Blackacre

by Princess Woona

Choice

11 July, Y.C. 970
Blackacre

“Gone,” said Beatrix. “You’re sure.”

“Honestly?” asked the miner, wiping sweat off his brow but succeeding only in smudging the dirt already there, “no, I’m not. But we can’t find them, so that means they’re either dead in a sudden rockfall or gone.”

“Tally them as dead, then,” she said with a rueful shake of the head. “What’s two more on the list. Thank you, Stan. Let me know if anything new turns up.”

“Sure thing,” he said with a harried nod. “Should break through to that storage room in three or four hours. Hopefully the goods are still intact.”

“Hopefully,” she agreed with an encouraging nod. The moment the miner left the chamber, though, all trace of it fell from her face. There wasn’t room for hope, at least not here.

Beatrix turned back towards the door that would lead down to her private chamber. It was little more than a broom closet, a thatched mat on a slab with barely enough room to turn around, but given the state of the rest of the tunnels, it was luxury itself. Most importantly, though, it was private; ponies burst in here every few minutes with updates or questions or concerns, but once she closed and barred the door, it would be just her in there. Her, alone with her thoughts, alone in the tiny hole in the ground with nothing but a glow-lamp for company, alone with the tingling sensations at the edge of her perceptions, faded echoes of the scry spells and the ponies buried deep below as the life slowly drained out of them one by one —

She paused, hoof halfway to the handle, and turned abruptly on her heel to the other door in the small conference room.

Unlike her little closet, the tunnel behind this door led upwards. She still closed and barred the door behind her; though the lock was shot, this whole area was theoretically off-limits, so she shouldn’t get any company anyway. Besides, judging by the unbroken layer of dust on the tunnel floor, nopony had been up here since… since.

By hornlight, she noticed that, dust and a persistent smell of sulphur aside, there wasn’t anything else in the tunnel. It had held together well, all things considered. In fact, she mused, the tunnel would be a good place to store supplies, if it weren’t for the breath of fresh air from the other end.

She dimmed her own light; by the end of the tunnel she was navigating solely by feel. Couldn’t risk a glimmer of artificial light getting out; it was night, and even a spark would stand out like a beacon. Besides, she knew this path well enough.

The door at the top of the stairs was in much worse condition than the rest of the tunnel. It was still identifiable as a door, but that was about it; about half the planks were missing, and those that remained were splintered and coated with a thin layer of ash. The stone door frame might have held, but there had clearly been a little too much pressure on the door itself, and it had buckled under the stress.

Surprisingly, it swung open easily enough — still plenty of grease on those hinges. Beatrix patted the frame as she passed, giving a silent blessing to whichever maintenance pony was responsible. He was probably dead now, but it was a nice thought.

Beatrix stepped into her office.

She couldn’t see much by the few strains of moonlight that made their way through splintered rafters, but she saw enough. The room was largely intact, though the desk had been punctured by a fairly large slab of stone, fallen from somewhere above. Nothing that a good carpenter couldn’t fix, she thought, running a hoof over the dusty mahogany, but she wasn’t about to get one of those any time soon. For that matter, it would take a team of craftsponies to turn this room into something resembling its former glory.

There was the lightest touch of wind.

And a team of blacksmiths, backed by a small army of gaffers, to replace the windows. The originals had been high peaked affairs liberally sprinkled with stained-glass motifs, but the devastation had destroyed even what was left of that; the night sky outside peeked in through the many holes in the hastily-erected shutters.

And on that wind, again the faint smell of sulphur. She glanced out; though the sky was dark, she imagined fires still burning in far reached of Blackacre, slowly dwindling as they ate every last thing on the ground.

The last few stragglers who had made it in brought with them stories of the forest coming alive, of… things out in the dark. The fire had destroyed everything else; with a bit of luck it would destroy them too.

If not, then they would be just one more obstacle for the Royal Army. If they wanted to come get them, they would have to cross the nightmare they themselves created.

Beatrix snorted. She couldn’t help it; laughter just came rolling out, echoing in the chamber. The world blackened and burned, and here she was, laughing so hard that she needed to lean against the ruins of her desk.

“It’s madness,” she whispered after collecting herself, wiping a tear from her eye. “Madness.”

Wiping the biggest of the debris off the desk, she eased herself up onto it and sat down, legs danging off the side. Fifty fifty her chair was smashed to bits; even if not, the extra two feet of height from the desk let her see out one of the larger holes in the window, out to the glowing horizon beyond.

“Look at what you’ve done,” she said to herself. “All the things you’ve burned, all the ponies you’ve killed. And for what? To squeeze us back under your hoof?”

“All we wanted was a little bit of breathing room, a chance to make our own way.” She shook her head. “I never wanted any of this to pass, but you forced my hoof.”

Again she snorted, this time in disdain, off towards the window, off towards the enemy. But Canterlot wasn’t there; it wasn’t even close. It lay miles beyond the glowing horizon. All that remained in Blackacre was death.

“I would rather die myself than have this happen to my people,” she declared to the darkness outside her window. She spread her hooves wide. “What more must I do to prove this?”

And the darkness responded:

“Die.”

Beatrix froze, modulating the expression on her face to one of neutral determination. At this hour of the night, in an upper chamber of a burned-out castle in no-pony’s-land in the middle of Blackacre, that could be only one person.

“So this is how it ends?” she asked, folding her forehooves so she wouldn’t see them shake.

The darkness moved slightly, rippled, and then the room was bathed in the faintest of pastel bas-relief.

“No,” said Princess Celestia, gliding across the floor to the center of the room. Just as she had done before, months ago. “I’m not here to kill you.”

“Good,” said Beatrix with a disdainful shrug. “Doesn’t seem your style.”

“I’m here to accept your surrender.”

She blinked.

The Princess waited.

“I’m sorry?”

“Your surrender,” she prompted. “Cessation of hostilities, deescalation of conflict, equitable settlement. Call it what you will.”

“I have no intention of —”

“Of what?” asked Celestia, arching a coal-black eyebrow. “Of letting your people continue to fight a losing war? Of being buried alive by our bombs? Of starving to death as you huddle for warmth in caves deep underground?”

Beatrix bit back a reply. What could she say to that? She was right.

“You don’t want to die,” said the Princess. “Neither do your people.”

“And I’m betting you don’t want to kill us,” Beatrix shot back.

“I do what I must.”

“Maybe you do,” she said, gathering her wits about her, “but I’m betting not everypony feels that way.”

A thin smile flashed over Celestia’s face, a secret joke to which she wasn’t privy.

“Does it matter?” she asked. “As you’re so fond of pointing out, my rule is absolute. My thoughts,” she added with a trace of disdain, “are the only ones that matter.”

“And what is it that you think I should do?” asked Beatrix, tilting her head ever so slightly. “Roll over?”

“You will issue a stand-down order,” said Celestia, largely ignoring her. “Unconditional surrender and transfer of arms. You will deliver a complete set of strategic and tactical data, as well as locations of personnel. All facilities will be entered, cleared, and secured; many will likely be demolished as necessary. Your main tunnels and chambers will be staffed by a permanent Army detachment.”

She rolled her eyes. “While my people are sent into exile.”

“Local government will be restructured to the standard Charter system,” said Celestia, again ignoring her. “Martial law will continue until the reconstitution is complete. You will release all prisoners of war and other captives immediately, transporting them to Ponyville for recovery and treatment of our wounded.”

“And what about us.”

“You,” said Celestia, idly indicating the ground with a forehoof, “will largely be free to do what you wish. Dissidents will be excised, but those ponies smart enough to keep their heads down will be just fine.”

“You,” she continued, bringing the hoof up to point directly towards her, “are never going to lead anything more important than livestock for the rest of your life. For that matter, you can forget about magic; you will submit to a limiting enchantment.”

Celestia slowly brought her hoof back down. Beatrix noticed that it made no sound upon touching the floor. Of course; just an illusion. A very realistic and distinctly dangerous illusion of the most powerful being on the continent, but an illusion nevertheless. And that gave her strength.

“Would you also like my first-born?” she offered offhoofedly.

“Your foals can do what they wish,” said Celestia, not rising to the bait. “I will not hold your sins against them.”

“How noble.”

“Draw what conclusions you will,” said the alicorn, mane rippling softly in the moonlight. “Those are my terms.”

“Your terms,” echoed Beatrix, gazing out at the dark. Now that her eyes had adjusted, she could see clouds of black smoke against the stars; under the ash, the forest was still burning. And, under the ash, there were things moving.

“Now you listen to mine.”

Again Celestia’s eyebrow raised.

“We will stand down,” she said, holding the Princess’ gaze. “Our ponies will lay down their arms, and our everything else will do whatever they want. We are not responsible for the actions of the timberwolves, the ursas… the coeurl.”

“So they do exist.”

“There exist more things than many are willing to admit,” said Beatrix with a thin, dry smile. “As you know so well.”

Celestia gave an elegant shrug.

“We will stand down,” she repeated, “and we will provide you with whatever information you require to verify our actions.”

She stopped, letting the pause dangle in the air for a few moments longer than was comfortable.

“Local government will be selected and established by the ponies of Blackacre,” she said levelly. “You may observe, you may inspect, but you will not lift a single piece of paper during the process.”

“My only interest is the result,” said Celestia smoothly. “I do not care how you reach the goal, as long as it is understood that the Charter-standard provisions be reinstated, without question or subversion — and that you personally play no role in the process.”

“I accepted that long ago,” said Beatrix.

“Good. That will make the transition easier for you and yours.”

“I am glad we agree on my actions,” she bristled, before the Princess could continue. “I hope we can come to a similar agreement on yours.”

“My,” said the alicorn with a smooth and entirely dangerous tone, “actions.”

“We will step down, and the remaining ponies of Blackacre will reform their government to your Charter standards. You are welcome to conduct whatever inspections you see fit to ensure compliance with your demands. The moment substantial compliance is met, your troops will leave.” She cocked her head ever so slightly. “You may retain one inspector per facility to ensure continuing compliance.”

“You ask much of us,” said Celestia, pacing silently to the window and glancing back. “You fight a civil war, surrender, and propose that we simply turn our backs and leave you to your own devices?” She laughed, a high sound. “I always wondered if you were brazen enough to start the war or if one of your flunkies backed you into it. Now I know.”

“I propose that you leave,” said Beatrix, masking her anger with a pointed smile. “And by you I mean all of you,” she added with a wave that encompassed both the Princess and the window. “Every soldier, every administrator, every trace of Canterlot. I would suggest you disband the bulk of the Army and Air Patrol, but I suspect you’ll end up doing that anyway.”

“You need us here.”

“But we don’t want you here,” she countered smoothly. “Besides — what’s the harm to you? You won’t find administrators jumping at the chance to be deployed to a warzone.”

“You need us,” repeated Celestia in a patient tone of voice, “for the same reason you’ve always needed us. You can’t support yourselves. You have nothing.”

“We don’t ask for anything. Just our freedom. Just our chance.”

“What will you do?” she asked, raising a hoof. “Say I grant your request. You write yourselves a government, and we leave.” She let the hoof fall, a forlorn gesture. “How will you live? What will you eat?”

“We have plenty of cleared land,” Beatrix laughed. “Supplies enough to last until harvest, and the ground is fertilized with the ash of a hundred years of forest. We will find a way.”

“Find a way,” Celestia echoed, shaking her head, sending ripples of faded color down her mane. “You need us. You always have; you always will. The land won’t permit of anything else.”

“We need our freedom,” countered Beatrix. “We need our chance. We would rather die free than live by the grace of Canterlot,” she spat. “The past six months should convince you of that.”

Celestia fixed her with her gaze.

“Why?”

“Because —”

“Why should I allow this?”

Beatrix licked her lips.

“Because you have nothing to lose,” she said with a broad gesture. “These are my terms.” She raised one hoof. “You leave us to our own devices. If I am right, you spend nothing on us, and in return we demand nothing from you. Maybe, in time, things change, but for now, Equestria forgets us, and we are left alone, which is the best we can hope for.

“But, suppose you’re right,” she said, turning to the other hoof. “I’m wrong — but that doesn’t matter, because I have no say in that decision anymore. The free ponies of Blackacre take a vote and come back to you. You receive them with open arms, carte blanche to dictate terms, and a set of prize government reconstruction contracts to distribute to whom you will.”

Celestia allowed herself a smile. For her brazen attitude, this rebel knew how to splay out domestic policy. Inexpertly, of course, but the core was sound.

“Bold words,” she said, gesturing towards the window. “And do you speak for all of my ponies here in Blackacre?”

Beatrix glanced out at the dark. “If there’s anypony alive out there —”

“Which I would doubt.”

“— they feel as I do.”

“Hm.”

For a long moment the room was as silent as the dark outside, nothing but the faintest whisper of a breeze through the holes in the walls to disturb the Princess. There she stood, thought Beatrix — no, there her image stood. Twelve feet tall and cloaked in an iridescent mane glowing dully in the midnight air.

The nag.

This, this was everything they despised about Canterlot. The ruling, the classes, the superiority of it all. The arrogance. They had wanted a slice of the action, a chance to make it in the world, but now? Now all they wanted, all that was left to want, was to be let alone.

“You ask much of me,” said Celestia, turning to face Beatrix. “You ask for us to declare victory and act as if it were a defeat.”

“I only ask for what we are in a position to give.”

“And for reasons that are my own, I accept,” she said simply.

Beatrix blinked.

“I am —”

“But let me be perfectly clear,” said the alicorn, taking a step closer and somehow growing in height. “Do not think of this as a victory, for it is not. You have given to me nothing which I could not take at my whim.”

“Could?” asked Beatrix, peripherally aware that this might not be the best being to irritate. “Or would? Your army is on the other side of the hellscape they themselves created.”

“They are,” she said neutrally.

“And not only are we here,” she continued, idly grabbing a hoof-sized chunk of granite off the desk where it had fallen from the ceiling, “but we’re buried under countless tons of this. If you wanted to get us, you’d have to come find us first.”

“They would have to,” said the alicorn, and though her words might seem to be an agreement her tone was anything but, a carefully calculated razor-sharp neutral.

“In fact,” said Beatrix, hopping off the desk and shaking the chunk at the alicorn’s image, “even though I’m here, right in the middle of the castle, where anypony could get to me, you yourself are back in Canterlot!”

For some reason, her proclamation wasn’t nearly as resounding as she had hoped. Maybe it was the acoustics in the room… or maybe it was the unreadable look on Celstia’s face.

There was silence for an uncomfortably long moment.

“Perhaps,” said Celestia, reaching out a hoof. The chunk twitched once, glowed the faintest shade of yellow, and jumped neatly out of Beatrix’ hoof, floating over to hover directly over the Princess’ hoof. She contemplated the chunk for a second or two, watching as it quivered back and forth with anticipation. Celestia clenched her hoof in one clean gesture —

“Perhaps.”

And the chunk imploded with a neat whump, yellow glow pouring inwards over tiny chunks of granite, pressing against one another in a race to the center of what was now a little hole in the room, hovering just above a steel-armored hoof that was, just as the rest of her, unquestionably and undeniably real, real as the real as the earth, real as the sun, pulsing with waves of raw energy, at point blank range the might of a solar flare —

“But you mistake choice for weakness.”

And once again the room rippled and all appeared normal. Appeared, save for an afterimage that she couldn’t quite place, a wreath of fire….

Princess Celestia stood before Beatrix, the image of a ruler. She passed no judgment on her subjects; she simply declared and let the others sort it out. She was a neutral, a rock in the storm, and for the briefest of moments Beatrix could see why somepony would go to her willingly, sacrifice their freedom for the calm reassuring grasp of this alicorn at the helm.

“I accept your terms,” she said with a nod.

Beatrix blinked, and Celestia was gone. Outside, the night sky was at peace, broken only by billowing shadows of clouds on the horizon; inside, the room was still, save for a faint whistling breeze in the night air. All was exactly as it had been ten minutes before.

All, save for a sprinkling of dust on the floor and a single armored hoofprint.