The city of Vanhoover is rebelling. From atop her lonely throne, it is up to Princess Celestia to step forth and hold Equestria together.
When the city of Vanhoover rebels against the Crown, threatening to ignite civil war and tear Equestria apart, it is up to the Princess of the Day to step forth and to do what is necessary to ensure that, no matter what, the Sun shines bright upon Equestria.
The Moon had never felt so cold, even at Summer’s end. Yet its tranquil beauty, once so welcome to all of Equestria, now brought only looming dread for the Princess of the Sun.
Sparing the lonely figure cast on its surface one last glance, Celestia returned her gaze onto the flight ahead. Just as she exited the clouds, moonlight behind her, her eyes fell onto the sprawling, walled city down below.
It was a sight that greeted many a traveller who crested the Smokey Mountains or sailed in from the North Luna Ocean. Vanhoover sat upon many islands, guarding the entrance to the two rivers that flanked its sides. The lights of the city and the mighty stone walls that marked its borders promised refuge to those souls brave enough to cross the untamed wilderness separating it from the rest of Equestria.
Now, those lights had been extinguished save for a few dim torches on the city walls, the gates surely sealed shut. Where once caravans streamed in and out, bringing goods to Equestria’s northernmost city, there were none as far as Celestia’s eyes could see.
With her horn alight, cloak and heavy saddlebags tightened, Celestia descended upon the hills beyond the city’s walls. As she glided down for a soft landing, in one graceful motion the Moon was lowered and the Sun was raised slowly from behind the Smokey Mountains, basking the valleys, rivers, and marshes with its light.
Her hooves on solid ground, her wings held tight against her body, Celestia dimmed her horn and looked around.
Much had been spoken and written of Vanhoover’s might. Few had bothered to mention the stench of the disease-ridden northern marshes just beyond it. No trained commander of the Royal Guard would be foolish enough to establish a campsite there.
From the corner of her eye, Celestia caught a glimpse of the encampment and its actual emplacement, as the light of her Sun finally fell upon the tents. It lay at a vantage point, a good distance away; overlooking the city, from a clearing surrounded by pine trees.
Overzealous he may be, the Northern Legion’s captain was meticulous. Ironhoof wouldn’t dare make a mistake, not when he wished to impress.
With a heavy sigh, Celestia marched onward across the grassy hillside, passing through the forested terrain. Both her saddlebags were packed to the brim, yet did not burden her stride. The absence of her regalia helped in that regard.
Only when two guards emerged from the encampment, each bearing a lit horn in warning, did Celestia pause beyond the treeline.
“W-who goes there?” said one of the pair. The senior Guard, Celestia surmised, going by his crest. An officer.
Good. She could relay her request immediately.
A brilliant flash burst across her vision, followed by a quick tingle, which dissipated as swiftly as it had appeared. As her sight cleared, she turned her attention towards the other, younger unicorn, his eyes wide and mouth agape.
“Ahem– commendable aim, Private,” said Celestia. She pulled off her hood, letting her lush mane flow once more. The poor lad before her shivered and stammered, and his officer was not doing much better. So much for the stiff upper lip. “Please, may I speak with Captain Ironhoof?”
* * * * *
Captain Ironhoof was an ambitious stallion. This much was evident to anyone within ten seconds of meeting him. Five seconds, at his proudest moments.
To Celestia’s chagrin, this was one such moment. When he stood at his tallest, the silver unicorn came up a head taller than either of the Guards flanking him.
“Ah, Princess Celestia!” he boomed, his deep bass surely heard throughout the camp. “It is my great honour to receive you here. The troops of the Northern Legion welcome your arrival!”
He bowed down once more. Behind him, the assembled Guards stood at the ready, in various states of readiness, judging from the stains of food on their muzzle or missing pieces of armor. Many had their eyes half-closed, lined by bags underneath.
After the longest time, Ironhoof raised his head, frowning as he turned to face the Guards. His eyes darkened into a sharp glare, aimed squarely at his soldiers. Yet when he met Celestia’s gaze, that cheeky, loathsome smile had returned.
“My apologies, Your Highness,” he said, with thinly-veiled disgust, “but it seems my troops aren’t quite ready to receive a guest of your stature.”
“That’s very much alright,” Celestia replied hurriedly. “I came here on short notice, after all.”
“Of course, Your Highness,” Ironhoof replied. That grin of his remained. “Perhaps I could find use for a Night Guard or two. Yet the less of those traitors, especially around your graceful presence, Your Highness, the better.”
Part of Celestia wished to correct him then and there. Captain Nocturne had, in fact, refused to defect on that night. But Ironhoof was already barking orders to the Guards, sending them scrambling back to their stations.
“Come, Your Highness,” he said. “Let us convene at my tent, I’ve got the best tea brews just for you. Come, come.”
A spot of tea struck Celestia as too fancy for such an occasion. Perhaps the good Captain already fancied himself a friend of hers. Clearly, he hadn’t seen the crowd that awaited him. With little more to say, Celestia followed his lead.
Down the path they trod, passing by trebuchets and ballistas, the beginnings of trenches and wooden pallisades. They, Celestia imagined, were planned to stretch all ’round the besieged city, connecting with the other encampments she’d espied on her flight. This camp had come alive for the day, torches blown out one by one as troops marched out from their tents.
Each step by the Captain's side brought mounting regret. He spoke loudly and at length of his troops, pride of the Northern provinces, the cream of the crop only he could have selected. His words were passing through one ear and out the other, however. As they trotted past the common soldiers and officers who saluted left and right, Celestia caught sight of caravans pushed aside, their contents covered hastily by tarp.
One detail stood out most of all to Celestia. There was not a pegasus or earthpony in sight – at least, none in armor. Only a few were to be glimpsed, all huddled near the caravans. They whispered amongst themselves, only to be quieted by Ironhoof’s piercing glare.
At last, they reached the officers’ tent. Large, imposing, and a touch grand, as field tents went. Celestia lowered her head in entering after Ironhoof. Within, the tent was dominated by a large roundtable at the center, covered by a map of Vanhoover.
“Bah, where’s that dratted– Serving Bell!” Ironhoof barked, in the process of removing his armor.
His response was a yelp, followed by the sound of a dozen metal utensils falling off a rack. A chestnut earthpony, no older than twenty, emerged from behind the tent flaps, muttering profuse apologies while he bowed down, his snout touching the grass.
“By all the damn stars,” Ironhoof growled, marching over to grab the poor colt’s shoulder, “get a hold of yourself! I’ve got myself a guest, boy. Go fetch our tea, would you?”
“R-right away, sir!”
Before Celestia could speak up, Ironhoof had shoved his servant back out and turned around. His proud smile was back.
“My apologies,” said Ironhoof, chuckling. “Earthponies. You know how they are.”
“Do I, Captain?” Celestia replied coldly. “There’s nothing to apologise for. Not for him.”
If Ironhoof had sensed the venom she laced her words with, he showed no sign of hearing it, caught up in a hearty chuckle as he was. “Too right! Please, have a seat, Your Highness. It must have been quite a trip! Tell me, how does Canterlot fare these days? How is Cuff, that rascal?”
“Oh, nothing new, Captain, I assure you,” Celestia answered, taking her seat, just as Ironhoof did the same across from her. “Tis’ the same old routine at the Court. Iron Cuff is presently busy tending to his new responsibilities.”
“I can imagine, heh,” said Ironhoof, shaking his head. “Strange choice, I admit, keeping him and that old bat Nocturne around. I’d have sent him to the Moon myself. But one wrong move and off he goes, aye?”
The corners of Celestia’s mouth twitched. “On the contrary, he’s been quite reliable and loyal. He refused to follow her lead.”
“Ah, one of the good ones then, eh? Good to know those thestrals aren’t all bad. I thought they’d have followed her all the way, all the mares and stallions and colts.”
“Always loyal,” Celestia recited through clenched teeth, “and only to Equestria. But you know, I haven’t seen a single pegasus or earthpony around here either, only your unicorns.”
“Naturally, Your Highness,” Ironhoof replied, tapping the map with his command staff. “Only the finest siege troops for this operation, I assure you. They’ll have the city taken in no time at all.” His face darkened, as he leaned forwards conspiratorially. “I could have used pegasi, admittedly, but with Vanhoover? Too unreliable, untrustworthy and scatter-brained. And earthponies, feh. Best not to risk rebel sympathies nor incompetence on such a crucial operation.”
“I see,” Celestia answered, holding down the bile that rose up her throat. She glanced at the map. “You’ve taken the supplies for yourself then, Captain. No less than three forward bases here. Ready for a long siege, I presume?”
“Aye. My troops have better use for the supplies we’ve seized. Best to keep them well-fed. It ought to be a long one… or not so long, hah!” At once, though, his smile disappeared. “Serving Bell, that blasted– Excuse me, Your Highness, you must be famished.”
Celestia cleared her throat, just as Ironhoof got up. “No, it’s quite alright–”
“No, no, my apologies, truly,” Ironhoof said, continuing on his way, “clearly, some ponies ought to have some sense beaten–”
“Enough.”
Celestia stood to her full height. As she did, the wind blew harshly, blowing the map off of the table and overturning chairs. Chatter outside the tent went quieter than snowfall at midnight.
“I’ve no time for tea,” Celestia said firmly, the Royal Canterlot Voice fading away, “and you’d do well not to lay a hoof on that colt. Am I clear?”
Ironhoof, frozen halfway through opening the tent flap, gulped. “Y-yes, Your Highness.”
With a flick of her horn, the table was replaced, the map spread out across the table, and the chairs rearranged. Celestia sat down, fixing her glare on Ironhoof.
“Now,” Celestia began, “what I want to know, Captain, is why three thousand troops of the Royal Guard have been dispatched to Vanhoover without advance notice given to Canterlot.”
Ironhoof cleared his throat. “I… I had to act swiftly, Your Highness,” he said, gingerly seating himself. “If news of what transpired here were to spread beyond our borders, it would put us in the sights of many. Thrace, or Saddle Mareabia, perhaps even Neighpo–”
“The first news of rebellion came from your own letter, Captain,” Celestia cut him off. “I’ve heard barely a whisper from Baroness Vanhoover.”
“But I’ve had to work with what I had,” Ironhoof protested. “When we heard of the unrest here, clamouring for treason against your rule, Your Highness, someone had to restore some measure of order. They dared to throw our envoy into the river! Thank goodness we were there to pick him up on the banks.”
“And pray tell, what do the ponies of Vanhoover want? What of their side, Captain?”
“Well… uh…”
“You don’t know.”
“Well, what is there to know, Your Highness?” Ironhoof replied, letting out a nervous chuckle. “Traitors and rebels, the whole lot. If I had been in charge of the garrison there, I’d have them hung from the gallows right away.”
“And did it not occur to you, not once, that Vanhoover’s garrison would have good reason to stand with their own?”
“I… don’t understand. They’ve thrown their lot in with the Baroness. They deserve the gallows, as do the rebels.”
Celestia let out a long, heavy sigh.
“Lift the siege.”
Ironhoof’s eyes widened. “Beg your pardon, Your Highness?”
“Lift the siege, Captain,” Celestia repeated, tapping the table. “Dismantle the siege equipment, distribute the supplies to Vanhoover’s citizens and populace, as they should have been.”
“But– but, Your Highness,” Ironhoof stammered out, “I– my troops, they need the supplies. We’ve marched a fair distance here.”
“And do they not require it as well?” Celestia countered coolly. She gestured outside, towards the city. “From my understanding, you’ve given them naught a chance to speak. You’ve marched on them when they dared to.”
It was at this moment that Ironhoof stood up. “They are clamouring for the Nightmare’s return!”
Celestia’s voice died in her throat. A dead silence hung in the air, a silence as thick and deafening as that very night in the Castle of the Two Sisters. The smell of ash was keenly felt, once more. There Celestia found herself back amidst the burning castle gardens.
When she returned to the present, she let out the breath she’d held in for so long.
“Are you certain...?” Celestia replied, barely raising her voice above a whisper.
“You know the city better than I do,” Ironhoof continued. Beneath the surface, that smug, haughty tone had returned. “If given the chance… they would.”
For the first time since they’d met here, it was Celestia who averted her gaze, choosing to concentrate upon the map. It was crinkled, but she could just about discern the name of the freezing ocean that bordered Vanhoover, the very ocean named by the city’s then-ruler in honour of their patron.
“If what you say is true, then I’ll still need word from the Baroness herself,” she said. “Prepare the supplies for redistribution by sundown today.”
“But–”
“By sundown. No later than that,” Celestia said, regarding Ironhoof with a withering glare. She heard what might have been a tiny squeak.
“Then…” Ironhoof said, looking for all the world like a lost colt, “uh, I shall dispatch an envoy–”
Celestia silenced him with a raised hoof. “No, you’ve done enough,” she said, her firm, steely voice leaving little to question. “I’ll do it myself.”
It wasn’t the first time Celestia pondered lowering the Moon early, nor would it be the last.
Indeed, the past two months had been the busiest sessions the Royal Court had held for as long as anyone seated there could remember, even without taking into account the transfer from the Everfree Forest back to the old capital at Canterlot. Hardly any of them – ministers and scribes – had got a good night’s sleep for quite some time, for fear that a moment’s slumber could mean a missed letter.
Such as the letter now read aloud by the wizened, old grey stallion, his voice withered yet firm as the mountain oak.
“‘To the Princess of All Equestria,’” he recited. “‘Rebellion underway at Vanhoover. Northern Legion en route. Three thousand strong. By the grace and blessing of your Sun, we shall triumph.’”
The letter was set down. “‘Yours truly, Captain Ironhoof.’"
The chamber burst into a cacophony as soon as he’d finished, from cries of indignation from all the seated members of the Court, to murmurs of confusion from the Guards posted. All was quieted when Celestia raised a gold-covered hoof. The accursed letter had passed by unnoticed by anyone else in the Court. Unnoticed, that is, save by Greyhoof, who stood at her side for good reason.
“A rebellion,” Celestia repeated, her brows furrowed. “In Vanhoover.”
Greyhoof nodded solemnly. “Yes, Your Highness,” he said, his withered old voice holding steady. “It would seem that the good Captain saw it fit to march on his own accord.”
Of course. In the absence of Luna, their marshal, the Royal Guard’s chain of command had been interrupted. In fact, the last anyone had heard of Vanhoover had been merely five days prior, when whispers of unrest had come to Canterlot.
All things considered, Celestia could almost pity Iron Cuff, thrust into a position he wasn’t prepared for yet. Where once he commanded merely Canterlot, now he was in charge of the realm’s shield and sword. He stood off to the side, exchanging hushed whispers with Nocturne, former head of Luna’s personal guard.
“Unprecedented,” harrumphed Minister Sharp Quill. “Traitors, the whole lot of them. To turn against Equestria in times like these, that’s treason, I say.”
The head of education shook his head. Besides him, Minister Velvet Purse looked a little less sure, with her wings held tight against her body.
“Vanhoover is our gateway for the Luna Ocean,” she reminded him. “With the Crystal Realm gone, we simply cannot afford a protracted war. Not without allies.”
“Aye, and do you honestly think Ironhoof, of all ponies, should be in charge?” said Minister Feelgood. “I swear, every time he speaks a Windigo stirs.”
Yet there were still others who spoke up, vying for attention. Murmurs broke out once more between the ministers. Others were more bold, as Quill stood up from his seat.
“Come on, you can’t possibly think he’s the issue here,” Quill retorted, wiping at his glasses with his magic, “If Thrace or any other foreign power catches wind of this–”
“What makes you think they haven’t?” interrupted Minister Attache Case, whose paperwork had increased substantially from the sheer amount of letters pouring into her office. “Stars above, Quill, they could have sent a letter to those scheming Thracians first. Goodness knows we need another war with them.”
“Yes, dare I say, traitors ought to be rewarded as they… deserve…”
A sharp glare from Celestia cut Quill off, prompting him to return to his seat. But his words lingered in Celestia’s mind. It had only been a little over a century ago that the last Thracian raids and invasions on their shores had ceased. It had cost Equestria much to repel their war-like cousins from across the sea. Many of those seated remembered the losses their foremothers had to bear.
Including, and this loss Celestia conjured all too keenly, Luna’s elder daughter Tranquility.
She hadn’t understood then. For as long as she could remember, family had always meant Luna and only Luna. Never did Celestia ponder raising one of her own as her sister did. Now as she stood alone, Celestia could only regret all the words she left unsaid, all the cracks she’d failed to see for so very long.
Taking a deep breath, Celestia stood from her seat. Her gaze panned over the assembled ministers, all the guards and scribes.
“I will go,” she stated. “I will deal with Vanhoover and Captain Ironhoof.”
Iron Cuff spoke up, tearing his gaze away from Nocturne. “Your Highness, no– I shall–”
He was quieted by Celestia’s gaze. Soft, tender, or so she hoped. She offered him a smile. “You’ve done plenty as is, Captain, and wonderfully. But I don’t wish to risk your own safety, not when he views you as the enemy.”
Few could protest that. Iron Cuff ruffled his wings, ever so slightly.
Feelgood laid a hoof upon Iron Cuff's back. “It’s a risk, Captain,” he said. “They may think you one of Vanhoover’s pegasi, or that you’ve thrown your lot in with them.”
“And he’d claim it was an accident,” Celestia added.
“But surely Ironhoof wouldn’t be so careless?” Quill protested. “This is absurd! I know Ironhoof, you lot should know he’s the finest officer the Academy ever produced.”
“Then you don’t know him at all, do you?” Iron Cuff retorted. “All the books in the world and you can’t read anyone.” He let out a bitter chuckle. “Careless or not, it’d be the perfect excuse.”
Celestia shot him an understanding, apologetic look. With a nod exchanged, he returned to his seat.
“Matters of governance shall be handled by Master Greyhoof,” Celestia continued. “The Court is adjourned. I shall see you all in due time.”
The gavel was struck. There were a few protests, suspicious glances and confused looks exchanged. Yet her will was final.
One by one, all those assembled left. All, that is, save for the two souls who remained within the empty chambers.
“I’m sorry, Greyhoof,” said Celestia, letting out a sigh, as the last scribe closed the door behind her. Her thoughts drifted to that great northern city, as it often had these past few decades. She turned to her majordomo. He’d been one of those present that fateful night. “I ought to have handled that better. Perhaps it would be for the best if I were to retire after all.”
“That is your decision to make, Your Highness,” said Greyhoof. “But if you do, then all of us shall sorely miss your guidance. Well, my granddaughter certainly would. So would Equestria.”
Celestia laughed humourlessly. “If you say so, my friend. Now, it seems I must ask you for yet another favour.”
Her trusted advisor merely chuckled, not unkindly.
“It’s no trouble, Highness, it’s no trouble at all…”
* * * * *
“We’ve arrived, Princess Celestia.”
Celestia looked up from examining Greyhoof’s saddlebags, strewn across the small ferry. True to the ferrymare’s words, they had arrived on the other bank of the river, right beside Vanhoover’s great walls.
She picked up the saddlebags as gingerly as she could, taking care not to damage their delicate contents, and hoisted them upon her back. She looked at her erstwhile companion. A silent sort, the grey mare had nonetheless been welcome company. Celestia wouldn’t have expected anyone to be waiting for her on the riverbank, let alone to assist her in her crossing.
“Thank you,” said Celestia, flashing a friendly smile, “but I don’t think I caught your name.”
“Mine name matters not, Your Highness,” said the ferrymare, “only mine duty.”
Such an odd accent, Celestia mused. It was soothing, and her R’s flowed like water down a hidden woodland creek. It reminded Celestia of the brogue accent of the Reindeer, hailing from their warm hearths and enchanted forests deep in the Far North.
The mare before her was no doe, though. She was a grey earthpony, shrouded by a patchwork, ragged cloak. Only her hooves, muzzle, and the very tips of her ink-black braided mane and tail were uncovered, and she averted her gaze when their eyes almost met.
Celestia sighed. Perhaps she should have known better from the ferrymare’s silence.
“And here I must part, I believe,” she said. “Thank you, again.”
She stepped onto the wooden dock, her bare hooves scratching against the old wood. But just as she stepped off, standing there in the abandoned port, she felt that strange pang of guilt strike deep within.
Vanhoover had held a special, mournful place in Luna’s heart. Celestia had understood little of it, nor had Luna ever had the heart to share. Until she did, the day after their failure at the Crystal Realm, when the last of her line was extinguished. She’d screamed her heart out at her sister, that Celestia would never understand, never care for the losses she alone had to bear throughout the years. All the jealousy and grief that Celestia had chosen to look past and neglect.
Who was she to take Luna’s place here as well, as she had taken all the praise the nation had for their work, all the credit…
Then she heard the sound of someone clearing their throat. “Is something wrong, Your Highness?”
Celestia turned around. The cloaked ferrymare, it occurred to her, was taller than most earthponies, but still a good head or two shorter than she.
“Nothing,” Celestia lied. She shook her head. “It’s so... quiet here.”
Indeed it had been quiet. Quiet ever since that dreadful night. The ferrymare showed no sign she understood it either – but for a brief moment, Celestia thought she saw the ferrymare glance at the empty spot by her side.
“The traders were the first to bolt,” the ferrymare said. “News travels far and wide. I’d imagine Neighpon or Griffonstone would know by now.”
She looked up at Celestia. From the dark of her patchwork cloak, her icy blue eyes narrowed.
“You’d do well to be careful,” the ferrymare cautioned, “The Guard has given Vanhoover little reason to be trusting.” She paused. “You could have flown over the walls yourself. Why mine humble ferry?”
“Trust is the key, is it not? And to be careful, well, I ought to tell you the same, Madam Ferrymare,” Celestia countered. “It’s not often that I see anyone tend to their duties so diligently amidst a crisis such as this.”
“Oh, I’ve had mine fair share, Your Highness,” the ferrymare said, glancing towards the mouth of the river. “I’ve lived a treasured life. What’s another day at the job, really?”
Trottingham, Celestia decided. Perhaps it was a Trottingham accent. “Yet you sound so young,” she remarked.
The ferrymare looked back at her. “With due respect, so do you, Your Highness.”
Celestia laughed softly. Very few would call her young, and fewer still remained by her side. The walls of Vanhoover that she now beheld were of stone only a fraction of her age. “I suppose. But do forgive this old mare for doing a young mare’s job.”
“Very well. But know that people tend not to forget, one way or another. Your sister’s memory is strong in these parts,” the ferrymare cautioned.
“And where should I go, if my presence frightens them so?”
The ferrymare rubbed her chin. “You should know, Your Highness. But if I must suggest, then the public gardens would do to calm one's mind.”
“The gardens,” Celestia inclined her head. “Then that is where I shall be.”
“A wise choice. So what would you do, Your Highness?”
Celestia looked at her one last time, smiling through lingering doubts. “My best.”
* * * * *
Vanhoover was an old city. The first pegasi settlers from the days of the Six Hearthswarmers sought refuge beyond the Smokey Mountains, far and away from the troubles that plagued the frozen land down South. And refuge they found, in this verdant valley shadowed by mountains. It did not escape the cold breath of the windigos, and the weather this far north did not permit the creation of the cloud cities their kind dwelt in. Yet the martial pegasi of the North were a hardy breed. Their new fortress withstood the Winter frost like few others did.
When the Great Thaw came, after hesitation and doubt were cast away by awe and wonder at the sight of two regal alicorns, they too joined Equestria. Their warrior ways were all too welcome in those nascent days, defending against the monsters that roamed the lands of old. When the first merchants and explorers crossed the ocean from the Far East, Vanhoover’s gates were the first to greet them, flourishing in trade for the centuries to come.
Now Celestia stood before the open gates, having departed the abandoned docks, and wondered if she were to feel welcome at all. Strange indeed. She’d expected it to be closed, sealed to all beyond Vanhoover’s walls. Yet she saw no guards, no gatekeeper awaiting her. Only open gates. Part of Celestia wondered if they intended to allow her in, even in silence.
Letting out the breath she’d held onto, Celestia stepped through the gates.
Little had changed in the century that had passed. It was the same city, the same roads and buildings, and though the ponies changed, their spirit lived on through the seasons. But the sight of it all pained her, what had become of it. Gone was the warmth of Summer, even as the Sun shined bright above. For the cold of Autumn loomed both in person and spirit, from the cobblestone beneath her to the winds that blew in the streets, and Celestia imagined that Winter’s breath would come sooner rather than later.
Barricades of wood and stone had been erected throughout, covering alleyways and streets. Spears had been fixed upon them, presenting a message that was all too clear. Windows were broken or shut. And though she heard whispers and murmurs off in the distance, and spied glimpses of the guards posted on the walls, it may very well have been a ghost town.
She steeled her will. There was much to be done first. And if her best was what she promised the ferrymare and herself, then she would do it.
So down, down the winding cobblestone roads Celestia walked, as the Sun rose in the sky. With the city cast beneath the noon sunlight, Celestia spied many that tried to avoid her gaze. Guards were patrolling in mismatched armour of cloth and metal. Both veteran guards and green recruits, they all bolted the same when they saw her approach, fleeing to the safety of their barricades. Shopkeepers and merchants, some armed and others not, all spied at her through their window blinds. As Celestia passed them by, her nose caught no scent of meals being cooked, no fresh smell of oven baked-bread in the bakeries, nor warm stew.
Amidst the rooftops, the faintest signs of pegasi children hiding behind the thatched roofs. Whispers and laughter, distant and close, were caught by Celestia’s ears. The few children at the balconies in the more affluent district were pulled back into their homes by their parents, before Celestia could wave back at them.
And still no sign, neither feather nor hair of the Baroness. Not even when Celestia stood before the city hall, between the statue of old Baron River Feather and the steps of the imposing building. The guards had withdrawn inside upon sighting her. With little else to do but wait, Celestia shook her head and walked away, the Sun passing its highest point. A fair distance away, past the disused market-place and down from the hall, she came across the public gardens.
It was a welcome respite. The gardens lay within sight of the city hall, between the merchants’ residential district and the market-place. The vibrant greenery brought by Spring and Summer was thriving, from the smallest of bushes to the tallest of trees in scattered copses, yet here and there Celestia caught sight of leaves bearing Autumn’s colours.
Celestia took a whiff of its scent. Vibrant, rich, and was that lavender she smelled? So calming…
Surging memories forced her to walk on. So she did, down the lonely path by the small lake. She did not stop till she arrived at the heart and froze in her steps. There was a statue that hadn't been there before.
Celestia knew the statue well. It had once been placed down at the city hall, she recalled. An identical one stood in the catacombs at the Castle of the Two Sisters. A tall, slim unicorn, immortalised in black marble. In life, she had been royal blue, with the purest white socks and blaze, her mane the same as her mother’s in youth, though with strands of gray, and her icy blue eyes the most beautiful pair Celestia had ever known.
The inscription on the plinth read, in the delicate and refined writing of her mother;
In Memoriam Princess Equinox Healer, Teacher, Beloved Daughter
Celestia pressed a gentle forehoof against it. She’d been there when it was written and the statue erected, comforting a grieving mother despite how little she understood why.
There in the shadow of her niece, wiping a few tears away, Celestia leaned against the plinth and lay down. She’d have time till sundown. Reading would pass the hours easily. Of old history books and spellbook tomes, storybooks were always her and Luna’s favourites, whether it be children’s tales or romantic epics.
In the light of the afternoon Sun, in the solitude of the park, Celestia prepared to read. Nothing else but the howling wind and distant, fading whispers for company. That is, of course, until she heard something stir behind her.
So she stood up to meet her visitor. Who else, then, should she see but a small filly.
* * * * *
Small, slim, and a very pale pink, the filly couldn’t have been older than her eighth or ninth Winter. She tilted her head. Celestia followed suit.
“Why, hello,” Celestia greeted. The filly recoiled a little, but did not depart. “What’s your name?”
The little earthpony crept up. Such a tiny thing, indeed. The top of her head, covered by a dirty brown cap, would have barely reached the top of Celestia's golden shoes. She looked as if a gust of wind would blow her away.
But a child’s courage was something to behold. She did not flinch or hesitate as she entered Celestia’s shade.
“Flake,” the child answered at last. “My name is, um, Flake, Princess.”
Her eyes met Celestia’s own. Such large, inquisitive eyes, of richest brown. They reminded Celestia of Radiant Hope, her once-student. A talented mare and healer, a prodigy of the magical arts and bearer of Equinox’s legacy. She had enrichened life at the Palace, a ray of sunlight through the clouds, melting the stifling decorum with her insatiable curiosity and endless cheer.
She was gone too, disappeared along with the Crystal Realm, another fading memory. Her loss had struck Celestia the deepest, even as Luna screamed at her that she would never truly understand, never fathom grief as she did.
Snapping away from her stupor, Celestia forced a smile that did not reach her eyes. “Hello, Flake,” she said. “My name is Celestia.”
“Oh, I know, Princess. Everyone knows.”
Celestia giggled. “Oh, very well, but I do like to be polite.” She looked around, yet there seemed to be no sign of the filly’s parents at all. “Where have your parents gone, Flake?”
Flake shrugged. “They’re busy. Papa works at the forge. Mama is usually at the market, but she’s taking care of my sister.”
A rumble in her stomach drew Celestia’s attention. Flake blushed.
“Are you here to take our food?” she asked hurriedly, biting her lip and looking away. “You can’t take them… We don’t have any left.”
Celestia frowned. “You don’t?” she asked. The filly nodded. Suddenly Celestia wasn’t so sure how long she’d been so slim. “Surely the Baroness provides for your needs?”
What an irrational question, Celestia chided herself. If the Baroness had, then the child would not be here. But the child seemed to take little offense, merely shaking her head.
“No,” she said plainly, “she hasn't. We were supposed to get supplies, but then they gave it away to the ponies at Uptown. They have the money, Papa said.”
They always did, Celestia bitterly reflected. “I’m sorry to hear that. I thought I came as soon as I could. If I’d known, I’d have brought more with me. I’m sorry.”
“It’s alright,” said Flake, as if it were the most ordinary thing, “we’re used to it. Everypony’s used to it in Low Town. Mama said maybe the Baroness is hungry too.”
‘She better be...’
Still, Celestia kept up the smile as earnestly as she could, her head lowered to meet Flake’s.
“Well, don’t you worry. Food is coming, and it will reach you and your parents, and anyone else who needs it. That much I can promise you.”
“How much can we eat?” asked Flake. “My sister needs food, and we’ve been giving her a lot. But Mama says I need to eat too.”
“I’m sure the ponies of Uptown have got enough already. As much as you or your family, or all your friends from Low Town would need.”
“And when are they coming?”
“At sundown, no more or less.”
“Oh,” said Flake, her ears drooping, “That’s such a long time.”
“Indeed,” Celestia agreed, with a contrite smile. “How I wish that I could lower it sooner, just for you, but alas! The Summer always has such schedules to follow.” Shaking her head, she patted the saddlebags by her side. “But I’ve got company until then. Would you like to read with me?”
Flake’s ears perked up, and her face lit up with wonder. “I would! But I can’t read. Mama usually reads to me.”
Celestia let out a soft laugh. She waved a wing, patting the spot next to her. “Then I shall. We’ll read until sundown, how does that sound?”
But Flake looked around, her ears flicking. Her eyes were large and pleading now.
“Can my friends join us?” she said slowly. “They’ve been waiting too.”
She pointed to somewhere behind her. Celestia's eyes followed, all the way, until she saw curious little faces staring from a nearby copse. A tiny gasp was heard, and they all scampered behind the largest tree they could find.
“Come now, little ones,” Celestia called, tittering. “Don’t be shy. Come join us here.”
One by one, they stepped out. Little fillies and colts, earthponies, pegasi and even a unicorn, approaching as carefully as their little legs could carry them. A dozen children, by Celestia’s count. They came to stand behind Flake, whispering and muttering to one another. Not as carefully as they might have believed, since Celestia caught several of their words;
“She’s so big.”
“Why’s she here? Isn’t she s’pposed to be back at Canterlot?”
“Does she have food?”
“Oooh, I really like her mane. It’s so pretty!”
Then their eyes fell onto her saddlebags. Bags filled with books, but not a single crust of bread. One by one, their ears drooped, the whispers quieted down, and the shadow of their cheer turned back to disappointment.
“Settle down, children, don’t worry,” said Celestia. She forced a smile onto her face, making sure not to stare at the soot and filth many of the children were caked in. Some had bandages wrapped around their barrel. One had part of their ear missing. A far cry from the children of Canterlot. All of them far too young to be toiling away in foundries and fields. “I promise, there will be plenty of food coming at sundown.”
Some cheered. Some shared shy little smiles. A small, soot-coloured colt stomped his hoof. “But we’re hungry!” he exclaimed. “Can’t we eat now?”
Children, so very assertive. Celestia shared a wink with Flake. “It’ll take time. I’m sorry. But until the supplies arrive, would you all care to join our storytime?”
Sure enough, the murmurs and excited whispers grew yet again.
“Mmm, well, alright,” said the colt, after a moment’s thought. “But food after.”
“Food after,” Celestia repeated, softening her smile. “That’s a promise.”
That was enough, evidently, for the colt scampered forwards and sat down, right by Flake. The little filly smiled widely, and she too followed, taking off her cap.
“Alright! Gather round, children,” said Celestia, beckoning them with a white-feathered wing, “Make yourselves comfortable. There’s space enough for us all in the grass.”
As the children bumped into one another for spots, Celestia withdrew a large picture-book. On its cover was the illustration of a fantastical creature. A great crow whose feathers were all the colours of the rainbow, glimmering with iridescence.
“Here in these pages, I hold a story to share from the faraway lands of the bison,” said Celestia. “The story of the Rainbow Crow. Do any of you know it? No? Then it'd make me happy to be the first to tell it to you,” she said, smiling regally. “Is everyone sitting comfortably?”
They nodded, and some exclaimed a cheery ‘yes!’, and indeed they seemed to be, despite the hardships their appearances bore testimony to. Celestia opened the book, beholding the rich water-colour illustrations. But as she prepared to read, her eyes fell upon Flake, sitting in the very middle of the huddled children. For a brief, fleeting moment, memories of a young filly resurfaced, whose eyes were filled with wonder, her coat the richest blue, her muzzle dotted with freckles she tried her best to hide…
“Alright,” Celestia said, feeling her eyes well up, “Now, let’s see– ah, here we go.”
* * * * *
In the lands down South, where the Sun shines the brightest, and the grass grows the tallest, there lived the bison. A large, noble and proud people, in Summer they thrived on the rolling hills and open fields that stretched as far as their eyes could see, stampeding to their hearts’ content. In the Great Plains they were born, they lived, and they passed on. Thus had it always been.
Every year came the Winter. The bitter cold blanketed the land with ice and snow. Grass perished beneath their touch. Ponds froze where they lay. And the deep snow prevented all stampedes. This did not trouble the bison. They were as stubborn as they were proud. So when Winter came, they would huddle and share in their warmth, and with Spring’s thaw they would roam once more.
But one year, the Winter did not pass. It gripped the land tighter and tighter still. All manner of creatures were to flee, for Winter’s cold was unforgiving.
The bison stood their ground. Spring would come, they knew. It would free the land from this cold.
So they remained, they did not surrender to the cold, just as the Winter did not give way to Spring. And when the Summer’s harvest ran out, the bison grew hungry. Still they remained. Far above them they could see the Sun’s fire amongst the clouds. Hope springs eternal, they knew. But no matter how much they cried for the Sun, it did not hear them, its warmth beyond their reach, and the land grew colder.
In their quest for warmth, the bison continued their stampedes. Each hill they crested was taller than the last, yet the Sun’s fire ever eluded them. Until at last, on the tallest mountain it was that they heard, for the first time, the dulcet melodies of the Rainbow Crow.
Such a graceful creature. Her brilliant, shimmering coat of all the colours of the rainbow sparkled like the purest gemstones, brightening the darkest of days. Her songs soothed the bison in their coldest nights. It was said that her notes could stretch on for days, her melodies reaching the most mournful lows and vibrant highs… And when she flew, the skies above parted for her.
The bison saw how far the Rainbow Crow could fly. So they asked her, begged her if she could soar high above and ask the Sun to bless them with its warmth, free them from Winter’s frost. It was a task like no other. But the Crow was as kind and brave as she was loyal.
Therefore she flew. Up, up and away she went, soaring above the tallest peaks of the frozen land. Past the Moon and the stars, with no perch to rest, still she went on. And as she flew, her melodies followed. She sang beautifully, hoping to draw the Sun to her.
Three days passed into her flight when she heard the answer, the deep rumbling of the Sun, a luminescent orb that shone brightest in all the world, outshining even her plumage. But the Sun heard her song, and felt awed by its beauty and grace.
The Crow sang a gentle melody for the old star. It had been an ageing, lonely entity, but now it found company. In return, the Sun gave the Crow a piece of its warmth, to carry where she willed.
So joyous was the Crow that she thanked the Sun and raced back through the skies. The flame she brought was as blazing as it was brilliant, and left streaks of fire through the nighttime skies. As the torch burnt, though, it crept ever closer to her beautiful plumage.
If she flew too fast in her haste, the fire would go out. If she were too slow, it would burn her away.
Steadfast and loyal to the end, the Crow crossed the skies, back onto the frozen lands. But by then, the ash and embers of the torch had blackened her plumage. In her lungs she found only smoke. As she cried for the bison to see if they had survived, there was no gentle melody in her throat, only a hoarse caw.
When at last she reached the plains, the bison wondered where their friend had gone, for her feathers that once shone bright as the morning star now were as black as night. But their confusion turned to joy and gratitude when they saw the torch burning bright and true.
Together, the Crow and the bison spread warmth throughout the plains. The snow gave way anew to grass growing tall and waters flowing down the creek. Springtime had come, and no longer would the bison suffer.
But it came at a terrible cost. The Crow could no longer sing, her feathers no longer shining beacons in the dark of night over the plains.
The bison’s friend had returned as promised, bringing Winter to an end. So from that day henceforth, they welcomed her all into their stampedes as one of their own.
And when the Sun returned in full, as the light gleamed off the crow’s darkened feathers, they saw that still it shimmered as a rainbow would. A thank you from the Sun, for her loyalty, her friendship, and her song…
* * * * *
“... The End.”
Celestia closed the book. She looked up from it, quietly taking in the sight of her little audience. Soon the first of them cheered, and they were chatting noisily amongst themselves.
“I like that story,” said a pegasus, whispering to a colt next to her. “The Crow sounds really nice.”
“I want to meet a bison!” the colt exclaimed.
“Can I meet the Crow? I’d love to meet her too!”
“Hah! I bet you can’t fly high up enough!”
All around her, more and more of the children spoke up, their voices meshing into excitement. Celestia felt her heart flutter. As this occurred, her eyes fell upon the figure watching them from the shade of a tree, standing just off in the distance.
“Princess?” asked Flake. “Is something wrong?”
Celestia returned her gaze to the children. She reached out and ruffled Flake’s mane. “I’m sorry,” she said, “but I’m afraid that I am needed elsewhere.”
Before she had even moved to leave, the children made their disappointment known.
“Can’t you stay?”
“What happened to the Crow?”
“Don’t go! I don’t want to sleep early...”
Celestia’s eyes met Flake’s. They were wide and pleading. “Please, Princess? It’s still an awfully long time before nightfall.”
How it ached Celestia, answering the little filly in the way that she must. “I truly am sorry, children,” she said, shaking her head. She stood up to her fullest height, her shadow cast over the little ones, enveloping them. “I’ve much to do. But I promise, I shall meet you all at sundown.”
“With the food?” asked the soot-coloured colt.
Celestia laughed. “With the food,” she reassured. “Someone has to make sure it reaches all of you first, right?”
Flake spoke up next. “Won’t you tell us more stories?” she asked. “Please, just one more? We haven’t slept well for ages.”
The answer came readily to Celestia. “Of course, Flake,” answered Celestia, keeping her voice most steady. “There’s so much more left for me to tell. So much more. Now, off you go. Tell your parents that supplies wil be arriving soon.”
It was an answer as good as any, for it was enough.
One by one, the children left her side. They walked in pairs and groups of threes. The last to depart were the soot-coloured colt and Flake, and they chattered excitedly of what they might have for dinner, or whatever stories their Princess might tell them next.
As they headed into the copse, Flake turned to give one last nervous smile, and waved her cap. Celestia just about perceived an excited child’s giggle when she waved back.
And then she stood alone once more. Alone, other than the figure by the tree, and their cohorts.
Flanked by two Vanhoover guards, to the untrained eye, the young pegasus mare may have looked the spitting image of the statue in front of the city hall. But she was a touch smaller, her mane and coat the colour of the falling Autumn leaves – a stark contrast to the dark grey stone of the statue, as well as the cool blue and icy white of her two guards. She herself was unadorned, but a maple-shaped brooch fixed on her mane, tied in a bun, signified her post.
When Celestia strode up to her, the mare inclined her head in a respectful nod. Her eyes were as orange as the Sun once it set, which alas for the children’s sake was some time hence. She spoke, in the refined accent of Vanhoover’s Uptown. “Princess Celestia.”
Contrary to the cold facade on the outside, as reflected in the imposing marble pillars and carved pegasi that decorated the city hall, the Baroness’ office was a cosy little abode. The fireplace may be empty now, but it was no stretch to imagine it spreading warmth with its crackling embers in Winter. The rug beneath Celestia felt soft against her hooves, the wooden floor well-polished.
It was in this sanctuary where Celestia found herself standing before the Baroness. A desk, carved from mahogany, sat in the space between them. Yet the Baroness gave it only a quick glance, and made no move to sit upon the chair of her office.
If the wood beneath Celestia was well-polished, then the mare before her was as rugged as the wild mountain pine. Now dimly lit by the sunlight, Celestia saw her features more clearly. Beautiful orange eyes, marred by the bags beneath them. Feathers from her wings that stuck out of place. Dark stains of waking brew around her muzzle, where she must have dipped it during the long nights of work. Yet she couldn’t have been older than twenty-five, all in all.
A far cry from the stallion whose regal portrait was hung behind her. River Feather. Celestia remembered him well. He’d never been one for the decorum of the gentry, from the scant occasions when he’d visited Canterlot. Neither was his granddaughter, it would seem.
“Leave us,” the Baroness said gruffly. One of the guards opened his mouth, but the Baroness quieted him with a raised wing. “It won’t be long at all. I’ll be alright.”
She shot Celestia a glance. Celestia inclined her head slightly. That sufficed for both guards, on evidence of the fact that with a courtesy nod to their Baroness, they departed, closing the doors behind them.
As soon as the doors latched, the Baroness released a long, heavy sigh. “Apologies,” she said. She pointed at a stack of parchments littering her desk. “I’ve been busy, as you can imagine. Make yourself comfortable.”
Celestia nodded. She sat herself down on the rug, as prim as she could. “It’s quite alright, of course,” she said. “I see you’ve adjusted to your post, Downfeather.”
The Baroness’s ears flicked. “If you can call this adjusting,” she said wryly. “But I do try. Father would be proud.”
“He should be,” Celestia agreed. She cleared her throat. “I’m sorry for your loss, truly. Five years, has it been that long?”
“Don’t be,” the Baroness rebuked. “He did Vanhoover proud, alright. He’d have been the pride of my grandfather. Ursa Majors, who’d have seen them coming this far North?” When Celestia opened her mouth, she looked away, directing her fierce gaze towards the window. “Don’t start now. I know your game.”
Celestia raised an eyebrow. “Game?”
“Win the hearts and minds of the children first, eh? I appreciate the gesture, Princess, but let’s not pretend,” the Baroness clarified, nodding at the window behind her. Down the street, far off in the distance, one could just barely make out the borders of the public gardens. “Clever that. Lowers the guard. Eases trust.”
“Perhaps,” Celestia countered. “But if you didn’t trust me, surely you would not have allowed me into your proud city in the first place, nor led me into this fine office of yours.”
The Baroness let out a resigned chuckle. “What good would barring your entry do? What good would it allow my compatriots if they were to fight to the bitter end against overwhelming odds? Not a risk I’d take.”
She turned away from the window, meeting Celestia’s eyes.
“Now it’s only you and me in here, Your Highness. If I’m to be made an example of, then so be it. But spare them. They were doing their duties to their city,” A pause. She reached up and removed her fine, metallic brooch. “Have you come to punish me then, Your Highness? Send me into exile, or to the dungeons?” she asked, regarding the brooch with forlorn eyes.
“No,” Celestia said firmly, “I only wish to speak, Baroness.” She pointed a wing towards the window. Outside, the afternoon Sun lowered in the sky. “Why all this, then? Why rebellion?”
“Rebellion,” the Baroness repeated quietly. She placed the brooch gently on the table. “So that’s what the good captain told you, is it?”
“Aye. But I wish to hear it from you. Is this true?”
The Baroness turned around. Her youthful face had contorted into a deep frown. “You think we wanted this?” she asked, aghast. “When the ponies of Vanhoover marched on the streets, did you think we wanted to rebel? No. It never was a rebellion. I allowed the march. If they wanted to have their voices heard, then it should be granted. I wanted to know about the Princess of the Night’s fate as much as they did.”
“And the envoy? The one you threw into the river?”
Celestia was answered by a coarse laugh. “That imbecile was sent here to quell ‘disturbances’,” the Baroness said through gritted teeth. “Told everyone to shut it already about Nightmare Moon! That’s not exactly how you go about it in Vanhoover, or anywhere. It gets them antsy. So when he and his entourage tried to… enforce your authority, or so they claimed, and got too hooves-on, we made it clear that Vanhoover remembered her.”
She looked up, and Celestia followed her gaze, pointed at the ceiling. There, she saw it for the first time, the beautifully painted mural of a field of stars, set against a rich night-blue expanse. It was surrounding the Moon, the white surface illuminated by the chandelier at the center of it all.
Celestia let out a laugh.
“W-what’s so funny?” the Baroness asked.
“Nothing,” Celestia replied, with the utmost sincerity, clearing her throat. “Only that if Luna had known how loyal you all are to her memory… perhaps she would not have been so bitter.”
“Are you mocking–”
“No, I am not.” Celestia said ruefully. “I’m sorry. But it has been a very eventful year. And every day I think on how things could have gone differently, every little decision.” She looked back at the Baroness. “If you want to know, then she’s up there. Sealed away after she sought… sought to seize power. All because I could not see her pain, for so long...”
The Baroness’s eyes widened.
“Then why haven’t you brought her back?” she demanded. “Please. Tell us.”
She’d prepared for this, of course. The question she’d dreaded all this time. But it did not prevent the sinking feeling in her gut.
“... I cannot,” Celestia answered, the thin veneer of that mask cracking with each breath taken. “I can’t bring her back, Downfeather.”
“Why not?”
Breathe. In and out. In and out. With shaky hooves, Celestia reached for her saddlebags. Her horn lit up, and the clasp was undone. The sound of cold stones grinding against one another was heard from within, like glaciers against rock.
“When my sister was consumed by the madness, the sickness, I took the Elements,” Celestia said, voice barely above a strangled whisper. “I wished to cleanse her. Bring her back to the light. But I underestimated the Elements. They did not take kindly when I forced Harmony against itself, against its other Bearer.”
Gently, Celestia brought out the Elements of Harmony. She laid them on the rug, letting the Baroness take an eyeful of them. Six stones in all were they. Once so vibrant, now muted and dull as any other quarry rock.
“The Elements…” the Baroness whispered, weakly nudging them with her snout.
“I want her back, Downfeather,” Celestia remarked, steeling herself despite her trembling voice. “I want nothing more than to see her here, safe and sound, with the only family she’s got left. I could reach into the very Moon myself, set her free. But I know that there’s nothing left, nothing but a monster where she stood. And now… now they won’t let me. I broke them, and this is my punishment to bear.”
She let out a bitter laugh. “Perhaps they thought that I would hesitate. That I would welcome her back with open arms, caring little for what she’d turned into. And you know what? They would be right.”
Celestia wiped a few teardrops away. “Now you see, don’t you?” she said, returning the lifeless Elements into the saddlebag. “Nevertheless, it has been a comfort to see you, Downfeather. I shall be on my way. I have a star to lower...”
Giving the Baroness one last proper nod, Celestia hoisted her saddlebags and moved to leave. She paid neither the Baroness nor the mural above so much as another glance, so painfully tight could she feel her chest contract.
“Your Highness, wait,” the Baroness spoke up. Celestia paused in her steps. She glanced back, with a raised eyebrow. Baroness Downfeather bit her lips. “Why the Rainbow Crow?”
She pointed a hoof at the saddlebag. The very top of the picture-book was uncovered, the iridescent water-colour all too evident.
“Truth be told,” Celestia remarked, turning to face the Baroness, “I hadn’t realised Vanhoover’s children needed a story. I brought it as a little light reading. A trip down memory lane.”
“A little light reading,” the Baroness repeated, sighing. “We could use more like it. Few of us have had a good night’s sleep recently. Least of all the children from Low Town.”
Celestia shot the mural a quick glance. “I am sorry. Dreamweaving has always been my sister’s realm, never within my reach.”
“Aye. Grandfather told me before his passing that she came to clear our night terrors after… after the plague,” the Baroness replied, eyes forlorn. “Now… I can’t say I can blame anyone here for finding little reason to go on.”
Celestia nodded. The Plague of Vanhoover remained a dark stain in the city’s hallowed history. She remembered it all too well. News of the dead piling up high, and the risk of it spreading beyond’s Vanhoover’s borders were burned into her memory. So too did the memory of Equinox standing in Court, declaring her intent to visit and assist the city, a visit from whence she did not return.
How Luna could have shouldered the grief and weight in her visits to Vanhoover, in the waking world and the dream realm, Celestia did not know. Perhaps she never would.
A thought passed Celestia’s mind. Her eyes darted from the painting of River Feather, to the Baroness before her.
“What do you know of the Crow, Baroness?” she asked.
“I’ve heard of the tale. My father was well-read, just as he was well-travelled. He told me plenty of stories from beyond our borders.”
“Then would you believe me, Baroness,” Celestia said, feeling a longing smile creep up, “when I say that it was I who first told this legend?”
“... Pardon?”
Celestia let out a melodious chuckle, remembering.
“In my youth,” spoke the Princess of the Sun, “I’d met a very large, very lonely crow in the Great Plains. So often did she try to approach the bison, yet time and again would she retreat, so shy was she. She came to me one day, asking for help in bringing an early Summer when the bison were starving from the cold. So I did. I gave her a lock of my mane, as proof that she’d been the one to ask for it… Actually, Starswirl suggested that gesture. Hah, to be so young and vain...”
She ran a forehoof through her mane. Magical and flowing, beautiful and cursed. It had once been so pink and lush. The Elements had blessed – or cursed – her with a myriad of colours, as she wielded all six at once and embodied Harmony itself. She gave a small sigh.
“Now, I see little reason to be as stingy,” Celestia remarked. “I don’t know, Downfeather. Perhaps now I truly understand the Crow, after so very long. Time gives one perspective, and we are so often defined by the stories we hear. Stories of Firefly and the Rainbow Bridge, already old when I first heard them. Stories of the Princess Equinox, who came forth to cure this city of a plague at the cost of her own life, who stood her ground no matter how much her mother and aunt asked her to return.”
Her eyes drifted to the painting behind Downfeather. Her grandfather looked so much like her.
“But I remember someone else,” Celestia continued. “A dutiful pegasus from faraway Stratusburg by my niece’s side. A brave stallion who risked life and limb to bring her messages to Canterlot and back, who gave her mother peace in knowing her sacrifice. I could go on about River Feather, of heroes of old. Long have they passed, but their legacy remains.”
“Grandfather never liked to talk about Stratusburg,” Downfeather reflected. “Home was here now, he’d tell us.”
“Where he came from matters little,” Celestia retorted. “This nation of ours came together to heal a city’s wound. And you’re as much Vanhoover as any of those children are, Downfeather.”
A golden aura shone, wrapping around the silver maple brooch still lying on the table. It levitated, and Celestia fixed it on the Baroness' mane. Downfeather looked up to her, yet here she might as well have stood on equal footing, with that confident glint returning to her eyes.
“Equestria stands as a nation only by the will of its people,” Celestia said. “Such as it was in the time of the Hearthswarmers and Pillars of Harmony, of Princess Equinox and Baron River Feather, such as it has always been and always will be. There may be those like Ironhoof who'd rather not see it that way, but your path is your own to make. You, and every pony alive.”
“Do you truly think so?” Downfeather asked. “The Elements are gone.”
“But the Hearthswarmers did not need them, and neither shall we,” Celestia replied softly. “No one knows what tomorrow will bring. Not even I. No, not even I… But I have time, and shall see this through. I promise.”
Downfeather reached up to touch her brooch. “Half the country would rather call you Queen Celestia, and so would the foreign traders,” Downfeather said, almost in reverence. “Yet I see now that you’d be the first to turn the title down, Your Highness.”
“To call myself Queen would imply that the seat by my side is empty, forever vacant. It is not. I’m holding onto it until its rightful owner returns.”
“No matter how long it would take?”
“Of course, Baroness,” Celestia said. The Sun’s rays were disappearing over the treetops. The bells at the gates were rung. She wore a forlorn smile. “You showed me it would be worth it.”
* * * * *
There had been much furious activity that followed, Celestia would recall. Sundown brought with it food supplies, just as promised, and just as she ensured it would. She watched the caravans stream in with discipline, before the disbelieving eyes of the assembled townsfolk. There was no trace of Captain Ironhoof, but she found this did not concern her very much. The children of Low Town were brought at the head of the line to feast, bread and water given to them in abundance. Next came their parents, exhausted from days of harsh work. They paid Celestia little mind save a few stolen glances, too busy they were in gathering their share, but only after their children were well-fed.
The children remembered more than food. When all was said and done, when Celestia returned to Equinox’s statue, a larger crowd had gathered there, lit by lanterns and candles. Some, from Uptown in the main, had brought their own books. So she sat down with them, and read aloud with a voice as soothing as the morning breeze.
Firefly. Dream Valley. Reindeer princesses and griffon knights. The Six Hearthswarmers. The Pillars of Old Equestria. Stories from far and wide, all the reaches of the globe. The night went on, yet many children remained around her, listening keenly to the tales she had to tell. They laughed, they cheered, and all was right beneath the Moon.
And when Celestia awoke the next morning to raise the Sun, they were still there, sleeping soundly all around her. Part of her wished she could remain there, full of peace and quiet. But duty called, as it always did. So once she had raised the Sun, and ensured that the children’s parents would be there to collect them, Celestia departed from the gardens.
Most of Vanhoover was awake, and plenty were busy tending to their lives. Celestia could fault them little for that. There was so much to be done, in the days and months and years to follow. Busy as she herself would be, though, she took time to say her goodbyes to those few who did come to see her. Such as the Baroness, still half-asleep from overseeing the supply deliveries, and a little filly who’d trailed her all the way from the statue.
“Will you return?” asked little Flake. “I like hearing your stories. I wish I could read too.”
Celestia shook her head. “I don’t know yet, little one, for there is much to do,” she said. “But know that I shall remember you, and this new story you’ve given me. Take care of your sister and yourself, would you?”
She gave the diminutive filly, now looking rather better-fed a fond tussle of her mane, eliciting a sweet giggle. “I will, Princess! I’ll miss you.”
Celestia gave her and the Baroness, whose eyes were full of reminiscence, one last nod. Hereupon, she went on her way, quiet as a shade.
She spoke no word, left no parting remark, till she met the ferrymare once more.
* * * * *
“You knew,” Celestia said, as the ferry arrived on the opposite bank. “Knew I'd see the statue.”
The ferrymare said nothing at first, busying herself with tying the ferry to the dock. Then she turned her icy blue gaze to Celestia. “Aye,” she answered, “I knew you would. And so would the children see you there.”
Celestia smirked. “Touché,” she remarked. She stepped off the ferry, dusting herself off. Her aura lit up, reaching into her saddlebags.
“In my rush, it seems I’ve forgotten to pay you. I’m sorry.”
The ferrymare shook her head. “Keep it. As I’ve said, only mine duty matters. Don’t fret, Your Highness. What of the children? Are they well?”
Duty. Simple words. Reluctantly, Celestia returned her coins down her saddlebags, regarding the ferrymare with a contemplative gaze.
“They are,” said Celestia, sighing. “As well as they could be. From here on, it’s up to the Baroness.”
“They live a rough life,” the ferrymare added morosely, and Celestia saw no fault in agreeing. “But goodwill and respite are always welcome, Your Highness, and may it bring us all good tidings. Thank you.”
Celestia nodded. “It was the least I could do.”
‘For now,' she thought.
But there remained something to the ferrymare’s accent that gave Celestia pause, just as she prepared to spread her wings. A soothing, warm tone that reminded her so strongly of old forests and forgotten groves. Not as rough-hewn a manner of speech as the children’s, yet neither was it silky-smooth as the Baroness’s refined diction.
“Madam Ferrymare, you aren't from around here, are you now?” asked Celestia, turning to face the ferrymare.
The ferrymare said nothing. Something passed behind those eyes of hers. She pulled her hood back just enough, revealing a youthful, elegant face streaked with sweat and stained with soot. Her mane fell to the side, lush, thick, and skillfully braided.
“Stratusburg, Your Highness,” she answered. She could have been no older than thirty. “Old Baron River Feather was Stratusburg born and bred. I had to see the city he chose to reside in.”
Small world after all. There was indeed a touch of Stratusburg to her accent. Celestia tapped her chin in pondering. “I’d have thought… hmm, Trottingham. A bit far from home, I see.”
The ferrymare shrugged, her hood pulled to cover her face anew. “It's where the heart is.”
And what else could Celestia do, if not let out a hearty chuckle. She gave a respectful nod. “I suppose it is. Live well, Madam Ferrymare. And thank you.”
The ferrymare answered with a nod of her own, and a tiny smile. There was a renewed vigour in those weary, icy blue eyes, one that gave Celestia promise of peaceful days yet to come. “And you too, Your Highness.”
“No, no, that’s quite alright, Mister Bell,” said Celestia. “I’m just about finished for today.”
Putting down her paintbrush, she wiped sweat off her brow. She glanced back at her assistant, smiling softly. “Haven’t you had your rest for today yet? Come now. It’s getting late.”
Serving Bell nodded hurriedly. It’d only been a month or so, but the colt had grown accustomed to his new station in Canterlot Palace.
The door to her study swung open. Greyhoof strode in, taking his steps carefully.
Celestia looked at him. “Greyhoof! So nice of you to join me.” She glanced at Bell. “Go on, Bell. Get your rest, we’ve got a long day tomorrow.”
A hasty ‘thank you’ and deep bow later, Celestia found herself alone with her trusted majordomo. His aged eyes looked warm as ever when he greeted her, with that wizened old voice of his. “That boy’s looking healthier every day. Good evening, Your Highness. I see you’ve been busy.”
Celestia laughed, softly, so softly. “I have, yes…” she said, moving to the side of the painting. “What do you think?”
The watercolour was her largest piece yet, standing nearly as tall as she. And for good reason, too, for the likeness of her family had been difficult to capture. She saw herself standing there at the centre, smiling primly. By her side was Luna, cooler in expression yet calm as the night she heralded. Then there was Radiant Hope, young and sprightly. Lastly, by Radiant’s side, a space upon a blank canvas not fully rendered, was the unfinished silhouette of Princess Amore.
“Oh, it looks quite magnificent, Your Highness,” said Greyhoof, nodding in approval, as he seated himself on the nearest chair. “I must say, fine progress so far. You’ve captured Miss Radiant’s likeness very well.”
Celestia beamed, tapping the canvas. “You flatter me. Oh, and there’s plenty more to come. I’ve still got Equinox and Tranquility, also Orion, to follow. Grandfather and Starswirl and Lady Mistmane too… goodness, so much to do…”
She shook her head, taking the seat opposite Greyhoof. “Any word from Nocturne?”
“He graciously accepts the post,” said Greyhoof, with a knowing look. “The Northern Legion, I’d imagine, would be happy as well. As for Ironhoof… I can’t claim the same, now, can I?”
“Come now,” said Celestia, feeling a touch of mischief, “surely retirement is much appreciated by the good captain?”
“Most amusing, Highness,” Greyhoof deadpanned. Though his expression remained as even as it usually did, Celestia could see the hints of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. She chuckled, setting aside her brush.
“I do try, my friend. Sadly it'll take more than that to sort it all out, all the Ironhoofs our eyes have missed,” Celestia said, sighing. “But that aside, have you given the proposal a lookover?”
“I have, yes,” said Greyhoof, setting down the bound scroll. “Very solid. Velvet has given her approval as well, and so has Feelgood. But Quill is a stubborn fellow as always, I’d imagine. I expect we’d have to coax his word out of him.”
“Oh, I know. But he ought to know it isn’t about what they deserve, it’s about what they need,” Celestia said, tapping the scroll. “I have time, and he does not. Velvet’s say is stronger than his in this matter, no matter how much he’d grumble about it.”
“Then retirement’s out of the question?” Greyhoof asked. There was a twinkle in his eyes. Celestia smirked in turn.
“Of course,” she said. “If I cannot read to the children myself, then I shall teach them how…”
Her eyes fell upon Radiant’s, frozen in the water-colour. She could hear her voice echoing in the Palace hallways, asking her endlessly about the newest spells or the oldest books. A curiosity matched only by her talent. A talent cut all too short, taken by Sombra’s wrath, the very friend she tried so hard to help with all the kindness of her heart.
Celestia wondered how Flake fared these days. How she would fare in a classroom, how many stories she’d be excited to tell herself.
How many children awaited their school gates to be open, for the first time in their lives...
“I do not know how long it shall take,” Celestia remarked wistfully. “Ten, a hundred… nay, a thousand years. But I will be there, every step of the way.”
“You know I wish you all the best, ma’am, and I trust that you’ll do just fine,” Greyhoof reassured, offering her a kind smile. “My only regret is that I won't be there to accompany you.”
“You’ve done so much for my sister and I,” Celestia said, reaching to pat his shoulder. “When the time comes, you’ll have earned that rest.”
Greyhoof let out a coarse, weary laugh. “Only after you have as well, Your Highness.”
Celestia said nothing to that. The Elements had remained just as inert as it was that very night, no matter how much she tried to bring them out of dormancy with every spell she knew.
Still, she kept mum. She cleared her throat, nudging the scroll.
“Tomorrow’s meeting, then, for the proposal,” said Celestia. “Ten o’clock, sharp. You need your rest, Greyhoof.”
“I shall be there,” said Greyhoof, nodding primly. “Take care.”
“I will,” said Celestia. Then her glance fell onto the saddlebags he carried, and she recalled the book she gave to him shortly after her return, alongside the bags he lent her. “Oh, Greyhoof? How does your granddaughter find The Rainbow Crow?”
Greyhoof’s face lit up, even as he kept his tone even and a touch playful. “Marvellous, of course. She wants to know the author better. Personally, between you and me, Your Highness, I do wonder if she’s written more.”
Celestia’s smile was calm and serene. “Perhaps she has. Goodnight, Greyhoof.”
“Goodnight, Your Highness.”
The door swung shut. Quietly, Celestia blew the air from her lips, again wiping away the sweat off her brow. She returned to her seat, swivelling around to take in the sight of the great water-colour painting, and the mare she’d taken the greatest of care in drawing.
Soft. Elegant. But her smile was the greatest lie here. Luna had little reason to smile, not when she’d lost so much, and gained so little from all the time they’d stood together side by side.
Tearing her sorrowful gaze away from the painting, Celestia saw the ornate quill of office and ink-pot she’d set aside, and the parchment that accompanied it.
Until now, she hadn’t yet considered writing for a larger audience. The Rainbow Crow had been just that – a passion project, something she’d done to pass the time over long hours of work. But the children had laughed, cheered, and begged her for more.
And time was on her side, just this once, when she had countless lifetimes’ worth to tell.
Sparing her sister’s likeness one final glance, Celestia pressed her favourite quill against the parchment, and she began to write.
Once upon a time, flowed the words, in the magical land of Equestria…
* * * * *
“...The End.”
“Wow,” Luna said, her eyes wide, illuminated by the candlelight. She held onto her blanket tighter. “Did you really do all that?”
“Pff, well, of course! Why else would I be telling you?” Celestia replied, giggling. She flicked her mane aside, showing a few locks shorter than the rest of it, “See? You can ask Starswirl if you don’t believe me.” She gave Luna a sly glance. “Or you can go on your own and ask the crow yourself,” she teased, in a sing-song voice. “When you’re ooooldeeer~”
The freckles on Luna’s cheeks darkened adorably. Celestia tapped Luna’s nose, laughing happily as her sister tried and failed to grab onto her hoof.
“Now you’re just showing off,” Luna said, pouting. “But you are really good with stories, Tia… Maybe you should write instead.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Celestia replied, shrugging. “It’s nothing much. Just a little way to pass the time. You know I have more important stuff to do.”
“Nyeh, that wasn’t nothing,” Luna said, rolling her eyes. “I liked it!”
“Of course you do, Little Moon,” said Celestia, ruffling Luna’s mane despite her protests. “Now, goodnight, and don’t forget to practice your… uh, moon-raising. Sleep tight!”
She blew the candle, and hopped off the bed. A midnight snack would do just fine, no matter how much Starswirl chided her for emptying the pantry once every so often.
“Awww. Come on, Tia,” Luna whined. “You’ve been so busy with Starswirl everyday. Can’t you tell me one more story? Pleeease?”
Part of Celestia wanted to tell her then and there, that time was a luxury, that the crowns they were to wear in a few years’ time had no care for such petty frivolousness. They’d stand tall and proud, Princesses of All Equestria, and together they were to lead.
But that was Starswirl talking. And Luna was here, looking up to her with eyes filled with youthful wonder and awe and all the love a little filly could ever have.
The candle lit up once more. Celestia sat back down on the bed. Luna’s smile grew wider, and she let out a cheerful giggle.
“Alright Luna,” said Celestia, with a smile as gentle and kind as she could muster, running a forehoof through her little sister’s mane. “One more story.”
