Icon: Remnants of the North

by Vixavior

Act 2- Chapter 1: A Quiet Muse

A Quiet Muse

Proofread by TehSporkBandit

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Winter, not some paltry mix of rain and sun, and not some simple flurries to dust the street lamps and make drivers paranoid, but real bone-chilling winter. You expected the winter but not some of the oddities regarding how artificially it appeared. One day Applejack was saying that everything at Sweet Apple Acres was ready for the change in seasons and the toughest part was over; the next, a few Pegasi were scrambling around like they were late for a meeting with no other consequences. The 'winter soon' memo had seemed like the usual meteorological hocus pocus. In other words, it was completely wrong.

Then, somewhere, in some dark panel lit room, somepony flipped the calendar before flipping a switch. It was as simple as that. In the space of a day, cold migrated from the north and carried aloft on its frozen pinions came sheets of snow. In two days, Ponyville had changed from warm and blustery autumn, to cool and glorious winter-wonderland. It was spectacular.

Up until now, that was. Beetles from Hoofington were threatening local fruit trees. Needless to say, Applejack had been pacing for the past few days, mortified and almost witless until a blue Pegasi showed up to eat her fill and take half an hour to say 'all her problems had been solved!' The weather team was giving stern warnings for ponies to stay inside for a few days. It wasn't just a little memo this time, they were supposedly serious. Five days of bitter cold would stem the pests.

That much you expected, but there were a few things you hadn't been informed of: Sweet Apple Acres had ample stores of food, as did most of Ponyville, but through the winter, one pony in your circle of friends always seemed to need more. Fluttershy. She stayed hidden in her semi-secluded cottage and thanks to some fairly hefty requirements for her own 'line of work', warranted extra attention.

Typically that was Big Mac's domain. By virtue of strength alone he could haul a considerable amount of fodder on a sled through the forest clearings and outer orchards. Unfortunately, there was a bit of a snag that came with shockingly cold temperatures. While the farm was well stocked, they needed firewood which diverted the stallion's attention elsewhere. Applejack was unquestionably strong and humans could push far better than a pony could, which helped, but neither of you could drag a fallen live oak a mile and a half. Likewise, standing outside in those temperatures with a saw wasn't a reasonable solution either. So, while Applejack helped with the firewood, and Apple Bloom tended to the animals, you were left with courier duty.

Besides, laugh as they might, your sense of winter-wear 'fashion' was better than theirs. They thoughtwinter could be warded off with mitts, vests, leggings, hats, earmuffs, and scarves. It simply wasn't enough when trudging through three foot drifts. You, conversely, had on everything they did beneath your coat, pants, and shoes. The coat was a … ‘thoughtful’ gift from Rarity. It was a heavy gauge, blue cloth great-coat with bright yellow cuffs and lining. Tie backs, embroidered stitching, double-breasted with sunburst gold facings, you looked like some sort of French courtesan or maybe a Victorian era carriage boy.

Trudging through deep snow past your knees, while trailing a small sled full of bulky foodstuffs, turned out being harder than you expected. Going through Ponyville would have been good but it would take thrice as long. In thirty minutes, you had passed the Crusader's club house, cut through the north orchard, slid between some of the wildlife paths, and picked your way through the posts that marked the boundaries of the tended sections. The cinnabar sky hung in a dark and dreary sheet that draped the world and the air itself was painfully crisp and clear.

Most of the horrid temperatures were warded away by the motley assortment of accessories. What it didn’t help was your sight, every time you exhaled your scarf would trap some of that warmth and soon enough your glasses were fogging up. That, and the tight haphazard wrappings around your legs, was spoiling any proper image and lent an air of desolation to your garments.

As if begging to show you how much worse winter could get, the first few errant flurries trickle down from the skies. In the span of ten minutes the overcast skies began to unleash their stores. The rasping winds seize the loose powder and forms it into walls as abrasive as any sandstorm. You can't see more than fifteen feet through the denuded trunks of the northern orchard, enormous serpentine drifts undulate like waves and play havoc with the eyes.

A howling roar tosses the sled and shunts you aside at the edge of the tree line just as you glimpse the indistinct edge of the tree line. At that spot should be the point where an unassuming road splits the forest, but aside from a few drifts against wooden posts, it’s as blank and featureless as a sheet of paper. Across that should be a narrow footpath that leads to Fluttershy's cottage but finding it is as much luck as any test of memory. The snow storm shrouds the pathway, the bridge, and almost every recognizable feature as if you were meandering down a blank page from one of Twilight's journals. The only relief from the monotonous drone of the winds is the macabre audience of lifeless trees which clap and clatter behind you.

The red kerchief comes lose, a billowing bolt of crimson raggedly fluttering by as you clasp the material and hold it to your windburned face. It was as if you had been tricked into some starkly uncomfortable reenactment of Napoleon's retreat from Moscow. Worse yet, you volunteered for it… but on the bright side, this might have been more dangerous to a certain stubborn farm-pony you knew so this was probably for the best. Probably.

A small rise appears to your right. The bridge, it had to be the dip from the small footbridge that leads to Fluttershy's front door. Changing course and plodding on through the scouring winds, you drag yourself over the grey stones of the bowed bridge spanning the tiny rivulet. It was infinitely better than scrambling up and down embankments. Up ahead, like a lighthouse in the storm, you see the shimmer of a lantern in a window. Fluttershy's cottage.

You struggle up that incline, fighting every ice-slicked step of the way, then claw your way towards that inviting front door. Balling up your numbed fist, you brought it down hard against that featureless wooden portal.

It opens quickly, just a crack but was progressively forced open by the wind. “Urrer-shaw” You mangle her name beneath the protective scarves and pull yourself in quickly to avoid the winds stealing away the home’s warmth.

“Oh dear-oh dear, I'm so-so sorry! Oh my.” Her rapid apology was quaky and sharp as you drag yourself across the threshold. You were safe albeit frozen and weak. It was a most pleasant feeling to look upon that Pegasi, and it lasts only the briefest of moments as your glasses fog up from the heat and blind you completely. She struggles and pants to close the door while the wind screams in protest to her efforts. You haul the sled in across the wooden floor and slump down with a final scrape. Finally it shuts as you feel the minor wave of nausea at the drastic temperature change.

“Rightly?” she blinks, “ Rightly! Stay there, I'll get more tea and a bath, some soup, I just didn't expect anypony to show up on a day like this. I should put a stronger light in the window.” Self-effacing mutterings assault you from every direction as she darts around like a bee. At least, that’s how it sound as you still can’t see her. As you scrape and scratch at your outer garments, each finger, ear, and toe feels like they were being pierced by needles. Your limbs are already starting to swell from the horrid cold, worse yet, that damned itch was sinking in as the ambient warmth met your frozen skin.

Dragging your glasses off and letting scarf tails fall to your chest, you have to clean the lenses off three times before they finally clear up. Glancing around, the insides of the house might be a touch blurry but you could work your way over to the couch without too much discomfort. After brushing yourself off, you take a seat and fumble for the buttons of your coat.

The clatter of hooves meet your ears, but you are surprised to see a shock of purple and white. As you squint to be sure through the shimmering streaks on your lenses, Fluttershy was still wearing a fluffy bathrobe. “Here… take this.” She hovers in front of you, presenting you with a steaming cloth that you take and bury your face in. Fluttershy's hopes echoes your same thought, “I hope nopony at all is out in this.” A Pegasi could take the cold or the heat better than anypony else, but this was something different.

“There you go, I'll help you out of those cold damp clothes, if you catch a chill I'll never forgive myself.” Fluttershy's clinical demeanour was thoughtful albeit awkward.

“N-I'm alright.” You protest, thinking that you could at least have the decency to get your own damned coat off but it was proving to be a challenge.

Slipping right in front of you, she places a hoof directly over the top button. “If you don't get them off and catch a chill it's my fault. You were kind enough to bring something, and I have done this before.” Squinting but looking her in the eye, she actually looked worried. Were you in that bad shape? A nod of consent was all that was really needed as you stare at your nearly useless fingers.

Do hooves freeze up like this?

♣

Well, the bathrobe had changed hands and yet you had to admit, terry cloth felt terrific against skin. Sitting on the couch, feet in a pail of hot water and sipping tea from a mug, you drag out a languid sigh.

It wasn't hard to be thankful for this robe. Not only is it fluffy and warm, it‘s a comforting psychological defence against the wind’s determined assaults. They scream and rage outside, trying to worm or rip their way into the cabin in the most frightful dirge you can recall. But in this robe you feel cozy and nigh on invulnerable. Despite the continued wails of protest, you still do. In fact, the robe is the only article of clothing you are wearing at all. Fluttershy's maternal manner ensured that it didn't feel awkward. A sigh passes your lips as you take another sip of chamomile tea. All the while the Pegasus sat across from you with a tremendous grin plastered across her muzzle and a glowing radiance in her wide eyes.

That had always worried you about Fluttershy; she had so few visitors, and only a few close friends.

Is that a cry for help or is she just anti-social?

The tick of a clock echoes audibly around you from some darkened hallway away from the caress of firelight. It's quiet, many animals were hibernating, a few clusters of cardinals roost in the rafters. The house still has that wild odour, earthy rather than rank. Around the clustered corners of the homely little cottage were signs you were never truly alone.

Staring across that low wooden table separating you, it is hard to believe you had thought that about her. Was it so bad to appreciate the quiet? Is it some horrid abnormality to not cut in and proliferate your thoughts?

Why was sitting in silence looked down on?

Would it have killed her to bright it up? She had set a platter down, warmed tarts, a pair of bowls with chips of vegetables, and even sandwiches cut into bite sized sections placed out for you. That pony could be content to offer up a simple gesture of comfort, and feel rewarded in that alone.

“Thanks.” Your voice was laden with the last vestiges of tiredness from your journey, but you were sincerely feeling better. “Are you sure you shouldn't be taking care of some of your animals or something?”

She swiftly shook her head, “Oh I was looking after them earlier, extra food, more packed snow, some extra hay outside. They'll be just fine.” Quirking her head to the side, she sounds confident in her preparations. As bad as the weather was she knew her charge’s need. Well, that gives you more confidence in the soup and sandwiches at least.

Reaching for a square of a sandwich, it’s hard not to smile at its contents. Strawberries, peaches, pears, and a slight glaze of what looked like honey to keep it from getting mushy. A dessert sandwich. “It seems like you've got this all planned out, then. Does it usually get this cold?” The sandwich tastes weird as you take a bite, but it isn’t bad.

“Oh no, almost never. Or else how could anypony get anything done?” That was a good point, really, “Now hold still…” she reaches towards you, letting you wonder what exactly she was getting at, and wipes the corner of your mouth. It was a quick flick and a cooing smile, “There you go, all better.”

She could have just said something, I'm not an infant.

“So it's not something too natural. Well, I could get used to it, then.” You nod and finish up the mushy albeit sweet sandwich morsel.

“It must be difficult.” She starts off and stops.

“Hmm?” A moment of errant thought leaves you wondering as you sip the calming brew.

“Well,” she starts, Fluttershy was more forward with you than other ponies, “the cold and wind seems to hurt your skin, and it's so cold, where as I imagined Saddle Arabia would be warm. So if your skin isn't healing like your kind does, it must be difficult and painful.” Her reasoning was sound but you almost realize the cover you've had for months.

Whose skin wouldn't chap and blister at… ah.

Your 'troll' cover story nearly slipped away from you. With a racking 'ahem' to clear your throat, you reached for the drink, “Yeah, my kind doesn't always adapt the best, like cave trolls to sunlight.”

It was becoming harder and harder to keep up the pretext. It conflicted with her knowledge, some of her experiences evidently, and you were beginning to think she already knew the truth. However, confirming what she might suspect could cause issues.

“Well, I can certainly imagine. Even ponies grow physically accustomed to their comforts. And mentally it can be much worse. I'm amazed that you managed to fit in and grow so used to something so different. It's so-so wonderful.” Bright grin, shut eyes, head cocked to the side, she is genuinely supportive of that, though it didn’t sound emphatic. Working with excitable animals, like snakes, skunks, and wolverine meant that it was probably best she isn't as loud as some of her friends.

Thinking back to something she said, you take a breath and ask, “So ponies don't go out in weather like this, but it's been quiet anyway. Is it usually like this?” In the past two weeks, the town had been more subdued. You figured it was just the winter suppressing everypony's usually cheerful outdoor activities.

Fluttershy pauses and casts her gaze down at the low table before reaching for a bowl of soup. Resting the wide-brimmed bowl in her hooves, she gingerly brings the rim to her lips. The broth seems to fortify her enough to give an answer, “No, this year is a lot quieter. Usually there's some picnics, or snow ball fights, or nature rambles, the usual hustle and bustle, firewood collection, snow clearing, and other games ponies play.”

“Why is that?” You quirk a brow and look at her again.

She rises from her seat and quietly meanders towards a small corner of the room. She stops at a small mouse hole surrounded by cluttered papers and sifts through them. Picking up a single paper in her mouth, she returns to the table and flattened out the crinkled paper. It’s the Ponyville express. More tales from east of Vanhoover, a blood slicked sheet and four constables standing nearby. The big black letters seeming to jump out at you though you still couldn't really read it. You make out some of it, squinting at the blocky hieroglyphs and make out 'Unicorn' and 'two'.

Noting that your powers of Equestrian comprehension were still limited she translated, “The… the Crystal Empire constabulary found a fourth Unicorn, umm… two… are still missing. Ponies are afraid of it now. The rumors are getting bigger, scarier for many. If it's not worry for themselves…”

“It's worry for others.” You nod, following where she was going with it. Ponies stayed indoors and stayed together, away from the faceless fears. These ponies were simply bizarre; scared of something countless leagues away, while a pit of horrors rested on their doorstep.

So, the phenomenon doesn't stop at over-imaginative fashionistas and fillies.

You ask something that sticks in your mind, “What about you? I mean, you and everyone else in Ponyville lives right next to a forest with manticores, cockatrices, and needle fanged monsters of every type. I mean, just two weeks back Rainbow was telling tales about fillies and colts going missing in there and never being seen again. So why is that fine and this-” you jab your finger at the paper, “is weird? That's unnatural.”

“But it's perfectly natural.” Fluttershy responds flatly.

“huh?” You loft your brow, quite taken aback by her emotionless tone.

“Frightening predators are natural. That's because they're hungry. A cliff can be steep, or the water too deep. It's sad, but it's perfectly natural.” She sits back down, her tone not changing one iota.

She had to have seen your bewildered expression, so she continues with the smile of one who knows, “All those things are something to be aware of. It's something else, something out there that is cutting ponies lives short. Preying on ponies is ensuring that their special talents are never realized and never brought around to being helpful. Life is about giving and sharing your special talents with others in the world. It's not about getting, but providing. Most of the time, ponies know it but will just get swept up in the routine of that being normal.”

The Pegasus stops for a moment, looking up as if for inspiration, and finds it among the rafters, “I love Applejack, everypony does. But she can be… stubborn. Still, her heart is in the right place no matter how much she worries about bits or goods. She has to because of others, but it's only to provide for her family and the ones she cares about. It's enough to get by with some comforts, hoping those close to her always have what they need. If you asked her what comes first it will always be her family.”

You understand what the Pegasus was saying and internalized it after a moment or two of silence. It was a pervasive hush interrupted only by the crackle of the fireplace.

A quiet nod invites her to continue. “Now, take Rarity. Rarity gives of herself, so she's exactly like Applejack but in a very different way.” The phrase 'AntiJack' comes to mind. “Rarity, well, she is my best friend, but ponies rarely see that her talent is to enhance, to beautify, and to help others recognize their potential. It's compassion, to give ponies something worthy of themselves, not just good enough but something that can give them joy and a sense to say they're worth it. Her time, her effort, her creativity is a gift and the bits are just a means.” That seems decidedly philosophical for the introvert.

“But how does that really relate to death and this?” You gingerly point a finger at the paper.
Her expression makes it clear that she had thought you would understand. But that didn't elicit anger, or remonstration, she just flashes a smile and starts again. “Everypony, everyone, has a special talent. For them to simply not exist, to die, to have it all come to an end because something else decided is…” her voice tapered off as a tremor creeps up her spine, “unthinkable. Because they know better, because they should care. That's why this is so terrifying whereas that-” she points her hoof towards the outside world, “Isn't.”

“…Aren't you afraid of dragons?” You ask her again and she readily nods. Ponies.

Looking back at the window to which she pointed, darkness was beginning to fall, the white wall and deep cutting gales were turning to a sombre grey. It seems you would be spending the night, which was fine, though you hope it won't worry the Apples. Apples, “Did you start with Applejack for any reason in particular?”

Fluttershy just blinks. A thoughtful hum drifts across her lips and the edges of her mouth inch upwards in a curl, “I'll get some more tea and soup.” and thus avoiding the question completely. What the hell was that? “Rightly?” She waits for your small note of acknowledgment, “Thanks for coming all the way out here. Usually Big Mac stops by, but it's nice to have company I can talk too.”

The Pegasus’s sudden disappearance leaves you with plenty of time to think. Is she playing at something? Either way, part of your mind drifts away as she hums a quiet song from the kitchen. It's melodic warmth meshes with all the other hospitality she'd shown, not to mention the plush softness of the bath robe. But it wasn't the physical things, it was that warm glow from a smile and the kindness of her friendship and company that was the most soothing. Reaching over to fetch another sandwich quarter, you place it on the crumpled newsprint, dismissing the later from your mind.

♣♣

“What is it?” Ulf's voice trembled as he still looked at the statues embedded with carefully cut glass beads to look like tear drops. They couldn't be trusted, the mausoleum reeked of unfathomable curses laid deep in some ancient land.

Olaf dropped the carved box with a clatter as it tumbled across the floor. Approaching the twisted spire of ivory, he crouched with a muted air of dread. It wasn't undamaged; the base was shattered, but the perfect twist showed no pits, no carving marks, just a pure rounded spiral made of perhaps three intersecting sections terminating in an icicle like point. “An alicorn,” his voice barely carrying at all.

“M'lord?” Kolbjorn asked, not having caught it like Ulf had.

“It's an alicorn, the horn of the great southern Unicorn. It can cure diseases, purify poisons…” his breath was light and drifted off with a reverent stroke against the twists of his new prize. “I have head of such a thing before.” The warlord reclined against the broad steps.

Ulf glanced at the third panel of the wall. There was a carving, but all he could see were the unfamiliar words in the dull light:

Nu min wine gecranc
þæt ic hlafordleas ham siðie.
Wende fram wige,
ac me sceal leofne hors niman,
héo hæfde god geþanc
ne forhtedon na hire wordum.
“Ne sceole ge sinc gegangan.”

Befæsten fífirúnwitan ic ánþing gebannum
fífincundnessa ond bréosthord
gebrogdene fífigéosceaftas bótum ætstalas
hwonne áne ácordaþ, sy ácumendlicnessa

and þæs strangan stapol.
ac me sceal wæpen niman,
ne þurfe we us spillan,
wið freode and niman frið.
Gehyrst þu, hwæt þis folc segeð,
and þam wordum swealg
And mid friþe ic ferian.
Se sy…

The banner thane shook his head and returned to perusing the book that lay under the chest. Picking it up, the pages were musty and looked fragile. Ulf glossed them over, leafing over a few of the elaborately detailed manuscript pages, past an illustration of the mural, until he came to something vaguely familiar.

Squinting, Ulf took stock of the aged parchment leaf in the leather folio. Blowing across the noteworthy page, dust rattled free and rained down on the floor. Satisfied with that, he approached the pair on the steps.

There were great lines, pictures of animals, and the jagged lines marking abstract shapes. There were five small circles spread here and there, and names were written in a foreign language. Ulf's eyes still showed a sparkle of recognition: their home of the Daneslaugh, Vinland, Valland, Svíþjóð, and Angelcynn the isle of the Angles as well. “My lord… look.”

He crouched to present his findings to the warlord. Olaf's eyes moved from the ivory horn over to what was presented. A quick gasp and a slow smile spread, “A map. Ulf, a map…” he looked at a loss as to what he should do, but still clasping the horn to his chest he dragged a finger down the page. “Quinque duces inclinent capita sua regina reprobi… ‘the heads of five leaders bow to their fallen queen. The aspects of aspects are the common bond. May you find their voice and use it to unite what was split asunder. Do not fear the dream in the presence of a nightmare.’”
The inscription was in familiar Latin text, but the map was different. It was large, aged, but drawn with incredible precision. Olaf traced the borders, as if inspecting them for himself.

Five illustrations were present; perhaps they were symbols, and perhaps they were sigils. The great Northern Lion grumbled everything aloud in a low drone. His finger touched a great symbol like that of a key, “Rúmaborg”. A droplet surmounted the image. It may have been water, it may have been blood, but it was there. Others here and there showed similar decorations. A crescent and star of mystic Persiðaland bore the same decoration. What seemed to be of more pressing interest to their royal liege was finding those three that were not surmounted by the droplet, but small radiant crowns. A three-pointed flower of the Frankish king at the centre of Valland, and another beyond Persiðaland shaped in a similar way.

Kolbjorn found the third, “Are these cities?” he asked with evident curiosity. Olaf practically hung over him as the makeshift torch began to die.

“No. They're signets, signets of Kings.” He stated clearly. “Two slain. Three who still rule, when this was written…” he trailed off, finger tapping one. “No bloody droplet, these people here may have something. A unifier. They will tell me how to unite our lands under one banner.”
The warlord's tone grew more confident as he pushed himself up and to his feet, “If this is the icon of Theophilus-” he caressed the twist of broken horn, “they shall tell me how to unlock it. I will be king of one, strong, united Norseland.” The unquenchable fires of impetus blazed in those azure eyes.

“This is where we must go. I'm sure of it.” Ulf looked again, staring at a single symbol on a tiny island just west of the Great Island of the Angles. The symbol, a four leafed flower he'd seen growing on the river banks that very morning. A clover.

Author's Note:

So, start of the new Act, it jumps ahead a bit but not too-too much. I had been mulling over whether to make this chapter 10 for Act 1 or Chapter 1 of Act 2, but I decided on the later becaue of the chronological shift.

So, y'all take care now and see ya' next time, eh?