Equestria's Secret Service

by EdwardJ

XVI - The Name 'Autumn'

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Chapter Sixteen

"Officially, Service leadership is a three-branch system consisting of the Council, the Commissar, and the Princess. Since the exile of Princess Luna, however, it has not been entirely feasible for the remaining princess to maintain a constant presence in command, and so the vast majority of leadership falls upon the remaining two powers.
"The head of the Service is the Commissar. The standing Commissar is responsible for the overall direction and policies of the Service. They are advised by the Council, but they are not, in theory, bound to Council decisions. While this does give the Commissar a large degree of freedom, the wise pony knows that it is in everypony's best interest to pay heed to what others have to say..."

~Excerpt from the Guiding Manual of the Secret Service

He remembers that that morning was cold.

It was after summer, sometime close to midway through the fall. As always, it was hard to get out of bed because there was no warmth expected beyond the blankets. His mother—or was it his father?—called up from below, telling him to get ready for school.

School. That day was the first of the school year, and with it came the chance to be away from whichever home he had to stay at. School had never been a particularly happy escape, but even then he knew the benefit of choosing the lesser of evils. There, at least, there were adults he could talk to and who would stand up for him. He struggled, but soon he left the pleasant comfort of his bed and made his way downstairs.

He doesn't remember which parent it was who helped him that day. Neither one of them really loved him—he was simply an accident they took care of. They didn't hate him, though, and they did their duty, but they would pass him between themselves, taking turns caring for him for a week or the odd month or so. Whichever one it was, they served an unmemorable breakfast before carrying him to school.

The flight there was as uneventful as always. His parents would fuss over him in the way of a pony who didn't want to deal with the hassle of him getting hurt. He only ever listened with half an ear; sometimes he would entertain thoughts of getting himself injured just to see the look on their faces, but he never pursued the idea. Bad enough his how parents juggled his daily needs; he feared how they might handle emergency ones.

He was unceremoniously delivered to school and his parent gave him the obligatory back-to-school well-wishes before abandoning him for the day. He shouldered his bag and took a deep breath, mentally preparing for what lay ahead. Soon the teachers would be bustling about excitedly and the foals would be falling asleep at their desks, and he would be alone, sitting in the corner, trying to make it through the day.

Friends had never been an easy thing for him. Maybe it was because of his parents' robotic care of him that he never understood the appropriate social dynamics, but every time he tried talking to ponies it always ended awkwardly. It wasn't long before the school bullies agreed that he was a prime target, and since then his school days were marked by teases and insults. He expected this year to be no different.

He'd leave if he could fly on his own—nopony would miss him.

That day held a surprize. As soon as he entered the school several other foals came up to him, giving him greeting. They pat him on the back, said nice things, and apologized for the way they'd treated him in years past. At first he was confused, awkwardly receiving their words and company, but soon they managed to eke out a smile from him—soon he found himself enjoying their friendship.

It was a day unlike any other. For the first time he wasn't on the playclouds alone, wasn't eating at his own table, wasn't locked in the corner of class. For the first time he had conversations that didn't end in awkward silences or ponies just walking away. Ponies laughed with him, not at him. He was enraptured—he listened to all their stories and laughed at their jokes no matter if he understood them. It was the best day of his life.

Toward the end of the schoolday, in the last hour before childhood freedom, the principal arranged to address the school. His new friends had a better idea. Taking their lead, he skipped the lecture and went with them. 'Something to show you,' they had said, and so he followed, starry-eyed, wondering what magic would happen next.

It was a prank. The foals had been preparing it all day. The details are lost in the haze of memory, but the humiliation, the pain of the entire school laughing at him, is crystal clear. He remembers the sharp sting of betrayal as his so-called friends continued to torment him in front of everypony. He doesn't remember the teachers doing anything to stop it.

That night, he fell asleep in tears.

The next day he met Dew. She was a small filly, almost runtish, but she had a fierceness about her. He walked through a gauntlet of teasing and chuckling foals on his way to the main doors of school, and she met him inside. Her greeting was pleasant, friendly, but he turned away; he was done with other foals. He was resolved to living this year alone.

She didn't quit. She found him at lunch and shared his table, trying to make conversation. She told him how sorry she was for him about the day before, said that the others shouldn't have laughed. He ignored her. He finished his meal and left, retreating to the bathroom where she couldn't follow. He stayed there until class started again.

She saw him everyday afterward, and everyday he ignored her. She lived near one of his parents, so he started seeing her outside of school as well. She never gave up, always trying to talk to him and encourage him. He never believed she was anything close to honest—she was just another bully waiting to trick him.

One day, during the winter cold, he was cornered by three other foals. Unlike Dew, they were very open about their torments. His response was the same: retreat into himself and ignore the outside world. He barely felt the kicks, barely noticed when they stopped, barely heard the filly's shout. He did notice, however, when Dew started fighting the foals, defending him. He couldn't help but notice when they ganged up on her and started beating her down.

At first he was in shock. To have another foal stand up for him was unusual enough, but for one to fight for him, to be beaten up for him? Unthinkable. Unnatural. Yet still she fought back, or tried to, as they turned all their malicious glee on her.

When one of them kicked her and she curled into a ball, he awoke. The bullies froze at his scream, and he used the moment to dive down atop her, punching through the cloud and into the empty air below. They fell a few seconds before crashing through the roof of a cloudhome below them, almost plummeting through the floor as well and startling the mare that lived there. For a few seconds more nothing moved, and he looked up to find the bullies looking down through the hole, hesitant to follow. When the mare appeared in his vision, asking if they were all right, the foals turned away and disappeared.

They lay there for a time, each of them collecting their breath and recovering while the mare worried over them and called for other adults to help. Finally, as others began to arrive, Dew looked up at him and pressed her hoof against his nose.

She smiled.

* * *

He remembers that the moon was full that night.

The thoughts had been rolling around in his head for weeks by then, asking the same questions that he had no answers to. Graduation was still some years away, but he'd begun to wonder the point of it. His entire schooling had consisted of him keeping his head down, trying to avoid the gaze of everypony else. He'd gotten quite good at it, but it never felt like it did anything.

Dew had been laying beside him, watching the same sky. Her friendship was something precious to him, ever since that fateful day. She was bastion and comfort—she had stood beside him through the worst of the bullying, had helped him realize the truth of his blank cutie mark, had given him reason to keep pushing forward. He didn't know what would have happened if he'd never met her, but he knew that without her he had no reason to be; his life was hers. He hoped it would always be with them, in spite of his decision—he'd made up his mind. He hugged her close—she nuzzled him as he whispered in her ear.

He was leaving.

Dew went quiet. She didn't pull away, yet there was a sudden distance between them. The feeling frightened him, and so he quickly began talking, making consolations and trying to explain himself. None of it seemed to matter, and before long he ran out of things to say. It was only then, in the ensuing silence, that Dew moved again.

She asked him where he was going.

He didn't know. All he knew was that he had to get away—away from the schoolyard games and his cold parents. Away from the despondent world that surrounded him. Away from the suffocation of old memory. He didn't care where we went, but he knew he had to go.

She said nothing, and after a moment he took a chance—he asked her to come with him. She was the one pony he cared for, the one pony he didn't want to leave behind. He almost begged her to come, but she refused. She couldn't simply pack up and leave like him; she still had school to finish, still had a family that loved her. No, she couldn't leave like that.

But, she told him, giving him a kiss on the cheek, she'd follow when she could.

He was gone by the time the sun rose that morning.

He traveled below the clouds, down to that cold, hard earth that had always felt so distant. Up close, it felt alien. Cloudsdale was pure white in every direction, a paleness that sought to blind anyone who beheld it. The earth below reflected a dimmer light, gentler, and more colourful than the rainbow. Blue waters that drank the sky, bordered by copper sands and grey shale cliffs. Great brown trees that held high a blanket of green clouds, blossoming with fruits of every imaginable shape and hue. And flowers—flowers everywhere. From red to violet to white and everything in between, they speckled the landscape in a vibrance unparalleled. Everywhere he looked, all he saw were wonders. He was entranced. There were other cloud cities he could have traveled to, but now he couldn't imagine going anywhere else.

For the first day he simply wandered, struck by the awe all around him. He traveled from the open plains to fetid bogs to dense forests, never once anything less than amazed. Night came, and he barely noticed. Eventually, however, the pervading dark mixed with his own exhaustion, letting him know the day was over. He chose a nearby treetop as his bed, closed his eyes, and with a smile ended his first day away from home.

He awoke to the frantic sounds of birds taking flight around him. For a moment, in a mix of fatigue and wonderment, he did nothing more than watch them. Even at night, their wings catching in the moonlight, it was a beautiful sight.

Then came the roar.

He had never heard anything like it in his whole life. He froze—a second later the tree shook him violently from his perch. His wings snapped out instinctively, his left ramming into a branch with enough force that it broke from the tree. His wing flared with pain and he tumbled uncontrollably through the branches to the earth. He hit with a dull thud and rolled, coming to a stop against another tree's root. Fighting the pain that now wracked his whole body, he looked up.

The creature loomed over him, even at that distance. Easily five times his height, it was covered in coarse brown fur and boasted large, leathery wings. Its back was small compared to the rest of the beast, but its tail was was bald, scaly, and segmented, ending in a vicious-looking fang. Its front was powerfully built with forelegs as thick as he was, each ending with long, sharp claws. Its red mane framed its head, its long teeth dripping with saliva and its hungry eyes fixed on him.

He learned later it was called a Manticore.

Fear flooded him, and without thinking he dove behind the root and flattened himself against the ground, hiding. He took two breaths before the tree root exploded and the manticore's paw caught him in his midsection, throwing him several meters away. He coughed, saw the beast charging, and dove under a bush. Once again he flattened himself, becoming invisible, and once again his cover was ripped away from him. Shielding his eyes from the flung dirt, he saw the manticore reared up, ready to drop all its considerable weight on him. He flapped his wings, barely escaping the pounce, but his left wing burned with fresh pain from use.

Somehow he managed to get his hooves under him again, and then he was running. Blurred trees on all sides, burning pain from a multitude of scratches and cuts, and fear—overwhelming fear. Every time he tried to hide he was found, and so he simply ran. Some small part of him knew it was useless—he was bleeding a trail that even a blind muskrat could follow—but that wasn't the part of him that charged his legs into constant motion, that set his heart beating furiously, and so he ran. Panicked, half-blind, and slowly losing consciousness, he ran into the night.

* * *

He remembers pain, fire, and sweat; the taste of honey and lemongrass; the scent of peppermint and woodsmoke. His vision was filled with shattered images drenched in fog; of his parents, of laughing foals, of a strange striped pony, of Dew. He saw Cloudsdale in endless white, the open plains in endless green, both spread behind a glittering brown prison. The striped pony danced in the edges of his mind and behind it all, everpresent and somehow soothing, was singing. He didn't know the song, but it carried him through the chaos and into empty darkness.

He awoke in a bleary haze, feeling calm and tranquil for the first time in what felt like years. For a while he just lay there, breathing the still air, slowly realizing that he wasn't dead. Blinking, he turned his head and examined his surroundings. The wall that encircled him was crooked, uneven, and seemingly made of a single piece of wood. Glass bottles of every hue hung from the ceiling, catching the firelight and casting it in all directions. Great painted masks glowered at him from every corner of the room, and in the centre sat a cauldron atop a pit of glowing embers. Out the window he saw the forest—grim-green and suddenly foreboding.

He rolled out of bed, landing hard on his hooves. Wincing, he looked himself over; his entire torso was wrapped in gauze, there was a splint around his right hind leg, and—he raised a hoof—he had an eyepatch. Frowning, he put his hoof down and gingerly tested his weight on his splinted leg; it felt whole and well, but he still decided to play it cautiously. Testing his wings showed a sharp pain in his left rib, so he settled for a three-legged gait as he searched for a clue to where he was.

The door opened, letting in a song, and he dove behind the cauldron—he immediately cursed the decision; he was now trapped in the center of the room. Still, it was cover, and if he could keep the cauldron between himself and whoever this pony was...

The singing stopped, and after a moment was replaced by a chuckle. He grimaced—of course hiding was a stupid idea; this pony knew he was here, knew his condition... What was he trying to accomplish? Just as he started to berate himself for being an idiot, the pony asked him to come out of hiding—and she did it in rhyme. Sheepishly, he stood up and came face to face with the strangest pony he'd ever seen.

Her name was Zecora. She was a Zebra, he learned, visiting from her native land. She'd found him in the forest, lying in a pool of blood that leaked from a great gash in his underbelly—but only mostly dead. She'd taken him in and fought hard to bring him back from the edge. She called his recovery 'slow' even as she predicted it would only take another few days before he'd be well enough to travel.

He spent those few days helping Zecora around her hut and learning the secrets of the forest. It was a strange place, the Everfree—natural laws didn't apply. Clouds would move and rain on their own, plants would grow strong without help from ponies and spread their seeds on undisciplined winds, and even the animals were wild and untamed. Without realizing it, he'd stumbled into what was possibly the most dangerous place in all of Equestria, and it was only the kindness shown by a stranger that had saved him—for the second time.

When the bandages at last came off and he saw his scars, it took him completely off-guard. While Zecora claimed that most of his wounds had closed seamlessly, there was a persistent scar over his left eye where the gash had become infected. Worse was his stomach—it was raked with wide, hideous marks, the clear lines showing the where the manticore's claws had completely ripped him open. Still, he'd survived thanks to her, and a few scars were a minor price for that.

It came time to bid his farewells—it had been three weeks since he'd left Cloudsdale, and Dew was very likely getting worried. He promised Zecora that he'd visit whenever the chance arose, and as they said their goodbyes, Zecora gave him a mask.

* * *

He remembers being nervous. Dew sat beside him, her comforting presence somewhat belied by the fact that she'd invited the other two ponies in—two ponies who were, at that moment, studying him carefully. Two ponies who had been looking for him for the past fortnight. He still avoided ponies—in spite of the kindness given to him by strangers, most still treated with him at a distance. Even the first pony he met when coming to this village—a cream-coloured mare with a bright pink mane and tail—had run away from him the moment he'd stepped out of the Everfree.

He was just lucky to have met Zecora instead of any other pony, it seemed.

He'd decided to stay on the outskirts of both the forest and the village that sat beside it, covering his wings and scars with a vest. Most of the villagers tended to hide from him whenever he came to town, so he took to hiding from them whenever he needed something. Thievery wasn't the sort of thing he wanted to be doing, but when no-one was willing to do honest business with him there was little choice. Thanks to his natural talent and Zecora's mask he was never seen, and talk of stolen goods quickly changed into rumours of a ghost amongst the townsfolk.

Dew graduated and followed him to Ponyville, where she took a position as a weather pony. With her income they were able to start honestly paying for things—at least, Dew was; most ponies still hid from him. It wasn't long after that, however, that the two ponies came looking for the ghost. At first, no-one took them seriously, but they persisted and soon were close to finding him. Then, after two weeks of carefully avoiding them, Dew invited them over for tea.

One of the ponies—an earth pony stallion named Cobblestone—broke the awkward silence by stirring up small talk. Dew answered in kind while he remained quiet, looking for an opportunity to disappear. When the topic moved to the town ghost, he shifted uncomfortably in his seat; Dew just smiled and made light of the subject. After a few moments, he realized that the other pony—a pegasus mare named Raindrop—was watching him. Her gaze felt oppressive, and so he finished his drink and excused himself to the kitchen.

He took a moment to calm his nerves, but he couldn't shake the feeling of unease. He had no idea why Dew had invited them over, but now... He let out an irritated whicker, shook his mane, and decided to take his opportunity now.

Raindrop's voice startled him, partly because he hadn't known she'd followed him, but mostly because she'd seen him. For a moment he was too stunned to move, and she started talking—she offered him a job. She didn't say what, precisely, only that he would be helping Equestria with his talents. She said that his time as a 'ghost,' his time as a thief, would be forgotten if he said 'yes.'

It seemed too good to be true. She seemed to sense his discomfort, and after a few seconds of silence promised to return later, giving him time to think about it. That said, she took Cobblestone and left.

It took him a week to come to a decision—he wasn't going to accept. There were good ponies in the world, but too many strangers had left him with an unfavourable view. More than anything else, however, he wasn't going to leave Dew again. He told them this over a fresh cup of tea, and as much as they tried to convince him otherwise, he remained steadfast. He wasn't going anywhere.

Then Dew volunteered to join.

Raindrop and Cobblestone frowned, dubious, and he objected furiously, but she remained steadfast. She was tired of seeing him live his life without potential, sitting around and merely existing. She wanted him to live up to himself, and if she had to go along with him, she would do it gladly. She stood there, challenging him to be better than he was.

In the silence that followed, he found himself torn. Their guests watched with interest, and soon he found himself beaten—he hug his head and acquiesced. Dew smiled a soft smile and Cobblestone made arrangements for their future, but all the while Raindrop simply frowned. When Cobblestone asked him for his name, he paused a moment. He still didn't like what was happening, and he didn't want the give his name to unknown ponies. The townsfolk had never cared, so he was left with no answer to give. As he turned his head to look out the window, he saw the that the trees were starting to turn the colours of the season—all those beautiful hues of the earth.

"Autumn," he said.

The next few months were games and trials, and somehow he made it through them all. Dew struggled but refused to give up, and soon they found themselves in a small room with the Princess welcoming them to the Secret Service. In the end, in spite of his hesitations, he found himself smiling—he found a place he felt he belonged.

~ * ~ ~ * ~ ~ * ~

Octavia sat quietly throughout the story, her eyes downcast—but dry. She sat with such a stillness that Autumn sometimes wondered if she were even listening. He couldn't stop talking, though—the telling of his tale was a barrier, and so long as he spoke it pushed away the inevitable silence.

He was afraid of what the silence would bring.

His story couldn't last forever, and all too soon his words ran out. A moment passed, and his mouth went dry as his mind fought desperately to find something else to say. He took too long, perhaps—Octavia's gaze slowly drifted upward to meet his. It was so empty, so devoid of feeling that it took everything he had not to look away; it was a painful thing to see that look in her eyes.

"Is that what you have to say?" she asked quietly. "More lies?"

He shook his head. "No. No more lies."

"You expect me to believe in these foal's tales? To believe that the Service is real? To believe that some ponies would be fighting against the princess?" She wiped her eyes. "Do you really think that little of me?"

"No, of course not," he insisted. "I could never do that!"

"Then why do you still lie to me?"

He didn't respond. He couldn't argue with her—she was right, after all. The Service worked hard to maintain its secrecy; the idea that anyone would readily accept such a claim was... ludicrous, he realized. "I am sorry," he answered, hanging his head.

"Is that all you have? I'm sorry?" She swallowed hard, struggling to hold back tears. "All this time you've been living under my roof, eating at my table, playing my instruments... What was it? Some kind of game to you?"

A small fire started in Autumn's gut. "It is no game." A growl escaped his lips, and he instantly regretted it. What right did he have to get angry? Octavia wasn't condemning Dew to a cage—she didn't know about it, didn't believe in it. She wasn't calling Dew's suffering a make-believe fantasy. Autumn swallowed, letting his anger fade away.

"What is it, then?" Octavia asked. He had no answer for her, and the silence stretched. His gaze fell upon Luna's bracelet—the thought that he could summon her and prove his story crossed his mind.

What would Luna think of that? he wondered. Would she approve? Would she punish me for revealing the Service?

"So now what?" Octavia asked, interrupting his thoughts. "Am I supposed to call the Royal Guard? Turn you in, like the posters say?"

He blinked and looked back to her. "You would believe the posters, but not me?"

Her gaze hardened. "And why shouldn't I? You come into my house, take advantage of my hospitality, lie to me, and you made me... you made me..." Her eyes welled up with tears. "Damn you," she whispered. "Why did you do this to me?"

"I never wanted to," he replied. "I never wanted you to be involved in any of this. I wanted to leave and hide in some far away place."

"Then why didn't you?" she spat.

Autumn paused. "Because... you asked me to stay."

Silence. Agonizing silence. It felt as though several minutes passed before the stillness was broken. Octavia's lip trembled.

"Get out," she said, not unkindly. "Leave my home."

A simple order, more than he would have expected. A chance to walk freely and put everything behind him, to leave without worrying about the guard or the Service being called, yet he hesitated. He wasn't sure why—it just felt wrong to leave like that, just as it had felt wrong to run away without saying goodbye...

His gaze dropped to the floor and he let out a slow breath. Slowly, he moved to collect his things at Octavia's hooves—she made no move to stop him. She didn't move at all, in fact, staring straight ahead, past him. He picked up his vest, mask, and Luna's bracelet, donned his cloak, and went back to the window.

He paused. His insides tore at him, his heart bled, and he found he couldn't step through the window. He looked back at Octavia, but she still sat statuesque. There was a hollowness in the air between them and it threatened to swallow him whole. He couldn't leave her like this, but what other choice did he have? She no longer accepted him, and there was nothing he could say to make everything better. So he stood there, but when he saw her begin to tremble he looked away.

"Goodbye," he said, donning his mask. Then, without a backward glance, he leapt out the window and flew off into the greying sky.

Octavia sat still, long after the sounds of wings had faded into the night. Everything felt almost dreamlike, as though she could wake up at any moment, but her own heart was writhing too painfully for it to be anything but real.

She blinked—the dawn's light had peered through the open window, momentarily blinding her. Perhaps it was the call of morning that shattered the last illusions she held, that drove home the truth. The night had passed, and everything was laid bare in the daylight. He had lied to her, he had betrayed her trust... and he was gone.

She hugged herself, tears streaming down her face, and tried not to care.

~ * ~ ~ * ~ ~ * ~

The Shaman was sitting comfortably on an upturned bucket, leaning forward on his staff, when Golden Lock entered. Lock was less than amused—it was too early by half, and he really didn't want to deal with whatever passing fancy the Shaman had dreamt up. Still, the insistence that it was urgent had dragged him along, however reluctantly.

Lock took a moment to look around, making a point to ignore the Shaman. The place was as dismal as always, and it wasn't long before he gave up the practice. "What is it, Dog?"

The Shaman's eyes were narrowed, his gaze fixed on Lock. "Pony make promise," he said. "Say no pony bother pony pet without Shaman."

By the dog's tone, you'd think it's trying to be intimidating, Lock thought. "What of it?" The Shaman growled, but said nothing. After a minute, Lock tapped his hoof impatiently. "Is that all? Can I go now?"

"Shaman take Sud'ba home."

Lock paused. "What?"

"Shaman take Sud'ba home," he repeated, standing. "Shaman must return to pack—must lead. Take Sud'ba with. Pony has no need to keep."

He's given Dew a pet name? Lock shook his head. "No."

"Not request."

"And this isn't a joke. Dew stays here, where we can keep an eye on her. Remember your last little foray into these wild magicks?" Lock chuckled slightly. "Do you really want a repeat of that? Another dead... thing?"

"Spell fixed. Shaman sees." He brought two fingers to his eyes.

"Spell untested," Lock bit back. "If something goes wrong I want the experts to be immediately available."

The Shaman growled. "Pony keep promise. Keep pack hidden, and no need for horn ponies." He leaned closer. "Perhaps pony join pack. Then close by, yes?"

Lock's muzzle curled in a badly-hidden snarl. "I am needed here more than—"

"Then stay, but Shaman go." He turned away before Lock could respond.

"You can't—"

A pulse of magic exploded from the Shaman's staff, momentarily knocking the wind from his gut. "Pony lying, then," the Shaman said over his shoulder. "Call Shaman 'ally,' but keep as prisoner. Say pony pet is mine, but send other ponies to poke behind back. Shaman will leave, or Shaman will fight for freedom. Pony think I cannot break city before you stop me?"

This time, it was Lock who growled. He wasn't sure exactly how powerful the Shaman was, but he knew he couldn't win one-on-one. If he could delay enough, get a few more unicorns in, then he'd have the upper hoof. He didn't give one flying bit whether the Shaman stayed or left, but he wanted Dew where she was.

"Fine, fine," he said, dusting himself off. "We'll get it set up. I'll be back in six hours and—"

"Shaman leave now." Not waiting for a response, the dog walked off.

"What? No!" Lock called after him. The Shaman didn't slow, and Lock cursed under his breath as he chased after him. Damn dog. He was becoming more troublesome everyday, and it was becoming a pain in Lock's flank.

Dew sat in a corner of her cell, weak from her self-imposed starvation, wearing a metal collar and chain. Her gaze followed the Shaman lazily as he opened the door, but the moment she saw Lock her face curled into revulsion and she backed away. The sight gave him an odd sense of satisfaction, but it was quickly brushed aside. "What makes you think you can just leave like this? Need I remind you—"

"Pony call Shaman 'ally,'" the Shaman interrupted, kneeling before Dew. He held one paw outstretched, gently brushing her cheek. Her eyes narrowed and she bit at his fingers—he casually slapped her. "Shaman not forget. Perhaps pony does?" He cast a smile over his shoulder. "Pony promise to keep Shaman and pack safe. If promise keep, then pack safe for Sud'ba. Pony want see?"

The dog was refusing to listen. Lock couldn't force him to by himself, and he knew that if he pushed too hard the dog would only see weakness. He hated being cornered like this, especially by a brainless pooch too dumb to know a good thing when he's in it. "Fine," Lock scoffed. "I'll take a look at what you've got set up, but if I'm not satisfied she comes back here for continued observation."

"Hm," the Shaman replied, still smiling. He stood, gripping Dew's chain leash, and a pale glow emanated from his staff. "Then we go."

Lock let out a breath, then stepped close enough to be within the spell's effect. Dew struggled and made protests, but she was too weak to do much more than that. As the glow grew brighter he looked down at her, pulling against the chain and kicking weakly at the Shaman's legs, and smiled.

The spell surrounded them, and suddenly something slammed into him.

* * *

He fell into the Shaman, knocking him down. Lock struggled to reorient himself, looking around frantically. They had landed in forest—murky darkwood with mossy vines hanging from the trees and morning mists clinging to the ground. Before he could make much sense of his new surroundings a force struck him in his jaw, nearly breaking it and sending him tumbling backward.

He leapt back to his hooves and shot a glare at the Shaman, his horn sparking to life. "What is this? Some game of yours?"

The Shaman stood and glared. "No." His staff began to glow, but suddenly flew from his hand, landing several meters away in the obscuring mist. The Shaman stood a moment, stunned, then fell forward as though flung.

Lock narrowed his eyes. He'd seen something, something... moving in the mist—a shadow of a shadow. He let loose a magical blast at the shape. The bolt sliced through the fog, tearing a hole as it went... and struck a tree, shaking several dozen leaves loose. Under the sound of creaking wood and leafy rustle, he heard something entirely different, something alien to the forest: the soft scrape of metal on metal. Searching for the source, he realized Dew was missing.

Her collar.

"Shaman!" he yelled. "She's running!"

The fog suddenly swarmed around them, obscuring. Lock cursed, then two holes appeared in the fog heading straight for his eye. He quickly cast a shield spell, immediately feeling something twice impact it. He stumbled, then blasted magic in that direction, but hit only a tree once again.

His eyes darted about, but he saw nothing. The Shaman cried in pain to his left, so he charged that way, pushing out with his magic. The mist rolled back, but all it revealed were more trees and the prone form of the Shaman.

What in the seven layers of tartarus is going on? he thought. He kicked the Shaman lightly and was rewarded with a growl. "Hm, you're still alive," he said. "Get up. Dew ran off; we need to find her."

The Shaman stumbled into a crouch. "If this some pony joke..." he warned.

Lock almost struck him. "What in tartarus would I be doing this for? You think I'd help you get this far only spit in your face?" He snorted, then shook his head—there were other things that required his attention. "Let's go; Dew's getting away."

The Shaman grumbled, but said nothing as he stood. He sniffed the air, then closed his eyes and held out a paw. A moment passed, and his eyes opened narrowly while he growled something in his native tongue.

"Are you done?" Lock asked impatiently.

"Shaman stick not here," he replied.

"We can worry about that later! Come on!"

The Shaman shook his head. "Must find stick. You go; will follow."

"You—" Lock bit the rest off; there wasn't time to waste. "Fine, then. Fetch your stick." With that he turned and lit his horn, casting a searching spell. He scanned the ground, looking for a trail to follow. The magic illuminated a muddle of hoof- and paw-prints in the immediate area, but he couldn't make any sense of the mess. He pushed the spell out farther and found... Two sets of hoofprints? How's that... How old are these? He paused a moment, then the answer hit hit like lightning.

Autumn.

A grin split his muzzle. So many weeks of fruitless searches, and the fool appeared before him as he started to lose hope. He didn't know how Autumn had managed to find out where Dew was hidden, but neither did he care. He modified his searching spell and chased the hoofprint trail. Dew was weak—they couldn't have gotten far.

The trail wove about, employing many techniques designed to disguise itself, and even with his magic he almost lost it a few times. That fact angered him—if he had better control of his magic there'd be no issues. Even so, they couldn't evade him forever; soon he came to the trail's end.

It was hard not to smirk. His natural eyesight showed him nothing more than the misty Everfree around him, but his spell showed him something different. One pony hid under a cloak pretending to be a rock, and another stood plainly to the side, unafraid. For a moment, Lock allowed himself to be impressed at Autumn's ability—only he could stand in the open and have nopony see him. A shadow of a shadow. Now, though, Lock's magic revealed him, and there was no way he'd let the bastard go.

"Futile," he said, then unleashed a magical blast directly at the shadow. It coned outward, preventing his target from dodging, and hit with a force strong enough to throw him several meters back into a tree. The forest filled with the wild noises of creatures shaken loose by the impact. Birds squawked and took flight, snakes hissed and slithered away, and all manner of small rodents scurried in all directions. Lock cast his searching spell again, smiling when he found the prone pony. Autumn coughed and struggled to stand.

"I've got to hand it to you, Autumn," Lock gloated, walking forward, "you've led us on quite a chase. I was beginning to think you didn't want to be found. Ah, but here you are, coming to beg my mercy." He stopped in front of him, lowering his horn and changing spells. "Lucky for you, I'm feeling exceptionally generous today."

A sudden wind buffeted Lock, momentarily knocking him off-balance and throwing his spell off target. He growled and compensated, firing off a second wide-angle blast where Autumn had been lying. The trees shuddered, but he could tell that his target was no longer there. "A cute move, Dew," Lock called, switching back to his searching spell, "but you—"

Autumn slammed into his side, disrupting his spell and knocking the wind out of him. He coughed, started to stand, then took a full buck to his stomach. A small sound escaped him as he curled, wide-eyed, and tried to breathe. Again he was hit, and again. Desperate, he unleashed a magical blast in all directions. A lull followed, and he was able to take several lungfuls of air.

Damnit, damnit, damnit! Lock thought, pushing himself up. He cast another all-around blast, just to make sure he still had breathing room. He keeps disappearing! I can't keep switching between spells like this; I've got to find him and mark him. Once again he cast his searching spell, and once again he found Autumn—above him, dropping straight down.

Lock dove to the side, narrowly avoiding the strike. Autumn followed with a kick that caught Lock's ribs, driving air out and extinguishing his spell. Blind again, the unicorn rolled away and threw up a bubble shield. He huddled inside it, wincing every time he felt a blow on its surface. This was getting frustrating; Autumn kept literally vanishing and Lock was feeling far too many of his blows. Autumn needed to be contained.

Of course.

He quickly modified his shield spell. Autumn kicked again and the bubble reversed itself, closing around its attacker. Lock paused; the bubble was empty before him, but he noticed a small hole in the bottom—about the size of a hoof—and he could feel a struggle on the inside.

"I've got to say, Autumn," Lock said, coughing a bit, "you've surprized me. Looks like the rumours around you aren't entirely unfounded. But, well... your service ends here." His horn pulsed, and the bubble responded—it began shrinking. "It's a loss, I know, but I'm sure we'll manage."

Autumn cried out in pain, masking the sound of jangling metal until Dew slammed into Lock's side, driving him back into the tree and again breaking his spell. He stumbled, trying to regain his footing, but Dew continued to lash out at him. She put him immediately on the defensive—her blows were weak, but she aimed at sensitive areas.

A hind kick caught her across the face, giving him a moment's reprieve. He spat red and wiped his muzzle, his gaze settling on her. Still weak, she struggled to stand—he knew he had a moment before he had to worry about her again, a moment in which to find his real target.

Suddenly, he knew how.

He dove atop Dew, pinning her to the ground and casting a shield spell around them both. She flailed with all the strength she had in her, but it was an easy matter to keep her down. "Come on out, Autumn," he called. Dew gave a painful cry as he dug his hooves into her wings. "I wouldn't want to get unpleasant with your friend here."

"No..." Dew's voice, like the rest of her, was weak and frail. "Run..."

Lock lowered his head until it was even with hers. Gently as a lover, he whispered, "You're in no position to talk." She screamed again as he twisted his hooves.

"Enough!"

Lock grinned. Autumn stood before him, his blood red eyes glaring through his ivory mask. He held his left forehoof up and close to his chest, and Lock saw a trickle of red falling from it. It wasn't much, but he took comfort in the fact that he'd done some damage. "Ah, there you are," he mocked. "We haven't seen much of you lately."

"Let Dew go."

Lock shook his head. "Oh, I can't do that. You see, she and I..." He gave a quiet chuckle, leaning down over her again. He watched Autumn carefully. "We're starting a family together."

Dew struggled, but a sharp twist of his hoof put an end to that. Autumn remained motionless, save perhaps a slight buckling down and the red in his eyes flickering. That was good—if the pony refused to react, then Lock should have enough time drop the shield and nail him. He began mentally prepping the move. "I was surprized, you know. Considering how close you two were, I didn't think I'd've been her first—"

A wall of force brushed Lock's shield and slammed into Autumn, driving the pony into a nearby tree—he slumped, unmoving. Ignoring Dew's cries, he searched for the source of the blast and found the Shaman, staff in paw, frowning at him.

"Pony talk too much."

"So you felt you'd interfere?" Lock spat, dropping his shield. "This was no business of yours."

The Shaman said nothing, only walked forward. He stopped in front of the ponies, knelt, and took Dew's leash in his paw. "Mine," he hissed.

It was all Lock could do to not roll his eyes. "Very well," he said, dismounting the pegasus. "Yours."

The Shaman gave an approving growl and stood, planting his staff before him. "Now we go."

"Wait," Lock commanded. The Shaman growled, his staff glowing stronger, so Lock knocked it from his grasp. "I said wait!" he snarled, cutting off any outburst from the Shaman. They both stood as statues for a moment, glaring daggers, before they heard Autumn's groan. Lock gestured at the pony. "We're not done here."

The Shaman acquiesced, grunting. He bent to collect his staff whilst Lock sauntered over to Autumn, unable to hide his growing smile. He paid no mind to the sounds Dew made as she struggled against her chain, finally stopping in front of the prone figure of the pony who had caused him such trouble. So many resources wasted to hunt Autumn, so many false leads and dead ends, and so many nights spent worried for the safety of the Cause. All of it about to end.

The Shaman was clearly not a patient creature, so Lock simply lowered his horn. Autumn's head turned, fixing Lock with a baleful glare—the unicorn found it amusing. "Goodbye," he said, and cast a spell.

The explosion wasn't supposed to happen.

The blast was pure magic force, a wave that sent him tumbling backward where he collapsed next to the Shaman. Dew screamed. The Shaman acted quickly, his staff springing to life and enveloping them all in its glow.

* * *

Lock blinked—the forest was gone, replaced by stone walls and firelight. Long passageways stretched and disappeared into darkness to his left and right. In the sudden silence the dull ringing in his ears became deafening—he rubbed his temples, quietly willing the sound to go away, quietly trying to focus through the fog of confusion. Everything happened so fast, just...

What happened?

The explosion had rattled him in more ways than one. The spell he used shouldn't have done that—none of its components were able to do that. It couldn't have happened, and yet there it was. Worst of all, without knowing what had happened—what had caused it—he had no way of knowing if Autumn was yet dead.

The Shaman grunted and pulled himself to a stand, reminding Lock of the dog's presence. For a moment, everything else was brushed aside as Lock turned on him. "What in tartarus did you do?!"

"Saved Sud'ba," the dog said simply.

"Really? And you thought the best way to do that was by throwing explosive magic around?" He resisted the urge to smack the Shaman, instead just bringing his hoof up to his temple. "Goddess alive..."

"Shaman do no such thing," the dog growled, "but mask pony? Beaten, but still have some tricks, and no fear to use. Dangerous. Shaman take Sud'ba home; keep safe."

"You think Autumn did that?" Lock scoffed, shaking his head. "No. He had no way of pulling something like that off—and just in case you've forgotten, only unicorns can use magic, so—"

"Pony did not do," the Shaman interrupted, pointing at Lock. "Shaman did not do. Who else?"

"Fine," Lock huffed. "How, then? Some spell he's unable to cast? Magic wishes?"

That gave the Shaman pause. Standing at his full considerable height, he turned and stared down one of the long underground passageways, thoughtful. His grip on Dew's leash tightened. "Shaman not know."

"How convenient," Lock spat.

The Shaman's staff suddenly took a glow and cast a spell before Lock could react—a dull thrum echoed throughout the stone passage, shaking Lock's bones and raining dust. Lock coughed. "Shaman keep Sud'ba safe," the dog said, turning to face him. "Pony here, too. Perhaps Shaman save pony? Perhaps pony see, and thank Shaman?"

"Don't patronize me, dog," Lock growled. "I can handle myself."

The Shaman grinned and tapped Lock's bruised ribs with his staff. "Of course."

Lock took a step back, lowering his horn as it took a glow—the sound of paws on stone stopped him from going further. Dogs of all sizes began filling the corridor on both sides, rushing forward to greet their returned Shaman. They spoke loudly in their barbaric tongue, sounding like sandpaper in Lock's ears. Most ignored him, but the few who didn't regarded him with both suspicion and anger—one of them placed itself between Lock and the Shaman, crouched low and ready to attack.

"Come, then." Civilized speech returned lock's attention to the Shaman, where he found a paw extended toward him. "Pony wish to see?"

Grudgingly, Lock remembered that he was now alone in dog territory, and his well-being likely hinged on the Shaman not getting too mad at him. The last thing he needed was to die because the oaf threw a tantrum. He had to get out of there, but first things first. He finally extinguished his spell and stood straight. "Very well. Let's get this over with."

~ * ~ ~ * ~ ~ * ~

All in all, it felt like the same cell—three stone walls, an uncomfortable floor, and iron bars. The only real difference was the location, but underground never really changed much. It was always dark, always cold, and always, always oppressive. So much earth hovering above her, it may as well be her grave.

Dew let out a slow breath. She had to stay calm, had to relax—panic would only work against her. She'd been numb for a while now, ever since Autumn... exploded, but she knew she couldn't stay like that. Numbness meant giving up, meant giving in. If nothing else, both Lock and the Shaman would be appreciative of that; so she resolved to be stronger than her pain, to be stronger than her fear. In spite of it all, she resolved to be free.

She didn't know what happened in the forest, but she faintly recalled Lock and the Shaman arguing about it. There was one thing she heard, one thing she clung to: they didn't know what happened either. Perhaps he was still alive, still out there somewhere—perhaps he was still coming for her.

Perhaps he wasn't. She could still see him lying there, motionless and bloody, as the dust began to clear and the Shaman cast his spell. The image was burned into her.

She shook her head—it didn't matter. If he was alive, she'd be strong when he came. If he wasn't, she'd break free with her own strength. Starving herself would do nothing—she'd already tried that. The Shaman just waited until she couldn't resist and then force-fed her his enchanted meals. No, a different approach was needed.

She was going to fight.

The first few days she'd have to lay passive, gaining her strength and pretending to be a broken mare. She would lure them into thinking she'd given up, then escape when they were least aware. If these were the same mines where the dogs had held Clear Skies, then she should remember the way out.

She hoped, anyway.

Dew absently rubbed her belly. She knew the longer she waited, the longer she took to prepare, the task would be harder as she grew heavier. Beyond that and the desire to halt the dog's plans, she chose not to think about the foal she carried.

One catastrophe at a time.

For the time being, she would play dead. Don't fight back, let the tears flow, and let the dogs think her helpless. Once their guard is down, escape. Won't take more than a week or so, she thought. I should be strong enough by then. And if this doesn't work, then...

Well, there's always tomorrow.

She was resolved. And so it was that she lay down to sleep—yet another night on stone, cold floors. Oddly enough, tonight—for the first time since her imprisonment—she felt a certain calm as she drifted off.

つづく
To Be Continued...