//------------------------------// // Deciding What You'll Give to the Bride and Groom is Always Important, of Course // Story: Wedding March // by Carabas //------------------------------// It was that rarest of things, a quiet evening in Canterlot. The first stars were beginning to appear in the evening sky over the capital, dusting themselves across a cloudless expanse of indigo. Alloy emerged into the dusk from a little door at the base of the palace complex and took a moment to breathe in the cool air and try to will some sharpness back into his mind. A distant and soft hubbub from the city beyond was the only intrusion on his senses; but otherwise, all was still silence. In retrospect, Alloy should have been vastly more on edge about the tranquility. He’d only now emerged from a meeting of the Royal Household staff that had lasted for just over three hours, however, and in that sort of circumstance, there came a point where acuity of mind was overwhelmed by mental pleading for a comet to come down and flatten the whole continent just for the sake of some interesting diversion. There was a patter of hooves on the stone floor at Alloy’s back, and the young mule turned to their source. An ibex doe came hesitantly towards him, also clad in the gold-and-white uniform of the Royal Household, her gaze meeting his for one nervous moment before she glanced aside. “Tundra.” Alloy smiled as best he could manage past his weariness and nodded at her. “Going for the same escape route as me, then?” “I … ah, yes.” Tundra fidgeted. “May I walk with you?” Alloy hesitated, and then nodded. “By all means. I was headed for the gardens.” He stretched his forelegs and groaned as his withers popped. “Anything like semi-civilised conversation after all that would be more than welcome.” He trotted out into the wide space ringed by towers and palace structures and made for a path that led out towards the gardens. Tundra fell into step alongside him, and for a long moment, they trotted in companionable silence. Alloy’s gaze rose occasionally to the silhouettes of guards patrolling along the walls and towers, and he wondered how many more of them would be on active duty in the weeks to come. He glanced round at Tundra. Even a good few months spent working here in the palace, well away from the hellhole she’d previously been serving in, hadn’t entirely cured her of a tendency to keep her gaze on the ground and trot as though she was surrounded by eggshells. At least he’d been able to coax her into bowing at a more decent and shallower angle than when she’d first arrived. She noticed his gaze, and wonder of wonders, ventured a nervous smile in his direction. “I’m excited for this,” she said. “Really?” Alloy couldn’t help the question. His initial spark of excitement over the prospect seemed a foreign, distant thing after the tedium of the meeting and after his dawning realisation of just how much labour the Royal Household would be putting in. “I’ve never … well, done anything like this before. There wasn’t much call for this sort of thing in the Old Palace, back in Bellbylon. And … ah, even personally, I’ve never —” “Warning where warning’s due,” interrupted Alloy. “It won’t seem so exciting once we have to get stuck into setting the poxy thing up. There’s all manner of behind-the-scenes work for something this large, and the less said about the clean-up afterwards, the better.” Alloy felt slightly guilty about the words once they’d left him. If this really was a novelty for Tundra, then why did he have to try and quash her excitement? Thankfully, his words didn’t seem to have had too much impact. Her smile had only flickered a little. “I’m sure there’ll be a fun part or two,” he said lamely. “Just stay wary for more meetings like that. Because there will be more as the happy couple decide on the fixtures and seating arrangements and exact ceremony and see fit to inform us. And it’s not a question of whether they’ll change their mind about something we’ve finished setting up a minute before the event itself. It’s a question of how much we’ll weep in helpless frustration when the inevitable comes.” “I don’t mind working on it. Or the meetings, even. It’ll be fun to learn what goes on here. How ponies do it.” “No faulting a learning experience, I suppose.” Alloy saw that they were entering the gardens proper. An evening stroll around them with Tundra before retiring in peace back to his own quarters didn’t seem like the most unpleasant thing in the world. But he’d come out here with another purpose. He had a job to do. And to his left, there was a large and conveniently-impenetrable hedgerow. Tundra swallowed. “I was wondering if —” “Do you mind if I nip around the back of here for just a second?” said Alloy suddenly, motioning to the hedge with his forehoof. “Keep walking, and I’ll catch up shortly.” “Why? What are you doing behind the hedge?” Alloy paused for a moment. “Jack stuff.” Tundra asked no further questions, opting instead to venture ahead down the garden path with a slightly worried glance back in Alloy’s direction. The mule watched her leave for a moment before quickly making his way round the back of the hedge, out of sight from all possible onlookers. Off came his saddlebags. Out from them came a pencil, a piece of paper, and a little twist of alchemically-treated green messenger-paper. There was still just about enough light in the sky to write by. Alloy was an upright and dutiful servant in Equestria’s Royal Household, for which he was paid one of his two salaries. The other salary came from the intelligence offices just past Equestria’s eastern border. Agent Alloy of the Asinial Republic wrote to his superiors in what were far more peaceful circumstances than the average for this sort of thing. There is to be a wedding, he began ... Elsewhere, under the same evening sky. In the middle of the arid Equestrian Badlands, half a day’s flight from the nearest settlement of note, there rose a great and mountainous formation of ridges and river-carved canyons, twisting together like a nest of serpents. Dark and low-hanging clouds which rarely shed rain hovered constantly over the black and serrated tops of the ridges, casting the deep ravines between them into constant shadow. At its heart, the ridges folded together to form looming overhangs and cavern roofs, and below them, the tangled network of rivers descended into a deepening web of twisty little passages and caves. Willing visitors to the formation - which was varying known as the Black Defiles, the Obvious Location of Horror and Death to be Shunned by Any Ponies With the Sense the Creator Gave a Stoat (Literal Minded was generally regarded as one of the best pony explorers of the last few centuries, albeit as good with names as polio was with infants), or Home - were a rare sight. But not entirely unknown. In the depths beneath the snarled heart of the Black Defiles, in one high-roofed cavern riddled with little streams running across the floor and down the walls, a visitor stood. They were as still and patient as if they’d been carved from stone, covered from the hooves upwards in a cowled robe. Only a little summoned sphere of light in the air before them provided any illumination. Past the drip and murmur and distant echo of water all around them, there also came an occasional chitter. An odd wing-beat. Far-off hoof-treads and whispers in the dark. And finally, one set of hoof-treads grew closer and closer, their source gradually taking shape as they grew closer to the cowled figure’s light. A great and chitinous frame loomed over the smaller figure, as large as any alicorn’s and as dark as a moonless night. A gnarled black horn protruded above two poison-coloured eyes, shimmering softly with bright green magic. The eyes narrowed, and a sharp smile revealed the tips of glistening fangs. “Queen Chrysalis, I presume.” The cowled figure spoke first, their voice dry and flat. “You wouldn’t believe how many spies and much wandering around dreary patches of the Badlands it took to finally find your hive.” “And found it you have,” said Chrysalis, circling the figure like a pacing wolf. As she spoken, chitters and murmurs from unseen and countless sources filled the hush of the room from all around. “My drones saw you poking around the exterior rather avidly and were well-trained enough to bring you here when you asked politely. So what might you be, past that dreadfully cliched cowled robe? A particularly unflappable sort of tourist? A scholar chasing rumours? A pony with an ambitious death wish?” “Call me a scholar for now,” said the figure, a note of amusement entering their voice. “I’ve done my research regarding your kind — at least, as much as anybeing can these days. Most history books have an annoying tendency of concluding you were never anything much beyond legends. Most history books.” “We have no use for it to be otherwise … yet. But you admit to knowing differently.” Chrysalis came back round to the figure’s front, and her gaze bored deep into the cowl’s shadowed depths. “Spell out your purpose here in my home, then, for you clearly have one. Brave or foolish, you have my attention. I recommend making it count before I grow bored or my children grow hungry.” “Hungry children,” said the cowled figure contemplatively. “I imagine that must be a problem for you, all the way out here.” “We make do.” Chrysalis’s tone was cold. “Making do on reckless travellers and the odd forager. Maybe the occasional expedition by a group of your drones to poach whoever and whatever they can from the nearest settlements. Small groups, of course. No parasite wants to risk discovery, after all. Besides, other legends have been stepping out of the shadows with wild abandon of late. It’s not been ending well for them, has it?” “Fascinating,” purred Chrysalis after a moment, leaning in closer towards the cowl. “I’ve never met a being so intent on abrogating my good will.” The figure was silent for a time before it spoke next. “Imagine if Equestria does find you. What will you do then?” Chrysalis’s eyes flashed, and magic flared up the gnarled length of her horn. From the darkness all around, there came a cacophony of hisses and snarls and creaking wings. Green fire guttered to life around the outlines of dozens of horns, casting glistening light across a spreading circle of dark chitinous bodies and segmented eyes and far too many fangs. “This one is threatening us, my children,” said Chrysalis. “And what do we do with threats?” “You destroy them,” the figure cut in. “I’m not your main threat here, Queen Chrysalis. But I can help you destroy the one who is, to our mutual gain.” Chrysalis paused. The chitters and hisses diminished, but the glow of the magic persisted. “Speak,” Chrysalis said at last. “Do so carefully.” “I have recently received some interesting news. News worthy of exploitation by those with wit and daring.” They stiffly raised a forehoof to push back the cowl. “Queen Chrysalis, ruler of the greatest changeling hive on Ungula and mightiest of Queens ... I have a proposition for you.” Chrysalis smirked. “Why, I’m charmed. But this is quite sudden, and I’m rather married to my job. You’ll have to persuade me.” The figure’s hoof paused mid-rise. There was the suggestion of a deep, indrawn breath from under the cowl. “One happy, happy day,” they muttered to themselves, “I’ll have a meeting with someone who doesn’t feel the need to be undeservedly flippant.” After all that, some weeks passed absent any publicised threat to the world at large. Elsewhere yet, in the early hours of a brisk morning, three donkeys had their own discussion. This time, the elsewhere was a well-appointed office overlooking a busy harbour, atop the Parliament Building in the city of Asincittà, bustling capital of the Asinial Republic. The discussion concerned what Arch-Minister Burro Delver would be wearing that day. It had been going on for a while between the two self-appointed clothiers on Burro’s either side and had passed through all the typical conversational stages of earnest debate, arguing, shouting, and exchanged bodily threats. Burro himself fidgeted in the space before his huge desk, groaned as his aging joints protested at the motion, and glanced at a nearby longcase clock. Two hours had apparently gone by since the ordeal started, and he suspected the clock was lying. “Can we at least agree that there are many happy changes that could be made to the existing Fleet Admiral’s dress uniform for the sake of greatly improving its aesthetic?” That was the young jack at his right-hoof side, Silhouette, Burro’s personal secretary. “You could certainly argue that. And you know what? I’d normally agree with you,” came the equally icy tones of Damasque from the other side. The jenny was the Diplomatic Secretary for Burro’s cabinet as well as a professional stickler. “But there’s a time and a place to muck around with the regulation dress uniform for the highest naval rank, and the morning before your Arch-Minister has to head off in the bloody thing to an Equestrian state occasion isn’t it.” “I’m not disputing that it’s regulation. I’m asserting that it’s gurglingly stupid.” “Silhouette, I swear to the Creator, if you start this horse-apples again —” “Whoever else is in attendance at the wedding will mock Asinia’s sartorial customs if the Arch-Minister is forced to wear this unmodified. Leaving aside the obvious suspect of the cavalier hat, the tailcoat’s navy blue, for goodness sake! Who thought to make the waistcoat under it vermillion? And the epaulettes! The stylised kraken on them’s nice enough, but when the whole thing’s got a braided design, why in the Depths would you make the attached aiguillette gold-wire? The ghost of Beau Amble would vomit.” Burro Delver, who felt he’d been surpassingly still and patient throughout the last aeon, wondered how to bring it all to a happy end for all parties short of lethal force. “Kindly don’t have the epaulettes argument again,” he said. “Neither side in it has grown on me over the last three times you pair have had it.” “I’m not having the epaulettes argument, Arch-Minister,” said Silhouette archly. Damasque growled. “Don’t dare say you’re stating the epau—” “I’m stating the epaulettes facts.” “You’re not leaving this room alive, you smirking son of a geld—” “Both of you have made wonderful points throughout this whole lovely process,” said Burro abruptly, donning a sharp and practised smile. “And I don’t doubt you could keep making wonderful points for many happy hours to come. However, I feel obliged to point out that I have my own wardrobe up in my bedroom. My old coat and tricorne from my privateering days are hanging in there somewhere. All patched and still burnt and slashed in places, and terribly dusty and mothbally for that matter. And if the pair of you can’t agree in the next few minutes on what permutation of the dress uniform I’m to inflict on Celestia’s eyes, then I swear to the Depths, I’m going to march upstairs, put said old coat and hat on, and delight the wedding with them.” The effects were immediate and as desired: Silhouette gagged, while Damasque clenched her teeth. She glared daggers at Burro, who shrugged it off. The better chunk of a lifetime spent in politics had rendered the old jack glare-proof. Damasque turned to Silhouette, and whilst keeping her teeth clenched, gritted out, “I am prepared to concede ground on the cavalier hat.” “Thank you, Secretary,” Silhouette replied with what seemed like genuine relief. “The multicoloured plume’s the main sticking point. I recommend the commodore’s bicorne. No plumage, and the gold trim lends it adequate gravitas whilst gelling with the overall uniform.” “Fine,” said Damasque, running one hoof down her face while Silhouette swept a monstrosity of feathers off Burro’s head. “Let’s just hope everyone there gets too drunk to know what hat should really be on.” “If I didn’t know what hat should be on, I guarantee no other being will, Damasque,” Burro said soothingly. He felt a bicorne being rested upon his head by Silhouette, the traditional fore-and-aft placement leaving his notched ears free to spring up on either side. “Tell me more cheerful and relevant things. Any updates from our pair of eyes in the royal household? Who else is coming?” “Some fellow statesbeings have been confirmed as attending. Others will send their representatives or regrets.” Damasque looked relieved at the change of topic and plunged right into it. “Saddle Arabia’s Viceroy will be there. Tyrant Fairy Floss of Ovarn will be there in person for the ceremony itself, as will Bullwalda Greenhorn with his consort.” “Solid crowd so far.” Burro looked thoughtful. “I’ve yet to meet Greenhorn’s consort. From Bovish noble stock, but that’s all I’ve gathered.” “A Capric representative should also be there, sent by the Crown. Zebrica, or rather, the two Zebrican realms will send their diplomats to show face — minor nobles favoured by either pharaoh, from what I understand. No firm word from the Pachydermians, but we think they’ll send someone as well. An invitation was sent to Lord Alpha Rex of Beryllium, and I imagine it’s gathering dust on an untouched corner of his desk at this very moment. The Fire Queen probably shan’t send anyone, she’s never really done state occasions. Complete silence from Ceratos. The Gazellen diplomat had been invited, but he claims to have come down with a nasty case of horndroop, and begs that his lack of attendance be construed as a wish that the happy day not be overshadowed by an outbreak of the condition.” Burro nodded. Everyone with both the sense and the ability would send a trustworthy pair of eyes to the event, if they couldn’t just send their own. Princess Mi Amore Cadenza had thus been a relatively reserved figure in Equestrian political affairs. Even Asinia’s agent in the palace had rarely been able to report more than the same details: that she was all-round lovely (said loveliness somewhat frazzled of late by wedding preparations, which was to be expected), that she had some prior relationship with one of the Element-Bearers (who were all apparently in attendance as well, and would also be eminently worthwhile meeting), and that she was involved with a guard captain. Very involved, if the invitation to their wedding was anything to go by. “I assume nobody from Corva’s even been invited?” he said. “An invitation was sent to the Cormaer,” said Damasque, provoking a surprised snort from Burro. “You know what Celestia’s like for extending an open hoof in these matters. Hopeless optimism, I call it. Her kindness was probably used to pad out a nest, if it was lucky.” “She makes the effort,” said Burro. He looked knowingly at his Diplomatic Secretary. “You’ve not mentioned one particular name so far, though.” Damasque sighed. “A telegram from Chieftain Gellert came to my office early this morning on the subject. All it had on it was ‘Tell the Arch-Minister he can’t put off that night of revelry any longer, and that I bet he still holds his drink like a sieve’.” “Old sot.” Burro grinned. “I’m not sure how civilised an affair this is meant to be, but if it goes the way of most weddings, I could very well find myself helpless to refuse him.” “Recall that I’m hosting several captains of Zebrican industry for the Trans-Cheval Mercantile Concord tomorrow, sir,” said Damasque sweetly. “If you find yourself tempted to do anything today that seems like it might bring about a concord-jeopardizing scandal, then I’ll thank you to also recall that I know where you sleep.” “Bah.” Burro’s creased smile acquired a certain jovial rakishness. “You know donkeys love it whenever I have a fun scandal. I get bouquets and bottles and chocolates from the press barons whenever they come up. And now I mention that, the flowers around here are starting to wilt a bit. Shall I see that they’re replaced?” “Sir.” “I’m teasing, Damasque. I promise that whenever impropriety arises during today, I’ll be a mere accessory rather than a root cause.” Damasque spent a moment muttering the most heartfelt blasphemy the Asiniol tongue had to offer before grumbling, “I suppose if I can’t get a full loaf, I’ll settle for a mouldy crust.” “Thank you, my dear. That’s the most flattering comparison I’ve heard in years.” Burro winked and turned on Silhouette, who’d been hovering around and straightening out Burro’s uniform like a neurotic and fashion-conscious bee. “Could you remind me what I’m giving the bride and groom?” “Recall the toaster the Auspicious Guild of Boundary-Breakers gifted you last month, Arch-Minister?” “The Auspi —? Stars above.” Burro winced with recollection. “That was the one where they ignited cartridges of corvid black powder for the heating element, wasn’t it?” “The very same, Arch-Minister. Passing such gifts onto those who may get more use from them shouldn’t offend anyone’s sensibilities.” “It … was an exciting variation on a combustion engine, I’ll grant it that much. Is there nothing less lethal we can give the poor couple?” “No donkey actually died during the demonstration, Arch-Minister,” said Silhouette in what Burro thought was meant to be a soothing manner. “Besides, if our own use of it is anything to go by, it’s the sort of present to be smiled and nodded at before you let it gather dust at the bottom of a cupboard. Call its gifting symbolic. With it, we both demonstrate our hope and expectation that the happy couple enjoys domestic bliss, and we showcase our nation’s technological ingenuity. From our own hooves to their needs, as it were.” “Showcase something about our nation, certainly.” Burro shook his head and looked away. “Send it along to the ornithopter, and hopefully I’ll be out of Equestria by the time it’s used. Attach written instructions to it, just for ethics’ sake. What ornithopter am I taking to Canterlot, by the way? Was the Mockingbird salvageable at all, or did the Discord incident do too much of a number on the old girl?” “All the tooled parts transforming into guinea pigs and back again was too much for her in the end, I’m afraid,” said Damasque. “I broached the matter with Ms Amiatina of the Brineside Shipwrights when discussing the launch of the new ships. For the occasion, she was kind enough to lend us one of the prototypes from her new aeronautical division, on condition that it’s flown in grand style over the city on your way out. The Cloud-Kisser. Fifty leagues per hour at peak speed, so it shouldn’t take much more than three or four hours to get to Canterlot. Fitted out with the most modern galvanic rotors and a mithril-alloy fuselage and other unpronounceable things. It sometimes doesn’t explode mid-flight, even.” “So long as I’m away from any window seat, I can endure anything modern.” Burro dared to take a step. The uniform pressed tightly in parts, but there was something curiously reassuring about being in naval dress once more. Even if it was the official sort of naval dress, it was almost enough to make him feel young again. “No sense wasting the day, then. Do you have my overnight bag, Silhouette?” “Already aboard the Cloud-Kisser, Arch-Minister. Along with the toaster. I’ll send the written instructions along shortly.” “Good jack. I’m sure Captain Baudet’s already got an escort or several waiting for me when I step outside. Given the security measures Celestia’s put in place for this, I’m sure I can give them the day off in Canterlot. Damasque, I’ll get some work done on the flight to torment you with when I come back tomorrow. Don’t let Asinia burn down while I’m gone, now.” “Be careful, sir,” said Damasque as Burro turned to the door leading out and began to stiffly stride in its direction. “And remember, no scandals. I’ll be badgering our spy there and watching tomorrow’s headlines like a hawk.” “It’s just a wedding, Damasque,” said Burro, pushing open the door. Two dark-clad jennies fell into step beside him as he trotted out into the corridor. “How uncivilised do you expect it to get?”