• Published 9th Nov 2019
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The Blueblood Papers: Royal Blood - Raleigh



As Equestrian forces march into the Changeling heartlands, Blueblood must rely on his instincts of self-preservation, deception, and sheer blind luck to survive.

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Chapter 9

Once again, I had been confronted with the terrible and inconvenient truth that my actions have consequences. Faust damn me, if I hadn't been so blinded with lust for that Prench whore, stirred up with my fear of Auntie Luna and the war itself, I'd have put what Twilight Sparkle had been preaching incessantly about over the past few years into practice and avoided a whole heap of unnecessary grief. While my impulsiveness when it comes to sating my animal desires has consistently gotten me into trouble ever since one of Celestia's ex-pupils put me in a coma for grabbing her flanks [My former student Sunset Shimmer, and Blueblood was twelve years old at the time], my instincts for weaselling out of such problems remained just potent enough for me to avoid internalising whatever lesson I should have learnt by now.

"How have you been?" I said, hoping to tease out his thoughts on the incident under the guise of making small talk. It was best to get it resolved now, lest he continue thinking about it and come to the realisation that it was, in fact, all my fault.

Second Fiddle led me through the camp towards the castle, around and through groups of tents and small wooden structures. "Busy," he said. "Very busy. It's my job to make sure the generals are all fully committed to the Big Push, and some of them are still holding onto the old way of thinking. No stomach for offence, as Princess Luna put it. Market Garden's fully onboard though, so that makes things a lot easier for us."

"Oh, yes," I said. He was walking far too quickly for comfort, almost at a trot or a canter, and I had a devil of a time trying to keep up when the crowds became a tad too dense for easy movement. I'd also lost track of Cannon Fodder, but I trusted he'd turn up before time. "I've met her."

"Have you now?" he said, his pace slowing a little, before picking up again. "She's an odd one, but she's got the offensive spirit we need. When did you meet her?"

"At Princess Twilight's party."

"Oh." Second Fiddle sucked air through his clenched teeth. "I was invited but couldn't attend, because of what happened after the Tartarus Club."

Ah, there it was, and now I had to tread quite carefully here to avoid implicating myself. "About that," I said, inflecting what I hoped sounded like genuine concern into my voice. "Why did you run off like that? I'd have seen you safely home, but I couldn't keep up, on account of my war wound, you see, and I lost you in the darkness."

I carefully left out any mention of that mare, lest it trigger some kind of sudden and involuntary recollection of the night's shameful events. He glanced around, and then tapped me on the shoulder and led me on a short diversion behind a rather large officer's tent. There, away from the eyes and ears of the common soldiery, with the exception of Cannon Fodder who could be trusted to keep quiet, he leaned in close and explained in a hushed voice:

"I don't know," he said. "I can't remember. I must have gotten a bit too carried away with the spirit of things, just like the time we found that crate of champagne in the teachers' lounge and we both drank the whole thing. Do you remember that? The prestige cuvée Princess Celestia bought for the teachers to celebrate Twilight getting the highest ever grades in the school’s history?"

"Yes, I remember." That was the incident that had directly led to my expulsion from the School for Gifted Unicorns. There were many others, of course, but that one was the final straw, so to speak.

"All I know is I ended up somewhere dark, and then some ruffians set upon me and, uh, they painted my flanks with tar or... or something! And then the guards came and I was locked in a cell until morning, and then Princess Luna had to come and fetch me. Oh, it was so embarrassing; I had to have my flanks shaved to get it off, and it took a week for my cutie marks to grow back. If only you'd been there to stop them!"

As he went on like that, I had to wonder how in Tartarus Princess Luna could ever think he was commissar material. At least I had the distinction of being in the wrong place at the right time and had managed to blunder my way, with help from Cannon Fodder, of course, into a clumsy rescue of Cadence. Then, it struck me; it was the same way he had managed to worm his way into my little gang of fellow bullies, cronies, and hangers-on in the playground - toadying. He was full of it, and it was always a challenge to work out just how sincere he was. I could scarcely believe that anypony could sound quite that pathetic without intention, but I thought it best to take him at face value for now.

"Oh, Sun and Moon!" I said with mock astonishment. "The streets of Canterlot just aren't safe anymore!"

"But I have to ask," he carried on. "Why didn't you come to check up on me? You had two weeks to pop by and see if I was well."

"Oh." Blast, I hadn't thought that far ahead. Fortunately, my knack for spinning convincing lies on the spot saved me. "I wanted to, believe me, but as a prince of the realm, journalists and photographers and the like are so eager for pictures and stories of me for their audiences to lap up in their gossip magazines. I simply couldn't risk one of their ilk finding out about what happened to you, a Commissar-General, and publishing it."

Second Fiddle smiled, genuinely it seemed, and said, "You're a true friend, Blueblood."

Well, that was a bloody relief, thought I, as we resumed our journey. We passed through the portcullis gates, the crumbling walls rendered a useless historical landmark now that the camp had stretched beyond its bounds. The courtyard had been cleared to make some sort of formal parade ground, and at this time of day it felt eerily quiet and empty when compared to the sheer noise and chaos of life beyond the walls. The only ponies around were a couple of staff officers trotting past us, each carrying books, papers, envelopes, attaché cases, and the like to and from the castle keep that loomed over us.

A few years ago, this had been the site of the bloodiest siege in Equestrian history since the Nightmare Heresy, which I had barely survived, no thanks to a certain Princess who couldn't do the sensible thing and just leave well alone. The dirt, which had turned into cloying mud by the rains, that so many ponies and Changelings had fought, bled, and died for had been neatly paved over. With the Equestrian flag wafting languidly in the stagnant, warm breeze, here, in this little isolated spot of tranquillity, one would be forgiven for thinking the war was so very far away.

Still, as my horseshoes tapped noisily on the polished stone, no doubt kept clean thanks to frequent punishment details, my mind drifted back to events that at once felt so very distant and terribly vivid in my memory. I had to ponder a question that still had yet to be answered to my full satisfaction, and would not until years later - whatever happened to all of the Diamond Dogs?

***

The keep's interior provided some measure of respite from the choking heat; the climate was still unpleasant, with the humidity feeling as though one was wading through soup, but at least I no longer had the glare of the sun in my eyes. The guards on sentry duty checked my papers and subjected me to the usual detection spell. While Cannon Fodder had been sent off to sort out my lodgings for however long I was to remain here, I was led through the claustrophobic maze of corridors and rooms and out into what was, hundreds or thousands of years ago when this place was the seat of some petty kingdom's power, the great hall.

Though the great hall had changed much, I still had a striking sense of déjà vu as I entered. With the exception of the dais, the entire place had been fully renovated; where before it had served as a wide open space for the soldiers to sleep in, it had now been converted fully into a dedicated headquarters. Desks, tables, filing cabinets, and the like filled the space, and were it not for the dozen or so ponies in barracks dress uniforms pouring over maps and tapping away noisily at typewriters, it could have looked like any conventional open plan office.

My eyes were drawn to the same dais where two years ago my fellow officers and I had huddled around a table, which was actually an ancient door panel propped up on some boxes, and discussed the deeply concerning news that we were about to be assaulted by an entire Changeling war-swarm. The makeshift furniture was now gone and had been replaced by a proper map table that could more adequately support the sheer quantity of paper, books, ledgers, compasses, inkwells, quills, pencils, rulers, and other stationery piled atop it. Against the wall, where the old throne upon which some long-dead kings and queens had planted their equally ancient behinds stood before it was thrown out to make room, was another, smaller table, upon which were many bowls of fruit, mainly cherries, and pitchers of clear water.

General Market Garden stood at the table where Captain Red Coat had that terrible night, staring intently at a map of the Badlands as though doing so hard enough would cause the entirety of the Changeling lands to spontaneously combust. A mug of hot tea, which the Trottingham ponies still insisted on drinking even in this infernal heat, was balanced precariously atop a collection of papers and photographs piled up haphazardly in a shallow mound. When she lifted it periodically to drink, which wreathed her sharp, weasel-like features in steam, a brown circle would be left behind to frame the portrait of some Changeling like a halo. A few staff officers lingered around her, and each apparently waiting for some sort of order or confirmation.

As I entered, she looked up and peered down her muzzle at me. An imperious wave of her hoof sent her underlings scurrying away for the moment.

"Ah, Blueblood," she said. The lack of the correct title still rankled me, but aside from an involuntary twitch in my left eye I like to think I'd hidden my irritation well. "I trust you had a pleasant journey?"

"Pleasant enough," I said, and then followed up that lie with an even bigger one. "It's good to be back again."

"Yes, quite." Market Garden narrowed her eyes and pursed her lips. "I'm sorry for pulling you away from your regiment early, but I wouldn't have asked for you if I didn't think you were necessary."

So, it was all her fault then, not that I would have done much more with an extra week at Canterlot. Although, perhaps I could have found a way to weasel out of my duties, perhaps get a transfer to somewhere safe, remote, and boring like the White Tail Woods or Vanhoover.

"I'm sure they can take care of themselves without me." Though I fully expected to find out that, in my absence, the entire Night Guards regiment had collapsed into an atavistic orgy of drunkenness, brawling, theft, property damage, murder, and bad language; Canterlot would be in flames and it would be all my fault for leaving them out of my sight for more than a few days. At least, that was the impression that I received from my fellows in the Commissariat whenever I had to be absent from my duties, even when I was languishing in hospital and rendered insensate with painkillers and anaesthetics.

"Right," said Market Garden. It was clear she didn't care the slightest jot for this sort of small talk, and while I had to agree that such trite conversation was beneath the both of us, I at least had the good sense not to inflict it on other ponies. At least, the ones whose presences I can tolerate, that is.

Saying nothing further, Market Garden crossed over to the table where the drinks and snacks were, taking her mug of tea with her. While she did this for whatever reason (perhaps planning another costly and inconclusive offensive worked up an appetite), I peered over at the things strewed across the surface of the table to try and discern any clues as to what sort of misery I was in for in the coming days, weeks, months, or however long this would take. The maps, aerial photographs, and scribbled notes offered very few hints that I could work out, other than that we'd be marching deeper into Changeling territory to accomplish something of some military worth. My eyes were drawn, however, to the small portrait of a Changeling, which, the more I studied it from my awkward vantage point at the opposite end of the table, began to look more and more familiar. Indeed, its stern, cold, insect-like countenance, even distorted by perspective and framed by a ring of tea stains, inspired a peculiar sort of dread in me, like something stirred up from a repressed memory, that I could just about piece together if given the time.

"Here, Blueblood, have an apple!" Broken out of my reverie, I looked up just in time to see General Market Garden grab an apple from the bowl on the snacks table and toss it at me in an exaggerated cricketer's throw. It arced gracefully through the air, as apples are wont to do when thrown with moderate force, and impaled itself squarely on my horn. "Good catch!"

Too stunned to say anything, I stood there dumbly as fresh apple juice trickled down my forehead. However, I recovered at least enough of my senses to prise the apple from my horn and mop up the juice with a hoofkerchief. I looked to Second Fiddle, who pulled an apologetic face that implied that this sort of behaviour was hardly uncommon for the General, and then jabbed in the direction of his open mouth with a hoof and mimed chewing.

"Thank you," I said. I took a bite, finding it to be delicious, despite having been stuck on my horn. In fact, I hadn't eaten for much of the train journey here, so, despite the unconventional delivery, I was actually grateful for it. Market Garden watched me for a few uncomfortable seconds while I ate the apple, and then crossed over to the table again.

"What have you been told about the upcoming offensive?" she said. "Operation Buttercup?"

"Not much," I said; in keeping with the habit of a lifetime, I hadn't read much of the small forest's-worth of literature that ended up straining the inbox on my desk to the bursting point. Very little of it was of any real use anyway, and what was I could have Cannon Fodder summarise for me in a few short sentences. "Is it the Big Push?"

Market Garden snorted and shook her head. "That's what Iron Hoof calls it," she said. "And the press."

"It's good for morale," said Second Fiddle insistently, though Market Garden just rolled her eyes and otherwise ignored him. "It's fine if you don't know the details; the specifics of the operation have been kept on a strictly need-to-know basis. We've had far too many leaks already; the damned Changelings always get through."

"They've had an easy war so far," said Market Garden. She looked over the mess of maps and charts with an eager grin. "Not any more, now that I'm in charge. My predecessors' aims were sound—to defeat the enemy decisively in open battle—but they lacked both the means and the will to do it. This time, we'll draw them out into the field by applying more and more pressure until they can stand it no longer and are forced to stand and fight. And we will do this by threatening their only means of sustenance."

"The Changelings are starving," said Second Fiddle, trotting up to the table. "That's why they attacked Canterlot in the first place; their current source of love is no longer enough to feed their growing population."

He picked up a large photograph, roughly the size of a broadsheet newspaper, and levitated it over for me to see. It was of an ancient walled city, and the pegasus must have been very high up indeed to have taken it [There is a limit to how high pegasi can fly, so the photograph described was in fact a composite made up of ones taken at lower altitudes]. A wide river bisected the city neatly into two almost equal halves, which were joined by a series of bridges of varying width. Where the river flowed into the city was a formidable but ancient castle keep, constructed so that the water ran through a culvert beneath it. It towered over small, squat, blocky houses, open squares, and narrow, winding streets, which all reminded me of the underground city the Rat Pony Tribe now squatted in, and implied that it had been built by ponies of the same culture, if not the same dead kingdom. However, even from the lofty perspective, I could still make out other, more alien structures dotted amidst them. Jagged black and grey structures that looked unlike any architecture I recognised wrapped around and over the other buildings, including the castle, like putrid lichen clinging to the edifice of gravestone.

"That's Virion Hive," Second Fiddle continued. He then placed the photograph back down on the table once I had a good look at it. "A town of some two thousand native ponies that came under Changeling occupation about a hundred years ago. There are other such settlements across the Badlands, but this is the closest one of significant size. The love stolen from towns like this is taken back to Chrysalis' Hive to provide sustenance for the entire Changeling race."

"If we threaten their supply of food," said Market Garden, "then we shall force the enemy into open battle. When the enemy is defeated in the field, we will cut off their supply of food. Then they will be forced to come to terms or risk starvation."

Well, that all sounded just fine and dandy, I'll tell you that much, but I couldn't help but detect a couple of flaws with that plan. While Market Garden's exaggerated sense of self-confidence in her abilities as a military leader was certainly a refreshing change from McBridle's frank, realistic, but ultimately depressing outlook and Crimson Arrow's singular incompetence, whether or not the size of her ego was justified was another matter. Furthermore, this new general had yet to shake the Army's fixation with defeating the Changelings 'in open battle', whatever in Tartarus that was supposed to mean.

I expect that they and everypony else who went through the Academy and learned the art of war and how to hold a knife and fork correctly were all thinking of the ancient wars of conquest and the repeated Griffon invasions, which all tended to be sorted out in a number of quick, decisive, but costly battles before one side or the other sued for peace, capitulated, or was banished to the moon. Chrysalis, however, did not attend the Academy, and must have picked up her strategy from somewhere else, and if anything seemed to be dead set on avoiding anything quick and decisive at all. In fact, if I didn't know any better, I'd say she was trying to drag this infernal conflict out for as long as possible.

"That's the gist of it," said Second Fiddle. "There's a bit more to it, but that'll do for now, I think."

"There's one more thing," said Market Garden. "I still need to tell him about the catbirds. That's why we wanted him here."

Second Fiddle pursed his lips and puffed his cheeks out at that particular slur, then sighed and said, "The Griffons are coming. The PGL will be joining I Corps as part of Operation Buttercup in a few days' time."

With the mention of the PGL, the final piece of the world's worst jigsaw puzzle elegantly fell into place: "You would like me to make sure they stay out of trouble."

"While making sure our soldiers work with them in a spirit of comradely friendship and harmony," said Second Fiddle. He looked at Market Garden pointedly, who didn't seem to notice the not-so-subtle admonishment and found the maps on the table to be far more interesting than this talk about Griffons. "You spent a good few years in Griffonstone, so I can't think of anypony else more qualified!"

I could think of several ponies, actually, but they probably said that they were otherwise occupied and I just so happened to be the next pony in line. My time in that accursed black heart of their decaying empire was spent sequestered in the safety of the Equestrian embassy there, not that it was ever of much use, as the Griffons of Griffonstone were hardly inclined at all to have any dealings whatsoever with our realm, beyond trading their expertise in gem cutting for salt.

I was ten years old at the time; my father, having been recently ousted from the position of viceroy of Coltcutta, was appointed as ambassador to the Griffons, where it was presumed he'd do less harm. Aside from a few brief excursions out under armed guard, including one occasion where I had wandered off on my own and was traumatised when I'd drifted into one of their horrifying butchers' shops, I saw very few ordinary Griffons. The only Griffon I had anything close to regular contact with was the terribly excitable and very annoying young daughter of one of the maids who I'd been entrusted to foalsit from time to time, and she was hardly indicative of what most of their kind was like anyway.

Still, getting the Griffons on my side could still help, especially with the direction that Equestrian society was moving in back then, for better or worse. As I've always said, and tried to impress upon my cadets in the Academy in my old age to varying degrees of success, the more friends you make with the common soldiery the more likely they are to watch out for you, both in battle and in camp. One does not even need to actually like them; as long as they believe one is looking out for their best interest, they'll eventually return the favour even at great personal risk to themselves.

So I agreed to do it, which was met with an exultation of joy from Second Fiddle and further indifference from Market Garden. There was little else of actual worth to discuss, but that didn't stop the Commissar-General. He mostly prattled on about a few minor administrative things that I have since forgotten about - the rota of the officers of the day, restricted areas in the camp, passwords, and, most importantly, the opening hours of the officers' mess. However, I was damned exhausted after that lengthy train journey, and the heat and humidity of the Badlands certainly had a way of just sucking what little energy I had left. Certainly the barrage of information I had just received did little to help either.

He continued to drone on, having switched the topic onto some of the things he had gotten up to since his cutie marks grew back and he got to work here, doing something or other to inspire the offensive spirit in our officers. I can't be expected to remember every single conversation I've had over the years in such detail, and whatever it is he said I clearly didn't think was important enough to scribble down at the time either.

[This sentence is the clearest indication that some of this manuscript is constructed from notes or a personal diary Blueblood had made either during or shortly after these events. Certainly, notebooks and diaries have been found amongst his personal effects, but these are little more than short fragments. This would account for the exceptional detail of these memoirs, at least on those matters he chose to provide it.]

"Sorry," I said, interrupting his bloviating about how his efforts have streamlined the command structure or some other such self-aggrandising nonsense. "I'd love to stay and catch up, but I'm behind on my paperwork, and you know how the Commissariat gets if the paperwork is late."

"Oh." Second Fiddle's ears flattened and he pawed at the ground with a hoof. "Of course. I'll see you at the mess tonight?"

I offered a cheeky grin. "As long as you promise to lay off the drink this time," I said. "I was terribly worried about you."

Though not worried enough to have inquired about his well-being after the incident, thought I, but that was in the past and there was little point in dwelling upon it when there were bigger, more life-threatening things to occupy my attention. Market Garden was engrossed in reading a report of something or other, and it felt a bit rude to interrupt her, so with a polite nod to my old school chum I turned on my hooves towards the door. I made it about three or four steps before her thin, reedy voice, with its grating over-pronunciation, caused me to stop mid-stride about halfway to the door, beyond which lay some measure of peace and quiet away from all of this.

"Just one more thing," said Market Garden. I turned to see her pick up the photo of the Changeling from the table with her lips and hold it out to me.

"Come on, he's just arrived," said Second Fiddle, but it was too late; I had seen and recognised the face on the photograph.

I don't think it is unfair to say that all Changelings look more or less the same, but some of them, most notably the Purestrains, were at least unique enough to allow even Yours Truly to differentiate between them. The example shown before me was one that I could never forget nor fail to recognise; it was tall, broad, and its thick chitin was like a suit of lacquered black plate armour, while its large, compound eyes evoked a cruel sort of intelligence, cold and calculating, that was absent in its more bestial comrades. My mouth turned dry and the pit of my stomach seemed to collapse like a rusty old trapdoor at the sight of it, and my mind conjured memories of a partially-collapsed cave, that same hellish creature towering over me, and a mocking, sadistic smile turning the corners of its thin maw.

"W-what?" I stammered out, before collecting myself. "How did you get that?"

"It's your old flame," said Market Garden. [Presumably after having taken the photograph out of her mouth] "Odonata, or 'General' Odonata as she's calling herself now. The Changelings have made a press announcement that she will be leading the defence of their occupied land."

I frowned. Something didn't add up. "Changelings don't make announcements, especially not to the press."

Market Garden shrugged. "This time they did. I'm not surprised you don't know about this; the Ministry of Information's been trying to suppress it. Faust knows what they aim to accomplish, except for pretending to be a civilised race, but it said that this General Odonata will 'lead our gallant drones in the defence of our Hive, our Queen, and our way of life' and that 'the unprovoked invasion of sovereign Changeling land by the Equestrian imperialists will be met with swift and merciless retribution'."

[The Changelings made numerous such 'announcements' throughout the war, usually in the form of letters and articles dropped off by infiltrators at the offices of Equestrian newspapers. Most were blocked from publishing by the Ministry of Information after the DOE Act introduced wartime censorship of the press. Other newspapers took a stand against this oppression of free speech by publishing them anyway, arguing that these articles were such obvious attempts at propaganda that it was impossible for a pony intelligent enough to read their paper would be taken in by it. Nevertheless, Changeling infiltrators had invested a great deal of time and resources into this propaganda effort, to the point where it is rumoured that this was a deliberate act of sabotage by Purestrains disloyal to Queen Chrysalis. Recent historiography indicates that infiltrators used these as a means to pass coded messages between cells.]

"I thought she was dead," I blurted out. "I-I-I saw her fall into the ravine! Rainbow Dash crushed her wings; there was no way she could possibly have survived that."

"Then she has made a remarkable recovery. Or they're simply lying. We will find out soon enough."

Well, that was that. After another set of 'goodbyes' with Second Fiddle I skulked off to find my quarters, leaving the apple core behind for them to dispose of. It was a small and rather depressing affair, as the more spacious room that I had occupied before must have been appropriated by somepony else in my absence. The only furnishings here were a desk, a chair, and a bed. At the far end was an open window, which was little more than a large hole in the wall that had been covered loosely with a torn linen sheet. Cannon Fodder had already unpacked my things for me and then disappeared off to do something or other, but, judging by the lingering scent of mouldering sweat and rancid vegetables lingering around the small room, he must have left very recently.

While I was thankful for the solitude, the sight of a barren military cot, covered with an itchy wool blanket and wedged up against a bleak stone wall, truly hammered home the reality that I was back at the front once more, and that my future, for as long as I would have one, would be filled with much hardship and misery.

That Odonata was somehow still alive was a concern, yes, but I reassured myself that, whatever happened, the likelihood of the two of us meeting one another again was miniscule. She was a general, whatever that meant in the Changeling hierarchy, and I was but a lowly regimental commissar and special liaison for Market Garden, whatever that meant in the Equestrian Army's hierarchy. I should have known better, of course, that our fates would be intertwined, but I’m getting ahead of myself there.

I crawled into the cot for a nap, rested my head on the lumpy pillow, and stared up at the ceiling. As I drifted off to sleep once more, or what passes for sleep given the unbearable heat and the nightmares, the image of her face, framed with the hefty chitin like a helmet and sneering with supreme arrogance, lingered in my mind.

***

The acclimatisation period was far rougher than the first time I had to go through that awful process. The heat, humidity, and whatever it was in the water that one's intestinal tract took exception to resulted in a rather unpleasant experience that my 'official' memoirs had judiciously left out. None of the ghost writers and editors, being enamoured with the image of Yours Truly as some kind of gallant, conquering war hero, wanted to paint a textual picture of me running desperately to the latrines every ten minutes or so, especially when it was revealed to be a mild case of the Trots that took the better part of a week to pass. Readers will be thankful if I likewise refrain from any further detail than is truly necessary, but suffice to say I was placed on light duties until I recovered, and whatever time I had that wasn't spent in a state of misery in the latrines was filled up with drinking gallons of water and lying flat on my back with fever and stomach cramps.

A piece of advice, if you will, from me to you, dear reader, is that if you ever find yourself south of Appleloosa to drink only gin and tonic. It's much safer than the water there.

I blamed the habit I had picked up from Colonel Sunshine Smiles of eating some meals with the enlisted soldiers, which might explain why most of my fellow senior officers had escaped the epidemic of disease in the camp. Indeed, even a brief excursion outside the keep before the disease made venturing too far from the latrines a risky endeavour, unsupervised by Commissar-General Second Fiddle, revealed it to be a filthy, dismal place; the stench was appalling, even by the standards of a military camp, and while the soldiers appeared to be in good spirits and full of optimism for victory over the Changeling foe, the degrading conditions that they found themselves in, with nearly a quarter laid low by a variety of communicable diseases, was a tremendous shock to me.

Evidently, hygiene standards had slipped somewhat since I was last here, and while I was being examined by Doctor Surgical Steel, who had stayed behind at the fort, in the keep's hospital wing, he explained:

"It's t' plumbing," he said, as I lay on my back on the bed and he poked around at my abdomen with a cold hoof. It tickled, and I hated it. "Thousands more soldiers come over here and they can't build t' plumbing fast enough to cope, so we get little outbreaks of t' Trots and t' like just to keep us from getting idle in my old age. Aye, 'tis bad enough I still have to fix cuts and bruises, broken wings, and now burns with those fancy new musket things everypony keeps raving about, now it's diseases we're supposed to have kicked out of civilised Equestria a hundred years ago. Now, drink plenty of water and tha'll be right as rain in a week or two, and for Faust's sake lay off t' booze. I know tha won't, but I'm contractually obligated to tell thee."

Any hope that Twilight's much-ballyhooed reforms had burned away the decay and rot of incompetence in the Royal Guard was consequently shot down. In hindsight, it was naive to believe that with the passing of a law everything would be fixed overnight, and in their eagerness to build up the forces necessary for the Big Push somepony had neglected to consider the infrastructure of the camp where this build-up was happening. It’s one thing to read in a history book that on such-and-such a date the Twilight Sparkle Reforms were passed, giving the reader the false impression that after sorting out the political mess a switch had been flicked and the military instantly became fully competent, but the reality is that such change takes time.

History likes to credit me with starting the process to fix the sanitation issue, but really, it was Cannon Fodder, of all ponies, who should receive those laurels. It was his reply on my behalf to a letter sent by Princess Twilight Sparkle, explaining that I was far too sick to respond personally to her friendly letter, that opened the enquiry into the conditions of Fort Nowhere and provided some much-needed impetus to officers already struggling to fix the problems. I just happened to be the first pony to have fallen ill deemed important enough to warrant such an investigation.

[The issue of sanitation across the entire front remained a constant problem throughout the war, especially on the Eastern Front as Equestrian forces pushed through the Hayseed Swamps and the Forbidden Jungle, and Blueblood's implication that it only became a problem at this point is misleading. It is likely that he didn't know or care about it until he got sick. Efforts to improve sanitation and the living conditions of soldiers were already underway when he arrived, having been started in earnest by General Market Garden when she took command of the 1st Army. It only became a political issue when Twilight Sparkle received Cannon Fodder's letter and started the inquiry, which only hastened a process that had already begun.]

Alas, in receiving credit one also receives blame. After a week, when the sickness had subsided to the point where I could at least undertake a short conversation without fear of being interrupted by an emergency dash to the latrines, I had a rather unwelcome visit from Second Fiddle.

"We can't afford this distraction," he said, his voice muffled by the hoofkerchief clamped over his muzzle. "I know you meant well, but Operation Buttercup must proceed according to the schedule."

"It won't proceed at all if our army is too sick to fight!" I snapped; a week of this had hardly put me in the best of moods, and I was already feeling unhappy about being back here. "It's out of my hooves, anyway. Princess Twilight Sparkle has ordered the Ministry of War to stamp out the disease here, and I can't exactly tell her to stop it."

"It's not about that," said Second Fiddle, shaking his head. "Things have changed since you were last here. You're not the only commissar around anymore; you're part of a team and you answer to me. Do you understand? Don't you dare go above my head again, Blueblood."

Now, that was a shock, I’ll tell you that much. Second Fiddle might have been the meek, slimy sort of pony who likes to try and ingratiate himself with his social betters, but give anypony like that the smallest amount of authority over another and they will wield it like a vengeful bludgeon on their former superiors. I was about to demand what in the blazes made him think it was appropriate to speak to a prince of the realm like that, when Cannon Fodder, apparently acting on his own initiative for once, trotted on over from his desk where he had been sorting out my paperwork.

"Excuse me, sir," he said. Second Fiddle gagged a little, as his hoofkerchief was not enough to avoid a full blast of my aide's halitosis at such close range. "His Highness is under doctor's orders to rest."

The emphasis on my royal title was not lost on either of us, and, after a few moments of bewildered stuttering, Second Fiddle gave up and stormed out of my office while I crawled back into bed. It looked like meeting Drape Cut had an effect on Cannon Fodder, and I was certainly not about to complain if it meant certain ponies could be kept out of my mane while I was occupied with the business of trying not to die.

Recovery was slow, but not slow enough; by the time the PGL turned up and the headaches truly began, apparently delayed as the part of the camp apportioned out to them had to be rendered suitable for habitation, Surgical Steel pronounced me 'well'. I tried to convey just how rotten I still felt, but the dour old doctor wasn't having any of it. As skilled a liar as I am, it was nothing compared to the analytical power of a seasoned, experienced doctor who lacked any sort of patience for time-wasters. Needless to say, my attempts to get sent back to Canterlot were rejected outright, and once again I was stuck here to suffer. This illness had rather set the tone for the upcoming campaign, and mark me, dear reader, it was only going to get worse from there.