Prologue : What Once Was Old

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Duggly stared dumbly at his claws, frowning down at the large chip missing from the second one on his right paw. Duggly was confused. He knew that chips happened when you did your digging, every dog knew that. That was part of being a dog.

You dug your dirt, and you dug your rocks, and little chips would happen, and then bigger chips would happen, and eventually your claw might crack, just a bit, at the tip. Then you’d have to worry the thing between your teeth, and after a while more claw would grow out, and you’d be fine again. But it was supposed to go from little chips to big, not the other way around.

Duggly looked up, studying the rough, crumbly surface before him. Further down the rocky tunnel, the crunkly, crackly, wonderful sound of his packmates digging echoed up to him, making the dim light of the crooked, dirt strewn corridor he’d been excavating seem more friendly. Reaching a large paw out, he slowly wiped at the pebble filled dirt of the wall where he’d stopped, causing it to break away and shower down around his feet. Beneath his paw he saw strange stone.

This caused even more confusion, and Duggly leaned in to sniff at the offending grey substance. Nose wrinkling, causing his short, bulldog like muzzle to wrinkle in turn, he smelled earth, and crumbles of granite, and tiny bits of sandstone, and the rough smell of the little pebbles. And beneath all of that...an off smell. Not wrong, so much as unfamiliar.

He snorted, then sneezed, and then began knocking more of the dirt away. Eventually he was left with a wall of mostly smooth, greyish stone spanningthe entire width and breadth of the passage, which slanted up and away from him slightly. Hesitantly, he reached out, dragging a single claw across its surface with a dull scritching noise. Pulling his paw away, he squinted in the dim light, able to just barely make out a faint mark he'd left behind. He looked at his claw, and saw an alarming number of chips, and what could be the start of a crack. He snorted again, this time thoughtfully, and settled back on his haunches, idly scratching beneath his tattered vest, his mind slowly working over the conundrum, like a youngin’ working over a stick-toy.

All dogs were taught about the Engi. The Engi was inside them, it came from them, especially their claws, and was what let dogs dig rock and dirt like they were nothing. Engi let dogs eat what they ated, and drink what they dranked, and breath the dust and dirt and thin air of the deep tunnels, even when it got so hot they panted.

When the Engi broke, claws cracked and teeth snapped, and dogs couldn’t breath so well in the long tunnels that stretched way underground. And the only time the Engi got broke, was…

Duggly’s eyes widened, followed by a sharp intake of breath. “...Magi…” he murmured, almost fearfully. He stood tall, taking an involuntary step backwards before regaining control of himself.

All dogs were taught about the everfight between Magi and Engi, and while they fought, claws were just claws, and teeth were just teeth. A whimper started in the back of his throat, but he forced it down, consciously straightening his ears and making them stand tall again when he noticed they were scared, too.

He was a big dog afterall, not some frightened pup, listening to the rock groans during sleep time and thinking them monsters.

Big dogs knew that the Engi and Magi could only fight so long as he was touching the Magi. It couldn’t jump from the odd stone into his body, he’d have to eat it for that to happen. Duggly wasn’t the smartest in his pack, but he knew better than to try to eat the Magi Thing, knew better than to let it inside him, to fight and kill his Engi. He wouldn’t become one of the lop-paws, only good for digging squat holes in the soft earth near the surface.

Looking to his left, he spotted a large piece of sedimentary rock embedded in the uneven wall of the tunnel, and reached out almost casually to swipe at it with his claws, reassurance flowing through him like cool water on a hot day when they sliced through the rock with little effort. Feeling better, he took two tentative steps towards the off-stone, gingerly brushing away more of the enclosing dirt. The stone was unnaturally smooth, with strange, straight lines etched into it at regular intervals. As he uncovered more of it, he saw that there were other things. Odd circles that looked like someone had painted really large, rusting nailheads the same grey as the rock, and strange bulgy protuberances that rose at odd angles out of the continuous surface.

Duggly fell back to pondering, rubbing a pad absently against the stone.

Ponies used the Magi when they made stuff, and sometimes they liked to leave the Magi in the stones they worked to make their dens on the surface. Sometimes, he’d been told, they even made statues out of the odd Magi stone, but only statues of their enemies. Which was confusing , why would you ever want something like that? Frowning, he gave his head a quick shake to knock his thoughts back in place.

There shouldn’t be any pony things this far out though. His pack was deep in the badlands, and ponies liked to do their building in their kingdom. Ponies didn’t like the badlands, even if they occasionally traveled through them.

Running a finger along one of the etched lines, following it to where it intersected another one and formed a corner, he stopped, frowning at some markings he spied there. They looked like letters, but the more he frowned at them the more he was sure they weren't pony letters. Like the etched lines and the straight rows of little rusty circles painted grey, the letters were too straight and neat, nothing like the dumb, soft curvy letters used by dumb, soft, round ponies. Duggly had seen some pony books once, and the markings in them had looked nothing like the ones carved into the odd rock.

Stepping back once more, Duggly frowned into the middle distance, mind trying valiantly to put the pieces in front of him together. The stone barrier was not normal rock, it was Magi, and it had marks he hadn’t seen before. They were digging around the base of the jagged, black rock mountains in the badlands, far, far away from the pony kingdom. Ponies in the badlands pulled carts through the area, or carried bags. They didn’t stay any longer then they had to,, certainly they didn't build in the badlands, and they especially didn’t build so far underground.

“...so not pony.” He mumbled to himself. One large paw came up to rub absently at an ear. He supposed it could be bird worked stone, or cow, but if the ponies were rare out here, the other two were almost unheard of. Only bugs and dogs were brave enough to stay in the badlands, and bugs used black yuck for their building.

Duggly scowled at the smooth, grey surface that put him in mind of dark marble, or building thunderheads. “If not pony, not bug, then...what?” He mumbled, scowl deepening. He was pulled from his slow, methodical musing by the patter of another dog, padding up the tunnel towards him.

“Dug Dug Duggy!” the newcomer almost yelled, the excitement of youth carrying his voice up and down the tunnel, its echoing returns distorting the words. “What’cha doin Duggy?”

“Not Duggy. Duggly.” Duggly emphasized, irritation blossoming in his breast. He turned to look at the newcomer, eyes sweeping over the broad shoulders and wagging tail of Rockter. Just past his puphood, this was Rockter’s first real dig, and his enthusiasm could either be enjoyable, or insufferable. Oftentimes it was both.

“Sorry Duggy.” Rockter answered, ears drooping a little. They immediately sprang back upright again a moment later, and he panted, smiling broadly. “What’cha doin?” His brown eyes swept past Duggly and alighted on the dark, slate colored stone that blocked the passage. “Ohh, what’s that?”

“Dunno...” Duggly replied, watching Rockter as he reached out to lay a paw on the strange surface. He waited a moment, letting the younger dog lean in close for a sniff, resting his weight against the stone to almost touch his nose to it. “...is magi, though.” He smiled widely, chuckling in a chuffing, snorty sort of way as Rockter scrambled back from the Magi Thing, ears flat and eyes wide with panic.

“Duggy!” Rockter hissed, taking several large steps backwards, eyes as wide as they could go. “Get away!”

Now Duggly laughed out loud in large, explosive, bark-like bursts, head thrown back and eyes squeezed tightly closed. After several seconds he managed to calm himself, swiping at his eyes with the back of one paw as the echo's of his mirth returned, distorted from their trip down the tunnel. His earlier, similar reaction was already forgotten.

“Easy pup. Magi’s not chasin’ you.” Breathing in deeply and releasing it in a gust, he sobered quickly, face growing serious. Looking at Rockter with a stern expression, he pointed one meaty paw at the dark grey stone. “Don’t eat.” Rockter may have been annoyingly cheerful at times, but he was still new, and as an older dog it was Duggly’s job to teach him to be safe.

Gulping, Rockter nodded solemnly, eyes still wide. “Okay Duggy.” With tentative steps, he reapproached the stone. Glancing at Duggly, who nodded reassuringly in return, he gingerly placed the pads of his paw against the surface, marveling at the silky-smooth texture. He prodded the weird, round depressions, and traced his fingers along the straight line carvings, lingering over the unfamiliar script. He glanced up again. “Pony?”

Shaking his head slowly, Duggly reached out his own paw, idly rubbing the stone. “No, not pony.” He dropped his paw, and looked at his younger compatriot. “Go, get Sandy. Tell her…” He trailed off, jaw working back and forth like he was working meat from a bone. “Jus’ tell her to come.”

Squatting back onto his haunches, he returned to his contemplation of the smooth, dark grey, very off rock, one ear flicking absently as it tracked Rockter’s departure, picking out the diminishing sound of his paws as he jogged back down the tunnel.

Further down the rough corridor, unseen by Duggly, another dog watched quietly from a shadowy alcove. It was a youngin’, and thus, smaller than its fellows. It moved awkwardly at times as it did its digging, almost as if unsure of how to operate its own scrawny body. Most of the pack tended to avoid it, thinking it had a 'wrong smell’ and was somehow ‘broken’.

None were around now though, and so none could witness the calculating expression on it’s short-furred face, nor the subtle flash of green that briefly illuminated it’s otherwise dull looking eyes. It watched Duggly for a moment longer, gangly arms swaying forgotten at its sides, and then turned to slink quietly back up the tunnel with an awkward, almost pained gait, ducking into a side passage where it disappeared into the dark gloom.

Chapter 1 : Settling In

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Ryan blinks awake slowly, the handsomely dressed, well-fitted stone of the ceiling becoming clearer in the dim, grey light of morning as his vision gradually focuses. He stares at it dumbly for a time, his thoughts a sluggishly churning morass, finding the sight to be both jarringly out of place, yet comfortingly familiar. His grainy eyes trace idly along the lines of mortar between the stones as he waits for his brain to reconcile the two opposing feelings, stray thoughts surfacing in his mind like large fish in a silted pond, never quite breaching the muddied water’s surface enough to make out clearly.

He breaths evenly, and wonders why his nose can’t pick up the tell-tale scent of coffee brewing. It felt like he had slept late, which meant that one or both of the girls should have been up already. They were as adamant about coffee as their father, which meant it was always the first thing to get done in the morning. He wonders, with a bleary sort of vagueness, if they may have stayed up late watching one of their shows again.

He’ll have to mention that to them. Mostly grown or not he was still their Dad, and even if he’s not quite the towering figure of central authority in their lives that he was when they were smaller, he still has wisdom to bestow. He muses tiredly, trying to figure out the least intrusive way to bring it up, and then he remembers he’s supposed to sand and seal the porch railing today. He’ll likely need their help for that, many hands (or in this case, horns) make light work after all. Maybe that's when he can drop some Daddly proverbs about the importance of a consistent sleep schedule.

They’ll roll their eyes and huff about how they’re grown ups now, and he’ll smile and nod and not take it personally. He’s pretty sure they can’t help that sort of reaction. It’s likely hardwired into all young people who treat with their elders. It sure was for him at their age, at any rate. Afterwards they can go to Mike and Miguel’s for lunch. He smiles at the idea, all but tasting the sandwich already. Then his brow beetles in a frown.

They can’t help him with the porch until after his meeting with the Duchess though. Good Lord, he can’t believe he almost forgot that. Her trip from the capital city of Aerelon, not normally a short trek to begin with from what he understands, had been beset by early winter storms out of the Spineback Mountains. As a result it had taken nearly twice as long as it would have otherwise. She’ll need a proper reception once she gets to the castle, Duchess Vantrillant was an important diplomatic contact after all, and as both Tia and Luna were cloistered with the Zebrican and Minotaur envoys at the moment, it falls to him to see to it.

As an Archduke and Royal Advisor, he had both the station and title to avoid insulting the normally acerbic griffoness. This being his first Big Diplomatic Thing, and the capital letters are audible in his mind, he really doesn’t want to screw it up and let the girls down. Idly, Ryan wonders if Duchess Vantrillant would be more likely to enjoy the meatball or jalapeno-fire sub from the place in town. She’d surely be hungry after such a long trip, and his truck is a comfortable ride. It’d probably blow her away how quickly and smoothly they could travel in it, which could help smooth over any ruffled feathers he might accidently cause.

Just as Ryan’s figuring out how he would get the duchess's awkward shape belted into the truck for the short drive to the sandwich shop - the girls would just fly, naturally - his brain finally gets its act together enough for him to come to a more useful level of wakefulness. He sits upright with a tired sigh, subs and trucks and happy griffon diplomates fading into the soft static of first thing in the morning consciousness. White silken sheets and a maroon duvet spill around his waist as he scrubs at his hair with one hand. Squinting at the blue-grey light filtering around the edges of the charcoal colored drapes across the room, he rubs his eyes vigorously.

Trying to get his thoughts into some semblance of order, he sighs again, his mind finally shifting from a confusing blend of past-and-present and fully into the here-and-now. Waking up like this has become common for him over the past few months, almost depressingly so. He’d come out of a dead sleep, and for a time his brain couldn’t figure out where, or even when he was. He’d remember three things he forgot to do yesterday, and then realize yesterday was actually a couple of millennia ago. He’d wake up with something to add to his shopping list - more oranges, replacement batteries, wood sealant - only to belatedly remember that the grocery store no longer existed, and literally hadn’t for a historical length of time.

One morning he’d awoken with some theme song looping endlessly through his muddy thoughts. Following in the worst tradition of ear worms, it was persistent and of vague, almost-remembered origins. It was only after he’d figured out which search phrase would net him the best results from Google that he’d finally remembered that there was no Google anymore, no internet to search, not even their old collection of DVD’s in the dusty box in his closet that he could rummage through in hopes that one of them would shake the name loose.

That particular time had left him grumpy and sour for half the day. It was like some bastardized form of jetlag that kept jumping out at him first thing in the morning. Reality-lag, he supposes. Whatever you called it though, it always left him feeling off kilter and out of place, at least for the beginning part of his day. As the only overly titled, overly tall biped living in a castle full of colorful ponies, he’s already out of place, and doesn’t need nor appreciate any extra help in that regard. The girls don’t experience it, so far as he knows, but then again the house and television shows and Mike and Miguel’s, and just the minutiae of their day-to-day lives, was all ancient history for them. For him, it was just a few weeks ago. Almost close enough, in his mind at least, to reach out and touch.

Climbing out of bed, Ryan yawns hugely, before walking to the standing armoire to snag out his robe. Just as he finishes tying it closed over his silk pajamas, he hears a light knocking from the bedroom door. He calls out something that sounds close enough to ‘come in’ for his purposes, his sleep-roughened voice echoing back strangely from the stone walls of the bedchamber.

With a click the polished slab of dark oak swings silently open, revealing a dusky pink unicorn. The drapes on the east facing windows in the antechamber behind her are open, admitting the warm, mellow early morning sun.

“Good morning sir.” Felicity Rose calls out, her tone a match for the warm, mid-spring sunshine streaming into the room behind her. The rising sun highlights her platinum mane, and throws a little pinprick off the corner of her silver wireframe glasses. Floating beside her is a softly steaming cup. She squints at him across the darkened bedroom, before floating the finely wrought porcelain to his right hand. With a flash of her horn, the drapes opposite the bed draw back, banishing the cool, inviting dimness of the chamber.

Screwing his eyes closed, Ryan yawns again behind his fist. Blinking several times, he stifles a weary groan. “Morning Felicity.” Glancing at the cup in his hand, he raises it, inhaling the fragrant steam as it rises above the gold accents that chase each other around the white porcelain rim. He frowns at it briefly, and with a small shake of his head takes the first sip. “Thank you for the tea.”

Felicity nods at him, before trotting into the room. “You look like you could use it, sir.” Giving him a sidelong glance, Ryan’s Chamberlain makes her way over to the small table tucked beneath the window, setting her saddle bags beneath it before claiming one of the two plush chairs situated there. Her horn glimmers again, and her bags flip open, several sheafs of parchment floating up and out.

Taking another sip of tea, Ryan grimaces as he moves to take the seat opposite her, settling with a grunt. He rubs his eyes tiredly, and takes a third, longer sip, fighting to keep a grimace from his face, lest his Chamberlain think something was wrong with his tea. Something is wrong with his tea, but it’s nothing she can do anything about.

It’s not that Ryan dislikes tea, he actually quite enjoys it on occasion. Tea has many wonderful qualities that he can appreciate. The one thing he does not appreciate about it though, is the fact that it’s not coffee, and no amount of doctoring will change that. There is no coffee in the castle. Or the city. To Ryan’s knowledge, coffee isn’t a known beverage within Equestria or, apparently, the world at large.

Paradoxically, the impossibility of coffee seemed to make Ryan want it more than ever, which has led to a slowly building resentment of tea as a substitute for his morning pick-me-up. Tea tried, and Ryan tried, but in the end it just wasn’t the same. He’d spoken to both Tia and Luna about it on several occasions. They told him that Equestria wasn’t tropical enough for coffee beans to grow in the first place, just as Nevada hadn’t been tropical enough back in the day. For now, at least, Ryan is stuck with tea.

Pretending to shuffle several parchments and assorted documents, her own cup of tea steaming lazily on the table, Felicity eyes Ryan over the rims of her glasses for a moment, silently watching for the little tells and facial cues that mean the Archduke is present enough to begin. He has a lot on his plate today, and though she’d love to be able to give him more time to wake up, maybe even have some breakfast before they begin, they have a literal pile of papers to get through.

Fortunately, after just two more sips of the steaming beverage grasped in his odd, delicate looking hands, she notices the frown lines around his eyes begin to fade, his shoulders dropping into a more relaxed posture. When he sits up straighter and stops frowning at his beverage, she knows she’s good to start. Clearing her throat, she separates the top document out, while placing the rest of the stack on the table.

“I have your itinerary for today, sir.” She glances down at the paper, more for effect than to actually read it. She made the itinerary after all, and knows it by heart. “First on the agenda is a taxation meeting with the upper nobility. In attendance will be…” She trails off as a hand snags the parchment from her pinkish magical aura.

Settling back into his seat with a grunt, Ryan cocks an eyebrow at her. “I don’t know why you still pretend to read any of this. We both know you have it all memorized.” Ryan throws her a crooked, but still tired smile, before his eyes begin trailing down the page in his hand.

Felicity strives to keep a neutral expression, but ends up grinning good naturedly anyway. Just a bit, at any rate. “It’s all part of the job, sir. At least half of the duties of being a Chamberlain is keeping up appearances.”

“I’ll bet.” Ryan replies distractedly, eyes picking over the curly-cue Equestrian script. Weeks and weeks of intensive study and review haven’t made him proficient in written or spoken Equestrian, but it has brought him far enough along to be able to stumble through the language. At least for the most part. He still carries the translation amulet from his first days in this odd, wonderful world, but as time goes on he has been delighted to find less and less use for it. “Which council is this meeting part of, Taxation or Economics?”

“It’s not part of a council, per se.” She glances into her saddle bags, fishing out an errant page from the bottom. “Although Lord Buckley is second seat on the Taxation Council.” Flipping her bags closed with a satisfied smile, she looks across the table at her strange charge. “This morning’s meeting is at Lord Buckley’s request.”

Frowning, he re-reads the first entry on his itinerary. “This is with Lord Buckley, Lord Swift Deposit and Lady BrandyWine?” He frowns at the words, as though hoping he got it wrong. He glances up at Felicity, who returns a sympathetic nod. Huffing in irritation, he looks back down at the parchment. “And it’s not a regular council meeting, which means that Buckley and his two friends want something.” He lowers the sheaf of paper with a long suffering sigh. “Gee, I wonder what it could be.”

Felicity stifles a giggle, hiding it behind a sip of her own steaming beverage. “Why ArchDuke Williams,” she sets the tea cup gently on the table, allowing her professional mask to slip a bit, the wry look she shoots Ryan's way highlighted by the sun glinting off the frames of her glasses. “Are you implying that Lord Buckley would use his position as second seat on a very important and influential council to benefit himself and his associates?”

“Harrumph” Ryan harrumph’s in answer, frowning down at the table. “Second seat. More like almost-seat.” He shifts his frown to his tea, the blameless beverage a temporary focus for his ire. “Ol’ Bucky has been trying to shoulder his way into a first seat at that particular table since Luna decided to do the tax-thing and formed the damned council.” Deciding his tea has faced enough judgement for the moment, Ryan lifts his irritated gaze to meet his Chamberlin’s amused smirk. She tries her damnedest to hide it, but she always seems to enjoy it when he levels his aggravation at members of the nobility.

The ‘tax thing’ was the long-planned overhaul to the tax regulations specifically set in place for the capital city. This was, in turn, part of a larger plan to overhaul the Equestrian tax system as a whole, something Luna was hell bent on accomplishing. Unfortunately, she also seemed hell bent on including her father in the proceedings, an honor about which Ryan was less than enthused. Even worse, it seemed to attract every two-bit, sleazy, underhanded noble with half a mind to try to game the system, and as the new Royal Advisor, they all seemed to unerringly zero in on him with their scheming.

Ryan returns his gaze to the paper, mumbling under his breath. Lord Buckley and his, in Ryan’s opinion at least, ridiculously silly name had been trying to inveigle themselves into any number of Councils for the last three months. Of the six that Ryan was currently head of, thanks in large part to Celestia and Luna’s busy schedules of late, Buckley had attempted to get himself or one of his cronies on all of them at least once. Except for the Royal Privy Council. Lord Buckley had tried to gain a first seat on that particular council no less than five times now.

Felicity watches Ryan as he mutters at the paper, the amusement in her expression fading into a gentle sort of alarm as Ryan turns a considering look her way. It’s a look she’s grown familiar with over the last few months acting as his Chamberlain. Two parts mischief, and one part pure-bull stubbornness. Absently, she notes that it’s a look she’s seen both Princesses wear at times, usually when they were about to put some obstinate, upstart noble in his or her place.

“Say, Felicity...”

She looks a question at him, and he nods towards the stack of parchment beside her.

“I have a lot going on today, right?”

Felicity nods, glancing down at the stack of papers. “You do, sir. You have meetings with several Councils today. Then there’s the special cases that can’t be arbitrated by the functionaries filling in at Court.” She gestures towards the bottom of the itinerary he’s long since laid on the table. “Plus, you have to welcome the Duchess when she arrives from Aerelon this evening.”

Ryan makes a show of considering for a moment, one hand absently rasping across the stubble on his chin. “That is a lot to do.” He grins at Felicity, who returns a carefully neutral look. “So, I suppose it would be completely within the realm of possibility that I simply can’t make the meeting with Buckley and his friends.”

“I don’t think they’ll...appreciate that, sir.” Felicity glances away, striving to maintain her professionalism. She can’t help the crinkling at the corners of her eyes, however, which betray the smile that’s trying to form on her muzzle. “Although, given the current circumstances, I’m sure they’ll see how it could happen.” Regaining her composure, she gives him her best, most professional face. “Shall I inform Lord Buckley that the ArchDuke regrets that he cannot attend the requested meeting this morning?”

Ryan shrugs, reaching over and taking the next three papers from the stack. “That depends. How was Bucky when he made the request?”

“Lord Buckley was very…” She falters, trailing off when Ryan gives her a stern, searching look. With a sigh, she lets her carefully maintained, business-like façade drop, her ears drooping. “He was insufferable, as usual.”

Ryan nods knowingly. “Send a messenger with my ‘sincerest regrets’. What time is the meeting again?”

“Seven-thirty, sir.” Felicity answers, eyeing the silver inlaid barrel clock ticking quietly on the nearby dresser.

Ryan grins. “Send the messenger at eight, if you please.”

Felicity can’t stop an answering grin from forming, as she levitates her quill and ink set from her saddle bags. She knows that part of her duty is to play the stoic assistant, to wear an air of equanimity while around her charge in all things, at all times. She tries, heavens help her she does, and much of the time she’s successful, but sometimes she just can’t help herself with the new Royal Advisor. She finds him just too easy going, and genuinely likable to boot. He seems to abhor the politics and backbiting that seem to occupy so much of the nobility, and has very little patience for it. It makes for a very...refreshing change, from the average, stuck up nobles she’s accustomed to. “As you say, ArchDuke.”

Taking a moment to recompose herself, she deftly crosses out the meeting from the ArchDukes itinerary, making a note next to the entry.

Stretching, Ryan gestures with the papers in his hand. “Alright, let’s finish going over this before I end up running late.”

Iron Hooves was a pony at odds with his own name, and had always been keenly aware of this fact. The moniker evoked images of hard working, rough-and-tumble stallions; rail workers, black smiths, rock punchers, and, in his own timid daydreams at least, high ranking members of the Royal Guard. Knights even. Ponies who could handle any situation that presented itself with a sort of stoic, hard-bitten competence. Ponies to whom others turned when things got out of hand. Tall, imposing, solid ponies, who projected strength and confidence as naturally as breathing.

Iron was short for a stallion, and tended naturally to run more towards pudge than muscle. He had trouble lifting heavy objects, and became winded easily. He was acutely afraid of spiders, snakes and geese. Anything larger than himself made him unaccountably nervous, and as a result of his smaller stature, he was nervous quite a lot. Once, as a colt, a braver playmate of his had fallen out of a tree and broken his leg. Upon seeing the unnatural angle of his friend’s leg and how it was bleeding, Iron had promptly fainted on the spot.

Iron Hooves had learned the definition of the word irony at a much younger age than his peers.

Now, as he sits on a plush, overstuffed seat in the large, well appointed office, he feels even smaller than ever. The entire room seems designed to loom over him, a giant edifice crafted from finely appointed furniture and clean, well-fit stones. From the towering, well polished bookshelves on his right, to the gleaming wooden cabinets that frame an arching, floor to ceiling window on his left, it’s almost like the room has been specifically created to make him feel tiny.

His eyes bounce nervously from the well-worn books to the high, arched ceiling to the stately rug on the floor, before settling on the oversized desk before him. An expanse of dark, polished wood, inlaid with gold and silver accents, it seems almost ridiculously large. Papers, quills, and various items sit neatly organized, framing the large, red velvet seat back that rises from the other side. Lifting his eyes further, he studies the ornate badge of office affixed in the center of the wall, high above the seat where it is easily visible to anyone entering the room.

A stylized shield, outlined in gleaming silver chased with gold filigree. The face of the thing is split vertically, one side a deep, midnight blue, the other a lustrous white. Set next to each other, each in its respective color, are two familiar symbols; a crescent moon, and a wavy-rayed sun. The new badge of office of the Royal Advisor to the Crowns.

Iron shudders slightly as he pulls his gaze from the symbol. The new Advisor was the subject of much discussion and rumor, both in the castle and around the capitol city. It was said to be a giant, a towering creature of immense strength. Some whispered that it had escaped from Tartarus, and had devoured whole towns on its way to Canterlot. Others claimed it had powerful mental abilities, able to enthrall ponies with a glance. Still other, more quiet mutterings, said that it had been conjured by the Princesses themselves to punish the unworthy.

Iron was afraid of many things, but even he had trouble believing some of the more sinister rumors. Many of them seemed to contradict themselves, and despite his nervousness he has trouble believing that the new Royal Advisor could have enslaved the two diarchs with his mind powers, or could divine a ponies thoughts and fears with just a glance. He certainly didn’t think the Princesses would allow a monster to stay in the castle if it made a habit out of eating ponies that displeased it.

At least not after the first couple of times it happened.

Taking a deep breath to calm himself, he tries to lean back in his smaller yet still comfortable seat, exhaling slowly as warm afternoon sunlight streams in through the impressive windows. He shifts, and then begins shuffling his parchements, checking that everything is in order. It’s the tenth time he’s checked his paperwork since the pretty pink unicorn with the glasses ushered him into the office. He takes another deep breath, blowing it back out into the cavernous room, trying to stoke his confidence.

The massive door behind him opens with an audible creak, heavy foot falls transitioning from naked stone floor to plush carpet. Iron Hooves tenses, his eyes going wide. A voice calls out, and his breath catches.

“Good afternoon. Sorry for the wait.”

A tall, lanky being walks past his chair on two long legs, his robes of office flowing behind his quick stride. Iron watches, breath locked in his throat, as the creature rounds the immense desk and settles into the chair behind it. Once seated, the being makes the desk, chair, and overall size of the chamber seem normal. This makes Iron feel positively miniature by comparison.

Picking up a stack of parchment, the Royal Advisor begins paging through them with odd looking, spindly claws, his strangely flat, slightly wrinkled face contorted into an expression of concentration as he searches for something in the bundle. Muttering, the Royal Advisor’s eyes widen slightly, finely lined skin edging the small, brown orbs, resting above a mild smile. “Ah, here we go.”

Iron swallows, quietly releasing a breath he didn’t know he was holding. The ArchDuke peruses the parchment for a moment, Iron able to make out the embossed seal on his application. Clearing its throat, the being looks up and his smile grows larger.

“So, Mr. Hooves, you want to open a bakery.” The ArchDuke frowns for a moment, eyes returning to study the document. “No, you tried to open a bakery, in a…’historically significant building’, but your permit was later denied.” Glancing up for confirmation, Iron nods hesitantly, and the Royal Advisor begins reading again. “It says here that you want to...recover?” He scowls at the paper, the thin lines around his eyes and mouth etching deeper as his eyes crawl over the page. “Yes, recover important equalization...no, equipment…”

He frowns harder, eyes picking over the writing for a few more moments, and then with a huff, the Royal Advisor drops the paperwork on his desk, scowling at the sheet before pinning Iron Hooves with eyes full of piercing scrutiny. “What exactly is it you’re want to do, Mr. Hooves?”

Iron freezes, swallowing awkwardly with a throat that feels lined with dusty stone. “I, uh...I’m wanting to recover my tools and equipment, your Grace.”

The ArchDuke gazes at him, brow beetling a bit. “You left your baking equipment in the building? Mr. Hooves, not to sound callous, but you should have removed your belongings when you received the notice stating that your permit had been denied.” His brows lower further as he studies the small pony in the large chair. “My understanding of the process is that you should have received the notice four days before you were required to vacate the premises.”

Iron gazes downwards, hooves fidgeting with each other. It’s a bad habit, fidgeting. His mother always told him so, and he hates when he does it. Sometimes though he can’t stop himself. “I didn’t receive the notice, your Grace. Not until after they locked me out.”

He hazards a glance across the desk, meeting the quizzical look on the Royal Advisors face. “After they locked you out of the building?”

With an effort Iron stills his hooves, making himself stop. “Yes, your Excellency. I spent all day cleaning and making repairs, and locked up for the night.” He begins speaking faster, eyes fixed on the ArchDukes robes, trying to get the story out before his nerve breaks. “When I came back the next morning, three guards were blocking the entrance. They gave me the notice that my permit had been canceled and wouldn’t let me in. Said they were ordered so. Said anything left inside was confiscated by the building’s owner and would be sold.” Letting out a shuddery breath, Iron gazes down, fighting to keep his ears from laying back as he studies the mellow gleam of the polished desktop.

His eyes grow moist, and he makes an effort not to mumble. His mother always told him mumbling was bad manners. "The baking tools belonged to my grandmother, my Lord." He sniffs once, attempting to do so quietly and failing. "They're all I have from her."

The chair across from him creaks, and when he finally looks up, he’s startled to see the towering figure leaning towards him over the desk. It rests its elbows on the glossy wood, studying Iron with a frown.

“They locked you out before they served you notice that your permit had been denied?”

Iron gulps once, nodding. The ArchDuke sits back, grabbing the stack of parchments from it’s desk and paging through them. It draws two from the stack and sets them side-by-side, comparing them. It points to one, looking up at Iron Hooves from beneath lowered brows.

“This is your original application, correct?”

Iron leans forward to glance at the paper and nods, watching the blunt-tipped appendage move towards the other paper.

“And this is the denial notice you received, correct?”

Iron squints and nods again, watching the ArchDukes claws as they flex, and wondering if the fact that they were blunt made them more terrifying or less. Would blunt claws hurt more as they tore you to pieces? Would they have to pinch and tear, instead of cut and slice? Would that be better, or worse?

He hazards a glance northward of the maybe-terrifying claws, watching the Royal Advisor as his dark eyes flit back and forth between the application and rejection letter. Alarm fills Iron’s belly like a lead weight as the ArchDuke finally looks back up at him, leaning across the desk again to spear Iron with a predators gaze. The being clears its throat.

“So, to make sure I’m understanding the situation correctly, Mr. Hooves,” He taps the first paper. “You applied to open a bakery in a historical building.”

Iron nods.

The finger taps the document. “Your application was approved, initially, and you moved into the building and began renovations.”

Iron hesitantly nods again.

“You locked up on the evening of the…” The ArchDuke trails off, glancing at the two papers next to it’s elbow. “Evening of the 23rd, correct?”

Slow nod.

“And when you came back the morning of the 24th,” the spindly digit swings over to stab at the second paper. “Your bakery had been locked up. Three guards blocked you from entering, then served you with the denial notice on my desk.”

Slower nod.

“When you asked to retrieve your tools and equipment, you were informed by these guards that they had been ordered to bar you from doing any such thing. Is that also correct?”

"Ye...yes, your Excellency."

Leaning back, the ArchDuke nods to himself, his face stony. “Were these Royal Guards, or did they belong to some noble house?”

“They were Royal Guards, your Grace.” Iron hesitates for a moment, then hurriedly adds “I don’t...they didn’t seem very happy about any of it, sir. One even apologized after they handed me the notice.”

A bird flits up to the floor-to-ceiling window, landing on the narrow ledge outside. The ArchDuke frowns at it, tapping the denial notice absently for a few seconds, then begins shuffling through the assorted paperwork again. After a moment he glances up. “Which building is this again?”

“The Repository Claret Azure, my Lord.” Iron replies meekly, shuffling a parchment out of his own documents and hoofing it over the desk. He flinches slightly as the Royal Advisor snatches the paper up, his features growing increasingly stern as he studies it.

Leaning to one side, the ArchDuke calls out loudly. “Felicity, do you happen to have…” He trails off as a bundle of parchments zips into the room through the open door, the rose hued glow enveloping it flickering out as it drops neatly on the desktop. The Royal Advisor blinks at it once, before calling out. “Thanks!”

Iron watches in confusion as the tall being begins flipping through the new documents, mouth moving quietly as his weirdly small eyes scan the neat printing. He can't make out what the ArchDuke is saying, the words are quiet and guttural, causing an involuntary shiver to run through his small, rotund body. He finds he doesn’t need to understand the words at all though, the tone comes across clearly enough. It sounds like anger, bordering on outrage. His confusion slowly gives way to fear as the Royal Advisor begins scowling fiercely. He mouths something silently, and Iron almost thinks he’s saying ‘blood’, when suddenly Iron is pinned in place by a very stern glare. In an instant he’s hit by the irrational desire to begin confessing. He hasn’t the slightest idea to what, he has nothing to confess, but the desire is strong all the same.

Shaking his head, the ArchDuke clears his throat, expression softening. “Okay, here’s what we’re going to do, Mr. Hooves."

Iron gazes down forlornly at his hooves, which have begun fidgeting once more of their own accord. He should have known this was a terrible idea. He did know, but foolishly went ahead with it anyway. Of course, it wasn’t like he had much left to lose. Bad enough he’d spent his savings on repairs to a building he wasn’t allowed to enter anymore, blowing his one chance to have his own bakery, just like Nanna had always dreamed of. To lose her baking tools too, the same one’s she’d use to make him a cake for his birthday, or sweet buns when he had a rough day at school. They were the last connection he had to her, and it was sort of like losing her all over again.

Iron gazes at his hooves without really seeing them, utterly defeated and unaware of the wetness beginning to darken the fur of his muzzle. Idly he glances up, numbly watching the ArchDuke glower down at the denial letter, like he’d like to attack it.

"I’m going to approve the application for your bakery. This will be a final approval, meaning that it cannot be countermanded or otherwise disapproved by anyone, save the Princesses or myself.”

Eyes widening, Iron sits up straight, ears previously plastered back against his mane flipping upwards so fast they almost make a swishing noise. “...Uhh” He responds intelligently.

The Royal Advisor smiles gently, fine wrinkles lining his forehead and the corners of his mouth. “Additionally, I’m going to grant you First Rights to the building.” Seeing the poleaxed look begin to morph into incomprehension, he continues. “That means that, should you be able to come up with the deposit amount for the property, I believe that’s something like twenty-five percent, then you have the option to purchase it outright. First Rights cannot be preempted by anyone else, save national emergency or direct intervention from the Crown.”

The ArchDuke leans back, a satisfied look on his face. “You have one year to come up with the deposit amount, during which no one else is allowed to make an offer on the building. If you cannot, or choose not to, make a bid to purchase the property after one year, it goes onto the open market.” The Royal Advisor leans forward, concern replacing the satisfied grin. “Mr. Hooves? Mr. Hooves are you alright?”

Giving his head a shake, Iron actually smacks himself in the muzzle, trying to banish the high, atonal ringing in his ears. Blinking a few times, he snorts, gazing dumbly at the magnificent creature seated behind the beautifully polished desk. “Ye...yes, your Grace.”

Frowning, although gently, the ArchDuke quirks an eyebrow at him. “Is this arrangement acceptable to you, Mr. Hooves?”

“Yes, your Excellency.” Iron mumbles, giving himself another shake, trying vainly to clear the fog that’s settled over his mind. He feels like he just survived a lethal fall from an insane height by landing in a vat of cotton candy. “It...it’s most generous, my Lord.”

Grin returning, the tall, elegant biped sits back, gentle hands folded neatly on the desktop. He sighs, grin slipping, and gives Iron a look of genuine remorse. “On behalf of the Crown, I want to extend my sincerest apologies for what happened, and for how you were treated. I hope that this gesture helps convey that.” Sighing again, deeper this time, the ArchDuke reaches across the desk, taking one of Irons hooves and shaking it. “See Felicity on your way out, she’ll have some paperwork for you to sign. If you find anything missing or damaged in your bakery, let us know and we’ll get it back for you, or get you reimbursed.”

Rising unsteadily to his hooves, Iron nods mechanically, taking two steps towards the exit before he remembers himself and turns to give a low, shaky bow. “I cannot thank you enough, your Grace. This is…” He trails off, rising again on wobbly legs. He can feel the dampness in his eyes now, and swipes at them half-heartedly. “I cannot tell you how much this means to me, my Lord. Thank you again.” With another, shorter bow, he turns and almost floats out of the office.

Sitting back with a grunt, the ArchDuke sets the stack of documents aside, frowning at them. After a moment he closes his eyes, one hand rubbing at the bridge of his nose, before he sets his shoulders and sits up straighter. “Okay Felicity,” He calls to the open door, “ what’s next?”

Late afternoon sunlight streams through the window to splash mellowly across the lovingly polished wooden desktop. Ryan sits back with a tired sigh, hand once again massaging the bridge of his nose. It had been a steady stream of applicants, supplicants, and general neediness all afternoon and Ryan is tired.

Ideally the second seats of the Privy Council, which primarily acted as backups for when the first seats were unable to attend to their duties, would address the concerns of all supplicants who attended either Day or Night Courts. If they came across an issue or application that they didn’t feel they had the authority to adjudicate, they sent it on to Ryan’s office for final disposition. Issues involving middle or high nobility, special applications that required Royal review, disputes that fell into certain grey areas of the law, and any special cases that didn’t fit the first three categories. That was how the system was supposed to function when both Diarchs had need to be absent during their respective courts, and on the whole Ryan thought it did a pretty efficient job.

Unfortunately though, the longer the girls were cloistered with the various diplomatic envoys currently present in the capital, the more work the second seats of the Council seemed to push off onto his plate. Starting a few weeks ago, he began to see an increasing number of ponies who really didn't need to see him. One day last week it had been five total, and round about the third pony who came tentatively knocking at his office door with a minor, easily solvable issue, Ryan had began to suspect a pattern. To be perfectly honest it was beginning to piss him off, and he began idly wondering if he could get away with sentencing the entirety of the second seats to some sort of work gang. He's not sure if such a thing exists, he certainly hasn't seen one, but he kind of thinks he has the authority to make that happen.

“You know there could be possible...issues, with him.” Felicity says cautiously, seated in the supplicant’s chair. “He’s not likely to be very...understanding.”

Ryan grunts, fingers ceaselessly rubbing between his eyes. “You’re talking about BlueBlood, right?” He glances at her, and she nods once. He sighs, leaning back in his chair and rolling his neck. “BlueBlood is an ass.”

Felicity snorts involuntarily and begins coughing. After a moment, she regains her composure, clearing her throat a few times as she leans forward, eyes intent. “He can cause trouble, sir. He’s…”

Ryan leans forward himself, pointing to a stack of parchment set aside from the other paperwork on his desk. “Did you read that rejection notice?” At her nod, he continues, voice growing heated. “Did you read the additional document he filled out, where he had to justify, for the record, why he overrode an already approved request?”

Felicity nods again, a distasteful expression wrinkling the fine, pink hairs of her muzzle, her eyes squinching. “I did sir. I’m not saying what he did wasn’t wrong…”

Grabbing the offending document, Ryan eyes it critically. “Summary reason for rejection.” He glances up. “He wrote ‘peasant’.” Frowning down again, Ryan resumes. “He didn’t even spell it right. And here, under ‘Further Explanation’, he wrote, and I quote, ‘Pesyants cannt and should not own Nobel Holdings, Propertays, Lands, etc., because they are pesyants.” Ryan drops the parchment and looks back at Felicity, meeting her worried eyes. “The property has been empty for nearly a century, which makes it fair game. He forgot it even existed until someone else wanted to use it.”

Felicity gazes off to one side uncomfortably. “Some would argue that it’s his right, sir. He’s high nobility, after all, Royalty, and it has belonged to his family for some time.”

“Some might argue that.” Ryan concedes. “But I checked the laws, and the Baltimare Decree states that any lands, structures, buildings, or properties not utilized after thirty years are subject to reclamation and use by the public.” He quotes, gesturing for emphasis. “They made sure they left 'utilized' very vague. Shuffling dirt, planting flowers, repainting a part of the building, literally just about anything would qualify. He didn't even do that much.” He takes a deep breath, trying to calm himself.

Ryan gazes at the table for a moment, and when he looks up, his eyes have cooled, but his expression is stony. "You can't make a decree and not follow it. You can't tell people one thing, and then do whatever you want instead." His expression grows harder, and Felicity just barely manages to avoid flinching. "BlueBlood decided he didn't want to share, and if I let him get away with it, he would have embarrassed the Crowns." Leaning back again, he sighs deeply. “And let’s be honest Felicity, this isn’t the first time the ‘Prince’ has acted like a spoiled, entitled child and made a mess that reflects poorly on the Princesses.”

Shifting in her seat, Felicity rolls her own neck, searching vainly for a satisfying crack that refuses to come. “I know, and I don’t disagree, sir.” She gazes at him from beneath lowered brows, the unease on her face warring with a long buried frustration. BlueBlood was a known problem maker, and one of the most blatant examples of bad Royalty in recent memory. The other high-born ponies had learned long ago that it was simply best not to cross him without a very compelling reason.

She gives her head a shake, throwing strands of platinum mane back behind her ears. “But he is considered part of the Royalty and he has the ear of the Princesses.” She gives Ryan a meaningful look, one that’s equal parts worried, helpless, and oddly enough, protective. “This isn’t like putting off Lord Buckley and his friends. BlueBlood can and will cause trouble if it suits him, and it usually does.”

Felicity hopes against hope that her words are sinking in. She may quietly enjoy the steadfast way the Royal Advisor refuses to play the slimy political game of the other nobility, but this instance makes her distinctly uneasy. No pony, save the Princesses themselves, crosses Blue Blood and comes out clean on the other end. The ArchDuke may technically be higher in rank, but he isn’t considered an honorary Prince. Even if BlueBlood is only a prince in name and not by title, he has long been labeled in her mind as one to steer wide of.

Ryan smiles at her gently, his shoulders visibly untensing for the first time in what seems like hours. He perks up, genuine mirth in his eyes. The change in demeanor takes Felicity back a bit. Ryan chuckles, and to Felicity it has almost a dark sound to it, causing the hairs along her spine to stand up a bit. She’s been around this world, the world of nobility and politics, infighting and intrigue, for most of her adult life. She knows when somethings up, and right now her instincts are beginning to ring warning bells.

A pair of birds land momentarily on the sill outside the window, and both Ryan and Felicity glance at them distractedly. The two birds chatter at the occupants of the office briefly, no doubt chastising them for sitting around inside when it's such a nice day on their side of the window, and then flutter off.

Glancing away, Ryan stretches, that gentle smile still wreathing his features as his back pops loudly. The sound draws Felicity's attention, and she looks back to her charge.

“He has the ears of the Princesses, does he?” He chuckles again. “Well, I’ll have to watch my step then, won’t I?” he glances over at her, taking in the uncertain, slightly wide eyed look she’s giving him. She’s probably not quite sure what to make of him, neither he nor the girls have come right out and stated their relationship after all.

It’s not really a secret, although he supposes if he had to describe it, it’s more of a glaring omission than anything else. They had decided early on to simply not mention the fact that he was their father, opting to keep it close to the vest until he was a more familiar, established figure in Equestrian society. At the time it made sense, after all his arrival and elevation to the Royalty had caused enough waves in the Canterlot pool to capsize a large ship. The girls were of the opinion that there was nothing to be gained by further rocking the boat, and if it happened to come to light on it's own at some point, well no harm done. Ryan's not too sure quite how to feel about the whole thing, but he's content bow to their experience and follow their lead.

Giving himself a shake, he waves her concern away genially. “Never mind that for now.” He stands with a grunt, gathering his documents together. “Now, let’s get us some lunch, and then you can tell me what to expect when the Duchess arrives. He glances out the window, taking in the position of the sun. “When is she due again?”

Reunion

by PourMeADrink

Prologue : What Once Was Old

Chapter 1 : Settling In