Wind and Stone

by Ruirik

Interlude

“Of course, Haysar’s plan was perfectly sound in theory,” Pathfinder explained to Stalwart, his wing idly playing with the long emptied mug. “Not much you can say against pure, overwhelming, force.”

“I disagree, father.”

“Gray!” The ancient stallion perked up visibly when a middle-aged stallion with a charcoal colored coat and silver mane strode into the bar.

“Overwhelming force only works if you take the fight head on,” Gray explained. “A slow, lumbering army is vulnerable to flanking maneuvers, guerrilla attacks, and ambushes. And that’s not counting how predictable their movements are.”

Stalwart recognized him instantly and stood quickly to salute the Commander of the Guard. “Lord Rain.”

Gray simply waved a wing in dismissal of the ceremonial gesture and approached his father with a strange look on his face. Stalwart was unsure if the stallion was angry, concerned, or simply bored. His expression was almost unreadable. Yet as he came astride Pathfinder there was no mistaking the resemblance. Gray Rain had a similar slender build, held himself in the same tense posture, and had the same short, rough, silver mane topping his head.

Where Pathfinder’s body was a collection of scars both deep and shallow, Gray’s was nearly pristine. His left eye was gone, hidden under a leather patch that matched his fur and hid the underlying scarring from view. He walked with a slight limp on his right foreleg, both wounds sustained during the Masquerade War.

“Son,” Pathfinder said, smiling wider than Stalwart had thought possible for the old scout. “This is my new friend Stalwart. Or Stahl-for-Short, I forget.”

“Indeed.”

“He’s a good kid, but dumb as a box of rocks. Thinks we should go back to Dioda for some damned fool reason.” Finder turned his grin on the younger Pegasus. “Stalwart, this is my son, Gray.”

Gray’s eye narrowed, leaving a chill to run down Stalwart’s spine. “Does he now?”

While Gray Rain was far from physically intimidating, there was an unsettling quality to the stallion Stalwart couldn’t help but feel like he was being picked apart, studied like a foal’s plaything. Gray seemed to never blink, instead focusing all the more intently on Stalwart as though he were prey.

Maybe that’s why he was called the Wolf of Cirra.

“It’s an honor to met you, sir.”

“Hm,” Gray grunted not bothering to pretend he believed it.

“Sit down, Gray, join us. I was just getting to the fun parts.”

“Haysar’s ineptitude for war is hardly what I would consider fun.”

Pathfinder made a dismissive wave with his wing. “We can’t all be perfect.”

“There is perfection, then there is simple incompetence.” Gray said, frowning.

“Everypony is a general when we’ve had seventy years to reflect.”

Gray shook his head, seeming to drop the subject. “I expected you home hours ago, father. You said you were just going to visit mother.”

Finder’s look grew sad. “I did. Then I came here for a drink.”

Stalwart tried, but couldn’t identify the expression on Gray’s face. It was not disappointment, nor sorrow. Rather it seemed a complex mixture of feelings displayed only very subtlety, and even then only for the briefest of moments. The impassive, unreadable, mask was back in place a moment later.

“Let’s go home, Father.”

Pathfinder shook his head. “I won’t be long, Gray. You may as well sit down and stay a while.” He leaned back in his seat, called out to the bar: “Cirrus! A round of teas if you can, please! Oh and a half Cirran for Gray.”

“Comin’ up, Songbird!” the mare called out from across the bar.

“Father–”

“Don’t ‘Father’ me, Gray,” Pathfinder patted a hoof on his son’s shoulder. “Besides, if I’m going to finish this story, you might as well sit and listen.”

“You’ve told this story many times, Father,” the younger pegasus reminded him. “When the griffon refugees first came to Equestria you made me sit through everything.”

There was a pause. Pathfinder seemed to be lost in thought. When he spoke again his words caused an expression of puzzlement on Gray. “Not everything, son.”

“Father?”

“Sit.”

It was a command this time, not the gentle requests of moments earlier. The shift in tone caught Gray by surprise. He and Pathfinder were locked in a stare, their matching golden eyes having an unspoken conversation only they could hear. It couldn’t have been more a moment or two before Gray seemed to relent, and slowly took the empty chair between Pathfinder and Stalwart.

The three stallions were quiet, only the pop of the fires and the soft humming of Cirrus filling the mostly emptied bar. Pathfinder was staring at the candle again, his hoof slowly tapping on the tabletop.

“Father,” Gray said after a moment.

“You know quite a bit, Gray,” Pathfinder cut off his son, though his gaze remained fixed on the dancing flame. “You’ve read all the histories. Even written a couple, and I’m as proud as a father could be.” Pathfinder finally looked over to his son and smiled. “But you don’t know everything.”

Gray said nothing, waiting for his father to finish.

“I know,” Pathfinder paused, rubbing his head and sighing. “I know your mother told you about the war. How we met. What happened to me in that griffon prison…” He shivered, though before his hoof could move to one of the emptied mugs Gray’s hoof laid over top of it providing a gentle squeeze.

Pathfinder looked up to his son, a grateful smile on his muzzle. He placed his opposite hoof over top of Gray’s grasping at it firmly. “But the Red Cloud War was more than just Nimbus or Feathertop. It was more than the brutalism of both griffon and pegasi. It was about extermination, and the effect that had on our people.”

“Psychological warfare is a powerful weapon,” Gray said in a matter of fact tone.

“Indeed it is.” Finder paused when Cirrus delivered a hot pot of tea and a half-full mug for Gray.

“Long time no see, Gray,” she said, smiling.

“Yes. I assume you are well?”

Her wings rolled in a shrug. “Well enough. Your Dad tells me the kids are good?”

Gray nodded, and for a moment Stalwart was sure he caught a hint of a blush on the quiet officer. “They have their mother’s spirit. I know many things, but how to raise a unicorn is not one of them. Archmage Diadem is kind enough to help me, at least. My little prince at least has a fondness for chess.”

“Now then,” Pathfinder said, taking his teacup in his hooves, drawing it close to his chest. “Where was I?”

“Um, Feathertop, and the Nimban expedition behind griffon lines,” Stalwart said, glancing from father to son and back again.

“Ahh, yes.” Sadness returned to the old soldier’s face.

Gray seemed perplexed. “What Nimban expedition?”

Pathfinder chuckled, though he kept holding tight to his son’s hoof. “Forgive me, Gray. There are...well...There are….Some things. Things I begged your mother to keep private when your sisters were born.” Pathfinder explained, his words carefully chose. “I think you're old enough to know a little more.”

Leaning back in his seat, though never releasing his grip on Gray’s hoof, Finder took a moment to choose his words. “Haysar’s plan was workable. Cirra had the raw numbers to overwhelm the horde, and the sheer pride in their power to see a path to victory. But, as they say, pride goeth before the fall.”

Comments

[RoboRed]

...Ominous.