Act I: Chapter I
For it is I who am acquaintance: and lack of acquaintance.
It is I who am reticence: and frankness.
I am shameless: I am ashamed.
I am strong: and I am afraid.
It is I who am war: and peace.
The Thunder – Perfect Intellect
Act I: The Law Which Compels
Mazbeth I
The name Sparra was a name that he cherished above all others.
It's ancestry, spanning hundreds of years of antiquity, had survived countless wars and clashes throughout the history of the Northern Kingdoms, back when there were many, and remained until there was only one, strong united realm. Sparra was the strongest of the Seven Great Flocks, the original Griffon clans of the North, and when the unified Kingdom of Allerseen was formed, it was a Sparra who led them.
In his armored hand, he turned the hilt of his long sword, admiring the Sparra engraving upon the cross guard. He felt pride upon seeing that name, his father's name, etched with great care upon his sword. Its luscious glow caught the light of the afternoon sun, igniting the Sparra inscription, almost as if it had caught aflame.
In that moment, he didn't smell the blood, and death, and shit all around him. He didn't hear the cries and screams and yells of death, or mercy. He didn't see that blade of his sword caught in the throat of the Griffon hawk in front of him, it's talons grabbing at collar of his gorget as it gurgled it's death cries to unfeeling ears.
It was when the Sparra engraving filled with blood, removing the luminous glow of the sun’s light, did all the sights and sounds and smells of battle fill his senses again. They crashed in a crescendo of horror, as all the screams and clangs of blades converged all around him.
Grimacing, he flicked his forearm, yanking the blade from the griffon’s throat, lashing out with his gauntlet and smashing it across its beak, sending it careening to the ground. It’s eye bulged from its head as blood gushed from the gaping wound at its neck, gurgling whatever plea of mercy it could. Bringing his blade downward, he brought the tip over it’s exposed face, running the blade through it’s eye and piercing the ground bellow.
“They’re retreating hawks! Push forward! Show no mercy! Kill them all!”
He heard the voice of his father shout behind him, almost louder then the sounds of battle. King Breag’s cry was answered by thunderous shrieks and shouts as his hawks rallied behind their king and charged forward unto their fleeing enemy.
“Mazbeth, come on. We have to push up.”
He knew the voice calling him, he knew he should respond, he knew he should listen and charge forward with the rest of his father’s warriors, but he kept his gaze on the dead griffon at his feet. His sword still planted it firmly to the ground locking it in it’s death grip, as the blood and fluid leaked from it’s body into the snow below. The pale, lifeless eyes bore into his own, locked in a gaze of horror.
Feeling a firm pressure on his shoulder, he ripped the sword from the griffon's head, tearing his gape from it's dead face and locking his gaze into dark brown, familiar eyes, that swam with concern at him.
Craissus, his friend and fellow soldier of the Landed Auxiliary held his shoulder in a firm, yet surprisingly gentle grip. The battle waged all around them, with enough carnage and blood to riddle even the strongest warrior with war anxiety, and yet his demeanor, though tense, still held an air of calm around him. His armor and cloak were bloodied and torn, covered in the gore, while in his left paw he gripped in a massive battle axe, a tool that he carried and treasured.
“Maz, we have to move," he said, in his deep baritone voice, "Now's not the time to lose your head. Your father needs you. We need you.”
The burly Minotaur nodded to the various other members of the Auxiliary behind him, the only infantry group yet to charge after King Breag, as they awaited the orders of their Lord Commander. The lot were a hard bunch, that were beaten and bloodied and weary from the hard fight, but stood in tense silence as they readied for the word from their leader.
“It’s almost over, Maz.”
It’s almost over....
He always questioned himself why he was appointed the Lord Commander of the Landed Auxiliary. Why, out of all the brilliant griffons or other creatures of his father’s kingdom, had he been given this task.
So many had been led to their deaths on his orders in the past, and many others have been overcome with guilt or despair over the countless battles they fought throughout years. Being comprised of nongriffon citizens and the general outcasts of the realm, the Landed Auxiliary wasn't considered as honorable an undertaking as fighting within the ranks of the Royals or even the Red Sparrows.
And yet here he was, the king of outcasts, leading his soldiers to yet another slaughter, another stain on his upon his own honor.
And yet he had no choice. Deep down, engraved into is very being, Mazbeth loved his father, he loved his family, and he loved his kingdom, and though he wasn't a griffon, he had the pride of one. He felt a deep patriotism to the defending of the this country that he had called home four and twenty years now,, and would continue to kill countless times over to defend it and those he loved.
Even when every passing battle he fought in would dig deeper into his dreams at night.
Raising his gauntlet, he patted the paw of his friend, as he brandished his sword into the air again, his Auxiliary perking and tensing as they saw the bloodied blade of the leader pointing towards their fleeing foes. Craissus was right, he thought, his face grimacing underneath his helm, my soldiers needed a leader right now, not a green boy afraid of battle.
“To me Auxiliary! We have those fucks on the run! Rally to your King, and cut down all in your path ! Kill them all!”
All traces of fatigue melted from the faces of his soldiers, as they joined in Mazbeth's cry with bellow for their own, surging past their leader with renewed blood lust. Mazbeth watched them, all eager to serve their King and meet his foes with their swords.
“Stay with me?”
He knew it made him sound vulnerable when those words left his lips, and for a moment, he couldn’t look his friend in the eye as they ran towards the fleeing enemy.
“Always, little brother,” was the huffed reply, spoken with Crassius's typical gruff delivery, yet tinged with an underlying warmness and understanding. Though his friend couldn't see it, Mazbeth offered him a small smile, before replacing it a sharp snarl of fury.
"Let's end these cunts, so we can finally get some decent rest."
"Aye, you owe me and the boys a round of good mead after this shite, mi' Lord."
"Then," Mazbeth huffed in reply to his friend, clutching his sword tightly in his armored gauntlet, "By all means, show me the meaning of war, my brother."
With shouts of their own, Mazbeth and his second in command charged after their soldiers.
Ahead of him, he could see the Dominion Remnants grow ever closer, halting their retreat as they were set upon by the Royals, King Breag at their head. Pushing themselves as hard as their tired and sore muscles could, the two passed by many of their fellow Landed, rushing towards the nearest enemy that unfortunately stood in their way, and with strong blows and slashes, dug their blades into unwilling flesh.
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The smell of decay permeated the air, a festering miasma of stench, mixed with the ever prevalent scents of smoke and wood fire from the surrounding campsites. The snow, even in the dark, glowed red with the blood of the scores of dead soldiers littering the banks of the Lakeside.
As far as battles went, it wasn’t a contender for the most loss of life, at least to the side of the warriors of Allerseen. But since the Great Civil War had ended, it was one of the larger skirmishes against ex-Dominion forces that had taken place in the recent months.
It was only fitting, though, that this recent skirmish was fought on the banks of the Dominion’s greatest defeat.
The Black Lake Nidstang, one of the two Great Lakes of the North, was a region shrouded in mystery and fear, especially when one grew closer to the dark forest on its southern banks. The lake’s black waters were a haunted place, home to many bodies of the victims of past conflicts, and the wars to come, while around it, the primordial pine forests oozed a mist that shrouded the area every sun up and sun down.
During the end of the war, the Dominion of the Free Republic of Allerseen staged its last ditch attempt to win against the Monarchy and the forces of King Breag through force of arms. And it was on that cursed lake, in the skies above it and the shores around it, that their dream for a republic was destroyed. The last, meager army the Dominion could muster was broken on the banks of the Lake Nidstang,
And yet here we are, a year later, still fighting what’s left of these fools...
Mazbeth grumbled from the inside of tent as he shuffled off more pieces of his battered maille and armor. Being the son of the King, Mazbeth would have usually been more inclined to have a squire assist him in removing his plate, as was common for most highborn, but at the present, most of the squires and pages, as well as general helpers around camp were busy removing bodies. A grim task, that would keep the majority of them busy for the evening.
As after most battles, the bodies would usually be picked up by royal order, to stop the spread of disease and prevent looting of the dead from the ever prevalent battle field scavengers that followed every skirmish.
The Royals of noble blood were cleaned and dressed, to be shipped back to their families with honor, though in truth, very few Lords or sons of Lords had died in the days battle, to his recollection. The majority of the dead were the infantry or Landed Knights, who were burned, and their bones collected to return to the capital of Monolith for distribution or burial.
The bones of the Dominion, though, were dumped into the center of the lake. Yet more bodies to add to the host of ghosts that haunted this cursed place.
Removing his last greave, stripping down down to his travel leathers and tabbard, Mazbeth shuffled his heavy cloak back on to his shoulders, covering him from the biting cold of the North.
Walking to the entrance of his tent, he could see the various soldiers relaxing around their fires, talking, laughing, eating and drinking. Some were boisterous and loud, expelling their great chirps of merriment over the battle and their kills they gained during it's most heated moments. Others smiled at their comrades’ mirth, agreeing with or laughing alongside.
Others were dead quiet, peering into the fire or the goblets of whatever alcoholic drink was served that night, lost or vacant looks upon their gaunt faces.
Mazbeth grimaced tightly, lightly shaking his head, as the sound of crunching snow grew nearer to him, stopping at the entrance of his tent.
“They seem to be enjoying themselves this night,” the familiar voice of Crassius piped up, shaking him from his grim thoughts.
Breaking his gaze from the other soldiers, he peered at his Minotaur friend and Lieutenant, two bronze goblets of dark liquid swirling in them, as the steam lifted into the crisp night air.
“Sadly, the cunts seemed to have gotten into the honeyed mead before I could snag a jug, but fear not my young prince, your humble servant has procured some hot, mulled wine! A most perfect drink for a dark winters night.”
Mazbeth gave a slight smirk, reaching out and taking a warm goblet in hand. He felt the warmth seep through his leather glove, while he turned the goblet in his enclosed grasp. The aroma of spices and sugar clouded his nostrils, blinding him to the death stench outside, and instead, filling him with memories of the food markets back home.
“Very well done, my faithful servant,” he murmured in jest, raising the goblet in a mock toast.
“I live to serve, my lord,” Crassius responded with a smirk and a mock bow of his own.
“Well, come on in then Crass, let's get your hulking frame out of this cold,” Mazbeth tittered, bellowing his cloak as he strode back into the warmth of his tent, taking in another deep smell of the richly brewed wine.
“Ya don’t ‘ave to tell me twice, lad.”
Mazbeth relaxed into a smaller chair in the corner by his desk, while Crassius sank into the large officers chair. Taking deep drinks from their warm, spiced wine, the two sat in a small companionable silence, neither truly wanting to broker the subject that would inevitably have to be brought up.
Mazbeth looked into the depths of his drink at the dark reflection that looked back at him. A flat face with sharp angles about his chin and nose; dark, choppy locks cut short to his head, melding with the dark brown facial hair he had neglected to trim for many months now. He looked more like a travel-worn bandit then a Royal prince in such a state.
Mother or Ellie wouldn’t approve...
In the dark, warm wine, he not only saw himself, but he saw the gore of battle flash amongst the chunks of crushed spices in the goblet , as he heard the cries of fear and dread slowly consume his thoughts. For a moment, lost in his drink like the sullen soldiers he had seen outside by the fires, he thought on the ghosts of the countless dead, slain by his hand.
“If you don’t want to speak of it now, it’s alright Maz,” his friend rumbled across from him, “the numbers can wait til the morn-“
“How many, Crass?” He tore his face from the wine and into the eyes of his friend, “how many have we lost this day?”
The burly Minotaur sighed, taking another drink from his goblet.
“Not counting the Royals, for us, five score and ten. Maybe another pawfull when the mortally injured pass on later tonight.”
Mazbeth’s tight grimace returned as a he took another drink from his goblet, his left hand tightening ever so slightly into a fist on the armrest of the chair.
“I’ll have to visit the sick tent soon, to see them off with honor.”
“And they’d appreciate that, Lord Commander.”
Once again, he had lost, and would lose, even more of his soldiers.
People who trusted him to lead them through nonstop battles, who placed their lives before his own.
“Maz, you can’t blame yourself, they knew what-“
“I KNOW THAT!” he bellowed, a sudden urge of agitation rusting forth, while Crassius chose to remain silent, letting his friend vent, “I KNOW THAT THEY SIGNED UP FOR THIS, THAT THEY KNEW THE RISKS, BUT ITS NOT EASY! IT’S NEVER FUCKING EASY!”
Mazbeth could feel the tinge of tears pool around the corner of his eyes. The white knuckle fist he held slackened slightly, releasing the death grip he had upon his wine goblet.
“I-I’m sorry Crass, I didn’t mean to yell,” he sighed, his friendly merely waving off his outburst, waiting for him to continue.
He felt so frustrated, so angry, and yet so sad at the same time.
“These deaths, every death that the Landed suffer, they haunt me Crass. I-I can’t get them out of my mind....”
Mazbeth slumped back into his chair, leaning his forehead into the open palm of his hands. He suddenly felt exhausted, as if a large weight he had been carrying had been lifted from his shoulders, yet instead of relief , he felt only an overwhelming tiredness.
“Five years of war, five fuckin’ years, and only a year of ‘peace’, and the bastards are still fighting. Why can’t they just...give up already? Aren’t they sick of dying? Of losing?Of killing?”
“......would you give up, Mazbeth?”
The silence from before enveloped the room, broached only by Mazbeth’s rough breathing, and faint laughs and jeers from outside.
Mazbeth thoughts were swimming once more, as he brooded in his seat. The losses of the day that had been dealt to the Landed were not the highest of the war, but had been quite steep since the war ended. Since he had been given command of the Landed Auxiliary when the conflict had started, their numbers had only dwindled lower and lower.
And yet, the Landed had seen combat at every major battle of the war, fighting just as hard, if not harder, then the other factions of the military. Always fighting, always losing more after every skirmish, and the ranks never filling. The Battle of Nidstang, to Mazbeth at least, should have been their greatest achievement, the battle that would’ve cemented the Landed as true heroes and legends of Allerseen. But Nidstang was over shadowed by their biggest shame .
Venom Falls.
The source of their dishonor, an event forbidden amongst their ranks to talk about.
Since Venom Falls had happened, enlistment to the Landed was few, stifling the reinforcements to his already understaffed battalion. Every lost was felt, every desertion or resignation dampened moral, and yet, they fought on, at their Lord Commander’s order.
Orders he felt harder to give every passing day.
“You know, it’s an admirable thing, Maz,” Craissus cut in gently, trying his best to soothe the dark thoughts of his Lord Commander, “it’s admirable to care so much about your bulls, er, troops I mean. Before Allerseen, I’ve fought in other kingdoms, in other wars, and the commanders were always cunts to us lads in the infantry, so color me surprised when I joined here with a commander that gave a shit.”
He downed the contents of goblet, a small sliver of red dripping down the side of his muzzle, before continuing.
“It’s hard to care, Maz, especially in this line of work. It’s dangerous, too. It’s always well and good to respect your soldiers, to trust in them, hell, to even love them, but, at the end of the day, they’re soldiers, lad. And soldiers die. I can very well die at anytime we go out there and fight for your father, but I'm a soldier, and I've accepted that fact. At the very least, those that we lost, they're dying for a good cause in this case, not war mongering against other kingdoms like my kin in the Empire.”
The burly Minotaur wrapped his cloak tighter around himself, pulling a small flask from one of his inner pockets and filling his goblet again.
“I know what you must feel, how we all feel....Venom Falls wasn’t easy, and the lot of us are hurtin’, but we haven’t lost hope, yet. Not in the Landed, and not in you, Lord Commander.”
“Lord Commander....only a score and two, and I have old curmudgeons like you under my command” Mazbeth mumbled in reply, downing his goblet as well, ushering the empty cup towards his friend.
“If anyone is an old fart, it’s you Maz, that brooding grimace you have makes you look like a grumpy, hairless old Diamond Dog,” Crassius quipped, filling the empty goblet, "You're too young to be looking like such an old fuckin' sourpuss."
“You know, I can have you flogged for that remark, lieutenant.”
“Ah, but you won’t. You're a big softy under all that armor, Lord Commander."
“Hmmmm, but maybe extra paperwork would be a sufficient reprimand,” Mazbeth pondered, the dark clouds surround his mind lessening over their light banter. His friend always seemed to find away to help find his light in these dark moments. But it still didn't mean he couldn't punish him, though.
Crassius, on the other hand, recoiled in shock.
“B-but my lord, I’m already behind on the last two infantry reports as it is!”
“Well, I’m tacking on the supply charts, as well as the barracks maintenance sheet. I’d get to it lieutenant.”
A groan of discontent ushered from the Minotaur’s maw, followed by Mazbeth’s soft laughter, before armored footsteps were heard at the tent’s opening flat, capturing their attention.
At the entrance stood an armored griffon knight, flying the typical black and purple colors of House Corvo on her tabbard. Her feathers, the ones visible at least, were a pale white, with the top plumage upon her head having light tips of purple. A true Corvo, through and through.
“Forgive the disturbance, my prince, but his grace wishes to see you.”
Surprised etched across his face. The war council had already met for the evening, and his father very rarely wished to be disturbed after battle, spending his time in solace and rest.
“Did my father specify why, by chance?” Mazbeth’s asked, a look of hesitation upon his face.
The griffon knight’s feathers ruffled under her gorget, as another crisp breeze rattled the Lakeside camp.
“No, my prince, nor did it seem urgent. At least when he gave the order, it didn’t, but it’d be best to not refuse his command. Shall I escort you there?”
Now his interest, or worry in this case, was very much piqued.
“I don't see why not, sir knight, please take me to him.”
Mazbeth turned to Crassius, the Minotaur moving to sit at his cluttered desk, skimming through the stacks of scrolls on side as he lit another candle.
“Will you stay here lieutenant?”
Reaching for the quill and ink by the stacks, the Minotaur snorted at his Lord Commander, no doubt grumpy at the added work to his load.
“Nah, since I suddenly have extra work, I’ll take a few blank scrolls back with me to my tent and get to work there,” he grunted out, fixing the prince with a rumbling glower.
Mazbeth, giving an amused shake of his head, patted the shoulder of his friend, before turning back to the griffon knight.
“Very well, lead the way, sir knight.”
“At once, my prince,” she replied with a curt, militaristic reply, turning on heel her heels and walked out into the camp.
Before following, Mazbeth gazed back to his friend once more.
“Crass.....thank you for talking with me. Sometimes.....I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
The glare upon the Minotaur’s brow lessened, his hard glint replaced with the warmth they usually have for his friend.
“Anytime, little brother,” he rumbled gently, “Just remember, don’t lose yourself. We still need you.”
I’m trying.....
Mazbeth nodded his head, and followed after the griffon knight.
The two walked in companionable silence, the snow crunching under their feet, as they traversed the maze like row of tents scattered throughout the lake shore. As the shabby infantry tents began to morph into ones with much more spacious flair and pomp, did they draw closer to the Royal Army and Noble Lord section of the camp.
“I don’t see why you placed your tent in with the infantry, my prince,” the griffon knight chirped from his side, as she gave him a sideway glance, “when I was tasked to find you, it was the last place I thought to look for you.”
“I like to be close to my hawks,” Mazbeth replied sharply, taking the jab as an unintended insult, the two trailing back intro an awkward silence again.
“I apologize, my prince, I did not mean to offend with my remark, I have great admiration for the Landed Auxiliary,” the knight piped again from his side, her stern gaze slowly replacing with an apologetic smile, capturing Mazbeth's attention,”a few of my kin served in the Landed, before the war, I mean. Did you know them, by any chance?”
Mazbeth perked an eyebrow at the knight’s inquiry. As far to his knowledge, the last nobles that did fight in the Landed had either died in the war, or resigned after the events Venom Falls and the fall of the Dominion.
“To be honest, before the war had truly started, I had no affiliation with Landed before the first major battles happened, so I most likely missed your kin. Who were they?”
“My two sisters,” the knight replied, her tone and demeanor growing slightly more somber, “one was Flightless, you know, since the Magic’s been weak in the world, because of the damned Disconjunction. She wanted to fight when the war broke out, always wanted to, in fact. But she’d never earn her knighthood being one of the Flightless. The Royals require flight as well, another branch of the military that was out of the question, so it was the Landed Auxiliary for her. She was the youngest of the three of us, so my older sister followed her into the Landed once she got that idea into her head, to watch out for her. They died at the Great Schism, when those bastards sacked Rainwing, their honor in tact.”
“What were their names?” He asked gently, captivated by this personal tale, one that no doubt took no small amount of courage to say to a prince of the realm.
The Great Schism, the day when the southern part of the kingdom rebelled against the north and the capital, was before he had joined the war, before he even returned home to Allerseen from his.....adventures outside of the realm. He knew that many Flocks and families lost loved ones on that most dark of days, and many of his own Landed fought at the sack.
“Glywyn and Gresha Corvo,” she replied, with a slight puff of her chest, though through the show of bravado, he noticed the shuddering breath she exhaled when she spoke their names, “they....they were true heroes to the North.”
“I’m sorry to say that I didn’t know them personally, Sir Knight, they were before my time as the Lord Commander,” he replied, committing the two names to memory. He noticed the crestfallen look upon her face, feeling the ever prevalent feeling of shame rise in his chest, “but, I have plans to build a mural of sorts back at the barracks in Monolith, to all the Landed who fought and died during the war, and I’d be honored to add their names to it. As you said, they were true heroes of the North.”
The knight stopped in her tracks and bowed her head low to Mazbeth, her look forming once again to a small smile of gratitude at the suggestion.
“You’d honor my family and their names greatly. Thank you, my prince.”
“No need for the formality when my father isn’t around,” he replied with a smile of his own, “Mazbeth will do for now, sir....?”
“Gilda of Flock Corvo, my prince, knight in service to his Majesty King Breag Sparra of Flock Sparra, and servant to the Kingdom of Allerseen,” was her proud answer, bowing her head in respect to the Lord Commander.
Mazbeth gave an amused look in reply, flattered by the young knight’s manners.
“Please rise, Sir Gilda, no need to bow to me.”
Giving a slight blush, Gilda quickly stood up once more, adjusting her own cloak in a
sheepish fumble.
“R-right, sorry my prince, er, I mean Mazbeth, it’s just very exciting to be talking with the Lord Commander of the Landed, as well as the Sword of the North! All the knights say you’re the finest swordshawk in Allerseen! Is it true?”
Continuing on their way, Mazbeth’s strode next to the excited Gilda, who had a slight hop in her step, as she led the way to his father’s pavilion. It was his turn to become embarrassed by the praise.
“I’ve been called the Sword of the North by a few, but I don’t actually have the title,” he replied, his hand laying at rest at the hilt of his sword, ”but I admit, I find my skills more the adequate.”
“More then adequate? From what I heard, you were down right amazing at the Battle of the Barrens! And the Sack of Marshwings? Even we Royals were awed by that duel you had with Keshel of Froth! A good deal of the younger squires and pages look up to you, you know?”
“That, I did not,” Mazbeth uttered blankly, thinking back on those past battles, and the many dead felled by his sword.
He indeed was a great swordshawk, of that he could not den. But most of the true romanticism was lost on him when he gutted his first enemy, back before the war and when he was much younger. When he looked into the bloodshot eyes as his sword pierced his chest, smelling the release of the Minotaur’s bowels as it soiled it’s armor and leathers in terror and pain, did he realize the warrior’s path was not romantic. It was not like the stories his mother and father would tell him when he was smaller and filed with tales of heroic knights saving princess's from evil dragons.
The warrior’s path was a hard life, a grim life, and the sword, a tool for taking.
But also, for protecting. For saving.
And so, to uphold his vow to serve his family and his kingdom, he honed and trained his skill with a blade, growing faster and stronger after each enemy he cleaved before him. He was soon able to go tit for tat with the Poet Martial, his first instructor, and member of the Benign Council, before making a name for himself in the war.
“Even Hell has it’s heroes,” he murmured, more to himself then a reply to the knight’s comment. Gilda fixed him a questioning quirk, with a slight tilt of head, while offered a slight shrug in reply. If the pages and squires looked up to him, he would do his duty them. To all of them.
“Did you fight in the war?” He asked suddenly, causing the knight to squawk slightly in shock. After composing herself, he noticed a sullen sag of her shoulders, piquing his curiosity again.
He could see the shame creep into her eyes, a shame that answered his question before her reply did, falling into step with Mazbeth.
“I, um, spent a majority of the war in pony land down south, squiring for Lord Brand of Flock Wren. I guess after losing my sisters, my mum and dad wanted me out of Allerseen for awhile, though I hated it at the time. I still kind of do, though Lord Brand was a great and kind teacher. He knighted me personally at their capital in Canterlot. By the time we returned from Equestria, the Dominion had already surrendered. Lord Brand escaped the culling of his Flock, and has been a friend ever since, but by the time I was knighted, I missed all the battles of renown. Today was my first large skirmish.”
She drifted off into a slight silence, the familiar far away look of horrors seen and lived creeping into her features as they stood before King Breag’s tent. The two guards at the entrance bowed low to the Allerseen prince at his arrival.
“You may enter, my prince, his grace awaits you,” the guard to the left said, reaching out a talon and moving the tent flap aside.
Turning to his traveling companion, who still bore a pensive look, he placed a comforting hand upon her shoulder.
“Thank you for escorting me, Sir Gilda,” he murmured softly, her eyes peering up to meet his, a small, tired smile upon her beak, “get some rest, if you have no further duties. That's an order.”
“Of course, your grace,” she replied, giving a small bow, before turning away from the prince.
“My prince,” he heard her call to him, as he was about to enter into the pavilion. He turned back to look at the young knight, her uncertainty clear, “ do they.....do they always haunt your dreams? The ones we kill?”
He wanted to say yes. He wanted to say every gods dammed day. He wanted to tell her that the nightmares remain, and rarely abate. But deep down, he knew she didn’t need to hear that. She did not need to know the truth, because she, like every hawk or hen who wielded a sword, already knew. She didn’t need to be so cynical, so young, like himself. She needed to be stronger.
“Only if you let them, Gilda.”
Nodding his towards her one more time, he entered into the warmth of the large tent, leaving the young griffon knight to ponder his words under the dark Allerseen sky, while the cold winter breeze of the Black Lake Nidstang fluttered about her.
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Princess Celestia I
“This is preposterous, Lord Chamberlain, they can’t do this!”
“I’m sorry my princess, but it’s the will of the council, and they’ve had the upper hoof in these deliberations lately.”
Celestia, once one of the most powerful beings in all of Equis, stomped her hoof in agitation. What the Faust cursed council members had done in her and dear sister’s....absence...was understandably a necessity, but this, this was a step too far.
The Disconjunction, and the loss of her and her sister’s control over the sun and moon, were tragedies as it were already, tragedies that the two monarchs were still coming to terms with. But when two year sleep she and Luna had been in had finally ended, the Equestria she knew was almost unrecognizable.
“My niece is not some...some brood mare that the council can sell off to the highest bidder, Lord Chamberlain!” She exclaimed in fury, a sharp snarl worming on to her usually warm, well composed face. Celestia had always thought her ability to keep calml in stressful situations quite masterful, but there was something about this stallion, this “Lord”, that truly irked her to no end.
The Lord Chamberlain in question perked neither eye or ear at her indignation, merely keeping a blank, passive mask upon his face. The charcoal grey stallion merely adjusted the collar of his pressed coat with a lazy hoof, as if the Princess’s fury was that of the slight buzz of a fly, further worsening Celestia’s horrid mood.
“And pray tell, my lady, would you have me do?” The Lord Chamberlain asked, refocusing his attention to his former absolute monarch, “In fact, why do you fight this so? Obviously the betrothal suggestion has merit to it, does it not?”
“I fight it because you and the council overstep your bounds, Star Stream-“
“It’s ‘Lord Chamberlain’, my princess,” the stallion stated, eyes narrowing in a sharp glare, “I earned that title, and deserve to be addressed as such. But as I said, the betrothal idea is just that, an idea. One that has not yet been put into a motion, but a wise idea nonetheless.”
The Lord Chamberlain faced away from the Princess, trotting towards the closest window and gazing out at the serene landscape of the early dawn, the city’s lights surrounding the castle like fireflies.
“My lady, you must understand, times have changed greatly since the Disconjunction. For the first time in millennia, wars, actual wars, with body counts and untold sufferings, have erupted around us. We’re not blind to how sheltered our race is, princess, and we know that we are not nor have ever been prepared for true conflict. Well, at least conflict that we couldn’t hide behind you or the Elements of Harmony.”
The stallion exhaled a sigh, his previously composed face taking upon a weary look, as he shifted his attention back to Celestia.
“While I’m quite sure that, Disconjunction or not, you and her grace Princess Luna are still quite powerful, we can’t rely strictly on you and the Elements anymore. Not against the force of arms, that is. That’s why this alliance with Allerseen is beneficial to
You, we on the council, and the very kingdom itself. Can’t you see that the idea at least has some merit?”
“I’m not daft, Lord Chamberlain,” Celestia hissed, meeting the stallion’s gaze with her pointed glare, “and I need no reminders of our current situation, but you and the council wish to sell my niece to the adopted son of King Breag, and ship her off to that frozen Tartarus?! They’ve just come out of a civil war! Technically, they’re still fighting one! You would be sending Cadance to the Northern Cold to die either by the weather or a brigand’s blade!”
Exhaling a sigh of her own, the former princess of the sun moved to stand closer to the Lord Chamberlain, tired of the days arguments and court. She really did know that world was changing, and that threats were rising all around their now vulnerable kingdom.
When the Disconjunction happened, the magic of the world was torn asunder. It truly was an event like no other. A great sound, like the loudest thunder imaginable, tore threw the land, followed by a flash so bright, she thought the sun had imploded.
Then, the first of it began. Unicorns around the city cried of their magic weakening, struggling to hold spells once considered quite easy.
The earth ponies claimed that their strengths were waning, that once objects they could’ve moved with ease became struggles to push or pull.
The weather of the world was now outside the control of her little Pegasi, as well as the other magical creatures of the air, leaving her subjects at the mercy of whatever the elements had in store for them. Her little ponies had even lost the ability to stand upon clouds, leaving cloud cities across the realm useless wisps of white upon the wind, and throwing a third of the Pegasi population out of work or homeless.
It was an economic disaster, one completely unforeseen and underprepared for.
But, when her and sister had lost control of their heavenly bodies, the things that made them who they were, was when the true horror had been felt. The sun and the moon began moving by themselves, and the connection they felt towards their parents’ creations since foalhood was gone. They had then fallen into a deep, nightmarish sleep, a coma from the trauma, while their kingdom was left to cope with this disaster leaderless and alone.
That was, until the High Nobility of Canterlot stepped in, to rule in their stead.
By all accounts, with Luna and herself unconscious, the leadership should have fallen to her nephew Blueblood, and her niece Cadance, yet the Nobility of Canterlot, always greedy for wealth and power, saw their chance. With the aid of the Royal Guard Captain, Shield Bringer, twelve of the most powerful Barons and Baronesses of Equestria took control of the Capital, forcing her niece and nephew to sign a new charter,
reducing the status quo to that of a constitutional monarchy.
While greedy, her little ponies were not cruel, nor were they tyrannical in nature. As leaders they tried their best to maintain order and solve the economic crash to the realm, but when one comes into power, they are usually quite reluctant to let it go. Now, since their awakening a long and anxiety filled year ago, her and her sister were forced to share power with this newly created Noble Council.
“My princess, I understand your fear, and I know that the hesitation you feel is justified, but we need an this alliance,” the Lord Chamberlain said, the first hint of emotion broaching from his cold eyes, his tone shifting from cold and sharp, to soothing and smooth, “The King Ector and his Diamond Dog’s of the Gem Vale will not aid us, nor will the Changeling Queendom, as they despise us. We won’t deal with the Great Southern Empire nor shall we deal with Roam, for slavery is a great devil we shall have no part of. And now the Minotaurs are making their move across the continent, fighting just about everypony that borders them! They no longer fear your wrath, and have an army in the tens of thousands taking over every kingdom within their grasp. We need allies, my princess. Allies that are close to us, that have the means to help protect the realm.”
“I don’t wish to fight on this any longer, Chamberlain,” she muttered, the anger within her slowly fading to a dull sullenness, “I have no love for this idea, nor do I believe Cadance to be ready for such a thing to transpire, but for the good of Equestria I’ll at the very least think on it with my sister.”
“That’s good, your grace, I’ll-“
“But let it be known, Lord Chamberlain, that if any plans are set into motion without her or my consent, you and this council will rue the day, my little ponies or not.”
The Lord Chamberlain did not reply, his passive glower returning upon his muzzle, offering Celestia a stiff bow of acknowledgment before leaving the council chamber.
Celestia sighed again, shaking her head, as if all the stressful thoughts would tumble out of her ears.
It was her turn to gaze out the window, as the sun began its rise over the horizon. She wondered if that sun was still the one she knew, that she was tasked to look after by her mother and father all those years ago. She wondered if they were disappointed, or angry, or distraught from their place in the heavens.
Leaning her forehead to rest against the glass of the window, she closed her eyes, feeling the warmth of that foreign sun spread across her white coat, lamenting the loss of it’s magical touch.