> Locking up the Sun
>  by RabidPeep
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

> Manehattan Under Fire: Part 1
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

    Warchest lay slumped on the wall, eyes listed as his hoof teased a bit against the floor. The cool air blew through his mane, yet not a sound met his ear. The patterned sky had, unfortunately, remained unchanged for hours. The same could be said for the fire seen at the distant fort, regular and maintained as the good guards ought to. He fought a yawn in his throat, trying to maintain a professional stature. Then again, the other two pegasi in the tower enclosure were about as close to the floor as he was.
He stirred quickly and suddenly, eyes darting upward as a shadow draped across a star’s light. The other two rose to attention, a frantic search in their eyes for the point of interest. But Warchest’s excitement just as quickly left him—it was nothing more than a bird taking roost in a nearby tree. His tension left all at once, allowing him to slump even lower until his chest reached the cobblestone. Well, that hope had been dashed. The pair slunk down as well, one of them even losing the battle against yawning.
“You’d think there would be more going on up here, it’s why we sign up isn’t it?” said the yawning purple pegasus, “It’s why I’m up here anyways, I don’t know about you two.”
The other pegasus, younger, stirred at the noise for a moment. “I’m up here because the rate is twice as good as road patrol. I wish it wasn’t so boring though. Nothing ever happens.”
Warchest rose taller, the voices tickling his ears and managing to wake his mind. It was something after all. “We’re here to watch the fire, not wish for danger.”  But even as he said it, that same word, danger, crawled over his brain like a rising tide. He couldn’t lie to himself; the thrill of the fight was all he longed for these short summer nights. The feeling of sinking cleat into flesh and even feeling claws return the sentiment—the very thought sent chills down Warchest’s spine. Instinctively, his eyes flared open for a moment, searching around in almost a frantic manner for something to see, something that could pose any manner of fight. A bandit, a wolf, an angry housecat would do, just anything!
Warchest was pacing now, and didn’t even realize it until the captain worked his way up the rickety wooden stairs. The old stallion’s eyes hung low as anyone else’s, but the instant he passed through that doorway was as though it were a portal for discipline. Eyes alert, stance bold, and head held high—his was the face of a pegasus who had seen it all. Warchest chuckled inwardly; shows of force were often lies around the wall, but any excitement was enough at this point.
“Don’t get up on my account, boys. Please, continue to lay around on the job!” the captain’s voice rang with an incredulous tone.
The purple pegasus snapped to his hooves and brought a hoof to his brow. The younger pegasus seemed to be still figuring out what was going on before his eyes flashed open and he popped up to his hooves as well. His salute was slow, and he nearly poked his own eye. The wince in his ribs clearly announced the tenderness of the action.
Warchest straightened his spine and deliberately raised his hoof to his brow. The captain turned to each pegasus in turn before reaching Warchest and clamping his jaw. The cheeks on the old grey stallion rose and his eyes seemed to carefully watch Warchest’s own.
“When are you going to get that silly scar taken care of? You’ve had it for as long as I’ve known you. It takes just a few minutes, and it’d make you look far more presentable to the regular ponies.” The old stallion’s words were almost cruel.
“I like it, sir. I earned it, and I don’t see why I have to get rid of it.” Warchest’s line fell with the same flat monotone as always. He recounted it perhaps twice a week, defending his mark. In a way, he’d sooner trade his cutie mark than his scar. A cutie mark means you know what to do in life. A scar means you know how to hold on to that same life. He couldn’t abandon it.
“You don’t have to, you sad wing in the mud. I’m just making jokes.” The captain turned to the purple pegasus before letting his breath fall out of his chest lazily. “Private May Showers, do you know what your job is besides sleeping while you collect your bits each week?”
The purple pegasus fluttered his wings and took a half-step back. “S-sir?! I’m here to watch the eastern fort’s fire in the evening, and translate any messages they send. But the fire hasn’t changed in months!”  His excuse came quickly, his defenses low and unprepared for the captains accusation. The captain then turned to the youngest pegasus in the room, who rubbed at his brow.
“Sir, my job is to relay the message across the wall, sir!” he shouted proudly, having had time to prepare himself. Despite this, the silver pegasus couldn’t keep his knees steady, and his wings kept twitching with each nervous breath.
“Private Silverwing, you don’t even fly straight half the time, maybe you ought to spend more time practicing during hours instead of chatting up the mares at the fence?” It seemed the captain kept a repository of bitter sentiments reserved for each of his privates. He dispensed them with impunity, often worse than this particular night’s choices.
But as the captain turned, Warchest found his eyes drifting to follow the slightest bit of motion that passed through his peripheral vision. That same bird had taken off with a trio of comrades, and a small snake coiled near the base of the tree. A serpent…Warchest’s chin dropped yet again. The captain’s words fell on distracted ears, until the stamp of a hoof jerked Warchest back to his place in the tower.
“Are you listening to me, Private Warchest?!”  The face of his superior now filled his entire field of vision.
“Sir, I am to watch for any signs of danger while my squad does their job. If something needs to be fought, I fight it. So excuse me if I’m trying to keep an eye out while you’re up here distracting me,” Warchest stated. The outcry made the purple and silver pegasi flinch backwards.
The captain’s face pulled back slightly, and those old sharp eyes turned to the tree, following it to the base. “You’re worried about snakes, kid? Are you so bored that you’re reliving schoolyard fantasies of colt against the very beasts of nature? We’ve got zebras and real monsters out there who want to destroy what we have. Keep your eyes peeled for the bigger things. If I want a little snake dead, then I’ll send Private Silverwing to hit it with a slipper.” Silverwing’s went rosy at the slight.
The captain chuckled as he turned to the young stallion. “Of course, I’d still put my bits on the snake. I don’t even think I’ve seen you take care of a spider.”
The red rose higher on the pegasus’s face, and he lowered his head forward about to cry out, but that cry never came, in its place were carefully chosen words.
“It was a really big spider, sir,” was all that the poor embarrassed pony could offer as defense, a smile breaking across his muzzle. The rest of the tower enclosure erupted into a deep laughter, and their spirits seemed to raise from the floor to at least eye level now. Warchest’s smile seemed proper now, it had been too long since last they felt that sense of brotherhood. Brotherhood kept a group together, and as May Showers snuck up behind Silverwing and tackled him to the cobblestone, Warchest could easily remember his academy days long ago. Fond memories indeed.
But that laughter fell to silence as swift as a toppled flagpole. The captain was staring intently to the east, causing May Showers to gasp before scurrying around the room for the bookshelf at the back and quickly grabbing at a white tome.
Silverwing stood from his whinnying laugh and turned to the frantic pegasi. His eyes darted back and forth, as if looking for some nearby assassin that had driven a dagger into the mood.
“Captain Rainstorm, what’s going on?” came the pathetic squeak of the concerned pony.  His knees wobbled once more, wingtips shivering.
“Fort Acorn’s fire is flickering. There’s a message you fool. Make sure to copy down what Private May Showers tells you to. Private Warchest, keep your eyes open and your wings light. Private May Showers, I need that message NOW!” he barked at the trio of privates. It wasn’t that the moment had been shattered, it wasn’t that danger might have arrived—it was the stiffness in the captain’s neck where Warchest’s eyes fell. Tension like that meant adrenaline and fear; Warchest knew it well.
“Ok, uh, wait for it repeat—ok, first letter is ‘S’—second letter is ‘H’—‘A’…they’re just going too fast! Slow down a bit guys, I can’t keep up!” He flung through the book to a bookmarked page. Warchest glanced over the reading pony’s shoulder and then back at the fire. He squinted to make out the symbols, running them through his memory one by one.
“The first word is ‘shadow’, Silverwing,” Warchest spoke up.
The captain began stamping his hoof to the rhythm of the flashing fire. Warchest saw May Showers’ ears perk up and a smile cross his face. He picked up on what was being done to help him. Warchest’s eyes widened a bit with surprise as he looked back at the stoic captain.  That stallion was clever after all, but what was the message?
“The next two words are ‘fell’ and ‘on’. Silverwing, are you getting all this?” May Showers announced.  The green eyes of the purple pony were racing across the page, a race against the patterned hoofbeats. Warchest darted over to the wall and threw his eyes across the scenery of the distant fort.
The trees and fort itself remained like an oil painting held up to a candle with a pinhole at the top of the fort. Completely still, with shadows falling against darker shadows, but nothing out of the ordinary.  He about-faced, seeing the captain’s back hoof tapping regularly and the reading private still calling out the words. But Silverwing was frantically splaying his face across four pages of parchment. An inked pen was held tightly between fiercely clenched teeth, and his orange eyes stared a hole in the page.
Warchest couldn’t help smiling lightly at the sight—the newest recruit couldn’t have been expected to be very prepared for this night having never done any of this outside of training. But there he was, keeping up with writing four letters at once, a word or phrase at a time. Warchest quickly moved to the rack besides the bookshelf and reached for the special saddlebag, with metal clasps for securing scrolls and bearing the royal crest of the Platinum family on each side.  He took it and cantered over to the scrawling Silverwing, trying his best to keep his hoofsteps soft as he crept around the busy writer. The saddlebag dropped over the silver pony’s flank, and the straps were pulled tight before they met the buckle of the belt.
Silverwing’s chest tightened in surprise, but his focus never left the parchment. He rose his head no more than two inches from the paper, occasionally fighting the semblance of a cough. The scribbling quickly concluded the final line before he finally spat the pen into the partner ink well.
“So, I’ve got whole thing, May Showers, it reads: ‘Shadows fell on the farms. The buildings collapsed. Coming this way.’ Is that right?” he cried out with that same tight squeak in this throat as before. Warchest hadn’t been paying attention to the message as he’d helped his partner into the saddlebag. Hearing it now in full made his blood run cold. But as it dawned on him that this might be the break he’d been anticipating, a flash of heat in his spirit warmed his blood almost to a boil in response.
Warchest couldn’t fight the feeling any longer; a grin broke and a big toothy smile took hold. Eyes narrow, brow furrowed, and teeth wide, his head lowered to read the letter and confirm what his ears had told him. That rushing feeling overcame him, knocking calm and ease clear out of his brain. Grinding his horseshoe against the stone, he could only fight himself enough to do one thing.
He could keep his giddy laughter under his breath.


    Lionheart’s eyes listed low as the bucket she was carrying fell from her mouth to the dirt pathway before her. The barrel ahead of her almost radiated a toxic smell, curling her nose upwards and coaxing a gag from her throat. Trash tended to run afoul when left to rot as intended. Shaking her head vigorously, she slammed a hoof on the pedal to her right, causing the whole contraption to begin springing to life.
    The barrel was perhaps as wide enough for her to comfortably stand in, but the top of wooden mechanism was nearly as tall as the roof of her home. The sickly slurping noises of the clockwork machine churned the amber earth pony’s stomach almost as violently as the action inside the barrel. Eyes watering as the stink grew from pinpricks to daggers, she shifted the bucket into position under a spout on the other end of the mechanism.
    The spout gushed at first with water, but then as silt and pebbles fell into the bucket, the prize came too. Worms, dozens of writing healthy worms were being funneled out of the compost barrel and into the bucket. Measured in sheer lunch-losing potential, the moment seemed to last as long as a bitter winter, but after a half minute, Lionheart let up on the pedal to halt the water. The flow of silt and worms ended shortly after, filling the bucket about halfway. Teeth firmly grabbed the swinging metal handle before hooves galloped around the building to a far more pleasant spot. 
Lionheart set down the bucket and forced her nose into a nearby patch of flowers. Her head darted back out almost as quickly with a nose full of pollen and eyes going crossed.
“Ahhh-CHOO!” The leaves shook from the thunderous blast. She almost laughed at herself for most likely waking everyone up.
Thankfully, the bucket hadn’t tipped over, as losing the collected creatures would mean another trip back to the compost heap. The fate that awaited the bucket’s helpless contents might have seemed cruel to some ponies, but Lionheart never doubted that life depends on life to survive.
She certainly had not the stomach for the meal herself, but her job demanded such collection. She continued to trot around her home calmly, reaching the front door without so much as a single worm escaping fate. Sometimes destiny can be so cruel, but sacrifices needed to be made. After all, as she swung open that front door of her home, a chorus of screeches met her with anticipation for the fruits of her effort.
In the far corner, in a nest larger than most beds, a pair of downy baby birds had perked up at the sight of her, now screeching and squawking relentlessly. The nest was so large because even now the baby birds rivaled Lionheart’s size. As an array of animals was roused from an attempted sleep, Lionheart gently set the bucket to the side. Trotting up to the bird pair, the pony met the pair’s glassy black eyes with her own stern expression. They each let out a cheep of distress and quieted slightly, Lionheart’s stance forward and assertive. The rest of the inhabitants of the room began to lay their heads back to their respective beddings. Turning slowly, not fast enough to alarm anything in the room, Lionheart took stock of the animals in various states of illness and damage.
The family of baby rabbits had overcome their cold well, so they could be sent home soon. The hawk with a broken wing still needed to stop picking at the feathers that fell out, only making the healing process take even longer than the two month stay needed to be. Her eyes fell over a poor dog that had its front legs crushed by a cart wheel; the splints were set regularly, and the bandages changed just as often. The poor girl had the saddest eyes in the room; Lionheart’s chest swelled with sympathetic pain.
But she couldn’t go about feeling pain for the worms she was bringing indoors.  They were simple enough that they didn’t know pain on any real level, and their job of turning rot into flesh was incredibly valuable. Their payment for daily fresh trash and constant moisture was with flesh and blood, well, what little blood a worm had. It was a mercy for Lionheart as she began to pour the small creatures into the food bowl for the pair of oversized avians. If worms bled more, she might have had more sympathy for the animals, though it wouldn’t stop her actions. Ponies didn’t eat meat, but some animals did, and Lionheart had no intent in learning to butcher meat. So it was a compromise among all parties: the worms got shelter and a home, the predators got meat, and Lionheart never had to take a blade to flesh.
For all her internal musing on the ethics of her deeds, the avians cared little. “You guys just eat those worms right up, don’t you? Somepony would get the idea that I never fed you if they saw the way you eat.” Her words were teasing, not that the baby birds paid her any mind as they both fought for the same bowl of worms. Lionheart’s ears picked up every powerful peck, every abrasive scrape, and the rare threatening screech. They would be babies for only a little longer; after that, Lionheart knew the power of these creatures. A roc wouldn’t stop at worms, nor even a small rabbit. A year older and she’d have to rely on her wits to keep from becoming dinner herself.
But they did share, though when one would get a beak-full of worms and go to swallow, the other would take advantage of the moment and snap its head down like a hammer. The bowl was iron now, as a few bowls ago she’d learned that even the sturdiest oak couldn’t take the abuse. In less time than it took to get the food in the first place, the birds screeched in triumphant finish.
The poor hurt dog tried to cover her ears from the blast of noise, but the splints kept her from gaining any reasonable measure of success. Lionheart’s home kept perhaps twenty animals at any given point in time, but nights were usually her resting time. Ever since she took on caring for the pair of hatchlings, her own bed got to remain neat, clean, and unused for longer and longer.
The amber pony chuckled wearily, her side aching slightly from the earlier events. Looking over at the sleeping baby rabbits, she smiled softly. So still and adorable now, though it was any wonder she caught them earlier to give them their medication. Their coughs had abated nicely, and their snoring was soft as a whisper. The squawking had not disturbed them in the least, lest of all their tiny button noses. She had warmed up to them after all, since they weren’t usually her sort of duties, but her normal work had been slow as of late.
Her eyes worked around the room, from bunnies to hawk to hound. Out of the eight animals she surveyed, only a single pair of eyes looked back. The dog had attempted to get comfortable once more, shifting her weight back and forth in the soft bedding. It kept her smile in place to know that they were all recovering well, but kept it small to see the dog’s residual suffering.
She turned to the birds once more, those four eyes looking back at her for direction. They had to know she wasn’t their mother, but they still mirrored her motions when she paid them mind. Reaching over with a deliberate action, she flipped the switch for the lamp nearby. The light fled the room, leaving in its place the familiar darkness of the night.
The chicks nestled close together, one resting a head atop the other’s. Lionheart’s heart warmed at the dimly illuminated sight. With the full moon out, she knew to reach for the curtains and draw them together. In the near perfect darkness she gently tiptoed to her room. Feeling almost like a stranger in her own home, she retired to her calling bedroom. The still and quiet of the night beckoned her to her pillow. A command she intended to heed.

Within the wall of the Castle Valorhoof, a loud clattering could be heard. A maid’s cart had fallen to the side to quickly dodge the oncoming storm. The metal tea kettle rolled across the floor while the poor earth pony reached down quickly for it. Hardly quickly enough, as a purple hoof soon struck it with all the force it could muster. The kettle wheeled across the hall, clanging against the portrait of a very proud noble.
“HOW COULD THEY REFUSE ME?!” the hoof’s owner bellowed. The sound echoed throughout the small tower, sending a cringe into all who heard it. That scarf fluttering across the doorways confirmed the worries of the servants. It was precisely who they suspected.
The unicorn in question was Speck Valorhoof, youngest son of the Baron Valorhoof. Known for his dedication to the masterful art of making everyone pine for the comparatively soothing sound of horseshoe against slate, Speck was ranting on as his canter clattered against the stone floor.
“I am royalty, how could they refuse to send me an invitation to the party? Just because I don’t have a lick of knowledge about the merchant’s guild doesn’t mean they shouldn’t let me in! All I wanted was a peek; my father was there, why can’t I be?!” He found the dented kettle and turned his eyes back at the earth pony who was gingerly creeping behind the noble unicorn.
“This one’s dented. Take it to be replaced,” he said, striking the kettle back to her with that same venom in his voice as before. His kick went wide, and the kettle bounded across the railing and down the adjacent stairs, causing as loud a ruckus as possible.
Speck swung his head back to his front, scarf trailing behind. His loud clamor continued without even a moment’s consideration. It was his tower, he’d said it many times, he could do as he liked. Not even the poor maid looking down the stairs, eyes hunting for the misplaced kitchenware, could refuse him. He was entitled; no other of royal blood took residence in this tower.
Speck reached his door and kicked said obstacle ajar with a powerful stamp where hoofprints had worn away the fine paint to reveal a splintering wood below. If it could speak, the door would have complained of mistreatment. But that would be silly, a door speaking. Speck knew it could be replaced, just like the help, so the feelings of either were meaningless.
“Ugh! Why on earth would the guard turn me away like that? ‘Young lord, we appreciate your interest but the discussion on the matter of vendor taxes does not fall upon your shoulder.’ What a load of horse apples!” His hind leg rose and delivered the next indignity to the suffering door, slamming it shut. The resulting crash of wood on stone with a ferocious squeak of metal would raise some small joy in the hearts of the servants, at least.
None of their internal cheering would let them hear what the incredulous stallion desired to keep quiet. Tears welled up at his lower eyelid, but eyelids snapping shut would send them from him all at once.
“Dad...” he whined to no one. Not that anyone listened anyways, the endless assault of the senses that was Speck’s very presence would not allow for a sympathetic ear even in time of need. He choked back his pain, attempting to swallow it and compose himself. It would be okay; this wouldn’t be the last chance to prove himself.
His eyes flew across the room, skipping the southern half all at once. The bed to the north, covered in scrolls, scarves, blankets and pillows gave him solace. The ornamental rug reminded him of his providence, and that ever lingering portrait reminded him of his youth: his older brother and himself seated upon royal cushions, painted for Speck’s first Hearth’s Warming. Many a year had passed, and yet that painting from his youth still pained him.
His shame turned him to the south, against his better judgment to gaze upon the clean bed opposite his. It would have been dust-covered from disuse, but the help kept his room clean enough to retain the purity of the moment. That moment that left him the personal ruler of the small tower. When his brother had left to take a lordship, it left a hole in the room. A hole that couldn’t be filled.
Speck’s rage quietly left him upon his realization of the feebleness of his position.  So the young noble’s legs wobbled from exertion, the scarf swaying with his neck. To his disgust a tear had snuck past his defenses and fell to the floor. His brother gone, his mother distant, and his father embarrassed—his family just didn’t care. To earn that love, he’d have to do something great.
“And how am I to find where I belong if I can’t learn about what’s going on? So what if I’m a little loud, I deserve some respect. I’m a Valorhoof after all!” he cried out, a figurative stroke to his ego. He felt himself weak; the wobbling in his knees had grown greater. The bed’s fluffiness under all the parchment was very tempting. Fighting his listing eyes, he turned to the western window. The purple drapes framed the starry sky well, as though the night were crawling in to meet him.
With a glowing horn, he undid the high clasp and stepped against the rushing cool air. The balcony wasn’t large enough to run from one side to the other, but held the singular item of interest neatly. The telescope aimed skyward gave him his getaway.
A hoof against the side of device manipulated a dial and he pressed his face toward the eyepiece. The moon was simply too bright, and ate up the entire viewport. He winced slightly, stepping backward and glaring at the device indignantly. A moment passed, but the telescope didn’t flinch.
So there stood the threatening young noble, blessed with the greatest ego in forty miles, attempting to intimidate a set of lenses in a metal housing. A smile cracked his face at the absurdity. His chest heaved and he felt himself laughing at himself. What was the telescope to do? Plead for the very safety he had given it?
No, Speck adjusted the focus and leaned in to examine the moon with a new aperture. Not nearly so bright this time; his royal eye could handle it. But perhaps too dark…wait, that was a new mare. Had he discovered something after all? Why, if he had found something nopony else had, he’d most certainly be able to entertain at a party of scholars as their equal! A great explorer of the heavens, they’d have to respect him!
But mares on the moon did not move. They stayed still, as any shadows ought to, and it wasn’t as though anything could creep about in the shadows on the moon.  No simple cloud could move like that either, like wings beating against the light. Perhaps a moth in the telescope was giving him some small pathetic hope of greatness.
Raising his head from the lens, he could only stare upwards at the celestial expanse with pursed lips and a cocked brow. That same shadow, which was nothing more than a speck in the heavens a moment ago, was now growing nearer.  All at once, his mind went off like a cannon. That wasn’t a shadow or a moon, it was a silhouette of some massive...thing, Speck couldn’t imagine what exactly.
Eye back down to the machine, his left hoof spun the dial. In much greater detail, he could make out the shape. It had four limbs and two massive wings, and a great and powerful mane. He looked up from the telescope, at the moon, then blankly into the distance.
Wait…flying lions? That was almost as novel as new celestial geography, but it wasn’t even a remote possibility. Lions didn’t fly, they prowled.
Clearly his ignorance of the world was punishing him, so his course of action was to satisfy his curiosity. Trotting over to the abused door, he gave it yet another insulting kick to fling it open.  The groaning door squeaked loudly, causing the same maid to look up into the opening with surprise. The kettle fell from her teeth, like a ghost had stepped into the corridor.
Speck simply walked out with all the magnificence of nobility, an air of authority following his steps like a lost puppy. His low eyes turned to the maid, his normally wailing voice replaced by one with a purpose. Clearly the wisdom of the ancients resided in one who kept such a voice within his breast. He felt obligated to pass along his infinite knowledge to the stunned servant.
“You dropped that.”