The Night is Passing

by Cynewulf

XVIII. Your Arm's Too Short To Box With God

XXVIII. Your Arm's Too Short To Box With God

ICE STORM

It is a hard thing to look a pony in the eyes and tell them that they will not walk again, at least not as they were used to walking. It is even harder to do this to one with the grace, the beauty, the vigor that she had. But Ice Storm knew that it was vital. It was necessary.

And so he had done it.

And now, days later, he sat by Amaranth’s bedside. He, too, had been wounded. Yet he had survived and come out of the mortarfire and bullets more or less intact. She had not. He often felt like an imposter, sitting with his bandages by her cot. He felt like a fool, like a lion with no mane, like he was an idiot to think that deserved to be in the same room.

They did not talk about legs—hers or anypony else’s for that matter. He had asked about her wings, but only once, and been told that they worked. After this, he’d left the matter alone. Pegasi understood the enormity of this. He supposed batponies did as well. To retain one’s wings was to hope. While I breathe, I hope, or so the sons and daughters of Gaia said. But he had wondered if one might not say “fly” instead of “breathe.”

Or would that be unfair? For he had known pegasi that could not fly, and though much was taken, much remained. They smiled and laughed, loved, died, and were fulfilled. Ie Storm did not know. He was not given to deep thinking. Battle had always brought the thinker out in him, though reluctantly. The only reactions to battle were contemplation, silence, and madness. The second was only a way to go on to the other two. The last was unacceptable. The first would have to do.

“Welcome back,” Amaranth said to him as he approached. Another day, another long visit. She smiled, her smile full of life even in this place.

“Hello,” he said. “I’m glad that you’re alert. I take it the regimen is going to be less severe?”

“I should be off the really heavy stuff soon, yes, sir. They say my front legs will be more or less fully functional.”

Ice Storm tensed. Yet there was no outburst, no cloud in her eyes. He had expected that. He had not expected her to smile.

“Back ones are shot to hells. But they showed me one of those walker contraptions. I like it. Think I might even use it. Looks hard to land with,” she said and laughed. Storm said nothing. He paused. He was unsure. “Ah, Captain, it’s fine.” She looked at him, really looked at him, now. “It’s fine.”

“If you say,” he managed. “Might I sit with you, then? If you are up to it, I have news.”

“Oh, I hope it’s bad news.”

He raised an eyebrow as he sat. “You do?”

“Bad news, my beloved commander, is far more entertaining, so long as it isn’t the last bad news. Now, go on, for the moon’s sake.”

“I’m not a Celestialist. Or a Supernalist,” he added. “It was a reflexive response.”

“I know.” She chuckled. “I believe you. I wasn’t offended, you know. There are religious batponies, too. The Dawn Crusade was a long, long time ago, and it wasn’t just my kind who died. There are batponies who hold a grudge. Trust me, I know. But why should I? It was long before I was born. Shall I judge the living for the deeds of the dead?” she asked, in a haughty voice. Ice Storm snorted, and she smiled again. “See? I’m fine. Go on, go on.”

“Alright. Well, you’ll be happy to know it’s bad news,” he began.

“Hurrah!” she cried weakly and pumped a hoof. Ice Storm rolled his eyes.

“And very interesting bad news at that.” He continued on despite her. “Some of it is secret. But I happen to know you have a right to know, and I happen to know mostly by accident. So I can tell you, when the nurse over there scuttles off,” he said softly. They both glanced over at the mare in question, who seemed oblivious. “But the first part is no secret to any fighters in the city. There are raiders in the valley. Specifically, in the warrens where the old mines used to be. They’ve infected the whole system with their vile presence, and there will be no attempt to dislodge them anytime soon.”

“Figures.”

“My sentiments exactly. I was very unsurprised, both by our paralysis and by their failure to retreat. Morningvale… Morningvale was a lot of things. A disaster. Shameful.”

“We weren’t even close to ready. Or maybe we were and they’re just better.”

“I don’t like to think that,” Ice Storm said quickly.

“We might have to,” she replied. “Cap, permission to speak freely?”

“Always,” he said.

“A lot of the failure of Morningvale had to do with their mortars. We didn’t see them getting their hooves on military equipment, and we should have. If we had anticipated that, getting magic in place to counter it would have been simple. Not perfect, yes, but it would have helped.”

“I am inclined to agree.”

“But we’re low on spellcasters. The guard has been for a while. At least, the Solar guard has. The Lunar guard is better. But, you know who has tons?”

“Enlighten me. I have not thought much about that.” He had been more concerned with how woefully inadequate his winged soldiers had been, what few had been there at all.

“The Houses Major sure have a lot,” she said.

They looked at each other.

“I’m… sure they do,” he said carefully.

“I think you get what I mean.”

“They have their differences, but surely you aren’t suggesting they intentionally refused a muster? It would have been a public scandal.”

“That, or the Princess never called for them, or maybe she couldn’t call on them.”

“They have an obligation—” he began, his brow furrowing.

“They have an obligation, yeah, and nobles love throwing obligations off as soon as they can. You know that.”

“Nopony could have foreseen the mortars.”

“Maybe,” she said. It was soft.

“I’m sorry. I just… That is troubling.”

“It’s troubling to me as well, Cap.”

“No, not just that. But it makes what other things I’ve heard seem more substantial. I had hoped they were baseless and petty rumors. I hope they are.”

“Spill it,” she said. Amaranth leaned in.

“Well, firstly, the Houses Major have been recruiting heavily. Houses Iron and Rowan-Oak have far, far more troops than they really have need or use for, presently. Yet, at the same time, very few of those have been integrated in either the wall patrols or the combined Levy of the Guard. This I know is true, as I’ve seen it. The palatial staff are of the opinion that it is a political ploy to force Luna into some petty concessions. I figured it was spite, and that if the need was great, they would simply drop the pretense.”

“I know what I think.”

“I am less sure, myself. There’s rumor that Rowan-Oak has been approaching every pony in the city who can swing a hammer, as if they’re desperate for somepony to fill their needs. Arms and armor, it seems. This one I am less sure of, but their usual supplier here in the city has been working significantly less. She has a veritable village of workers usually.”

“What else?”

“Reports from scouts in the valley. Signs of movement in Ponyville, but no word on how much movement, exactly. The scouts in question never got close enough. The hills are crawling with sharpshooters watching the skies, these days. But there are several reports of other ponies being spotted moving up the road, coming from the south. A few coming from the north. Ponies coming from all directions, really. A few may be vagabonds and refugees, but the others…” He hesitated.

“The others?”

“Either the bandits and raiders are becoming organized, are being led, or somepony else is coming to Canterlot. A Solar scout was able to observe a column of well-armed, well-barded soldiers marching from the south two days ago and just arrived back in Canterlot with the dawn. He describes them as wearing strange insignia.”

Amaranth was silent. She was sitting up now. The smirk was completely gone.

Ice Storm took a weary breath and rubbed at his cheek with a hoof. “Whoever they are, they have at least some basic concept of combined arms. Pike and shot, same as the old model army.”

“We could have used some pikes at Morningvale,” Amaranth said softly.

“I agree, actually. Metal barding, hoofblades… a full baggage train. The scout counted and reported somewhere between two hundred and four hundred.” He sighed. “Which means it could be anything. The idiot panicked and didn’t get a decent count at all. But we know it’s at least two hundred, I suppose. Which is…”

“Kind of significant,” Amaranth finished. “I mean, if it was just that one column…”

“It would not be a threat, nor would it be a, ah, ‘big deal’, as I’m sure you would say. If they fight like the old model army did, then we could defeat a small force fairly easily, as the repeaters we have outrange the old style firearms by a fair amount. We also do not need to fire in vollies to have efficacy, as they would.”

“But if there are more of them, then it’ll be a real fight. We may even be underestimating them and overestimating ourselves. I mean, look what a rabble did to us at Morningvale. Fifteen hundred trained soldiers with decent, if outdated, equipment? We’d be toast. Dead. Ruined. We’d win, but then who would keep the raiders out of the juiciest prize in the world?”

“Exactly. But we don’t know that they are foes quite yet. There is talk that the cities of the south may have revitalized the Army of the South and sent it north to aid us or at least to see if there is anything else. There’s some hopeful talk of some news of our plight reaching our countrymen.”

“What do you think it is?” Amaranth asked. She leaned on one hoof. Ice Storm gazed at her. So bright. Yet so dark. Her eyes golden like his own mane, like an emperor’s throne.

He pursed his lips. He bit them. Finally, shaking his head, he guessed. “I feel that they are not friendly,” he said at last. “I have no reason for this. They do not hide. They march out in the open as if hoping to be seen. But at the same time, I do not trust them. If they wear the sign of their cities or leaders, why not also include something of our shared symbolism? Why no Moon or Sun or anything of Equestria? Because they are not of us. I do not trust them at all. These cloaked soldiers, I do not trust them at all.”

SOARIN’

“So I’m in charge while the boss is out? Perfect,” Soarin’ grumbled between sips of beer. Not that the beer was bad, because it was alright, and not that at the moment being nominally in charge of Luna’s clandestine dagger was really burdening him. Because it wasn’t.

He had done all that was asked of him. He started frequenting the four dives that Spike’s newly christened “Bats Out of Hell Division” used for dropoffs and meetups. He kept watch on the activities of various Solar officers and the House levy commanders who he had contact with. He kept the flow of information from the scouts to the public controlled.

The last part was harder. The whitecoaks. Fuckin’ hell. He finished the last third of the mug in one long swig. He had told that stupid kid not to say anything. At least the scout had been smart enough not to mention the cloaks. Or the insignia. At least, he had told Soarin’ that those things had slipped his mind in the telling. Either way, it was a mild disaster. One worthy of another beer at least. Yes, that would do. He, in fact, got up to acquire one.

“Goin’ for another?” slurred Spitfire.

“Yeah,” he grumbled. He had brought her along to keep the ruse up but also because they hadn’t had a decent conversation in forever. Spike was gone, and Rays was deep under cover, and so most of the conspirators were absent. The old fart what’s-his-name was in a meeting with the Princess. It struck him how odd it was that these were the only ones he knew about. Spike had talked about cells, but were there really any others? Oh. Big Mac. Yeah, Mac. He forgot about Mac. Why hadn’t he asked Mac to come?

“Well, gimme one too!” Spitfire yelled after him. So loud. Why was she always so loud? He didn’t mind, actually. He was genuinely curious in the way that only the drunk can be curious.

Oh, that was right. Big Mac wanted to spend time with Caramel before… everything. Right.

Why the hell was he here, drinking? Would he be sober when the time came? Possibly. Maybe. Part of him hoped not. Maybe he would trip up and get himself murdered by some low-level flunky. That would be nice. A clean hoofblade right through the eye. No more thinking.

Ordering, paying, receiving. In the haze of drink, it lazed by him. He missed it.

Soarin’ sat at the booth again.

Spitfire took her mug from him without preamble and pushed the previous vessel aside. Somepony would be around to collect the forlorn, empty things later. Soarin’ did not care.

“I know you’re down, stupid,” Spitfire slurred at him before taking another swig.

“I should’ve gotten you two,” Soarin’ said.

“Shoulda,” she sagely acknowledged.

“I’m not down.”

“You’re worse than a lovesick colt.”

Soarin’ stared at her stupidly. To be fair, there was not really another way to stare at someone besides stupidly when intoxicated. Anger, happiness, lust—you were still going to have a stupid look on your face.

“Do you ever just wanna die?” he asked.

“Nope,” she said and belched.

Soarin’ grumbled.

“What was that?”

He honestly wasn’t sure. “Look, Spits—”

“Do you want to die?” she asked.

“Sometimes. Kind of.”

“Really?” Soarin’ didn’t like the very sober look she gave him and wondered if Spitfire’s tolerance were as low as he had thought. He drank, himself.

“I don’t know.”

Did he? Did he really? He thought he might. Dying would solve a lot of problems. It would mean not having to do what he knew he had to do. It would mean not meeting Macintosh and Amber Wood and that batpony he forgot the name of, and he wouldn’t have to bear any weight. He wouldn’t have to bear any weight ever again.

“You’re just sad cause your mare left you, aren’t you?”

Startled, he stared at her. Had he told her? He was sure he hadn’t. Even through the haze of drink, he was sure.

“What?”

“Yeah, I know! I know.” Spitfire leaned across the table. “Don’t think I don’t know! I mean, I don’t know who. Probably never heard of ‘er. But I could tell! Always on errands, a little late to everything. A mare knows these things.” She finished with a grin.

“And you’re quite sure?”

She cocked her head to the side. “Well, yeah. This is what this is about, right? I figured it was, Soar.” She took a long drink, wrinkled her nose, and shook her head. “Damn.”

“It’s pretty mediocre, I know.”

“What’s with the dive?”

“Atmosphere,” he lied. Mostly. He would probably have been drinking at home. No he wouldn’t have. That was a lie. Soarin’ had been about to pin this on her or on the whole “hang out in bars on the seedy side of town so ponies think that’s just what you like to do” thing, but really, he just wanted a shitty place to feel shitty in, and that was that, wasn’t it? Maybe. Who knew? He was drunk and sad. He knew little.

“So. She break up with you? You knock her up?”

“Damn. No. No.”

“Then what?”

“Screw this.” He made no effort to leave the table. He wasn’t angry. He just felt as if a pony were sitting comfortably on his neck, just minding its own business without a care in the world to distract it.

“C’mon. We go way back, Soar. Tell your auntie Spits. C’mooooon.”

He groaned. “This is stupid. You’re stupid. I’m stupid.”

“Never claimed you weren’t,” she said and laughed. “Just tell me what happened. Do I know her? I swear I won’t do anything stupid. On my honor as a Wonderbolt,” she added and did a drunken, ridiculous salute. This attracted attention, he was sure, but he didn’t care.

“It’s Applejack. Twilight’s friend? From Ponyville. Uh… Rainbow Dash knows her?” Only now it occurred to him that she wouldn’t necessarily know who Applejack was.

“Uh… shy, yellow one?”

“No! No,” he said and chuckled despite himself. “Don’t think she’s interested either way. No, the one with the hat.”

“Oh! That one. Really? Well, fuck me! Didn’t see it comin’.” She snickered at his dismay. He retreated into his drink, feeling much as he did before.

When he saw Spitfire again, he was sure that she was more sober than he was by far. It was obvious. She was looking at him appraisingly.

“Bit… for your thoughts?” he asked, almost forgetting the phrase. Usually he would have laughed. He felt no desire to laugh.

“Moon and stars. Here I was thinking it was just some little scuffle or something like that. I drank slower than you so I could get you back to the barracks after you’d drowned your sorrows, and I figured it would be alright.”

“Bullshit. I saw you drink,” he said, glaring.

“It’s true. I added mine to yours twice,” she said. “And you should know I’m not a lightweight by now.”

“I always underestimate you,” he replied and then laid his head on the table. “I’m not sure I can just drink and then sleep it off, Spits. Everything is awful, and I’m miserable, and the world is on fire.”

“Not yet.”

“It is going to be on fire later,” he amended. “And also, it will be too hot, and I hate it when it’s hot and whatever. It’s stupid. I hate everything.”

“No you don’t.” She was going to coo at him. He hated when she cooed at him. Hate hate hate. Her cheeks were rosy. Ha!

“Yes, I do, in fact, hate everything. Even you, because you’re… uh.” He faltered.

“Superior to you in every way?” she offered helpfully.

“Yes. That.”

Spitfire rolled her eyes. “Soar, can you walk?”

He grunted and shrugged. Could he? Good question. In fact, he decided to test it. He stumbled out of the seat, wavered, and stood. Blinking, once again stupidly, he looked back at Spitfire as if expecting applause.

“Good,” she said and got out. Some sober part of him smugly noted that she was not completely secure on her feet either. But she was better off than Soarin’ was, and he watched her leave a few bits on the table, and then she was helping him walk straight through the door and into the biting cold breeze.

He shivered. “Gah! Seriously?”

“Yeah, seriously. We should go home. This isn’t going to help like I hoped it might, and I feel like the streets are a better place to have this talk.”

“Talk? What?” He blinked. The sudden change in light was a little disorienting. Not a lot. Just a little. He was fine, really. The streets were less crowded than when they’d entered. How late was it?

Spitfire stumbled, and Soarin’ stumbled with her. She recovered, but he hit the ground with a dull thud.

“Shit! Aw, shit, Soar, I’m sorry! Are you okay?”

She was shaking him. He was fine—she knew he would be fine. Nothing stopped him for long, come hells or water.

“I’m… Yeah,” he said and coughed.

“Okay. Okay, just… here.” She sat him up, and when he could see her again, the light from the dive’s window showed him only two bright fires and what looked like a face twisted in… no. Tricks of the light. See, even now her face was more smooth. She was in control, the master and commander.

“I’m okay,” he insisted.

“I believe you,” she said in a tone that implied quite the opposite. “Just sit.”

“Okay,” he said.

She sat down heavily against him. They leaned on each other like siblings would, carelessly and without a shred of self-consciousness, without noticing the other at all.

“So you’re scared?” Spitfire said after a long silence.

“Yeah.”

“That… what?”

“She’ll die, or I’ll die, or we’ll both die. Or too much time or too much space!” he said, a bit louder than he had intended to. But he continued on. “She’s right at the end of the world. I just feel it. I feel like she’s hurt somewhere, and I can’t do anything.”

“No, you really can’t do anything.”

“See? Nothing.”

“But,” she continued, and he knew she was straining now. “I mean, c’mon, Soar, you can’t just whine forever. You have things to do. Do that stuff. Just keep… You gotta keep going. It’s important.”

“To who? Not me,” he said.

“To you. For you. You stop, and you’re dead. You know that. Quick and the Dead, only two types in the sky.”

“This isn’t flying.”

“Everything is flying. Everything,” she repeated, and he felt her shift against his back. Probably waving her arms. She was more gone than she thought. “All of it. Flying is everything, and everything is flying. They’re the same, Soar. You’re not a kid—you know that. You’re a Wonderbolt, and it all comes back to the things you know and the things you don’t.”

“You aren’t making sense,” he grumbled.

“Hell, neither are you, big stupid… pony.”

“I miss her, Spits. I’ve tried not to feel it all this time, and I can’t do it much longer. I don’t know what set me off. No, screw that, I do know. Macintosh went to go see his boyfriend before we…” He coughed. “We have to do some… Fuck. Macintosh, Applejack’s brother. Big red one.”

Spitfire made a sound between a groan and a whistle that made him want to wretch. “Mm, oh, I remember that one. I wouldn’t mind—”

“He’s gay,” Soarin’ said quicker than he had said most things in his life.

“Aw.”

“But we’re doing something. Blackwing,” he added. He felt her go stiff. He hadn’t used Wonderbolt code in a while. It felt nice. Blackwing, black op. It was stupid. But it was sort of what you did in the ‘Bolts, so he kept it. “And he wanted to see Caramel, and I just couldn’t stop thinking. I couldn’t stop thinkin’ at all.”

“Damn.”

“Yeah.”

“That’s rough.”

“So are a lot of things,” he said, feeling inordinately stupid. What was he doing? He shifted, and Spitfire sat up as he stood and stretched. “I feel better. Can we go home? I have work to do soon. Too soon.”

“I’m not sure anything is better.”

“It won’t be. But maybe it will be if I sleep. It won’t get better while I’m drunk.” He gestured, and she followed him. “Sleep solves everything.”

OPAL

There were stories of Opal, Legata of the Ninth Legion. One of them was that when isolated with only a few ponies of her personal guard, she routed a thousand hardened barbarians. Wide-eyed recruits would repeat the tale told to them by smirking veterans—or, as was not uncommon when it was a tale regarding the Iron Bitch, by wiser and more experienced legionaries with somber expressions and earnest tones. They said she and her four guards followed the great train of ponies, going ahead to fell a tree here or there, divert a stream into the uncertain road. And then, when the column was stopped, she would strike like an eagle out of the sun. Hours and hours on end, she shadowed them. Only a few died at a time. Two here, one there. They no doubt mocked her. Did she think she could defeat so many? What could one mare do against the finest warriors of their tribe, even with her magic, after all?

She could do a lot. Two here and there added up. Opal did not let up. The Iron Bitch of the Ninth Legion never, ever let up. She harassed them until night fell and then afterwards. None saw her directly. They only ever saw a flash, or a shadow, and then somepony was dead. Perhaps there are others, grumbled the warband. This lone scout is not alone, they decided.

And she fed on their growing fear. For there was fear there. It was not the numbers of the slain that frightened them, for she had barely put a dent in their number. What terrified them was her relentless assault. She was impossible, godlike, apparently without needs or whim. Such single-minded rage was not for mortal ponykind, and they were realizing this.

And then she emerged from the dark woods like a ghost. No, like a revenant, a Fury from the lowest realms of Tartarus come to drag them down into the dark where there were no campfires or stars. Her magic seared them, and her hoofblades gutted them. Nopony knew how many fell at her assault, but they all knew that merely the sight of her in the firelight was enough. Just one look at her face in the height of fury was enough.

The doctor in front of her was seeing just the tiniest fraction of this. Or, to be more correct, he would have had a good look, had he not been dodging a potted plant.

“Ma’am! Gener—Uh, Legate, please! You need to calm down.”

“I will not! I will not be calm in the presence of such gross, primitive incompetence!” she roared at the cowering unicorn. Her horn glowed weakly. It fizzed, almost giving out. Yet she held on.

“At least stop using magic, Legate. Your horn…”

“You know nothing of what I am capable of! You barely know how to do this one task assigned you!”

“It’s right here. I can show you in the report. Barring a miracle—”

“Is there no magic in this land? Are there are no healers? By the Stars, all of them, in my time you would have been flogged or removed from this place as a charlatan! Such things can be fixed with magic.”

“If it was just… It’s the wild magic, Legate. From the blast.”

Opal’s magic gave out. The vase slammed to the floor and shattered. The doctor backed away, looking down at the puddle and the forlorn flowers.

“I will speak,” she said, her voice shaking slightly, “to the Master Surgeon.”

The young unicorn seemed about to ask her who that was, but she locked eyes with him, and he fled.

As soon as he had left the room, she slumped back against the pillow.

How many days? Two, so they told her. Where? The palace, a room prepared for her on the orders of the Consort himself, to be kept well-lit and warm and clean. What a strange world she had come to, really. This place? This was a room for… nobles. Fat merchants with their shifting eyes and fatter purses. Somepony else. This was not a room for the Iron Bitch. It wasn’t a room for Opal, born on a farm, either.

It was a strange cream color. The bed was magnificent. How soft! Even the light that came through the window was soft. It was alien to her.

When she arrived back from the frontier with a whole list of wounds, the Emperor—her Lord, her blessed one—had bid her to sit before him. There had been no one else there. She remembered it well.

“Come. Sit at my hooves, and tell me of the southern lands,” she cooed softly to herself. And she had. She had done so with starstruck eyes. Her body had sung with delight that could not be found in battle, and she was like a maiden next to him. She remembered it as if it had happened yesterday. He had been so very pleased with her report.

And she had accompanied him until he retired for the night, at his heels like a loyal hound, and then back to her cell in the officer’s barracks, where she was content. That was the way a soldier was treated. Her walls had been bare. There were no windows. Windows were a tactical liability. Flowers were stupid. Leaving them for ponies clearly not in the mood to enjoy them was stupid, anyhow. She supposed flowers themselves weren’t that bad.

Here you are, she thought and stared at the curtained window where the afternoon shone through. Here you are. Out of time. Outside of time. Broken! Not broken. You could be fixed! But they cannot do it. I’m sure they could, before. I’m sure of it.

Did she really know? If she were honest, she had no idea. Medicine was not her specialty. She knew much of rending but not much of mending. But it was easier to blame the loss of knowledge.

What things they forgot! And the strangest things they still remember. They had forgotten all of her victories. Every single one. Until the Empire had come out of its long sleep, every trace of Opal had been wiped from the face of the earth. They remembered her Lord, her Master, as she knew that the ages would… except only a few knew. And they thought him defeated. And they thought him a monster. The vilest of animals, the worst of ponies.

Hadn’t she thought that in the end?

The end was hazy. She remembered the crying of the sentries—whose? And what did they cry about? She remembered other things. Soldiers in the streets. Flags borne up over and around the piles of the dead. Fire. She remembered the morning after some great catastrophe. Magic. She remembered a tent, and she remembered lying on her cot in it, waiting on something. She remembered being so… so very angry. So very lost. Sad.

A little of that sadness drifted down from the clouds she projected in her mind’s eye and touched her. Remembered sadness is not sharp, but it is painful, and she closed her eyes.

She would remember more. When she had been freed, when they had all reappeared, nopony had remembered anything at all. They were nameless things with no memory, stumbling about with bleary eyes like foals learning to walk, speaking sometimes, but usually not. She had wandered. But eventually, she had walked the walls of the legionary compound—of the Ninth Legion, in fact. This was her place. She had known that even when her name was gone.

There were hoofsteps. She stiffened and then relaxed. It would be more functionaries to do whatever it is they did. She would not rage. She would show these primitives the dignity of the Empire, by the Stars, or be burnt.

Whoever it was, they were taking their time. She supposed she was not the only wounded pony. She was, after all, just a soldier. She had always been just a soldier. Had she not told her Lord this?

He isn’t mine. He isn’t anyone’s but his own. He was never… He is not as I feel, she thought and shivered. Would those orderlies hurry up? She hated to be alone. She hated thinking.

“Do your thoughts trouble you, my Legate?”

Opal jumped. Her eyes sprang open, and in a panic, she turned over and tried to rise.

“My Lor—Empress, I am sorry. I did not know it was you! I—”

Cadance raised her hoof. “Be at ease, Legate Opal. Do not rise for me.”

“But it is…”

“An extenuating circumstance, I think,” the Empress of the North said.

Opal lay back against the pillow heavily. She let go of a breath.

Cadance looked as frail as Opal. In fact, she looked frailer. Worse than one who had bled in the streets. Opal had seen the tired eyes and emaciated form before, three months ago, but there were whispers that Empress Cadance had gotten worse.

“My Lady, forgive me, but may I speak?”

Cadance looked at her as if she were a curiosity. Opal wanted to squirm. “Of course you may speak, Opal.”

There was no boundary. The Empress used simply her name. Her Lord had done that so few times. She had died in ecstasy. She had gazed in his eyes and known—

“Empress, you look unwell. Why have you come to me? Your wellbeing is far more important than a tour of the soldiery. To have the Crystal Throne injured on my account would be unbearable, your Grace.”

Cadance smiled at her. It was not Sombra’s smile.

“I am well enough for walking. More or less. There are alicorns and alicorns, as my mother told me, and while I am no mover of celestial bodies and mountains, I am still my mother’s child. I heal very fast. Though…” she sighed. “To tell you the truth, I am rather tired.”

“Your Highness…”

“No, it’s fine. Seriously. I’ll be fine. I’ll be taking a rather long nap when I get back to my chambers. Maybe all day! Shining is being very insistent that I stay in bed.”

The Empress giggled. Opal decided that she had left earth behind and had entered into the land of impossible things. The One Who Sat Upon the Crystal Throne did not giggle. The Emperor of the North did not giggle.

Cadance crossed the floor and sat by her bedside, surprisingly close. Opal was completely lost. This was her Empress. This pony was all but holy. This pony was the pinnacle at which every other eye must be pointed, the highest peak of the Empire. This was not what an Emperor did.

“I wanted to see you,” Cadance continued. “I was on my way here anyhow, and there was a rather flustered doctor in the hallways talking about you, so I figured I was right on time.”

“He… His medicine is paltry,” she managed.

“He’s actually very good. Highly respected, even. I remember him from the dossiers that Cicero gave us. You know, he was going to hire the whole staff without even telling me? But I wanted to know.”

“Why?” Opal blurted out and then drew back. Slightly. She did not know if the Empress saw.

“Well, they are going to be living and working under my roof. The least I can do is know who they are. My mother had coffee with the Head Butler every morning. He never got used to it; he was always scandalized! For years and years. I wonder if he just kept up appearances.”

Opal was appalled.

“Aunt Celestia teased the staff sometimes. Little pranks, little jokes. The new hooves were always so intimidated! Aunt Luna is a bit more stiff with the staff, or at least she was when I left to come here. I do hope she’s softened a bit. But I wanted to be like my aunt. The royal palace in Canterlot is such a lovely place, so welcoming and warm, perfect for a warm and welcoming land. My palace is not quite as warm or welcoming. You may speak freely, you know,” she added, and Opal looked down. “The world has moved on a bit. I would like for you to speak to me freely. I am your liege, but you are a pony as I am. You may respect me best by allowing me your company now. If that helps.”

“The Crystal Palace has always been a place of strength and glory, your Grace. It was meant that the primitives would come here, and before they had reached the receiving chamber, they would already know our power and our might. How far our reach stretched… How swiftly our hoof descended. That we were merciless and steadfast.”

“It was a very different time. Are you proud of those things? I ask honestly.”

Opal looked into her eyes. Was this some sort of test? Was this what her purpose was? Sombra had laid tests for his officers on occasion. He had asked questions. What did so-and-so think of his plans to beat the Triballi into submission? Take from them tribute and slaves? Ah, yes, of course my plan is strategically sound, but should we? The answer was always, always yes.

“I am.”

“Why?”

Opal blinked. “To be strong is… to be strong. It is important, your Grace, for an empire to show that it can wield the power that an empire ought to. Empires are not maintained by timidity. Nations must be held by force of arms and vigilance at the very least and by aggression when the need arises. Others must be kept at arm’s length or beneath one’s hooves.”

Cadance frowned. “The world… the world has moved on so much from the past.”

“I know that I am a relic,” Opal said. She spat it and then froze.

“You are hardly a relic,” Cadance said and smiled at her. “You are a pony, silly. My pony, as you all are. My Legate. I am not saying it is bad… I am simply lost, Opal. More and more I realize that I know so little. I mean, I have the old annals. I can look at dates and events. I know all about your campaigns, actually. I have studied them.”

“My…” Opal coughed. “The history of the Empire is vast and impressive, my Lady.”

“Yes, it is. It is very long, as long as Henosis.”

Opal hummed. “I know of that land. I was there once, accompanying my Lor… Lord Sombra.”

Cadance hesitated. “It was my home. My mother was Queen.”

“Queen Iridia. It was a few years…” She faltered. “She was magnificent. I remember her vividly.”

“She is not much changed,” Cadance said with a smile. “I wonder if she would remember you. I wonder a lot of things, actually. Like how Henosis is weathering this darkness. I have not been back home in a very, very long time. I doubt I will have a chance to return for longer still. At least the climate is still the same for you! I felt like I was on the verge of heatstroke all the time my first year in Canterlot.”

Opal shook her head. “No, it is far colder. Winter was always harsh, but when I was a child, it was never as harsh as this time’s winters are.”

“It is the same land, though. And the same city. But a different empire. How are you feeling?”

“Me?” Opal sighed. “My Lady, I am really of little consequence.”

“Liar. You know that the city is heavily in your debt. I personally am in your debt. Your stand may have helped my husband survive. And you fought alongside him, more or less. You kept my little ponies safe. I owe you a great deal.”

Opal looked down at her legs. “I am only a soldier.”

“You are also a pony. How are you feeling?”

Opal was silent for a moment. A long moment. She wished to say nothing. She wanted to say that she was fine, that she was feeling a little more alive, a little less half-dead and beaten by Mitou fists. She wasn’t having nightmares or struggling to breathe. She was alive, and therefore, she was fine.

“I feel useless. I am useless,” she said instead. “Your Grace, why did you come if you heard what that healer said? Did you not know? Here, I will show you.”

She tore the sheets off of her bed and let Cadance see the ruined legs. Her body was a mass of scars. Most of them were old. Some were new. Thirty years on the march or in the thick of fiercest battles, and this was what was left. All of the dross had been done away with, and what remained was strength. Until now. Because half of her was completely useless.

“Your… legs?” Cadance asked softly.

“They tell me that they cannot fix anything. Maybe, maybe, maybe—they overuse that word in this time. Maybe if I had not been washed over in wild magic. Maybe if the blow had been a bit to the left. Maybe. But it is not maybe. It is. I am done. I am broken and hollowed out, Empress Cadance. The Ninth Legion has no commander.” She huffed. “Or, should I say that, my Lady, I have no legion.”

“There are survivors,” Cadance said carefully. It sounded as if she said it with the kind of delicacy one employed when stepping between napping dragons. “The Legion is not up for a fight, but there are plenty of survivors.”

“A soldier who can fight is still a soldier and can be a thing of use. How many are there?”

“Few,” Cadance admitted. “But the survival rate itself is surprisingly high!” she added. “Many came back to us in ones and twos. We found several holed up in homes in the aftermath. They fought on even when there was no hope, Legate. Your leadership at work, I think.”

Opal looked away. “It is the honor of the Ninth to back down before nothing, my Lady.”

“That legacy has not died—even if the world moved on. You are… you are not useless, Opal. You are not useless at all. You have a mind. You can speak; you can breathe—you can live. I know you can. You still have the spark of life that makes you, well, you. I know you do.”

Opal grimaced. “My Lady, these legs will not bear me to any battlefield.”

“And the Empire is not currently at war with our neighbors. Seeing as how I am related to the royalty of both of them, and on top of that we have a tripartite alliance, I doubt we will be in a war again for a very long time.”

“Then even whole, I am a relic out of use.”

“But the guard is still the hoof of the law. And they need your fire. They need Opal, the hero of the Ninth Legion, and I think you need them. Legate, you are the commander of the Legion who bore the greatest burden in the defense of the capitol. Your name lives forever. Do not be so quick to lie here and be defeated, not in the wake of your greatest victory.”

Opal was quiet.

Cadance was also quiet.

“My greatest victory was not on a battlefield,” Opal said at last. “I had beaten the Triballi to a miserable heaving pulp. I had brought back slaves who bore a king’s ransom to pay back the damages they had inflicted in their petulant raiding tenfold times. I came to the Palace after my triumph. After my fourth triumph,” she said, and for a moment, she smiled. “The parade was magnificent. The ponies did not always cheer, but that day, they did. If I have sinned in my Lord’s name, I did not break the law of the things in that campaign. There would be no more murdering of innocent farmers in the night, and the ponies in the streets knew this, and they cheered me, and I roared at them in joy, my hooves… high in the air.”

She raised her forelegs, mimicking the motion, smiling all the while.

“And I came to the palace to make my report, and my Lord stopped me. He told his ministers to leave, and he smiled at me. He told me to sit at his side, at his hoof, and tell him all that I had to say. I was ecstatic. Enraptured.” Opal’s breathing was ragged. “I was a fool. I was so blind. I told him, and he laughed at the enemy’s folly and hummed with delight at my own strength, and he praised me! He said that I had become his greatest general! No higher honor, no higher feeling could I be blessed with at that moment.

“That was my finest moment. Even now. Even after… everything.”

“Do you remember what happened?” Cadance asked.

“No,” she said. “I will remember one day. I do not want to remember.”

“But you should. Those events are a part of you, Legate.”

“Then a part of me is meant for despair, Empress,” she spat. Her sense of decorum had left her. It had died like any other wounded thing might, thrown to the side when the going got rougher.

“If you don’t know who you are… if you don’t be who you are, you’ll never change who you are,” Cadance said. “Legate, you cannot hold on to everything. You must continue.”

She thought of carrying her wounded centurion in the snow as a mere infantrypony. “I have been good at that. In the past.”

“Do it now. I can’t tell you to feel better about… about this.”

“I won’t. I cannot. I am both unable and unwilling to feel remotely better, your Grace. I am filled with bitterness.”

“My… the heart’s wild magic…”

“It does not matter how. I failed to keep the Mitou out, and if the solution took my hopes of healing from me, then the world is even and the world is just,” Opal said. She felt so tired. She closed her eyes and wiped her mane from her brow. “If it did not, if I would not have recovered regardless, then I have been paid in kind for a half-failure, and the world is just and the world is even. Without end, amen, ‘whatever,’ as my insolent recruits say to one another,” she said.

“Legate Opal…”

“I am sorry, your Highness. I am very sorry.”

Cadance sighed. “I am sorry as well. If I come again, will you receive me? I think it is time we both had our rest.”

Opal spoke quickly. “I must see you.”

“But if you can choose, which you can, will you see me?”

“Yes.”

“Then I will come again.” Cadance stood and shook herself. Opal watched her do so with one half-opened eye. Cadance had suffered so greatly. She had come, and Opal could not go anywhere herself. “I will not tell you to be well. I will wish you farewell, regardless, however,” Cadance said.

Opal tried to approximate a bow and failed miserably. It did not help that she could feel very little past her waist. “Thank you for seeing me, your Grace.”

Cadance smiled. She left.

Opal lay back in her bed and stared at the ceiling. When she was alone, truly alone, she thought that, just for a moment, she could feel His touch on her inner thigh. He had admired her strength. Her power. He had admired those legs. Once.

LUNA

Luna found herself adrift. Outclassed.

She should not feel this way. There was much to do and little time to do it. The raiders must be dealt with. The new arrivals, whatever or whoever they were. Insurrection within and without. Reports of Griffons wandering nearer and nearer the city. Spike’s sojourn.

She had wanted to deny his request. Against all reason, she had wanted to bury her head in the sand. It had come into her mind to send another, some flighty pegasus or sturdy guardspony, perhaps even her nightshades, but she knew Spike was her best chance of knowledge.

Not that knowledge was always what she desired.

Young mare, young mare, she thought. Your legs are too short. Who had said that? Someone a long time ago, perhaps. An alicorn’s head was full of strange tidbits like that. They could say things and sing things that had never been said or sung in living memory, their own or others. She had always wondered where these things came from. Celestia had always thought the Song was giving them these things one at a time, but Luna did not like to think about the Song, and so she had settled on the advanced imagination of a near-immortal.

She stared down at her scattered papers.

There was much to do. Spike was gone. He had left in the night, out through one of the secret entrances. Luna was glad for Celestia’s notes.

Celestia’s notes. They had more than just a helpful reminder to ask the captain of the Solar Guard about floor plans and passages. All sorts of morsels had been buried inside. She had glimpsed only the beginnings of that treasure… and not gone a single step beyond the threshold. All that she had brought out from her sister’s chambers was in the corner, in a disorganized heap inside of a box which had seen better days.

Focus.

Her first task must be to contact Rarity in the dreaming. First? Well, soon. What time was it? Late. Late enough for her to be asleep, obviously. What else? Reports from the walls and scouts. A few petitions. A letter from the patriarch of House Epona, which was probably well-intentioned but ultimately useless.

She knew he was out there. Spike, that was. He had been in here…. hours ago. How many? Several. She wasn’t sure. If she had ever been sure, it certainly eluded her now. They had looked over the news from the outside together, and it had been grim. Of course it had. It always was.

But then she had found the report on Ponyville, and though he was not a pony, she could all but see his ears perk up. Not that he had ears to perk up. She was throwing herself off on purpose now, wasn’t she? But he had noticed. He’d asked to read the whole thing, back and front, three times at least. Luna had known he would want to see his old home before he had even asked.

She shouldn’t have let him go.

It really was not an opportune time. His team was ready to move. They would go on without him, and she was unsure of success. Of course, they could not really be traced to her. Only their word could hurt the throne, and…

Well, and nothing. They would give her away, or they would not. She thought they would not. She had placed no holds or bans upon them, no geas. How odd. This time was strange, full of ponies with no reservations and few restraints, and here she was, becoming one of them. If they gave her up, perhaps it would be for the best. She would be disgraced. As she should be, perhaps.

What would Twilight Sparkle do?

Organize, probably. So she stood, shook her head ruefully, and retrieved the box with her magic. It was time to get reading. Spike would be back from his reconnaissance in a day or so. The Assembly would not meet until next week, and Page Turner was in her drawing room, writing her responses to any correspondence and handling any reports and such that needed her attention. She needed to read. She needed to know if her suspicions were correct, but above all… she needed an answer. She was outflanked and not after much struggle. Any disgrace she suffered under would be rather deserved, for a warrior fallen this low.

As to be barred from the assembly of the houses. Honestly. She ground her teeth. She had wished for her old warhammer for the entire afternoon. Killing had not brought her joy, true, but crushing things with the hammer had. Rocks, trees, fruit, the occasional broken cart—a much younger Luna had learned to channel her disgust into other avenues.

Luna looked into the box, sighed, and began to read. If nothing else, she could perhaps find the decree. She knew it would be somewhere. Rarity would want to see it, and Luna needed to memorize what it looked like before that meeting.

It was going to be hard to convince her, Luna knew. It was an awful lot of responsibility. And the other parts, the working out of Luna’s plan, would be taxing upon her sister, Sweetie Belle. But… it was really her only option.

An hour passed. Luna found nothing. But she would. She would. Celestia had kept this. She knew Celestia had kept the original draft, and the royal seal was upon that draft, and no scowling son of House Rowan-Oak could scoff at Celestia’s seal. Though they would scoff at mine! She growled and wished to smash something.

But at last, she found it. She smiled and stood.

“Page Turner?” she called. “Are you awake?”

“Always,” came the voice of her faithful aide.

“I think I have the answer to the question I asked you the other day.”

Page Turner appeared in the doorway of her study.

“The Decree? The one after the war?”

“Yes,” she said. “Could you find where one Sweetie Belle of Ponyville is staying? I shall be paying her a visit soon.” She smiled down at the decree. “We have much to talk about. Soon."

Author's Note:

Young man—
Young man—
Your arm's too short to box with God.

(James Weldon Johnson)

Comments

[q97randomguy]

Legate Opal is one messed-up pony. I feel kinda sorry for her.

[Admiral Q Ponyform]

6005005 take alot of power to keep Luna from overcoming it.

[Commander Darklight]

oh kay this story is starting to shift how everypony sounds in my head when read them

[ponygrad]

Very quickly becoming my favorite story overall. Only this story and the descendant's work can be recommended to anyone without reservation.

I love your take on sombra. We all know who would suffer under his rule, but who would thrive under him is a horse of a different color. And in this world it had to be more than a hangman or henchman

[StormyVenture]

6004618
There is much to be sorry for I suppose, but I wouldn't call her messed up. Personally I'm curious about the author's version of history. I doubt Sombra was, from the start, the implied horrible pony as the show suggests. That Cadence's mother, Iridia, would allow him to visit suggests that there is more to the story.

[Ice Star]

Ie Storm did not know.

Ice.

And yay more Opal~!

[Silentwoodfire]

Young man—
Young man—
Your arm's too short to box with God.

(James Weldon Johnson)

I uh.. I don't think they met Lil' Mac...