• Published 22nd Sep 2015
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Equine, All Too Equine II: The Days of the Prophets - stanku



Canterlot stands on the brink between chaos and a slow death. The griffons are restless, food is scarce, and the Parliament remains a ruin. And in the middle of it all, a single pony telling himself he's doing everything he can.

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Chapter II: The Griffon


In the shy light of the early dawn, a group of shadows moved restlessly on a mountain ledge overlooking the lands below. A stifled yawn or a rustle of feathers would occasionally break the quiet, which would then descend like house dust over the early scene. Waiting as such did not come easily to griffon nature, reflected Cecil, who was one of the more immobile shadows. Stalking, now that was different. The fervor of the hunt ran in their veins and pulsed from the marrow of their bones. Nothing but the wind in your wings, the sea below you, the trusted companion by your side. It had been too long since she had enjoyed any of that.

A lot of things that did not come easily to griffon nature nowadays constituted the everyday of their lives. Living in a cave was not the least of them. Starvation came a good second. But all these could be endured like any other inconvenience. The true deathblow had been the loss of the jewel of their kingdoms, known to mortals as Griffonstone. The Fall had swallowed it all up during one single day. A fortnight later there had been nothing but ash there; ash and the overwhelming stench of sulphur.

Cecil had heard the city was not that different nowadays, although no one alive could say for sure. The only description of the event had been sung by the poet Cassandra, right before she had hurled herself into the very same flames she had bled her heart out for. Cecil had heard the poem once. She had empathized with the author's suicide better then. All and all, it had been a very mediocre poem, insofar as she understood anything about the field.

Everyone said that the real downfall of the griffon race had come the moment that Griffonstone fell. Cecil could not see it. From all she’d heard, it had basically been a piece of rock somewhere far off. The majority of griffons through the ages had never lived there, hardly even visited the place. Right before the Fall it had been kind of a dumb, as one source would have it. If anything it was a convenient excuse for loitering and general depression, in Cecil’s mind. Something to blame everything for, rather than look into a mirror. She would not fall for it, not while there was one feather left hanging on her skin.

In the far distance, something drew her eye.

“They’re here,” she said. “Get up and try to look sharp. We don’t want these guys to think you woke up half an hour ago. They’ve been flying since yesterday.”

With obligatory minor grumbling and cursing, the griffons around got to their feet. There were a dozen of them. Cecil would be hard pressed to trust them guard half a fishbone for an afternoon, but she didn’t have many options available. Someone needed to ration the food. Otherwise they’d be eating each other – or anything that moved – within days.

It took the arrivals twenty minutes to get to the ledge. Funny enough, those were the most anxious minutes of the day for Cecil; she almost took off and flew to meet them halfway. When the first griffon landed, she was next to her in a flash.

“Welcome back,” she said, perhaps too eagerly.

The griffon unloaded several bags off her back before so much as glancing at her. Then she went to help the others with their carriage. Cecil watched her in dismay, up until someone behind her asked if they should be helping them.

“Yeah, let’s get to it,” she said.

They worked in silence, unpacking the loads of fish and delivering them inside to the storages. It had been fried and salted, to make it preserve through the journey from the sea. The fresh taste was of course all but ruined, but at least they wouldn’t get sick from eating it.

Every now and then Cecil caught a glimpse of the first arrival’s face, and could not escape the conclusion that she was avoiding her. First, it increased her confusion. Next, it boiled her anger, which was already steaming due to all the waiting. Third, it made Cecil pull the griffon aside from view and press her back first against a massive boulder.

“Hello? Hi? Nice to see you?” she snapped. “Any of that ring a bell to you?”

The griffon raised her eyes from Cecil’s chest to her face. An overpowering sadness clogged them. It faded in a heartbeat as she shoved Cecil off her, but the impression had already done its ugly job, and now spread its tendrils quickly around Cecil’s worst fears.

“Falke…” she whispered. “What happened?”

Falke squeezed her clawed fists. “Nothing you haven’t guessed already.” She paused for a moment, and then added, “Camu went fishing for the sun.” Her left hand slammed against the rock behind her.

Cecil closed her eyes. She had noticed someone was indeed missing from the squad. Up until now she had been praying Camu had stayed behind for some reason, or that he had never left in the first place. “How did it happen?” she asked, eyes still closed.

“Like it always does. He’d been quiet for a few hours, untangling the nets alone on the shore. When I went to see him, I only found the nets.”

“Maybe he just–”

We searched,” snarled Falke. “It’s why we came late. He went after the sun. End of story.”

Cecil heard Falke leaving. Instinctively, she tried seizing her arm. Instead, a second later she found herself flat on her back, with her friend’s claws an inch from her throat.

She opened her eyes as something wet fell on her forehead.

“I shouldn’t have left him alone,” said Falke, voice shaking. “My squad. My responsibility.”

Very tenderly, Cecil brushed her cheek, from there moving to her neck. “What happened to ‘every griffon for themselves’?”

Falke grunted in irritation, and for a split-second lost her concentration. It was all the time Cecil needed. She moved her neck out of the way of her claws, grabbed the other griffon’s temple and pushed her off her. Their fight continued fiercely as both tried to subdue the other under them. An outside observer could not have said at which point the struggle turned from brutal to tender, then loving, and finally lustful.

Sometime later, Cecil and Falke lay on the rocks, greeting the first rays of the breaking dawn with their panting. The air was chilly, and made their breath steam.

“Camu would’ve appreciated that,” said Cecil.

Falke humphed. “He would have.”

They both laughed. It was a good laugh. So was the silence that succeeded it.

“Do you really think it’s a disease?” asked Falke quietly. “Or a choice?”

Cecil stared at the purple sky. A few late stars, or planets, still fought the overpowering might of the sun. An age old celestial theatre, played over and over again no matter what happened under it. Completely irrespective of them. And here she was, staring at it and wondering if, right on the spot she had once taken to be empty, a new star had lit itself.

“It’s sick to choose that way,” she answered. “That’s what I think.”

Falke stood up abruptly. “Yeah, but who cares anyway? Someone’s got to fish. A lot. Speaking of which, come: I put the best of the batch aside.”

Cecil got up and followed her to the fish bags. All seemed empty. The rest of the griffons had gone indoors. “We’re not supposed to do that.”

“We are if we need to,” said Flake. “Those who work for the food of all deserve to eat better. Besides, the route’s not that easy, like you know. I’m going to need all the energy I can get.” She opened one of the bags and pulled out two fried fishes from a side pocket inside it. She ripped the other in two and tossed one half to Cecil, who caught it mid air.

“There’s plenty of time to rest,” she said, uncertainly eyeing her friend as she gobbled down the fish.

Falke shook her head. “Nope. I’m flying back this evening. Gather up a new squad for me, will you?” She winced as Cecil dropped the fish. “Hey, have you any idea what I had to do to get that for you?!”

“And have you any idea what I have to go through, waiting for you on this blasted rock!” shouted Cecil back. She started pacing back and forth. “It’s driving me nuts, not being able to do anything but play with the damned ponies and their games! You know we almost went to war with them the other day?”

Falke stopped eating with the fish halfway down his gullet. “War?”

“Yes, a bloody war! The ponies think we’re planning an attack against them! As if we could even plan how to get everyone fed around here!”

Falke swallowed, a thoughtful look in her eyes. “A war… might solve a lot of our problems.”

Cecil gave her an unbelieving look. “Like what? The problem of living in general?”

Falke kept on rolling the fish in her knife-like talons. “Think about it. There’s too many of us here. What does it matter if some die of fighting instead of starvation? And the survivors would have a lot to gain. The ponies have plenty of food in store, I’ve heard. They just don’t like sharing it with a griffon.”

Cecil threw her hands into the air, laughing. It was not a good laugh.

“Oh, now you're planning a war, just as you got back from a fishing trip? Thought to change profession, did you?” Her grin melted instantaneously. “You’re mad! It’s mad to think war would be a solution to anything! We have no army; the ponies do. We have no government; the ponies do. A war is the last thing any griffon needs.”

Falke turned a dry look to her. “You sound more like a pony than I remembered.”

Cecil opened her beak, but Falke was faster. “We are a warrior race; a hunter race. The ponies are prey. They got an army precisely because they need to train their soldiers. For us, battle is just another instinct.”

“You actually believe that?”

“I believe what I must to survive.” Falke ate the rest of the fish in few easy swallows. “You are right. Maybe a little rest would do good. And after that, a meeting: a High Summit. Would be the first one for a decade, I think.”

Cecil shook her head without breaking the eye contact with her. “I will have no part in that. None whatsoever.”

Falke, while walking right past her, said, “Then do something useful for change and go fishing. Who knows, maybe one day you’ll catch the sun.”

“It’s you who's flying to it!” screamed Cecil, swirling around. “Your war is just another sun!”

Falke disappeared into the gloom of the cave. Cecil stared behind her, then snatched the closest rock and threw it after her. It bounced off some wall, and the echoes of the hit died away quickly.

She turned towards the rising dawn. Never before had she despised the sight more. It was laughing at her, she felt. Mocking her, taunting her to pursue it until her wings failed and she would fall, fall, fall…

The cursed sun, the blessed sun. No wonder the first of the alicorns had been its incarnation. The only good thing about their kin was that they were all definitely dead.









***




“An alicorn lives!”

“Sure one does,” said Helm Cleaver with what almost counted for a sympathetic smile. Gently but insistently, he removed the pony’s hooves from his uniform. “Hop along now, will you? Don’t want to get caught on disturbance of public peace with an alicorn watching the streets, do you?”

The pony’s pupils shrunk from the size of needle heads to their tips. “You think she’s watching?” he whispered, covering under the used newspapers he wore for clothing.

“With alicorns, who can tell?”

The stallion scrambled away to the nearest alley, shedding pages as he went. The sight scraped the last of compassion out of Helm’s lips, leaving but amused contempt behind.

“And that makes four before lunchtime,” he said, making a little mark on his notebook. “All alicorners even! This must be my lucky day.”

By his side, Stone Mill snorted disapprovingly. “You think the Captain would approve of gambling on duty?”

“What’s the harm?” said Helm, pocketing his notebook. “It’s not like the loonies care who’s counting them, or for what purpose. And the Captain must have a thousand and one more important things on his desk than his underlings making their tours a bit more interesting for themselves.”

Mill had to admit that the last argument had a very practical, if not morally sound, reasoning backing it up. And betting on how many “loonies” each guard encountered during their tours was definitely a more harmless form of corruption than, say, bribes were. In a sense it was even progressive. The system of points the participants had created was more complex than the basic principle would initially suggest. Scores were awarded based on the type of loony in question, which was determined mostly by their rantings. These were easier to categorize than Mill could have imagined, which no doubt had been the key spark behind the game in the first place.

For example, just looking down the street they were strolling, Mill could spot another “alicorner”, at least three “gibberers” and a possible “end-be-neigh-er”. Although he wasn’t particularly proud of it, he had become quite good at the labeling part of the game, not by playing but by simply observing Helm. The rules demanded that the other of the pairs on each tour was not playing, to prevent cheating. That part worked surprisingly smoothly too, for each week the pony who had gathered most points would collect the whole pot, and pairs were changed daily.

One might think it hard to find a way to profit from ponies rambling about the end of the world on streets, but as so often before, the Guard had found a way. And once the road had been opened, there was no stopping the traffic. If anything, Canterlot was in no lack of what, in absence of a better name, were known as loonies. Especially alicorners – ponies claiming to have seen a living alicorn, also known as “Ali”s – had been trending for the past week.

“Ooh, that looks promising,” said Helm, nodding at the crowd ahead. They bustled around a unicorn mare shouting atop some boxes. “Come, let’s get closer: maybe she’ll offer us leaflets!”

Mill sighed but cantered along nonetheless. Leaflets meant extra points. You could not ask for them, however, just as you could not directly approach any loony as such. They had to come talking to you, preferably to touching distance.

“Make way, make way for the Guard!” shouted Helm while pushing into the crowd.

That was where Mill drew the line. Minor gambling, that he could look past his hooves, but only as long as it did not interfere with their actual work. Right now, it seemed to be required. The crowd was restless, more so than usual. Looking around, he could see many crying, or shaking, or shouting something. And the mare in the centre of it all was only getting warmer.

She was definitely an alicorner, that much was clear. Class A+, if Mill was any judge, which he was. White and black stains of paint covered her whole body in mismatched order, almost covering the original, pale green fur underneath. Despite the blindfold with the pictures of eyes drawn over the actual ones, she didn’t hesitate to wave about like a weathervane in a hurricane. Switching on from appearance to audio, Mill focused on the words of her hollering.

“...of which there is no redemption! The hours are upon us; on the weak, the strong, the just, the unjust – it makes no difference – everypony, it’s time; a time of bliss; a time of terror – the time of times is at hoof! Come join the mass! Come and rejoice for the end is here, and the end is the beginning, and the beginning is the end! On the morrow! Tomorrow! Rejoice! Rejoice! Rejoice!

She tore off her blindfold and with that, the only resemblance of sight she had anymore.

The crowd convulsed. Mill’s ears pressed against his helmet. Something was wrong. Very, very wrong.

“A morrow in flames; in blaze; in conflagration – in fire!” the mare went on. From somewhere, a small barrel was hooved over to her. She smashed it open and started pouring the dark, oily contents over her head, mane, neck and rest of the body. The paint on her face ran along with the oil, creating an impression of large tears. Her lips were moving, but the bustle of the crowd through which Mill now rushed drowned her words.

“Helm!” he cried over the shouting. “Stop her! Stop her! Sto–!”

Somepony rammed into him with such force he almost lost his helmet. A big stallion, covered in the same black and white paint as the mare, reared over him. Mill rolled aside half a second before the massive hooves shattered the tiles where his head had been. The next blow hit him in the ribs as he tried to scurry to his feet, bringing him down with a cry of pain. For an instant, he could see a torch being passed on to the mare on stage. She staggered towards it, guided by the smell of smoke, the heat; she extended her hoof, a terrible grin lighting her lips…

The scene disappeared from Mill’s vision as he had to again roll for safety. His training tried to tell him he was a unicorn fighting against an earth pony, but all his mind could hear was the future sound of his skull crunching. It made it kind of hard to focus on such an intricate task as standing up, not to mention using his horn.

The hooves surged for him again. This time they stopped midair, to the confusion of Mill and the stallion both. But that was nothing compared to the astonishment of seeing him rise from the ground and fly through the air like a volleyball. Mill watched him soar, mesmerized, until a hoof landing on his shoulder made him flinch.

“You okay?” asked Helm worriedly, his horn aglow.

Mill nodded shakily.

“Then get the buck up and do your job!” barked Helm, yanking him up. “We need to call reinforcements, secure the area, round up the usual suspects–”

“The mare!” exclaimed Mill. “What happened to the mare?”

The crowd had mostly dispersed, but many curious heads still peered around alleys, behind corners and from windows. Only then did Mill spot the stage where the mare lay stunned, along with another black and white pony. The torch was in his hoof, extinguished.

“I had to rough them up a bit before I could get to you,” said Helm. “It was close, I can tell you that.”

“What was, exactly?” asked Mill. He look around, and noticed that the stallion who had assaulted him had slipped away. “You saw that? She was going to…”

“Yeah,” said Mill darkly. “And she wasn’t alone. Go on, send the signal: I think there’s–”

“The morrow…” said a voice behind them. They swirled around, and saw the mare stagger up. Her horn flickered on and off dangerously. Her mutilated gaze pierced them. “The morrow… will burn…

Before either of the guards could so much as blink, her horn let out the tiniest spark.

Helm averted his eyes, retching. Mill could not but stare. Even as the smell of charred flesh and hair trailed to his nose, he stared.

Somewhere around them, ponies started chanting.









***





Heart rubbed his temple, eyes closed. Sunset Shimmer had more punch to it than the name would suggest, he had found out. Or perhaps he was catching a sickness. He couldn’t remember any hangover which had taxed him this badly in his youth. In addition, Cowl had not signed in for duty this morning. All and all, it wasn’t the best of times to be dealing with a series of self-immolations. On the other hoof he couldn’t have said if such a time existed in the first place. He opened his bloodshot eyes at the roomful of ponies waiting for him to speak.

“Okay, let’s recount the facts. Two hours ago, in three different locations around the city, simultaneously, three ponies set themselves on fire. Before that, somepony had blinded them.” He paused to let the gravity of the situation settle in. “Anypony have any ideas what prompted such action from them?”

Lime Light was the first to cough, but Amber got to the speaking before him. “It doesn’t sound anything like we’ve encountered before. As far as we know, all the religious sects in the city forbid suicide. It must be a new player we’re dealing with here.”

“A proof of which is that the three victims were all different race,” said Lime. “The old sects are very sensitive about that sort of thing. And many witnesses report seeing some sort of cultists singing around the crime scenes. They had either painted their fur black and white or carried cloaks of the same color. They also intervened on any attempts to interrupt the… performances.”

“That’s what you’re calling them?” asked some sergeant.

“Obviously enough, they were designed for show,” answered Lime dryly.

“By whom?” asked Heart, taking a sip of water with his headache medicine. “And for what purpose? Those are the questions I want answered. Who are these people? What do we know about them?”

“Religion is not really my field,” said Lime, “But I know somepony who plows it every day.” He gave the room a knowing glance.

Luckily, Brightmail was in the building at the moment. They had yet again moved him to the armory, for lack of willing partners. The pony had so much religion in him that others started feeling sinful just from standing too near him. After a briefing he fell into one of his little quiet moments that boded for a pious quote or, hopefully, more silence.

“Three sacrifices,” he said quietly, almost to himself. “We are sure there weren’t more?”

“Not that we’ve heard,” said Heart. “Why? Is three a significant number here?”

Brightmail gave him a funny look, as if he had asked whether it was important having air around or not. “Three is everything, sir; the holy unity of the three races; the number of original alicorns; the days the Final Battle raged. Three is the number of the omens. And you say the sacrifices were from different races? Isn’t the meaning of all this obvious to you?”

The assembled officers and sergeants exchanged doubtful looks and threw annoyed ones back at Brightmail, who was only a private.

“Speak your mind, Brightmail,” said Heart.

His blue eyes turned to him. “An alicorn, sir.”

“An alicorn what?” said Heart over the mumble that erupted immediately.

“A portent of one, sir. The end times. The beginning times. You know the prophecy, sir. One day an alicorn will return. It’s just the details everypony argues about. And now we have the Sacrifice.”

“Why would an alicorn need a sacrifice to return?”

“The sins of the past must be washed with the blood of the innocents,” cited Brightmail. “Thus has been written.”

“Written where?” demanded Heart.

“Well… in my church's leaflets, among other places. It’s part of the prophecy. Although I must stress that we have always held a more metaphoric interpretation of it.”

“You’re dismissed,” said Heart wearily. “Go and see if anypony in your church has heard about a new cult in town.”

After Brightmail had gone, Heart gave the room at large a stern look. “In the case anypony had doubts about this, we’re investigating these deaths as a triple murder. Somepony out there messed three citizens badly enough to make them light themselves aflame. We can figure out why they did it after we’ve found them. That shouldn’t be too difficult, considering this cult isn’t trying to play it slowly. Officially, I’m hoofing this case to Lime Light, but I want everypony else to keep this in the backs of their minds. Now, go do your work.”

Heart’s office emptied quickly. Soon only one pony sat in the corner, writing fervently. It was Chart Top, finishing the transcription of the meeting. Once done, she set out to leave the room like the rest, with not a glance dedicated for Heart.

“Wait,” he said when she was already out of the door.

Top closed it before turning to him. “Sir?”

Heart watched her, then the wall, then her again. “I… about yesternight… we…”

Top waited patiently for him to finish. Heart wished she wouldn’t have. A little bit of frankness from her part would have made him feel a little less awkward.

“I hope you didn’t mind me leaving so early,” he concluded lamely.

She smiled neatly. “Not at all, sir. I understand you're very busy.”

This would have been so much easier if she had just given him the cold shoulder or outright sued him for something. But she simply stood there, neatly as always, smiling. As if last night had not existed after all. For some reason, it was the most irking – and strangely alluring – reaction she could have offered him.

“Well, I… hope we can keep working in the future as usual,” he struggled.

“I see no reason why we shouldn’t.”

“Right. Uhm. You can go now. Thanks,” he added, before he could stop himself.

She winked at him. “Anytime, boss.” And with that, she was gone. A part of Heart wished she wouldn’t have. He could have used somepony to talk to right now, and Cowl wasn’t around. On the other hoof, it was the very reason he was gone that he wanted to talk about.

He turned in his chair to face the window. The beautiful weather kept on going for the second day now, which must have been a mistake higher up. Perhaps the pegasi were experimenting on some new technique to keep the skies clear. Heart hoped that was the case – good news were something he could really welcome at the moment. If they ever learned to control the weather as well as the ponies of old, perhaps they could make the growing season longer and winter shorter. The profit would be measured in saved lives directly. Maybe we could send another salvage expedition to Cloudsdale…

The thought floated its course and then barged on a reef. It was a long term plan, which he had explicitly forbidden from himself. In a week, I’ll be out. Anything crossing that deadline will be somepony else’s problem. Speaking of which… He opened the top drawer and pulled out the map of Equestria. Dozens of notes littered its surface, along with arrows, crossed-out zones and big question marks. He gave it an overall look, searching for spots he had not yet considered. The number of them could be counted with his days left on the office.

Leaving the city was a risky move, Heart had no illusion about that. Food was the biggest issue – there was no telling which of the settlements on the map were still inhabited, which were but ruins. Mostly it all was desolate wasteland. Ponies did live there, in groups of few dozens or less, but they moved often and did not fancy showing their faces to strangers. Still, with some luck they should be able to make it to the sea. And from there… From there… was a question he’d solve on the way.

It was the journey that mattered, not the destination.








***





Even after they had carried away the corpses, the stench of rot lingered heavily on the murder scene of High North Lane mine. Technicians and guards had to use special masks just to keep themselves from fainting. Combined with the imminent risk of collapse, everypony’s nerves were rather taxed, which at the best of scenarios led to strained silence, in the worst to trivial bickering and arguments. And still there was no place in Equestria where Willow Fall would have rather been. This was his big moment; his first actual crime scene. And only last week had he been made a sergeant! Should he excel in this task, there was no telling where he might end up at the end of the month. A little bit of nasal stress counted for naught in comparison to that.

“Sarge!” came a shout from the exit tunnel.

Fall rolled his eyes. “It’s pronounced sergeant, Corporal,” he said, facing the shouter. “What is it?”

“There’s some folks up in the factory wanting to have a word with you,” said the Corporal.

Fall frowned. “Folks? What folks? Guard folks?”

“No, Sarge-ant. Civilians. Funnily dressed. Said it was urgent.”

Sergeant, Corporal,” corrected Fall. “I thought I said no civilians are allowed near the site? Send them away. With force if need be. The integrity of the area is to be upheld at all cost.”

“Yes sir,” said the Corporal and trotted off. Fall thought of reminding him of the salute he had missed, twice, but let it pass this time. He was himself, too, still getting used to his new elevated position, after all.

“Sarge!” came a shout from the opposite direction.

“It’s sergeant, godsdammit!” burst Fall, turning around. “You should know better, Tin!”

Tin Key, one of the crime scene technicians, sneered under his mask. “Willow, seriously? You’re seriously going with the ‘get promoted, act like a snob’ cliché?”

The parts of Fall’s face that weren’t covered by his respirator blushed mightily. “I… That’s no way to address an officer!”

“You’re a Sergeant, not an officer,” said Tin, shaking his head.

“I–”

“Yes yes, I’m sorry and beg your forgiveness, oh lord,” continued Tin. “If we can move past that, there’s some stuff we found you should probably see.”

Fall muttered something under his breath. “You could at least not shame me before all the others…”

“You’re doing all fine on your own there. Now come, this is important.” When nopony else was looking, he whispered to Fall’s ear, “At home, I can call you sergeant until your ears fall off.”

Unlike the blush, the grin that spread on Fall’s lips remained his secret only. And Tin’s too, of course, who could guess such things about his partner in life quite easily by now.

They entered the room where Chancellor Feinsake’s and Senator Trail’s bodies had been found. Magical light lit a scene of two chalk outlines, dried blood, some chains and a few technicians working on these. Fall had no precise idea of what they were doing, but he decided to complement them for it anyway.

“Okay,” started Tin. “From the Captain’s account we have a rough idea of what happened here. First we have the insane Chancellor, torturing Heart and her foal. Then this fella Trail comes along, and she tries to kill him for a change, but ends up killed by him instead. Next, this fifth pony – let’s call him X – enters in, kills Trail and lets our Captain go.”

“A real tragedy,” commented Fall. “What did you want to show me, exactly?”

“Can you count?” said Tin. “There’s two chalk contours; Feinsake’s and Trail’s. The Captain and her daughter got away. So where’s the fifth pony?”

Fall frowned. “In the other room?”

Tin shook his head. “Nope. Those three were pegasi, and the mystery X was an earth pony, says Captain. We’re still trying to work out how the pegasi connect to all this – or how anything here connects to anything – but right now we can’t say anything but that they were skinned after they died. Also, we couldn’t help but notice that Trail’s cutie mark had been removed too, and that Feinsake’s belly had been cut open. Captain mentioned nothing of the sort in his story.”

The conclusion slapped Fall on the cheek. “So the Pony X is still alive.”

“Or he never existed,” said Tin, but quietly enough so that only Fall could hear him.

Fall gave him an amused look which still begged the question.

“Think about it,” said Tin, drawing Fall farther from the other technicians. “Feinsake tortured Heart, with his daughter present. That kind of thing can be quite upsetting. By that I mean he was probably mad with rage – anypony in his stead would’ve been. So what evidence do we have that Heart did not kill Feinsake and Trail himself and invent the pony X from thin air as a convenient scapegoat?”

The amusement quickly drained from Fall’s expression. “Okay, if we did not live together, I’d have to bring you in for questioning for that sort of thing.”

“Why? Can’t one suspect the Captain of a murder?”

Fall glanced at the other ponies just to make sure they weren’t listening. “That might as well be. But the point is that your theory is full of holes. Heart might’ve been ready to kill Feinsake and Trail, even with his daughter watching, but why on earth would he skin them? Or cut open Feinsake? And why would he even bother making up lies when he could have told nothing of the whole incident? The whole reason we are here is because he sent us here – you really think he’d be stupid enough to do that if he had anything to hide?”

“Fine, fine, I don’t have a full-fledged theory figured out yet” said Tin defensively. “The thing is, Captain’s story is not exactly the most waterproof I’ve heard of, either. For one, he said the pony X was blind and probably suffering from bloodloss. You really believe he would’ve been a match for Trail, a unicorn? And even if he had been, where is he now? Heart himself said he was in no condition to escape on his own.”

Fall paused for a moment. He knew Tin was not the kind of pony to rush into hasty conclusions or accusations, not in work nor in life in general. And it was true that this whole business stank like a week old corpse, and not just in the literal sense. It was the worst mass murder the city had seen for decades, and somehow the current Captain of the Guard had been right in the middle of it, along with the Chancellor herself. Somehow, Fall was starting to feel he had been appointed to a case that went far beyond his actual level of competence. The possibilities made his head spin.

“We have to play this nice and steady,” he said. “It’s too much for either of us to deal with, alone or together. For now, let’s go with the story Captain gave us and try to prove it.”

“And if we can’t…?”

Fall was about to answer, but another mispronounced call made him wince. “We’ll figure it out then,” he said. “Play it cool, Tin.”

“You too, Willow,” said Tin, watching him leave the room. He turned back to the crime scene, to the outline of Feinsake that rested against the wall. She had been pregnant, that much had been obvious. In the wake of the notion, the disturbing idea that perhaps there was also a sixth pony they were supposed to be looking for crossed his mind. It was cut short when he heard Fall curse loudly from the other room.

As he got there, he found Fall shouting at three funnily dressed ponies.

“Who in Tartarus do you think you are, marching into a crime scene?!” cried the Sergeant. “Get the hay out of here before you’re arrested for trespassing!”

Tin Key could see that the threat had very little effect on the ponies. All three wore ordinary cloaks which covered most their bodies. The middle one’s – a middle aged unicorn stallion – was dyed black and white, like his face was. Despite that, Tin could not help but wonder if he had seen him before. Or more precisely, a picture of him.

“Good day to you, Sergeant,” said the black and white unicorn courtly. “Could I perhaps speak to the officer in charge of this crime scene?”

I am in charge here,” growled Fall. “Who–”

“Mr. Gruff, if you must know,” said Gruff. He smiled jovially, although in a strangely morbid way.

Tin Key saw how Fall’s expression tightened. The name of Mr. Gruff, while not exactly popular knowledge, had certainly been familiar in the Guard’s investigations, and more than once. He had a file on several categories, from witness to victim and class C suspect on cases which hadn’t even been considered crimes before he had committed them. In truth the pony was a walking category in and of himself.

“And in that case,” continued Gruff, “It would be my citizen’s duty to notify you of certain circumstances most vital for your investigations.”

“You can do all the notifying you want in the station,” said Fall. “Guards! Arrest these ponies and bring them into custody.”

“A move like that would be beyond inadvisable,” said Gruff calmly before anypony could move a muscle. “Our authority abides no infringements, I’m afraid.”

Authority?” burst Fall. “What authority?”

“Divine.”

The voice had come deeper from the exit tunnel. Once inside the room, it appeared to circle around like fine mist, coiling around the ponies who had by now all ceased working. Hoofsteps approached them from the darkness, and soon revealed an earth pony walking alongside a unicorn foal of unidentifiable sex. They stopped at the edge of the glow of mismatched horn light.

“What is going on?” asked Fall, now evidently tense. “How’d you all get past my guards?”

The earth pony turned his mutilated eyes towards him. “They let us through. Without asking, mind you.”

Tin Key was starting to have a really chilling feeling about the situation. His knotted stomach was not the sole reason. The whole room was suddenly on edge. But of what? he thought, eyeing in turns the blind pony, Gruff, and the foal. There was something about the foal that drew the eye; something he could not quite put a hoof on; something uncanny. Fall had noticed it too, for he kept glancing at it from moment to moment. Tin saw sweat pearling on his neck. He opened his mouth.

“This is… I… am in charge here. You’re under… arrest…” He blinked, shook his head and then stared at the foal. “You… foal… Walk into the light so I can… see you better…”

The kid looked up at the blind pony who nodded. And then it walked into the light proper.

A couple horns died immediately as their owners forgot to keep them alight. A few more started flickering. Somepony fell to his knees. Mr. Gruff and the two other cloaked ponies bowed their heads. Distantly, Tin Key realized that the knot in his stomach had faded. Now only a plenum of nothingness remained.

It was not an alicorn. For that you needed a horn and wings. Perhaps it would’ve been less of a shock, to see a full alicorn. In a sense, there was nothing mystical about a foal with a cutie mark – save for the blatantly obvious fact that the kid was way too young to have a cutie mark. And what a cutie mark it was…

The sun devouring the moon; the moon consuming the sun. The sign of the prophecy. A symbol of the Catastrophe – the ultimate cataclysm. All the religious sects in the city had forbidden its use, and even many atheists shunned it. There was no name for it. For most it was known only as the Last Sign.

The reverent atmosphere of the room shattered at Fall’s snort.

“Really?” he said. “You really think you can fool us like that? A few cloaks and paint don’t yet make a prophecy come true.” He bended over the foal. “Somepony must’ve spent a good while on this, I have to admit. The paintwork is practically flawless. Might even be a tattoo.”

The guards exchanged confused glances. The cultists eyed Fall like he was a stain on a brand new mattress. But most of Tin’s attention was focused on the blind pony, whose expression of mild amusement now had a dangerous gleam to it.

“A nonebeliever, are you?” the pony asked with that eerie voice of his.

Fall raised his eyes to him, still smirking. “So you’re the ringleader of this little circus? An impressive achievement, considering your… disadvantageous condition.”

“You miss my blindness for sightlessness,” said the pony. “Personally, I take it for a blessing. Never have I seen clearer than I do now. I recommend it most warmly.”

“Right,” said Fall, straightening himself up. “Well, the show’s over. Guards! I think I gave you an order just a moment ago!”

“Before that,” said the blind pony, grabbing hold of the foal and lifting it up, “Would you mind taking a look closer of the Foal you’ve so carelessly judged false?”

“I try to keep my distance from children in general, if you catch my drift,” said Fall. He turned to the soldiers behind him, who still hesitated to move. “What’s the matter with you? Get on with it or else I’ll have you arrested for dis–”

I said look.

Fall stopped mid-sentence. The voice had not entered his conscience through his ears. Rather, it felt like he had thought the words himself, but he was sure he hadn’t. With glazed eyes, he turned his head.

In the lap of the blind pony, the Foal was staring at him more intently than any kid of that age ought to be able to. One eye was the finest shade of midnight, the other glowed the pearly white of pure light. Fall looked into them, and they looked into him, and together they looked into the beyond.

Seeing is believing, Willow Fall the Sergeant.










***






Unlike the ponies, griffons did not have family names. As an allegory for descendance, blood meant nothing to them. It was not uncommon for a griffon to forget who their parents, offspring or siblings were, especially if distance and time intervened between them. There was no vocabulary for family as close as a cousin. Having lived her whole life in Canterlot, Cecil was slightly more aware of his family tree than the average griffon was, yet even then she was in doubt if she had brothers or not. The male griffons she had lived with had moved from the city when she had been just a hatchling, and her mother rarely spoke of them as her children.

Pony scholars had for centuries wondered how a mating system seemingly as bizarre and chaotic as that could prevent the culture from degenerating in a matter of a few generations due the imminent risk of incestial mutations. Cecil, in her time, had read a few of the more influential tomes. It turned out that, in the conditions that counted as ordinary in the griffons’ racial history, the rapid flux and flow of individuals between tribes went a long way in securing what the pony scholars called “a healthy, natural, and sustainable population growth”.

Cecil had read because she had wanted to learn, not about herself and her kin, but about the ponies. Her need had been nothing but practical. Ever since the Fall, the two races had been forced to deal with each other more than they had in centuries. The truth was that neither knew the other very well, not at the level of society nor individual. Like all the griffon refugees, Cecil had had a very limited experience of the city outside the griffon district in her chickhood. Safety had been a big reason there: as big as the suspicion on both sides of the mountain.

And yet she had come to the conclusion she still held: the ponies were not the enemy. They were different, strange even, but not profoundly hostile to the griffon race. History, with some minor and regrettable exceptions, proved that. Their presence could be build on that, although it would demand mutual understanding and compromises. Yes, they had almost succumbed to a war recently.

“But the lesson there,” went Cecil on immediately, “Was that the real danger is ignorance, not any truth about them and us.”

She eyed the crowd gathered at the mountaintop as the murmur passed through it. It would have been a terrible mistake to call it a high level political summit, although no doubt some observing pony scholar would have named it just that. There was no tribe inside the mountain – only tattered remnants of tribes, constantly shifting in number and composition. There was no order, never had been. What there had been was chaos, spread all over the land. The problem was that it had concentrated too much.

“There is another lesson there,” said a voice behind Cecil. “One you are, for all your words, yet to speak.”

She turned around to face Falke, who circled the ring of griffons to the opposite direction.

“The ponies made the first move,” said Falke to everyone in general, although she never let Cecil fall out of her sight. “They moved, and what did we do? Curl up inside rock and stone? Gather to meet them head on? Flee?” She paused, basking in the howling wind that blew around them. “We did all that and more! We were unprepared! We moved in their terms. The question is, what are we going to do when they move next time?”

Someone stood up and started talking, right over another one. No one minded, but everyone focused on whoever happened to interest them at the moment. It was griffon decision making at its purest, in good and bad both. People came and went as they pleased. There was no timing, no secretaries to write things down, no deadline. For a meeting that might decide the fate of the griffon race, its organization was less than ideal, even in Cecil’s mind.

“Or better still, shouldn’t we be the first movers next time around?” went on Falke. “Living on this rock, sheltered from wind – it has made us go soft. And pathetic. We were a proud race, once. Now what are we? Molting husks waiting for the sun to finish us off?” Suddenly, she raised her voice above all the other speakers. “Blast the sun! And the moon! Those are pony gods, not griffon! Only ponies look up in their weak prayers, waiting for the worst; a griffon never does, because she is the worst there is! For the prey!”

It chilled Cecil to see how many listened to her. And they were really listening – her truth shined from their eyes. She could sense the hunger in them; a starvation that had nothing to do with fish. It had been too long since anyone had dared feed them anything but despair, and this foreign taste had a tantalizing taste to it. Bitter yet sweet; salty and primal. The taste of blood.

“Pony are not prey,” said Cecil, stepping closer to Falke. “Not under the Laws. What are we without them? Beasts! No, worse; beasts by choice! There is no pride in slaughter, no glory. No future.”

“Future…” said Falke, stretching the word. “Future… is bleak for the beaked folk. The past, too. We live in the present. Who knows about the morning to come? There’s only another sun waiting there.” With a single beat of her wings, she rose over Cecil. “These are your words. The words of despair. Why the sudden change? Why worry about the morning now? Tell us, Cecil. Tell us how all these pony words came to bind your tongue.”

Cecil was about to answer, but another voice drowned hers. “Falke speaks the truth!” cried the griffon, rising to the air to meet Falke. “Sister, I am in your debt! You have blown the wind under my wings again! For as long as I live, I will follow you!”

Others joined the choir, despite Cecil’s attempts to make herself heard. Few more griffons rose to the air to greet Falke, then a few more, and suddenly the whole mountain top was flooding with wild cries and oaths shouted into the wind. Soon Cecil stood alone on the cliff, staring at the storm raging above. In its eye, Falke was staring back at her. She was reaching out, offering Cecil her hand.

Cecil took off and glided effortlessly to her. An avian smile played on her friend’s face; hard and ambiguous. Cecil answered it in kind.

“Sister,” said Falke. “Will you fly with me?”

Cecil stopped before her extended hand. “Tell me, sister… How many fish did it take to make the first dozen join your little show?”

Falke’s hand fell limp. “You’d be amazed.”

“This cannot be the way,” said Cecil. “War will only bring us all to ruin. You know this.” She thought her own words, and her eyes widened in disbelief. “Oh no. You do know it.”

Falke gave her an empty look. “The Fall is behind us, Cecil. So are all the wars. Survival is all that matters now. Again, your words. Do you deny them now?”

Cecil shunned her gaze. “I…”

“That’s what I thought,” said Falke, and grabbed Cecil by the hand. She pulled her to an intimate embrace, stared deep into her eyes. “Every griffon for themselves, remember?” she whispered.

“...And us for each other,” muttered Cecil softly. She squeezed her hand. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”

Falke grinned like only a predator can. “Only tomorrow will know. It can wait for us to catch up.”