! Now be a good peacock and bugger off!”

Even after so many years, the High Admiral never ceased to surprise. Snow Blind turned a deep cherry-red beneath her coat and shot to her hooves, wings flared and jaw clinched, all but growling like an enraged griffon. The two Commandants behind her reacted in kind, taking wing and hovering halfway to the ceiling, hilts of swords gripped tight, undrawn but showing steel.

Shear Winds showed no such control. While the others reacted with shock and indignation, he simply acted. A single leap cleared the desk and landed him on the table between Fjord and Clink. At some point between, he loosed a rapier thin hoof-blade from his sleeve, the razor point aimed right between the High Admiral’s eyes, where it met the side of Melee’s own saber with the chime of steel.

A single breath passed in that eerie silence just before the first volley was loosed. Shear Winds was all but quivering, ready to explode into violence any moment. Melee, on the other hoof, looked more relaxed than she had since entering the office, which only made her grin all the more disconcerting.

“I don’t know you very well, colt,” Fjord said in the following breath, his tone strangely bored, disinterested almost. He had leaned slightly away from the pair, twisting so his back wedged into the chair’s far corner. “But I’m confident in saying that that was the dumbest thing you’ve ever done. Now, I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking, ‘I can take this old nag. Look at her, all dried up and well past her prime—’

“Fjord!”

‘—And you might be right too. But,” he paused to take a long draw from his cigar, blowing the smoke into the feathery canopy above him, “if you spent a little less time under Blind’s desk you might have learned just how the daughter of a third-wife of a rapidly declining herd managed to become Admiral of the Fleet.” He paused again, this time to scratch the underside of his jaw. “You ever seen a boarding action, son? Hehe, neither have I—never get me onto one of those floating coffins—but I’ve been in enough bar-room brawls to know that adding swords and spears won’t make it any cleaner. Now you’re thinking, ‘This ain’t either of those things. I’m the top of my class, best of the best.’ and you may be right, but you see, Sophia here—”

“I will gut you, Fjord.”

“—Sophia here, well, she ain’t never won a clean fight as far as I can tell, mostly cause she ain’t never been in one. What I’m tryin’ to say is that, despite how much more entertaining it would be to watch her decorate the room with your feathers… ah, who am I fooling, go for it kid.”

Shear Winds didn’t move, or even acknowledge that the general had spoken, keeping his eyes trained on the unkempt unicorn.

“War will come for us,” Snow Blind said, his even tone forced through clenched teeth, “a war unlike any before. It will not be a war of greed nor pride but of desperation. ‘Victory or the plains of Elysium’ will not be rhetoric, but simple fact, and death on the battlefield preferable to the alternative.”

Melee didn’t move her eyes, but somehow managed to convey rolling them through the tone of her voice. “You’re worse than that nut at the cathedral.”

“… lead a dog to a tree,” Snow grumbled under her breath before addressing the whole room. “And the rest of you?”

“Your supposition is not an unreasonable one, and, at the very least, should be discussed,” Clink said. “I am willing to hear what you have to say.”

“Fjord?”

“I think I’ll need a new cigar.”

“Admiral Spear?”

Gracious Spear did not respond right away. His eyes traveled around the room, from the still posed combatants to the seated generals, to the just now landing commandants. Until now, he’d not considered the implications of Sol’s continued absence. If Celestia was truly gone… Even now, that did not sound plausible. Yet here they were. There was Princess Cadence, of course, and she was in Canterlot last he’d heard. By rights, her word was law.

Philosophy did not suit the Admiral. The question of ethics and right or wrong had no place on the eve of battle or the hold of a ship. The captain ordered the crew and the crew did as they were told, anything less was death. And yet… was it not an officer’s duty to remand an unfit captain? Princess Cadence was known to him only in passing. She was a goddess, true, but she was no Celestia.

Clink likely did not grasp the totality of Snow’s meaning. Fjord knew but did not care. The commandants held too closely to their oaths to consider objecting. And Melee would sooner saw her horn off than take her lead from Snow Blind, or any pony she saw as beneath herself. Gracious Spear understood the implications, could not afford so grievous a misstep, had a conscience that would not let him simply ‘follow orders’, but had spent his whole career learning to swallow his pride.

Everything Blind had said rang true, and only fools bet on hope.

“It would be best,” he said, refusing to meet Melee’s gaze, “I think, to hear you out.”

“So, you think that would be best, do you, Admiral?” Melee asked in an almost pleasant tone, surprising Spear and tricking him into glancing her way as her saber returned to its scabbard. “Then I leave this in your… capable hooves.” Her smile made his stomach drop.

No pony tried to stop her from leaving this time. They all watched in silence as she walked to the door and opened it, only to pause  and speak one final time before disappearing into the night.

“Just remember, colt, that a captain goes down with her ship.”