Icon: Remnants of the North

by Vixavior

Act 1- Chapter 6: First to Press

First to Press

Proofread by TehSporkBandit

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The jaunt from Sweet Apple Acres to Ponyville had never been anything but normal. It gave you time to wind down from the arduous chores of rural life. Each and every day had a short trek that you could look forward to. Some days it led the mind to simply forget and the body let go of the twinges of pain brought on by sore muscles or minor scrapes, but other times it led to musings bordering on the philosophical.

Freshly showered and groomed, you leave the farm behind and walk that dusty road into town that led right along the property line. The open fields of grass swayed to and fro like rippling waves in the autumn breeze. Branches overhung the property line and provided a dappled shade against the heat of the day. Even the rustic split rail fence, bleached white from the sun, added to that antiquated feel of agrarian bliss. Small heaps of stones were piled up along the was yours now, thanks to the marvels of having hands in a hoofed society. You passed by the apple copses, the boughs bending under their bountiful burden when other trees were already showing the colours of autumn. The leaves that were left danced and mixed in great plumes of orange, yellows, and reds amongst the few remaining verdant scales that rustled in the wind. All of it was put on display while walking that winding path towards the footbridge into that peaceful town.

The change in scenery, the change in lifestyle on the whole, hadn't been a terrible one. Of course, it would take you a whole of three or four minutes to get to town by car whereas the walk would be closer to an hour. That was a bit of a drag, but it left a lot more time for these reflective moments. Things were just speeding up around the farm which left you tired from the exertion. It was only half a day, though Applejack had said if they really needed they'd try to work that requirement out with your other employer. The same employer you were heading over to see at that very moment.

Your new friends had done their best to ensure that you had a practical appreciation for Ponyville and, in return, you had a fairly respectable degree of warmth, freedom, and good standing in town. Good will and trust weren't going to evaporate at the slightest provocation, so it was a safety net. They had all taken a chance on you, even if they had been made to by one or more of the princesses. Twilight had been vocal in her support for you, Mayor Mare had done the same in a first day announcements, even Pinkie Pie's 'welcome to Ponyville' party was opulent by your standard and yet, as you found out later, subdued by request. Twilight thought a mix of 'welcome to Ponyville/take you to our leader/avoid a great pony war/silly hat day' would have been excessive. You had made a good impression, but how long would that last if they weren’t here or if they changed their opinion of you.

Familiarity breeds contempt.

You trod upon that winding road, under the distended boughs of older elms and oaks, inching ever closer to the west bridge of the sleepy town.

♣

“Welcome to the Carousel boutique, where everything is- oh, morning, darling.” You are greeted first by the chime of the brass bell over the door and then by that elegant voice. However, that refined tone was tinged with something else, something you couldn't quite place. It was more than just tiredness.

Rarity was looming over one of the clothes horses next to a ponnequin, trying to match bolts of fabric and a strip of bows to a shockingly gaudy dress. Flounced sleeves embroidered in silver thread while emeralds studded the collar with filigree connecting each like a spider's web. The cuffs, collar, waistband, even the hem of ruffles near the feet were festooned in red ribbons to match the velvet strips sewn on. You were afraid to disturb her as she stares at the garment intently through her pair of thick-rimmed red glasses, pencil behind her ear and cloth measuring tape across her back.

Dusting off your coat and folding it, you had a small corner in the shadows behind the sewing machine used for swift alterations on the floor. You tried on a bright grin, hoping those sneaking suspicions that something was wrong were unfounded. Rarity didn't even glance back.

Over the course of the last week you had lost some of your novelty to her. Rarity was still as pleasant as ever, and certainly a pleasant boss, but it hadn't taken long to figure out that she had both fixations and many little passing fancies. It should have been insulting but she was tremendously good at putting ponies off, poor Spike knew that too well. You couldn't be sure you hadn't fallen under her thrall in a different way.

Crossing that gap, the elegant cream coated Unicorn finally glanced up from what looked like a proper creative fugue. Miss Rarity was tired, but you hadn't realized how much so until seeing her for yourself. Her prim and proper mane was frazzled, with small sprigs of regal indigo hair jutting out here and there. Worse yet, as you stare and try to force a more noticeable smile across your lips, she isn't wearing mascara like she usually does; yet the dark edges around her eyes persisted like bruises. At first it looked like she may have been struck, causing a small surge of fear to course through you. Taking a few swift strides towards her, she blinked, barely registering your movement.

“A-afternoon, Miss Rarity. Are you okay?” if she was embarrassed to say something then that was bad. Thankfully she isn't a tremendous gifted liar so you'd pick up on it. Few in Ponyville were adept at deception.

The mare visibly blinked and gazed around before settling on the shrouded windows of her shop. They were well covered in velvet fabric of royal purple letting no other sunlight in which was disconcerting. 'Afternoon?' she mouthed to herself before a faint blue haze appeared by the braided draw cords at the window before the fabric was gathered and pulled back.

The rays of sunlight that lanced in were cheery and pleasant. The blue haze dissipated like a dusting of craft sparkles with a sharp gasp, “Miss Rarity?”

“Hmm, yes, Rightly? Oh, afternoon, of course!” she squints against the light, though it was neither particularly harsh nor bright.

“Oh… sorry, I had something on my mind. Hmm, never mind, it couldn’t have been important.” Nothing, not so much as a blink or incredulous raised brow. No, she just nods in total fence line, each having been uncovered by the plough and pulled from the fields. That chore understanding. Rarity could be every bit as stubborn as Applejack, but she was fairly perceptive. Today she had all the awareness of a bag of mulch.

As Rarity’s pack mule you'd spent a few late nights here completing orders and watching her fret about niggling worries. There had to be a way to break that fugue-like state, “So, Rarity…” you begin, easing away from the selling floor and into the back where you knew there to be a kitchen, “what have you been up to all morning?”

“Oh, not a great deal, just working on a few more saddles for winter and some scarves, it will be getting awful chilly in a few days. Winter can be utterly dreadful, but, it means more time with friends and family.” She seems entranced, though that might have been the exhaustion that was settling in on her.

“Aaand you're working on what right now?” The uncluttered kitchen made finding particular objects easy. You set the burner alight before filling the kettle and relaxing against the countertop.

“Oh, didn't I say? It's a dress for Scarlet O'Hair in Baltimare.” there is faint rattle and sound of something rolling, “Oh, for pony's sake.” she mutters, on edge and unamused.

“So-” you rapidly change the topic, “staying put with a nice warm fire, some good food, and your friends this year for Hearth’s Warming?” A quiet murmur confirmed that it is indeed what she was thinking. “Well, that will be a nice change. And are there a lot of events planned?”

“Absolutely, there's a pageant at the school-house. Oh, I suppose you weren't around last year, were you? Oh silly me, of course you weren’t here. We-that is, my friends and I, were in the Canterlot pageant. It was marvellous, I played Princess Platinum, and quite well if I do say so myself.” A prideful flounce in her voice said it was both a great honour and something quite worth mentioning. Not that you had the faintest idea what she was talking about.

Alright: the kettle's on the stove, the tea is in the strainer, the cup is on the counter.

You had everything ready. Keeping her talking wasn't too difficult, “So, Miss Rarity, is winter a busy season for y-us?” you quickly correct your mistake.

“Oh, I shouldn't think it would be tremendously different. On one hoof it starts off busier because everyone wants to keep warm, those that still want or need clothing for balls and various social events still order, the world doesn't stop just because it starts to snow, after all. But there is less walk-in business for us, dear. I would still expect you to be quite useful in the occasional delivery and helping with repairs and alterations for the younger fillies and colts who have outgrown some of their old clothing. But what we will be getting is some orders for the Hearth’s Warming pageant costumes. I do so love it...” she sighs dramatically as the sewing machine starts its mad chatter, “proper saddles, cloaks, robes, hoods, bosal hackamores… caparisons! Oh my, caparisons. I always wondered why such an item would go out of style, so many colours and so many potential wonderful cuts and fits. It's so beguiling, It doesn't deserve to hung up like a mouldy curtain on a bare wall. It would be a true test of a fashionista to make one positively glamorous caparison without being gaudy.”

“And we wouldn't want that.” you keep her talking as the kettle starts to pop from heat expansion, it wouldn't be too long. In the meantime, you keep your employer talking until the chamomile tea settles her.

“Oh, of course not, better to be under-dressed than overdressed if it's hideous. One can be excused for, qu'est-ce que c'est… ah, minimalism! Minimalism can be proper, and admirable, and exist outside of chic. Gaudy exists in ignorance of it while trying so hard to attain the proper status.” Rarity seems quite certain of her assertion.

“Like Applejack?” You venture as she seems like a paragon of the “minimalist” practical mode.

“Well…“ the pause gives way to a deflating sigh, “to a degree. Though, it's not on purpose, I assure you. She wouldn't know ‘le monde à la haut couture’ if it slapped her on the flank and washed that grubby hat of hers.” the mare grumbles a bit more.

“That seems a little harsh.” Unease creeps in as it seems to be winding her up rather than relaxing her. Biting your lip hard enough for it to hurt, your regret was already winding its way through your brain well after your mouth had decided to take over.

“Harsh? Perhaps some, but it's just so frustrating. It's not like she's beyond hope of being a proper socialite. Did you know that she has a closet full of perfectly respectable clothing? I've made her Celestia knows how many dresses, saddles, hoof slips, hackamores, everything I could think of. I even made her several hats… she might wear them once, once! Then it's as if they've become so passe that they aren't worthwhile to even take off the shelves again.” The proprietress’s voice warbles and crackles for a moment.

The kettle starts to rattle and whirl before screeching at you, causing your hackles to raise as you've been more interested in what the Unicorn had to say. You add the smallest amount of sugar and milk to the boiling water, wait for a few moments, and try to ignore the racked sniff and unsteady chortle which carries in from the adjacent room. “I want to think it's just me, that I have no idea how to appeal to my friend's tastes and that I don't and can't understand them. Maybe I don't, but she even has hand-me-downs from her mother. She wasn't suave or sophisticated, but that didn't make her any less pleasant or charming either. Even she knew how to make an impression where as Applejack is inept.”

You carry the tea and a small matching saucer into the other room carefully, keeping your footsteps quiet across the tile with your head down, hoping not to trip on the divot between tile and the almost non-existent carpeting. The Unicorn was still at her sewing machine, those small reading glasses perched on her muzzle, but she just sort of stared at the unstitched red dress facing. Edging closer in as quiet of a manner as you can conjure, it's not hard to see the unfocused thousand-yard stare in her eyes.

Placing the saucer down, the Unicorn blinks to refocus herself. A small smile draws across her face, “You have magic in your own way, it seems. Thank you ever so much, dear.” That pleased expression remains on her features as she sips not-so daintily from the tea-cup. Her aloof composure slowly returns after the second sip but her eyelids are drooping.

“Vous êtes les bienvenus.” It was an expression, in fact it was just a statement in general that you weren't all that comfortable about. Applejack hadn't even once mentioned her parents, but Rarity did. Was that breaking confidence, or just being informative? She'd oh-so-suddenly put you in an awkward and somewhat precarious spot.

Thankfully, the chamomile seemed to be working as the Unicorn desperately tried to stifle a yawn and failed miserably. Lifting a hoof to her mouth to half conceal it, the gesture wasn't enough. “Oh my, I suppose I am a little tired… but that doesn't excuse me from any of my duties.” she tries to perk up in a hurry, wiggling in her seat and adjusting her glasses, but it is an exercise in futility.

The yawn catches up with you as you try to cover the same involuntary exhalation as well. It miserably fails with a sound not unlike a whimper. The Unicorn finally seems to just stand up straight after almost dozing against the preparation table that the sewing machine was placed on.

This time you cut in before she could get out what she wanted to say, “I'll handle the hemming and getting the rest of this cuff and those scarves-” you flick your hand at the neatly cut bundles of material waiting to be properly stitched, “finished before the end of the day. It shouldn't be too difficult and I shall call the very instant a customer pays us a visit. Don't worry, everything is quite safe with me.” You can handle it, it is just sewing. She'd shown you a few times before how to do the base alterations on clothing. In a week on the job you'd done perfectly well, fingers were an obvious asset.

“Thank you, Rightly, you're a dear. I'm afraid I didn't sleep too much sleep last night. Maybe I can now with such a strong handsome assistant around.” she didn't admit defeat easily, but no one could say that she won’t eventually do so with a certain amount of poise and grace. Pushing herself up from the table, she leans against you, one hoof to her barrel and the other tracing down the centre of your chest. All the while her wane smile and half-lidded eyes, tired as they were, regarded you in an enigmatic matter. The mare wasn't above tongue-tying flattery and mixed signals.

“I'll take the tea cup and clean up.” she'd worked through the night before, but this looked worse for some reason. Her tiredness didn't show self-satisfaction, accomplishment, it just drained her.

Taking the tea cup from the work table, you walk the proprietress to the foot of the curving staircase that leads up to her personal quarters. It was chivalrous, and Rarity adored those little things normally, but now it seemed to be a comfort that she dearly needed.

Why though? What she needs is some sort of dog not a knight.

You definitely keep that thought internalized. No bounce to her royal mane, head sunk low, a ponderous walk, even the steps seem like an obstacle as she takes them one at a time. You stay there, staring up with a smile until she was out of sight.

She had given you a look from the top of the stairs, part of it was worry, a conflicted expression, and something else that you couldn't quite place. A slight wrinkle of her brow, pursed lips, tight throat, and that awkward stiffness. It disappeared into an obligatory forced smile before the mare meandered back to her room.

The view had been awkward given the revealing angle, but ponies don't care and neither should you. At least, it's what you told yourself, but it wasn't what made you uncomfortable. Rarity's expression had been abnormal in that last glance before disappearing. Contemplation? No, it was something else. It came down to that mascara, those short batting eyelashes: something bothered her enough that some of her most basic universal rituals simply didn't kick in.

The teacup was quickly washed, dried, and put away “just so”, Rarity would be pleased. Really, the afternoon had gotten much more simple but you also did want to be quiet and give Rarity a chance to rest. This was abnormal for her, even in the realm of all the outright bizarre things ponies were capable of. It was no snit with Sweetie Belle, no mere 'mood' of her often pendulum creative spark, and no wailing lamentation for… well mostly fear mongering. This was different, and that last look she gave you looked like anxiety.

Shaking away some of the meandering thoughts you decide to start on the work that should keep you busy until the end of the day. Really, there isn't much to expect and you don't want to really do anything loud. Taking Rarity’s previous seat, you look at the pile of cloth strips that would have to become scarves. Picking up the first, you cast a glance around. Something did catch your attention after a moment, a crumpled sound at your feet near the rim of the wastebasket.

It really didn't look special at all, a newspaper. It was from Trottingham from the symbols you recognized. Checking the numerical dating system on the top right corner, it was from today. Unfolding it, the Trottingham Post was uncommon, but finding an issue so casually crumpled up on the selling room floor was unheard of. To say your employer was a neat freak everywhere but her inspiration room was an understatement, trash on the floor was enough to send her into a fit.

Right there, in black and white, was a picture you hadn't seen since you stumbled into Equestria: uniformed officers surrounding an amorphous shape vaguely covered by a blank sheet in the middle of a field. Squinting, you tried your best to make out the unfamiliar Equestrian script:

One …… ……: Unicorn …… on the ……!

You gave up in a few short seconds and inspected the monochromatic picture. It was blurry and dotted from an old camera, but that didn't hide the expressions of sickness and devastation on the faces of the Equestrians crowding around the shell-shocked and tense faces of the nearby Constabulary. Each looked on from outside the barrier of tape at that blank sheet. Behind it, smeared on a wall, was far more uncomfortably familiar looking characters:

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

You try to focus on your work, occupying your mind with thoughts of clothing and requirements. Slowly, and not without a great deal of discomfort, do you slip into a rhythmic stupor while tending the chattering sewing machine.

♣♣

The sweeping chop of blades and raking scratch of metal-on-metal rose as a great clamour. To see more than ten feet in any direction would have been miraculous for the hordes of warriors on the banks of the brackish river. The same waters turned a muddy sanguine shade in the mid-morning light. Heat beat down relentlessly, drawing up the putrid scent of offal and sweat as death reaped its terrible toll.

Just another rankled scream amidst that tumult wouldn't have mattered, nor would it have even drawn a lofted brow had it been from any other. The whinny of horses echoed, a body struck the blood soaked field with a wet squelch. The man's face was paper white, blood pouring from his nose to stain bright locks of white as his mailed hand dug into the dirt. It carved furrows through the soft earth while his other arm hung loosely at his side, split wide open above the elbow in a twisted mass of sheared off metal rings and torn fabric.

“Bright-Courage, this could have been avoided.” The imperious tone rang out as a foot struck the tall man in the back, driving him down to the ground again.

The Angle’s lord clenched his teeth and glanced back at the mocking raider. Amidst the hellish halo was the sweat stained face of the great Northern Lion. “Take your gold and leave you heathen whore-monger.” Byrhtnoth defiantly spat with contempt.

The sun was entirely obscured for a moment, a great hulking brute shouldering a dripping axe stared from behind his lord. “You're being too lenient with him, Olaf.” Though his face was covered in a mask of mail, the bull-like snort and slow reedy growl was evidence of a barbaric smile forming. “Should the great red bird soar? I think it should.” He reached down, grasping the fallen warrior's wounded arm and wrenching it viciously.

The scream passed in moments, the man fainted when his wound was twisted open. Pinning the man to the ground with a foot against the small of his back, the great axe was lifted high in the air poised for a final bloody strike. A restraining hand grasped the haft, “Sigvald, curb your blood lust for a moment.” It was a sharp, snorted command. Olaf, Lion of the North, looked past the bridge of his helmet as the massive warrior tensed his muscles beneath his thick armour, as if straining to keep such a command. “I have a vested interest in making sure he keeps his lungs inside his chest so he has breath to tell me what I need to know.”

Tacit approval was granted as Sigvald, Jarl of the Joms, eyed the fallen opponent one last time and grunted. “I'll take fifty and smash what's left of the resistance of the rearguard.” It got an approving nod from Olaf.

Through the rush and press of bodies, the green cloaked shield thane kept his own shield held overhead. Two barbed shafts were lodged near the dented shield boss. Ulf, bearer of the Raven standard, pulled him closer as the shield thane nodded his approval. “My lord they're…” Kolbjorn's breath faltered as he held up a hand in apology. Another deep gasp had him start again, “Apologies. They put up stiff resistance in the vanguard, but the right is ours.” He was cheery despite the warble in his voice; it was a tone of reserved jubilation.

Ulf smiled beneath his helm and nodded to support the shield thane's assertion, “It's true, my lord. See!” He pointed a hand axe towards the figure of a score of horses and riders galloping away from behind the enemy formation. Even now, the resistance, that once indomitable press of men and iron, was easing. Where once had been a lock of shoving feet was now a steady tramp around them as valorous warriors surged forward to bring their arms to bear against the yielding foe. The Angles were being thrown back.

The banner thane looked at the fallen form of the Angle’s leader who was slowly rousing from the horrid pain. “Bind his wounds, Kolbjorn. Ulf, next to me… I want Bright-Courage awake and aware.” Olaf commanded.

Kolbjorn nodded and knelt down, looking in his belt for a looped water-skin. Pulling his spangenhelm off, he laid it down at his side. Long locks of platinum hair rolled down like a greasy mane, his long face streaked in grime and sweat, pooling in the hollows near his jaw. Blinking the stinging sweat from his eyes, he pulled the water skin free and held it out for the wounded man after uncorking it. Bright-Courage looked at the heathen raider who just shoved the water-skin forward in a coaxing motion to say 'drink.' The leader of the Angles did just that while the shield thane ripped a strip of cloth from his own robe to bind the man's wounds.

“Get him to his feet, Ulf.” the banner was seized from the thane's hands, held by the warlord himself who surveyed the field, still standing taller than those around him. Ulf brought the man up, helping the taller individual stand despite huffing from the heat of the mid-morning and that of his cumbersome equipment. The banner thane had been commanded, thus he obeyed.

The Lion of the North placed a hand Byrhtnoth 's good shoulder and pointed at the cavalry. “That's your horse, is it not? And one of your riders?” Ulf tried to blow a breath into his own eyes, sweat streaking down painfully. Kolbjorn suddenly seemed in an enviable position; the elder shield thane kept his titular name-sake up to protect his lord and the prisoner. “Look there.”

Sure enough, the hedge of spear points was flowing steadily away. Horses galloped, and banners flapped then fell as the bellowed growl of the Bear carried on the wind. At that sight the man known as Bright-Courage sighed deeply. His strength seemed to ebb all at once as he slumped against Ulf’s shoulder. The sea-folk had put their foe to flight, soon there would be nothing but scavengers, carrion birds, and corpses strewn over the fertile plain.

The firm voice of Olaf echoed in his ear, “All this could have been avoided, all I want is the icon of Theophilus. Do not pretend not to know and do not insult my intelligence. I will warn you, but only once.”

Byrhtnoth the Ealdorman, commander of the Saxon host, prisoner, sighed then let his head loll forward in defeat. Every straining effort to stay upright and aware showed upon his granite features, carved from stone like a defeated ancestor of yore. The ashen face and hollow voice once more took shape, though without the venom and verve of moments before, “The nearby town; promise it will be left standing, its people unmolested… then I'll take you to the Icon. Though, it's not going to be of any use to heathen hands.”

“We'll see."

Author's Note:

Not much to say about this today, I kept the French to a minimum but it still seems like Rarity would be the sort to really latch on to a foreign language too. Even so, it's just about the bare phrases you'd probably pick up in additional to the usual fair of curses and the like.

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