//------------------------------// // Philia: A Soldier and Afeard // Story: For the Good of Equestria: The Alicorn War // by brokenimage321 //------------------------------// Once upon a time, there was a little princess… Philia found herself standing in the library. She was there for an important reason—she needed something from within. Desperately. She bent down low to the quivering librarian standing in front of her. “I am mad," she said carefully, "but north-north-west. When the wind is southerly, I know a hawk from a handsaw.” She stared at him, waiting a response, but all he did was tremble. “Y-your highness?” he shivered out. Philia sighed to herself. Why was he not understanding her? This wasn’t hard. It was time to try a different tactic: She made another one of those strange little half-twitches, then spoke again. “Wind blows northerly,” she said, enunciating each syllable, “I go north. That’s who I am.” Another half-twitch. “I shall stay until the wind changes.” Again, uncomprehending stares. Why was he being so difficult? All she needed was help finding the book she was looking for, somewhere in this dusty old library! Was he too stupid to understand that? One more time. She cleared her throat: “The walrus and the carpenter—” ...who lived in a crystal castle, in the middle of a beautiful kingdom… She was nine. She sat in her own nursery in the castle. Normally, she would be in the big toy room with her brothers and sisters, but since she had bit Cadance last week, she had her own room to play in. It wasn’t as nice as the big one, but it wasn’t bad. She had her own nanny, who had a nice dress for her to wear when she was acting bad. It was tight and she couldn’t move her arms, but new clothes were always fun. She sat, and played with her dolls. Fillies played with dolls; Father said so. But her dolls were like when she had watched Father lie on top of Mother as both of them made funny noises: she knew they did it, but she didn’t know what they were supposed to be doing, or what the appeal was to doing it in the first place. But fillies played with dolls. So that’s what Philia did. She waved them about, and smashed them together, and, sometimes, she threw them around to see the noises they would make. And sometimes, if she was really bored, she twisted off their heads to see what was inside. She played quietly with her dolls, until suddenly the room went dark—but just for a flash. Something had passed her window. She got up and skipped joyously to the windowsill and gazed out at the novelty. She looked up, side to side—and down— ...but she was kidnapped by an evil prince… She was herself again. In the library. She ran a hoof down the spines of the books. She knew the name she was looking for, though, how she knew it was not entirely clear to her. Thinking of the name made her think of it—of the writhing, sinuous, serpentine body that she saw in her dreams. She knew the name of that body, and knew she had to find it, though where and how still escaped her. She would save him. And he, in turn, would save her. (She realized suddenly that there was something on her hooves—something red and sticky, like strawberry jam. She had only a vague sense of knowing where it had come from, but such facts didn’t especially concern her. This sort of thing was happening increasingly often, and she had just started to accept it as mere fact. And to challenge observable fact—well, that way lay madness…)  And then, she found a book. Not the book, but a book—but, nevertheless, it practically buzzed under her hoof with the knowledge that it contained. She took it down and flipped it open. She read it through for a few moments, before she found it. The Name. She opened her mouth to read it aloud— ...a very wicked prince, who wanted to keep the princess locked away forever. She was eleven. She stood in an open field next to Father. She hated Father. She wore another new dress, like the one she used to wear in the nursery. But this one was hard and sharp, and glittered in the sunlight. It made it hard to breathe—hard to see—though she could still move her arms, at least. A lot of ponies were running towards them. They were mad about something, but Philia didn’t know what. She watched them with faint interest, curious what they wanted to say. And then Father spoke. He told her to do something. He wasn’t mad—but she knew that voice. She knew that was his about-to-be-mad-unless-you-do-what-I-say voice. So, she did it. She used her horn, and she did it. And all the angry ponies fell down… At first, it wasn’t all bad for the princess... Philia in the library again. A tall stack of books beside her, each with The Name in them. And in front of her was an old map, showing the entire Crystal Empire—and more. Philia read through the books, and, each time she saw The Name, she made a little mark on the map. And the marks were getting smaller, tighter, and closer together… ...but still… Twelve. A body underneath her, and she stabbed it and stabbed it over and over again. It leaked strawberry jam, which got all over her hooves... ...the princess… Thirteen. Now she was the one being stabbed over and over and over and over and over again, tears running down her face, her mouth full of cotton...  ...wanted to fly free. She had to work quickly. Her mind was hers again, well and truly hers, but she didn’t know for how long. Focusing on a task helped her keep her mind clear—especially this task. The task. She quickly gathered some supplies and stuffed them into her saddlebags. On the top went the map, with a name circled in red ink. She ran to the highest balcony, stepped out onto it, took a deep breath, and spread her wings... So, she hoped and hoped that, one day… Philia was four years old. It was snowing outside, but she sat in the palace, a cheery fire going in the fireplace. Beside her sat Mother. Philia wanted very badly to sit on her lap, but her tummy was getting big again, and there was nowhere to sit. But still, she snuggled up against her, under the blanket they shared, and listened to her voice. She felt her breathing. Felt her heartbeat. When she was with Mother, her head didn’t hurt so much. She didn’t feel so funny all the time. And that was nice, but that didn’t matter to her; most of all, she loved Mother. And she was happy. Mother was reading to her from a book. She was telling Philia a story. She finished one page, then turned it. But she did not read the second page. She stared at it a moment, then moved to turn it again—but not before Philia saw the illustration… a shape she had seen in her dreams. “Mother,” she asked, sitting up, “what’s that?” “That?” she repeated, pointing. She didn’t say anything for a while. “That,” she said finally, “is the god of madness.” And then she said The Name. ...a dragon would come and save her from the prince.