> Ordo ab Chao
>  by Integral Archer
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

> Prologue: In Varietate Concordia
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

	Princess Platinum sat at the head of one side of the long rectangular table, levitating a hoof-fan in front of her face with her magic and waving it vigorously. She was wearing a long plush cape, made from the finest of silks and bordered by a regal white fur taken from arctic hares. The silk was completely pink and had purple fish-shaped ellipses woven into it, also in silk, adorning its surface. The cape started from her neck, hidden by an accompanying fur scarf—taken from the same aforementioned type of hare—which danced in front of her face with every stroke of the fan, and emerged as it went down her back and across the length of the chair until finally curling onto itself in a pile on the floor. This was her casual outfit: the one that she would not have cared had it gotten dirty.

At the end of every down-stroke the fan took, she saw the disapproving scowl of Commander Hurricane, who was sitting across the long side of the table. Commander Hurricane was leaning back in her chair, her hind hooves in steel-toed military boots and propped up on the table. She was wearing her dress uniform, its breast adorned in so many colorful military decorations that they completely obscured the brass buttons that ran neatly down the uniform’s underside, blending nicely with the complete black of the fabric. She twirled the matching black cap on her right forehoof in the air, while her eyes continually moved from Princess Platinum seated across from her and to Chancellor Puddinghead seated to her left.

Chancellor Puddinghead sat in between the two, her head laying sideways on the table while she stared mindlessly at the wall. In what seemed to be quite a prescient act on her part, she had worn the exact same attire—that is, a white ruff around her neck in addition the brown and butterscotch dress, topped by a pink bow tie on the croup—that she had worn when she had first met with the two aforementioned ponies and negotiated, unsuccessfully, the terms of a peace between their three tribes: a decision that seemed most appropriate, for the three leaders were sitting around the table in the exact same way they had sat at that first meeting.

The building they were in was at least better quality than that worn-down courtroom they had used last time: it was a single-roomed log cabin with no windows, built for temporary purposes, and it was excellently insulated; the seal between each piece of wood was so tight that it gave the illusion that the wood used to make the cabin was a single unit—a feat made possible by the professionalism and tact belonging to the earth-pony architects.

“Remind me again,” Princess Platinum whined to Clover the Clever, who was standing directly behind her, “why have thou dragged me to this dreadfully humid building at the hottest time of the day?”

Clover was outfitted in a smart dress, elegant in its simplicity and purposeful in its style. The dress was trim, with a loose fitting cotton, dyed in beige, that did not impede the fast movements her job usually required her to do. The black buttons down her back hung loosely in their sockets, allowing for quick and easy removal should the situation require it. It was uniform in its monochromatic theme and consistent in its design, allowing no decorations or those unnecessary ornaments which are incessantly defended by amateur designers for the sake of “style.”

“Like I said, Your Majesty,” Clover replied with the kindest of voices, which surprised the other ponies, for there was not even a hint of aggravation in it, despite the princess’s grating remark, “we’ve gathered here to negotiate the terms of the newly formed union. We need to establish a system of government.”

As she moved the fan more rapidly, Princess Platinum let out a dainty grunt. “If I had known that joining the tribes together would have involved so much work and sacrifice on my part, I would have reconsidered.”

“A unicorn shying away from hard work,” said Commander Hurricane, in a harsh, caustic tone. Her large boots were not able to obscure the disdainful look on her face. “Why am I not surprised?”

“Well, I never!” cried Princess Platinum, leaping to her hooves and speaking with a fervor that Clover had never seen her exhibit. “How dare you would even think about speaking to me that way, you wretched—”

“Excuse me!” yelled Smart Cookie, slamming her hoof down on the table. 

Chancellor Puddinghead had brought her secretary along for moral support and to negotiate in her stead when she could not eloquently do so. Smart Cookie was dressed in a one piece work suit, made completely from a dark blue denim. A breast pocket held an assortment of hoof-tools that rattled together as her hoof came down, emphasizing her gesture of impatience. “The chancellor, who has given me permission to speak for her, had agreed to this meeting under the impression that the fighting had stopped. She would like to remind you that we have decided to put aside our differences, to work together for the sake of a goal which is beneficial to all of us. Have you two learned nothing from our night in the cave together?”

“She’s right,” murmured Chancellor Puddinghead, her head still on the table. “There are no enemies in this room, and it’s too hot to yell at each other—so please stop.”

The chancellor’s words hovered in the air for a while. Princess Platinum remained standing while glaring at Commander Hurricane; the latter was still sneering at her in derision. 

At length, the redness of the princess’s face waned, and she bowed her head in deference, closing her eyes and shaking her head. Then, looking back at the soldier, who had now taken her boots off the table and who was now sitting respectfully erect with a genuine look of eagerness, Princess Platinum said: “Commander, it was wrong of me to snap at you like I did. I beseech you to accept my sincere apology, and I hope that this does not interfere with our new union.”

Commander Hurricane tapped her hoof on her chin. “I accept your apology, and I hope that you can accept mine in return,” she replied. “Truly, it was imprudent of me to say something that may have sabotaged a union that is in my interest and in the interest of my subordinates. You must understand, Princess, that the mentality that caused my outburst, while unfounded, is heavily ingrained within me; I know it doesn’t excuse my actions, but I will do my best to change that. 

“In the meantime, it would be very kind of you to grant me some leeway.”

“Your apology is accepted, Commander” said the princess, with that haughty air of hers that she was so fond of using, and she tossed her cape petulantly in the air behind her. It landed on the seat cushion, and she sat down on it.

“Good,” said Smart Cookie. “I’m glad we resolved that.”

With smiles on all their faces—save for Clover’s—they all leaned back in their chairs, no doubt satisfied with the amount of progress they had made. It was not until a minute in silence had elapsed until Clover broke it, which was followed by a dissatisfied groan from the princess. 

“Gentlemares,” Clover said, “we need to stay on task. The name ‘Equestria’ is not enough to form a country. When we leave this room, there will be thousands of eager ears waiting to know how you will usher them into a new era of prosperity. So, what will be the means to that end, I ask you?”

“I move for anarchism,” blurted Chancellor Puddinghead, pulling her head up from the table. “What? Why are you looking at me like that? Hear me: anarchism is the most misunderstood theory in the world. The theory is based on the premise that a pony is a creature that is inherently good. Are we three not a testament to that premise’s veracity? We look out for our neighbors, and we forgive them for their encroachments. 

“The government of the earth-ponies, my government, was virtually non-existent; I’m a figurehead, if anything. And look what we did: we grew the food when your tribes weren’t able to, and every single industrial advancement of importance has come from us. We didn’t mind when you asked us for our food and our technology; that is because we are capable of living in peace, and we don’t need a nationally funded police force breathing down our necks. In fact, before this union, we were talking about officially abolishing our government altogether, since it wasn’t serving any purpose—weren’t we, Smart Cookie?”

Smart Cookie looked anxiously at the incredulous stares being thrown at her. She flashed a coy smile and then, turning to the chancellor, she stammered: “Why . . . why yes, Chancellor. We . . . we were talking about it.”

After Commander Hurricane and Princess Platinum were finished exchanging glances of bemusement, the former was the first to respond. “Chancellor,” she said, “I can see how you would think that from your perspective, but I have to ardently disagree. After I had spent my five years of compulsory military service the moment I became of age, I decided to enroll in the military college to further my training. They taught me a range of things, from battle strategy to integral calculus, but there was one thing that stuck with me: ponies need a firm rule. They taught us—and which I later confirmed myself through my own experience—that if an officer shows any signs of complacency, if his subordinates even get a sense that they were self-autonomous, then all would fall apart.

“Chancellor,” Commander Hurricane continued, “there’s a reason why ‘anarchy’ is considered a synonym of ‘disorder.’”

The chancellor cocked her head to one side and gave a disapproving scowl. “Alright then, Commander,” she said, unable to hide the displeasure in her voice, “do you have a better suggestion?”

“I would not have objected if I did not think so, would I have? I suggest that Equestria is the same as my old country: a stratocracy. That seemed to work out pretty well for us. Military officers are efficient, disciplined, and educated; I can’t imagine any other group of ponies more fit to run a country.”

“How dreadful!” Princess Platinum spoke in her turn. “No offense intended, Commander, but while the military might be fine for the roughnecks and unskilled laborers, it is hardly fit for ponies with slightly more grace and elegance, traits that I like to think belong to the unicorns, my ponies. The citizens need a leader to love, not to fear; they need a leader that they want to work for, as opposed to a leader who orders them flatly to do it. There is nothing more inspiring, more indicative of class, than nobility. Equestria shall adhere under the tenets of monarchism.”

Commander Hurricane’s mouth fell open. “What?” she said. “A government by hereditary succession?”

“Why, of course. How else?”

“How does that make any sense? Where are the checks and balances? What’s to stop the rise of an incompetent heir? As a military officer, I know that I would never select anypony to replace me that wasn’t as good—if not better—than me; at least there’s some consistency there.”

“What about democracy?” interjected Chancellor Puddinghead.

“Absolutely not!” the commander and princess shouted in perfect unison.

The chancellor shrugged. “Two against one? I guess that answers that question.”

Commander Hurricane’s right eye twitched involuntarily as she, for a fleeting second, regretted not bringing somepony else along with her to represent the pegasi—not so much for the power that one finds in solidarity but more for the pleasure one feels when another agrees with oneself. “I refuse to live in a society ruled by you snobs!” she yelled at the princess.

“Well, I refuse to be ruled at the point of a weapon!” the princess shot back.

“You foals!”

They all turned in the direction of this last voice and were surprised to see Clover the Clever. She was breathing heavily through her nostrils; and, despite the humid atmosphere of the cabin, they could see clouds of moisture coming from them each time she exhaled.

“Don’t you see what you’re doing?” she continued. “You’re all, whether you care to admit it, still in the mindset of ‘us against them.’ I thought it was agreed that this was not the principle on which we should form the Union.”

“Clover,” said the princess, “we’re trying our best; and, quite frankly, my dear, thou are not helping. Either contribute to this discussion, or stop interrupting it.”

“Republicanism,” Clover said through her teeth.

“What was that?”

Clover closed her eyes. “Republicanism: the theory that the head of state should be chosen by means that are not hereditary, and that certain officials should be elected to positions of power through a majority vote and where that power is limited through a constitution.”

The three leaders stared at her fixedly with puzzled expressions on their faces. They had never heard that word before in their lives, and none of their canned responses they had usually given in order to condescendingly dismiss something without question did not apply.

“Well . . . that’s interesting, to say the least,” said Commander Hurricane, trying to fill the uncomfortable silence.

“Why?” said Chancellor Puddinghead, in a tone that made it unclear as to whether she was addressing the commander or Clover.

“Now—how exactly would this work?” said Princess Platinum.

Barely had the princess been able to say this last sentence before Clover launched into her speech, which she had been holding in since the beginning of the meeting, at a rapid-fire pace. In a single breath, she said: “Logistically, it wouldn’t have to function too much differently than your parliament if you didn’t want it to, Princess. Each seat in the parliament—republicans prefer the word ‘congress’—would be filled by an elected official, usually with some affiliation to a group, which is called a ‘political party.’ The leader of the party that won more seats than any other party would become the head of state: the ‘president,’ as the republicans call it. 

“Republicans believe that the majority should never be able to impose their whim on the minority, or vice versa, so the congress is bound by a document called a ‘constitution,’ which explicitly says what is permitted and what is forbidden.”

Princess Platinum’s mouth was slightly ajar and she was nodding dumbly through the entirety of Clover’s explanation. About half a minute later, when she had finally processed the information, the princess said: “And what would this ‘constitution’ entail?”

At this, Clover’s face relaxed into that of a warm smile. “Don’t worry about that, Princess. If you’d like, I’ll draw it up; and then, within a week or so, we’ll meet back here to debate over it and to make the necessary changes—I mean, assuming you and the other leaders agree to that, of course.” She grit her teeth and looked with a pleading smile at the princess, awaiting a response.

The princess winced apprehensively and then, with a shaky voice, said: “This idea is extremely radical, Clover. In truth, I’ve never heard it before today. I’ve never seen anypony rally behind a movement with that word on their lips, much less even suggest it.”

“That’s because, in a world where dissent is discouraged in favor of fitting in, republicans—radicals—tend to be the intellectuals who believe that the best and most effective means of protest is to stay in their studies writing novels about the subject rather than taking to the streets and, like brutes, knocking down anything that stands in their way. 

“Do you remember Starswirl the Bearded, Your Majesty?”

“The chief enchanter for my grandfather, Prince Palladium? How could I forget him! Not only did he write an innumerable amount of texts, each one more praised than the last, he himself taught me everything I know about unicorn magic. I loved him as much, if not more, than my grandfather.”

“A republican, Your Majesty.”

Princess Platinum recoiled and let out an audible gasp. “No! But, how can thou know this?”

“He never published about it, true; but if you look at his position, his proximity to your grandfather and to the royal family, you will no doubt be able to see how he would think that it would be very indiscreet of him to do so. However, if you look into his journals, which I found in the library a few weeks ago, there is a page or two where the implication of his beliefs are clear, even if he never states it outright. I can show it to you, if you’d like.”

“But he was the loudest to proclaim his love for my grandfather and his work!”

Clover smiled. “Your Majesty, one can love the pony but hate the position he occupies.”

The princess slouched back in her chair with her mouth open, struck dumb.

Commander Hurricane cast a weak eye toward Clover and raised its eyebrow. “I’d be willing to see this ‘constitution,’” she said. Then, rubbing her cap across her forehead until it was drenched in sweat, she continued: “But at this point, it’s more of an excuse rather than a legitimate debating matter. It’s too hot to argue or to continue any further today.”

“I concur,” said the chancellor with her head still on the table. A cascade of sweat could be seen running off her mane and forming a little puddle on the wood; the puddle was feeding a small stream that flowed toward her end of the table, which was maintaining a constant drip onto the floor. “No pony has ever tried this before. However, there’s no reason we can’t look at a proposed constitution. We have all the time in the world and there’s no reason we have to finish today—”

“Disrespect!” Clover yelled suddenly, causing the commander to drop her cap to the floor and causing the chancellor to whip her head up rapidly from the table to stare toward the direction of the sound, a line of sweat erupting from her hair like from a volcano. “Disrespect toward the princess! How dare you waste her time, asking her to write documents—documents she will write purely out of the interest of the Union—and not even be willing to treat them as a serious matter worthy to be discussed! She’s willing to spend a week—a week!—perusing the appropriate books, making the constitution just right; and you’re just letting her do this, without even duly considering her work, just so that you don’t have to spend any more time in a little bit of humidity! She is truly having second thoughts about unifying her tribe with you, you who consider the act of thinking a chore.”

The scowl on Clover’s face, in the shadow of the imperious tone of voice that she had just used, struck deep into the three leaders’ chests, rending their hearts and demanding that they beat solely for the contemplation of what she had just said. 

Clover had somehow managed to replace Commander Hurricane’s usually cavalier countenance with fear: the emotion that four years in the military college and twenty years in her service had suppressed until now. 

Chancellor Puddinghead, who was now sitting erect, crossed her eyes in confusion. 

Clover turned toward Princess Platinum, and the latter felt the hairs on her mane stand up on end. The princess had previously thought that she was the one being defended by Clover; but, at the sight of the judgmental glare from her assistant, which said more than any additional words she might speak, the princess understood that she herself was more guilty than the rest, and that Clover, out of courtesy—or perhaps to emphasize her condemnation toward her—had projected the indigence she had felt onto her in the most cunning and frightful way possible. The princess trembled in her seat.

“Princess,” Clover continued, not changing her expression, “it is clear that they do not appreciate you and what you stand for. What will you do?”

The princess sighed and relaxed slightly, slowly feeling her power coming back to her. “Clover,” she said, “if it was anypony else that suggested this to me, I would only respond with a mocking laugh, but because thou said it to me and because I trust thee to some extent . . . I’m willing to give this a try. Of course . . .”

“Yes?”

“I would be able to become ‘president,’ would I not?”

“Yes, of course, Your Majesty—provided you’re elected to it.”

“Well then, thou have my permission.”

“My gratitude to you is infinite.” Then, turning her head, Clover said: “Chancellor?”

The chancellor had put her head down on the table once again and was letting her eyelids droop. “Why not?” she murmured.

Clover smiled, but the smile quickly disappeared as she prepared herself to attempt the hardest task yet. “Commander?” she asked.

The commander had assumed that dismissive pout which is peculiar to military officers pondering a difficult decision. Clover felt a bead of sweat run down her temple as she heard Commander Hurricane make a clicking noise with her tongue against the wall of her mouth.

“I would be able to run for president as well?” the commander asked.

“Well, you’d have to be the leader of a party first—but yes.”

“Well then,” said Commander Hurricane, kicking her steel-toed boots back up and putting them on the table, “I guess that’s the best we’re going to get, isn’t it?”

“So it’s settled, then,” said Clover, a satisfied smile creeping onto her lips. “The new union will be a republican one.”

“‘The United Republic of Equestria,’” said Chancellor Puddinghead with a wistful air. “It sounds good on the ear and it tastes good on the tongue. ‘The United Republic of Equestria’—I could say that all day.”

“Well then, fine gentlemares,” said Princess Platinum standing up carefully, lest she stepped on her cape, “if it is desirable to you, then I say we adjourn this meeting until a week from today, whereupon we will debate the terms of the constitution—the rough draft of which I will pen.”

“Agreed,” said Commander Hurricane, standing up as well. “The longer I stay in this dreadfully humid cabin, the more irritable I get.”

“To the Union!” shouted Chancellor Puddinghead, standing up straight and holding a forehoof out over the table. This gesture passed straight over the heads of Commander Hurricane and the unicorns; it was not until Smart Cookie put one of her forehooves on top of the chancellor’s and nodded toward them that they understood: it was a gesture of camaraderie.

“To the Union,” said Smart Cookie.

Commander Hurricane picked up her cap from the floor and placed it, with her forehoof inside, on top of Smart Cookie’s hoof. “May it last forever,” she said.

Clover smiled and placed her hoof on top of the rest. “May it remained principled and intransigent,” she said in her turn.

At this, they all looked toward Princess Platinum, who was rubbing her right forehoof nervously against her teeth. She glanced from the face of the pegasus, and then to those of the earth-ponies; and when she saw the impatience brewing in their eyes, she took an imperceptible step back, her teeth chattering. It was not until she finally saw Clover, who looked at her, not with urgency, but with complete sublimity and reassurance, that the princess bowed her head in deference, planted her right forehoof firmly on the ground and then topped the salute with her left.

“The Union forever,” she said.

They wasted no time in leaving the cabin, each one rushing to the door so that they may be the first to breathe the fresh air of the United Republic of Equestria. 

Exactly one week later, and after a three hour debate, Princess Platinum, Chancellor Puddinghead, and Commander Hurricane emerged from the same cabin that they had been in a week prior, holding the Constitution of Meeting Tribes of Immediate Siblings—which would come to be known more colloquially as the “COMTOIS.” It bore all three of their signatures; and they announced that it would, forever more, be the supreme law of the Union.

It was directly following this event that Commander Hurricane and Princess Platinum gave each other a polite curtsey, shook hooves, and went on their ways—the former forming the United Party and becoming its leader and the latter doing the same with the Royal Party.

Princess Platinum had dedicated the Royal Party to making sure that day-to-day life for the average citizen would be very similar to life before Unification. Commander Hurricane formed the United Party in direct opposition to this tenet, citing the poor logistics of the former unicorn government as the primary reason for the hardship that had befallen all of them.

When the first elections came, the citizens scrambled toward the voting stations, delighted to take part in this novelty. For the first time ever, they filled out their cards with their quill pens; and each one, upon dropping their choice into the box, felt a profound sense of empowerment.

Upon the polls closing, all that remained to do was for Commander Hurricane and Princess Platinum to hold their breaths and to wait for them to be counted. Three hours later, the counting was finished, and the polls reported a startlingly high ninety-nine percent voting rate. 

Despite the fact that the United Party had Chancellor Puddinghead as one of its eminent members, Commander Hurricane, being used to running her mouth off at her subordinates, gave the party an abrasive and disquieting air, resulting in the Royal Party winning by a landslide and Princess Platinum being elected as the first president of the United Republic of Equestria. The inauguration took place a week later.

And who could forget that day! Never before had anypony seen so many ponies gathered in one area. For the first time in history, pegasi, unicorns and earth-ponies gathered, not to fight, but to celebrate, to revel in their election of a new leader and the start of the new union. Ponies were cheering, drinking cider, and flying miniature flags of the United Republic of Equestria, and not one second went by without somepony in the crowd saying to some other pony: “I’m glad we’re friends!”

And then the crowd went silent, as Princess Platinum had just appeared.

One would have thought that the crowd would have cheered in unbridled jubilation, but everypony was silent, seeming to recognize the solemn mood of this historic occasion; even the foals somehow stopped their incessant neighing. Every eye was turned toward her in complete awe, and it is no surprise why: Princess Platinum represented everything that was right with the Union. She had a confident, but elegant, stride; she was regal and commanding, but gave off an air of maternal caring and understanding; and her ostentatious silver crown, with its brilliant jewels, seemed to serve as a beacon for all the prosperity that would grace the onlookers of this event and their new country.

Walking in front of her was Clover the Clever. Nopony recognized her; but, no matter how hard she tried to conceal it, Princess Platinum could not hide the fact that there was nopony that she loved more than her. 

Despite all of the princess’s protests, despite all of her whining, despite all of her nagging, Clover was always there, always listening, always caring, and never complaining. Being an only foal, Platinum had found somepony to tease in the daughter of the royal secretary; and, as the years went on, Platinum found more and more ways to annoy Clover—to the point where Clover was so annoyed, that they were virtually sisters. And, indeed, Platinum loved her like a sister, though she would never admit it. 

As Clover walked up to the podium and tapped it with her hoof, signaling for attention, and with the president-elect right behind her, little did the endearing supporters of Princess Platinum know that almost every single one of Platinum’s acts as president would be on the suggestion of the timid, modestly dressed pony, who, by her sole effort, authored the COMTOIS in a form virtually identical to the one that had been signed and who was, at this moment, clearing her throat. 

“Princess Platinum,” Clover said firmly, “please repeat after me: ‘I, by virtue of saying this oath and thus accepting the position of president of the United Republic of Equestria, hereby devote my life during the standard term in office and any successive terms, in protecting and upholding the Constitution of Meeting Tribes of Immediate Siblings.’”

Princess Platinum, in her authoritative and inspiring voice, repeated, without hesitation or pause, this sacred oath that would be echoed through the walls of time for as long as the flag of the Union stood.

“Fillies and Gentlecolts, may I present the president of the United Republic of Equestria.” Clover barely had time to finish this concluding statement before the crowd burst into cheers. The outcry was so great and so long that Princess Platinum swallowed nervously, for the longer they continued, the less time she would have for her inaugural speech—but also, the more unsure she was that she would not be able to meet the expectations of her hopeful, proud supporters.

Finally, the cheering subsided and she was able to finally begin the speech that Clover wrote for her and which the princess had spent hours rehearsing. The details of the speech, oddly enough, were one of the few things in Equestria’s founding that has faded in the memories of its citizens; the only thing universally agreed upon was that everypony witnessing it was incredibly inspired. Some attribute this lack of details of the speech to the crippling heat; others attribute it to the crowd being blinded by pure jubilation; but the most probable explanation is that the entirety of the speech was overshadowed by the fact that, at the very end, Princess Platinum raised her head even higher than before, and said: “And therefore, to demonstrate the devotion that I have for the United Republic of Equestria and to the laws and principles for which it stands—as your first president, I shall shed my old family moniker in favor of the one that you have given me: President Platinum.” And at that, she gracefully removed her crown and set it on the podium in front of her.

Ironically enough, this act gave her family quite a name in politics, and from that day forward, an election had never gone by without a member of the royal family leading either the Royal Party or the United Party. Many were elected to this sacred position—with varying degrees of success—but what all shared in common was that they renounced their royal family title upon completing the oath, as President Platinum had done before them.

What stayed with everypony however, were the words “The Union forever”: an impromptu comment which had been made by the president during the first session of deliberation on behalf of the country. These timeless words were immortalized on a gold plaque—which was generously donated by the royal unicorn family—and were installed above the glass case in which the original copy of the COMTOIS is ensconced, safely protected by a twenty-four hour patrol and dozens of grams worth of gold pieces in security equipment, in the halls of the National Archives of Equestria in Canterlot, which admits its observers free of charge.
	
> Chapter I: Condemnant Quod non Intellegunt
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------


“Congress shall apply its just Laws, which form the Basis and the Intent of the Union, in equal Measure and in equal Amount to its Citizens, regardless of Race or Political Affiliation.”

—Article I, Section II of the Constitution of Meeting Tribes of Immediate Siblings



On January the second, 182 BC—Before Celestia, as it is now known in the modern calendar—the Senate returned with a verdict of guilty on all accounts, following the impeachment of President Evviva Cadenza, and she was thusly removed from the Horseshoe Office in accordance with Article XIV of the Constitution of Meeting Tribes of Immediate Siblings.

President Cadenza, upon hearing the verdict being read, burst into unhampered tears: an act that earned the patronizing scoffs of every single member of the Royal Party and an act that crushed the spirits of the members of the United Party—who could not bear to see their leader react in such an unbecoming manner.

The former president had been in the United Party for as long as any of its members could remember. She had been instantly welcomed with a warm embrace, for her royal name, the majesty it necessarily carried, and her reserved and quiet demeanor had brought the United Party its desperately needed image of modesty and prudence. Her old, tired eyes, with heavy bags underneath them, in addition to her taciturn nature—which was only broken by phrases she spoke at rare times, which were terse, concise, and, above all, filled with wisdom—gave her the countenance of a soothing, wise caregiver. Her personality, when viewed alongside those of her kin—the younger, boisterous ones in the United Party, who had used their family name to elevate themselves to their undeserved positions and who had contributed to the public’s perception of the party as an extremist group, and the older, charismatic, and outspoken ones in the Royal Party, charming all with their regality—had seemed to give her a quaint sort of uniqueness, beneficial to her and her fellow Unionists. 

She had always won the riding for the United Party in the Greater Canterlot Area, and she had always come into the Hall of Congress with a placid smile on her face, before quietly and discretely taking her seat, the smile not vanishing even as she watched the events of the session unfold; nothing had been able to perturb her serenity. 

And, after too many years of watching her just sit there contentedly, even as the country began to show its first signs of a looming economic recession, her colleagues had urged her to run for the party’s leadership, which had just become available.

“Oh no,” she had replied. “I’m much too old for all the macro and micromanagement required of the pony in that position. That job belongs to the young, the ones who will actually be able to live in and enjoy the future that they intend to carve.”

Her colleagues’ hearts had swelled, enamored as they had been with her modesty and her idealism. Even after they had desperately pleaded and supplicated, she had given that tender smile of hers, which they had loved so much, and renewed her declination.

But, due to the Unionists’ stereotypical personality trait—which was the stubborn refusal to take “no” as an answer—when the voting had come around, Evviva Cadenza had, nearly unanimously, been chosen as the new leader. Never had the write-in name space on the ballot been so liberally used in the entire history of the United Party.

She had accepted the leadership hesitantly and demurely, despite the encouragement she had received, but she had assured her party that she would do everything in her power to make sure its name was honored.

And, when the United Party won the general election two years later, with more than sixty percent of the seats in Congress, she was suddenly, but smoothly and naturally, referred to as “president”—and her old title of “princess” instantly felt unnatural when one saw her behind the mahogany desk in the Horseshoe Office.

Her transition into that office had been smooth and barely noticeable. With her gentle demeanor, her sweet voice, and, especially, her eminent name backing her, the United Party could not have been more pleased. They had been convinced that there was no possible way she could do any wrong. 

But, as they all could now see, she was simply the siren of politics, the princess of exorbitant rhetoric, luring the country and her party into a false sense of security, and as soon as Congress had discovered evidence that she had been using the spare tax money from all the budget cuts she had approved to fund the various activities of her illustrious and old family, there was no time wasted; and, after an hour of deliberation from the House of Representatives, she was impeached with ninety-five percent in favor. 

And, six months later, after a long and arduous hearing, the Senate found President Cadenza guilty of one account of Bribery and two Crimes of Misdemeanor. 

The whole country was outraged, but the cries from Ponyville and Los Pegasus were the worst. These regions, composed of a great population of working-class ponies, accused Cadenza’s administration of catering to the Canterlot bankers and nobles. They claimed that the wealthy stole the gold “surpluses” from the industrious working-class ponies to line the arches of their mansions. They were so outraged, that they were even urging their local governments to secede from the Union. 

The general opinion, or, at least, the most vocal opinion, was that it seemed that the original policy of “Hooves-off, Hooves-clean,” as was postulated during the first session in Congress by Princess Platinum, and of which President Cadenza—who, after she lost her title of “president,” insisted that she be addressed as her former title of “princess”—was a firm supporter, was starting to lose popularity. 

But, to some, it seemed that President Cadenza’s impeachment was just one of the many signs that the United Republic of Equestria was nothing but shadow of its former self: The proud capital city of Canterlot, once bustling with business activity and wealth creation, was experiencing a massive exodus; the economic crisis—with an unemployment rate well above the threshold to be considered by some economists as a depression—which had occurred three years prior, had hit its residents the hardest. The bright office lights that illuminated Canterlot’s majestic skyscrapers—which extended straight past the clouds and which belonged to the most oldest, revered, and dependable corporations that millions of ponies relied on and used every day—were now beginning to flicker and die as their last remains of life and ambition slowly drained from them. It appeared, at least to the retiring and bankrupt businessponies—who had worked in those majestic monoliths for decades—when they turned their heads back to look at their old office building one last time before disappearing without a trace, that the more these towers withered and bled along with the rest of the country, the ponies of lesser talent, skill, and ambition cried out for the expedition of their death.

If a normal pony were to walk down the streets of Los Pegasus, he would be able to see on their lengths an endless line of disheveled ponies with matted manes, rendered homeless by the depression; and he would be able to see, to understand, and to sympathize with these masses, when he would see in their vacant stares a silent cry for assistance that seemed doomed to go unanswered. If a politician walked down the same street, he would instead see the jackpot of voters, ready to elect the first pony who assured them that they were nothing but victims and who would promise to help them by ending the “Hooves-off, Hooves-Clean” policy.

One would find it hard to believe that such a proud and prosperous country could come to the state it was now. Every day, there would be a report of a major technology with a long and reputable history going out of business. Every day, more and more houses would be found abandoned, their owners leaving without a trace, never to be seen again. Every day, the talks of succession from the Union from cities affected the most by the depression grew stronger as more and more ponies felt themselves victimized and wanted to cut themselves loose from the country slipping down the precipice of bankruptcy.  And every politician would claim to know what caused this decline and would insist that they had the magic bullet that would end all their problems in the fastest and most painless way possible.

At the time, the Royal Party was the official opposition to the United Party in the House of Representatives, the latter party being the party to which the now-ignominious princess was once the proud leader. The United Party was due to choose a new leader; but when they saw the Royal Party campaigning to end “Hooves-off, Hooves-clean,” and when they saw the near-unanimous support they were getting, especially in the wake of the scandal, they had given up all hope of winning any seats in the House of Representatives, and they were preparing to get their federal financing cut as a result. 

In view of the circumstances, it appeared that there was nopony who they could choose and who would be able to suffer the ad hominem attacks from the Royal Party’s candidates: a type of argument that the Royalists were so fond of using despite its blatant fallaciousness; it had the amazing property of requiring no thought to make but could reduce any victim who was not prepared for it into an incomprehensible fountain of stutters. Whenever a debate would occur between any two ponies, one Royalist and one Unionist, no matter what argument the Unionist presented, no matter how eloquently he presented the facts, it would always end with the other debater scoffing dismissively, always saying something along the lines of: “Well, your previous leader stole some of the hard Equestria’s hard earned money, so of course you would think that.”

As per the COMTOIS, the election to choose the next president would take place in three months; and the Royal Party, with their leader Princess Celestia—a charismatic, graceful, white alicorn, whose demeanor and countenance demanded respect and admiration from anypony who witnessed it—had already assumed victory. This could be understandable, as one could see that the United Party was, ironically enough, in shambles: every debate they would hold among each other in the United Party Debate Hall ended with the candidates yelling the most egregious profanities at each other, to the extent that the newspaper writers covering the event would be forced by their publishers to omit the details of these outbursts from their articles to preserve a shred of the country’s dignity. 

It was almost as if they had stopped caring; and, if they had, nopony could blame them, for the less they fought back, the less painful it would be when they were inevitably crushed by the powerful hooves of Princess Celestia and the Royalists.

A week after the guilty verdict, the United Party held their last debate among each other, before the party election was to take place. The voting was held during the United Party National Convention, and it had a larger attendance than usual; but, given the apathy shown by most attending and the callousness each one of them had toward each other and the event, it is not implausible to think that most of them had come simply to take advantage of the open bar. 

The winning candidate was announced quietly, such that it was barely heard against the raucous laughter of the complacent Unionists drowning their faces in cider.

“Speak up, colt; we can barely hear you!” yelled a rather corpulent pony in the front row, while cider ran out of his nostrils.

“I said,” said the speaker, loudly enough such that there could be no doubt that everypony in the convention hall heard him, “that the new leader was Mr. Disce Cordis.”

The room immediately fell silent. Then, slowly, the silence gave way to a dull murmur.

Who? This seemed to be the prevailing question at the moment.

“Who?”

“Somepony named Cordis.”

“Disce won it.”

“What?”

“Who?”

“What kind of name is that?”

“Who’s Cordis?”

“Cordis? Never heard of him.”

These murmurs persisted for a few minutes, as the Unionists became more and more impatient and confused. Finally, out of the blue, in a tone slightly louder than all of the rest of the murmurings, somepony blurted: “The draconequus.”

In that instant, the eyes of every single pony in the convention hall opened wide with surprise and shock; there was only one draconequus they could recall who had always sat in their debate room. How could anypony have missed this huge, snake-like creature? And more importantly, how could he have won? 

At once, everypony started scouring the convention hall, looking for this Mr. Cordis, who really should not have been hard to find if he was indeed there. While the bathroom stalls were being checked by security, the speaker urged Mr. Disce Cordis to hurry to the front stage to accept this honor.

“Why would anypony in their right mind vote for that freak?” yelled the Unionist who was known for being the loudest at the debates.

“Because he’s a nice guy!” some faceless pony responded from across the room.

“He talks to me at lunch time!” another voice was heard, coming out of a distant conversation.

More and more voices were heard from the increasing number of private conversations—half the voices seeming to be in favor of this mysterious personage, the other half extremely bewildered.

“Why would you vote for that creep?”

“He’s so weird!”

“He says everything I’m thinking!”

“He’s fed up with how you talk, and I’m fed up too!”

The United Party had managed to fool the entire country of Equestria: a great number of the population, mostly young ponies and the members of the Royal Party, had thought that the debates represented the general attitude of every member of the United Party—when, in reality, all they showed was a very vocal minority.

Disce learned of his victory, at home, right when he was in the middle of the juiciest part of a novel. Upon hearing a knock at his bungalow, he groaned at the inconvenience he would experience due to this unexpected visitor. Shuffling slowly across the room, he approached his door and opened it cautiously, still keeping its security chain in place. 

A chipper, young pegasus pony with clear blue eyes and with the brightest smile Disce had ever seen, informed him that she had just received an important telegram straight from the United Party’s National Convention addressed to him. The mailmare read the telegram out to him in her most proud voice, frequently glancing up to the draconequus’s face to gauge his reaction. 

At hearing this, Disce’s face flushed, making the mailmare wonder if he had become ill. Instead, Disce removed the security chain, threw the door open, embraced the frightened pony with the tightest of hugs, and muttered, through a torrent of tears: “It’s not too late. There’s still hope in the world.”
> Chapter II: Disce
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------


“In the Event of Death of the President, Resignation, or Impeachment, the Vice President shall assume all Duties that were formerly given unto him, until the impending November, at which Point the General Election should be held, regardless of Proximity to the aforementioned Condition or previous General Election.”

—Article XIV, Section X of the Constitution of Meeting Tribes of Immediate Siblings



Despite what the Unionists’ cider-ridden brains thought, they knew who he was quite well. Disce was the draconequus who had always sat in the back row of the United Party Debate Hall, his sharp gaze staring straight into the soul of anypony unfortunate enough to catch it. There was a general unspoken unease felt by every single pony taking part in the party debates; everypony assured themselves that it was because of all of the shouting and the arguing; but, deep down, they all knew that it was this firm, implacable eye in the back of the hall, silently judging each one of them and their actions and always coming to a conclusion about them that was a mixture of some parts humor—and most parts, extreme malice. 

There was an implicit understanding between the Unionists and him that, unless he initiated the conversation, there would be no speaking to him, and the only ponies that he spoke to were the unfortunate ones he had singled out—to whom, he did so only in hushed whispers during lunch hours.

He kept his distance from his fellow party members in the corridors, but anypony who passed by him was immediately taken back by his incessant mumblings. There was something incredibly dark in his almost unintelligible words, such that anypony who was unfortunate enough to be within earshot of them would be plagued by the disturbing impressions expressed in them; and his words would linger for weeks in their heads as if they pierced straight into their very subconscious mind, implanting themselves, and never letting its victim have any mental peace. The only thing that varied and what was somewhat understandable in his cascade of unconnected thoughts was that, in the debate hall, if his mumblings could be heard over the shouting, anypony would certainly have heard something about the “COMTOIS” and “idiots.” 

At lunchtime, he would sit in the corner of the cafeteria, sometimes on his own, sometimes with other ponies. The ponies that did partake in his company would never mention the meeting and when asked about it would evade the question and change the subject. To the ponies that he did talk to, even though ostensibly he seemed nice enough, none of them would be surprised if one day they arrived at the United Party Debate Hall in Fillydelphia to see it ablaze; and, standing behind the flames, they would see a tall draconequus holding a kerosene canister in one of his forward extremities and stroking his white goatee with the other in a silent contemplation.

One never would have thought that Disce was fit to be leader of the United Party, much less in the Horseshoe Office. His slender, frail body shuddered when anything with the slightest amount of force bumped into it. He walked with a hunch, since decades of walking through small doorways built for ponies made him think that walking erect was impossible. And his large tooth, that did not rest inside his mouth when it was closed, in addition to his strange accent, made everything he said seem to have ulterior motives. 

But all was not enough to detract a casual observer from his previously mentioned stare: even when he was clearly content and joyful, one would always feel those eyes as if they were staring straight into the depths of one’s soul, as if trying to decide if its target were its friend or its mortal enemy. 

When he was first seen in public following the announcement, a reporter snapped a picture of him to put into his newspaper article. When the paper was mass-produced, and when it made it into the living room of every single household in Equestria, the picture of those beady eyes forced their ways into the minds of every single mare, stallion, and foal looking at it, and it left two words as evidence of their presence: I disapprove.

There is only one plausible explanation as to why this strange bipedal creature had managed to become the leader of one of the oldest parties in Equestria: the complacency affecting the majority of the Unionists prevented them from voting; and the young, eager, and bright-eyed Unionists, who still had a hope for the future, were the ones who were pulled aside during lunchtime by Disce and who had their hearts won over by him. And it was they who spearheaded his campaign, guiding him on the right path so that the masses of Equestria may feel the same love for him as they themselves did.

They watched him during the first debate, and they were less than impressed at his performance. They expected him to amaze the audience with the few short and succinct words he had imparted to them during the time he had spoken to them in the cafeteria; but, oddly enough, he said next to nothing. He rested the elbow of his paw against the podium and lazily placed his head in his palm, his eyes drooping. The more the Royalists talked, the more he yawned and averted his gaze. 

When he was given the floor, he simply looked up, looked toward his opponents with a confused stare, produced a small maroon-brown pocket book—the words on its cover, written in a shiny gold lacing, saying “The Constitution of Meeting Tribes of Immediate Siblings”—opened it up, and flipped through it quizzically, raising an eyebrow every so often. Eventually, he stopped on a page and stared at it for a while. 

Then, he looked back at the Royalist who had last spoken, gave her an incredulous look, and shook his head in a smug manner. 

This action, producing laughs from the audience, and even the debate’s arbiter, seemed to be the opposite side of the coin of debate tactics that his opponents were using: while his opponents liked to express themselves verbosely, speaking for many minutes at a time and somehow saying nothing, for twenty seconds, Disce said nothing, but his facial expressions and gestures spoke a novel.

When he walked off stage, two of his supporters were there to greet him: a stout, stocky earth-pony whose firmly-defined chin was quivering—as if he was just itching to say something abrasive—and, behind him, a quiet, demure, and anxious unicorn, who nervously swayed her head from side to side and avoided eye contact with Disce as he approached them.

The unicorn offered him a shaky hoof, while the earth-pony offered him a hoof-towel. Disce immediately went for the latter’s present and used it to wipe the sweat off his forehead and to polish his antlers, completely ignoring the former’s gesture.

“That was . . . alright,” said the one who had given him the towel. The unicorn stood behind him, saying nothing and shyly nodding in agreement.

“What was wrong with it?” Disce replied.

“Well, I liked the pocket COMTOIS rebuttal, but—”

“What rebuttal? I just wanted to see if Celestia’s point warranted a response from me.”

The two ponies exchanged a startled and incredulous look with each other as they heard him say this. After a long silence, the earth-pony turned back to Disce and asked the nagging question that had been on his and the unicorn’s minds: “What—what did you say?”

“I was seeing if Celestia was worthy of—”

Upon saying the name, Disce was interrupted again. “Wait, what’s her name?” the same pony interjected.

“Celestia?”

“Why are you saying it like that, with the hard c at the beginning, and pronouncing it with only three syllables?”

Disce shrugged his shoulders. “What’s wrong?”

“The c is supposed to make the sound of an s, and there are four syllables in her name: it’s ‘Ce-les-ti-a.’”

Disce scratched his head with his talons. “Why do you break up the last sound into two syllables? It sounds awkward. But more importantly, why do you say it as if it started with an s? I’m pretty sure that the c doesn’t make that sound: ‘Ce-les-tia’”

The earth-pony put his face in one of his forehooves and rubbed his brow in a slow and strained manner. He rumpled his cheeks in pained frustration, and he said something under his breath—and only a few select consonants, which were uttered at a slightly audible volume, presumably for catharsis, indicated to Disce that the pony had just repressed an outburst that would have been spearheaded by a plethora of profanities. 

After this sort of repose and quarantine had passed, the pony opened his eyes and fixed Disce with a furious glare. “Are you stupid?” he said. “Are you really that oblivious? Have you never heard her name pronounced before? You’re wrong, and there’s no debate!”

Disce looked around the room. “I—I could have sworn that the letter c never makes that sound.” he replied, his voice trailing off and his eyes beginning to wander aimlessly and independent of each other. Then, with a sudden jerk, they snapped to, as he said: “In any case, I was testing to see if Celestia’s points were worthy of my attention, using the COMTOIS as my guide.” As he said the name, his voice sounded strained, and the two ponies shuddered at how elongated he pronounced the soft c, such that he sounded like a snake posed to strike.

“Yes, yes, you’re very smart and we’re all very impressed,” the earth-pony replied in a mocking tone. “But what I’m saying is that while you may win a few laughs now, they’re going to forget about it right when they get to the voting booths.”

Disce looked at him quizzically. “What do you mean?”

“You didn’t address any of Princess Celestia’s arguments. You responded in a very immature manner—”

“Am I wrong?”

“No, you’re not wrong, but you seem to have this notion that you can win based solely on having the facts on your side.”

“And you’re speaking as if that’s a bad thing.”

“It’s naive—let’s leave it at that,” the earth pony said, frustration brewing in his voice. “And naivety, especially with that smug air that you like to assume, is not going to help you with the voters.”

Disce groaned. “So what are you suggesting?”

“We’ve all been thinking, and after the way you pronounce the leader of the Royal Party’s name it only reinforced this decision in our minds: we’ve decided that it would be best for you, for the United Party, if we hired you an image consultant.”

Disce threw his head back and laughed in such a manner that it seemed to the two Unionists standing in front of him that the temperature of the room dropped by five or six degrees. 

“I don’t think so,” replied Disce, assuming a serious tone of voice after he had seen that the desired effect of his laugh had sunk in. “Go find some other pony to play your foalish dress-up games.”

“You misunderstand our intentions,” the earth-pony said. “We’re not doing this to make fun of you. We’re trying to help you, and we plan to hire the consultant using part of the United Party’s budget. We’re using the money we get from the federal government, money that we may very well not get anymore if our support keeps slipping—which, I might add, may be partially your fault in the near future—to propel you to victory. And this is how you repay us—with offensive snickers?”

“Plus,” said the unicorn, who had not spoken until now, “she can help you with your accent. It’s good that you don’t speak in public that much, considering.”

Disce pulled his head up, assumed a grave expression and took a few steps toward her. His beady red eyes twitched as he said: “What exactly is wrong with my accent?”

The unicorn took a step back and shivered.

The earth-pony jumped toward his colleague’s rescue, figuratively in the sense that he began to speak, and literally in the sense that he positioned his body between Disce and the frightened Unionist. “She doesn’t know what she’s talking about,” he said hastily. “She’s not very smart and has a hard time putting her thoughts into words. What she means is that she thinks that the consultant can help you.”

“I’m asking the citizens of Equestria to vote for my ideas, not for my looks or personality,” he replied.

“Look!” the earth-pony yelled. His face was beginning to turn red, and he said: “We’re trying to help you. If you don’t agree to this, then you can campaign on your own, and you can let Princess Celestia take the Horseshoe Office without a fight.”

Disce shifted all his weight to his left leg, crossed his forward extremities, and looked at this pony. When he saw that the pony was not intimidated by his height and was not going to relent, he shrugged and said: “Alright, fine.”

“Are you saying that because you agree with us,” said the earth-pony, still fuming, “or are you only saying that so we’ll stop bothering you about it?”

Disce shrugged and turned toward the exit; neither of the two ponies saw the self-satisfied grin on his face as he walked away.


* * *


Disce immediately hated her. 

She was a bright green unicorn with a blonde mane and a spring in her step. She insisted on her appointments with him in the United Party Debate Hall being early in the morning, and she would always come in to visit him while humming the most insipid of tunes and while levitating a cup of coffee in front of herself with her horn. When she would see him slumped over in a chair with his head leaned over and his eyes half-closed in fatigue, she would punch him playfully in the torso with one of her forehooves, and when he let out a surprised gasp, she would make the most dainty and childishly irritating of giggles. 

But what seemed to Disce to hurt him more was when, after she had made a dull and pathetic joke, she used a different kind of laugh: a laugh that was cacophonic and disproportionate in volume and duration to the joke’s humor value—which caused a horrible straining sensation in Disce’s ears. When this happened, he would wince and bite his teeth together to staunch the pain.

He hated the way she walked back and forth, telling him what needed to be fixed, how she would ask him the most personal and offensive questions and then assume a look of condescension when he answered them. After each one of her pontifications, while her back was turned toward him in mid-pace, Disce’s eye would twitch as the most horrifying and twisted thoughts passed, although for just a fleeting instance, through his brain.

“Now,” she began one day, “we need to do something about that dreadful speech impediment of yours.”

“What speech impediment?” he asked, knowing full well what she was going to say next and knowing exactly how he was going to react to it.

“You hear that? The way your s’s are elongated and how you sometimes slur syllables together? It makes you sound slimy, snakelike; it makes me believe that your words are hiding something from me. When I go to the voting booth and I see your name, you can be assured that I’ll be intimidated.”

He stood up from his chair, a fire brewing in his eyes as he stepped closer to the consultant. She stood there with a placid smile on her face and received him. “A speech impediment!” he said. “What a thing to say! This is my accent, and it’s very natural to one of my species. Absolutely nopony has ever complained to me in the past about their difficulty in understanding me.” 

“That’s because you—may I use ‘thou’?”

“No, you may not,” Disce snapped.

She shrugged. “Like I was saying, that’s because you talk to nopony,” she continued.

Disce started to breathe heavily. “And quite frankly, it’s your attitude that I’m trying to repudiate, the attitude that the founders tried to repudiate: Elitism. It’s elitism, and nothing more. It’s ponies like you that made life so unbearable for creatures such as me before Unification.”

She smiled as he came closer, but she did not give a millimeter of ground as he bent his neck down right in front of her face. “You’re only reenforcing my point,” she said calmly. “All I see is some strange biped who, when confronted by somepony that disagrees with him, tries to intimidate her with his height and his strange figure. Because, Mr. Cordis, you know, even if you don’t care to admit it, that that’s where you derive your power. You think because you’re different, you can scare other ponies. You’re more of an elitist than I am.”

“Impertinence!” he yelled, throwing up his forward extremities and then falling backwards into his chair. “This entire situation is impertinence! When my next debate happens, I’ll approach the podium in front of the crowd and tell them what I think; I’ll tell them exactly what I think is the best course for Equestria, and that will be it. They’re voting for my ideas, and this—all of what you do—is unnecessary.”

“Whether you think it is impertinent or not is completely irrelevant. You’re giving the citizens of Equestria too much credit; and, whether you like it or not, they vote for the party whose leader is the most charismatic, the most charming. 

“Don’t believe me? Go ask the ponies who voted for you why they did so. How do you think you, a reclusive stranger to them, won the leadership of the United Party without even expressing interest in doing so? Because you talked to them. You didn’t win over their minds, as you insist you did; you won over their hearts.”

Disce grunted and gave a juvenile pout.

“In any case,” she said, “the vast majority of voters in Equestria are ponies; and if you don’t sound like them, then, as far as they’re concerned, you’re not one of them. 

“Now, repeat after me: ‘red leather, yellow leather.’”

Disce sat up and smiled one of his smiles that were peculiar to him: his eyes narrowed; his nostrils flared, and he stretched his mouth so wide that the wrinkles lining his cheeks faded away. Not only did he see an opportunity to rid himself of this insufferable pony, he would have some fun while he was at it.

He looked back at her, puckered up his lips, and said, in his best pejorative impression of her: “Red leather, yellow leather.”

The image consultant clapped her hooves together in delight. “There, you see?” she said. “You’re a natural! As long as you’re willing to put the effort in, you can be anypony!”

Disce slouched back down in his chair, crossed his arms, and his smug smile crept back upon his lips. 

Every day, she would have some new puerile nursery rhyme tongue twister for him to say; and, every day, he would respond in his most puerile and derisive voice—and she would smile and praise him in turn, but not without that sickening laugh of hers. Disce smiled too; there was few things he appreciated more in life than the last laugh.

One day, after a particularly long session with the consultant, he was called aside by one of his supporters in the corridors of the debate hall, who had wanted his opinion on something trivial. Disce—who, for whatever reason, was feeling exceptionally good that day—spoke for ten minutes straight. The pony listened to him intently and nodded vigorously, a delighted smile growing slowly on her face the more he talked. When Disce was finished, the other pony was beaming from ear to ear. She gave Disce a firm hoof-shake and then continued on her way down the corridor.

He was approached by many other Unionists that day, all of whom asked him about matters which concerned him as the leader of the party. He would stop himself and consider walking away, but when he saw the eager expressions on their faces, his heart would soften and he would explain what they wanted to hear in the tone of voice a parent would use to explain a trivial matter to a foal.

In the evening, as Disce was preparing to walk home from the debate hall through the chilly nighttime Fillydelphian wind, he was stopped by an elderly Unionist, whose wrinkles and limp, in addition to his soothing voice and personality, gave off an air of sweetness and asked all to listen to what he had to say. He asked Disce how he was handling his position as leader of the United Party. Disce smiled and began to explain to him; but, after a few seconds of speaking and hearing his voice echo off the walls of the empty corridor, he stopped dead in mid-sentence and in such a striking manner that the elderly pony worried that he might have been afflicted by a sudden migraine. 

Disce was taken aback when he realized that he was enunciating his words in a peculiar manner—like he did when he was with the image consultant. He instantly terminated the conversation and walked away, rubbing his claw and paw together, while a cold sweat broke out over his forehead. When he got home that night, with the help of some chocolate milk, he gradually shook of this feeling of dread.

He had been speaking in that odd manner all day; and, coincidentally, more and more ponies were willing to listen to him.


* * *


Disce had seen Princess Celestia debate thousands of times. He knew how to rebut everything she said by heart, and he knew that whatever he said, she would take it completely out of context in order to defeat him. He decided—to amuse himself, if nothing else—to speak in that odd manner that the image consultant told him to. He figured that the worst that could happened is that they would make fun of him for his voice—but they were going to do that anyway.

But as he jumped in front of the podium, eager to speak and eager to show the citizens of Equestria what they wanted, he found that he was still cut off from his first words by the Royalists who enjoyed hearing themselves talk—Princess Celestia especially—and he slumped on the podium again while flipping through his pocket COMTOIS, as he had always done.

There was nothing new in the text, nothing he had not seen a thousand times already and nothing that would mitigate the vituperations of the Royalists, who were now using their fallacious intimidation techniques with more glee than ever.

He looked up from the book and looked at the faces who were speaking. Such a wretched bunch, he thought: the scum of society putting on expensive clothes and pretending to be its cream.

Through his decades of sitting in the back of the debating chamber in the United Party Debate Hall, watching his colleagues closely, he had learned to read ponies: all it took was one look at them; and, at the clue of a shrug, a glance, or a tic, he knew their innermost thoughts. He knew the thoughts that they were trying to hide from themselves, the thoughts that each and every one of them buried in order to maintain that image, the facade, which poets called “society.” And it angered him.

He looked down the length of the podiums, scanning the faces of each of the debaters. That one is cheating on his taxes, he thought. That next one plans to use his heightened position for favors for his friends. That one is a gambler. That one is an appeaser. That one needs to declare bankruptcy but is too scared it would affect his career. 

When he saw Princess Celestia, thundering away in front of her podium, he thought: that one is power-hungry. At this, he chuckled to himself as he realized how innocuous that was compared to the rest. Which one among them was not power-hungry? Why was each and every one of them there, if not to increase their position?

When he was done dissolving his opponents, he turned to the debate’s arbiter, sitting in front of the stage: that one is contemplating suicide. 

Turning to the audience, starting with the first row, he counted their skeletons: That first one regrets having her family. That next one is thinking about committing insurance fraud. She is lying to her husband. He is about to spend his life-savings, in spite of his family, on hedonistic pursuits. And that one—he stopped himself when he saw this next face. 

There, sitting with a group of lesser-known Royalists was a large, navy blue alicorn. She sat up straight, regal and firm, and her head and horn blocked out the stage from the pony sitting behind her. She stared at the stage, listening intently and occasionally shifting her head in response to a word being spoken by one of the debaters. 

It was Princess Luna—Princess Celestia’s lesser known, recondite sister. 

What stopped Disce was not her physical size—although it was notable—but that there was nothing he could see from her. He saw no indication of guilt, no subconscious movement that betrayed her conscience, and no emotion in a single one of her features. Yet, there was clearly some intense activity occurring in her mind, which could be seen as it burned out through her eyes, but Disce could not ascertain as to what object they engulfed in their fire, as he could not see what was going on in the brain that propelled them. 

He stood there, mesmerized; and, for once, he felt that he was not one step ahead of the masses that he looked down upon. Like a gymnast who has an act rehearsed until he has it perfectly routine in his mind, that he can perform it without a second thought, Disce now stumbled as he saw a rat, an unexpected obstacle, that ran across his balance beam. In this alicorn, he had come across a puzzle that he was unable to crack, and until it was cracked, he would be unable to think of anything else.

“Mr. Cordis?” the arbiter said. “Your thirty seconds for rebuttal have already started.”

“Why . . . yes, I . . . I think . . . I know that . . . well . . .” he stammered, his gaze firmly fixed on Princess Luna.
> Chapter III: Luna
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------


“The Union exists in a State of Perpetualism; and Congress shall recognize no Alliance, Confederacy, Kingdom, Federation, Empire, Tribe, or additional Union, within its Jurisdiction. ”

—Article II, Section I of the Constitution of Meeting Tribes of Immediate Siblings



After the debate, as the observers piled into the auditorium’s lobby to speak with one another and to catch their carriages home, Disce kept his distance and observed the Royalists who were crowding around Princess Celestia. He snorted in disgust when he saw them fawning over Princess Celestia, complementing her, kissing her hooves, and bowing in the most sickeningly sententious manner toward her. He was nauseated at the sight. 

How could anypony have the dignity to devote their entire being to ingratiating and idolizing somepony for the simple reason of their birth—a fluke of nature—and how could the pony being idolized enjoy such attention and feel it was deserved?

The only thing that kept him from leaving—for he feared that if he stayed any longer, he would have lost all faith in the ponies of Equestria—was that blue alicorn he had seen in the audience and who had halted in its tracks his train of thoughts with a mysterious force that he could not fathom—and who, at this time, was standing next to Princess Celestia.

She was also a member of the Royal Party. On recollection, Disce had realized that he had seen her whenever Princess Celestia made a public political appearance, and he usually saw her sitting in the front row of the debate, along with the rest of the Royalists. Her mane, her tail, her head, and her neck were no less royally magnificent than Princess Celestia’s; but, for whatever reason, she stood almost immobile as if she did not want or did not care to be noticed. 

Disce was immediately shocked by the contrast of the personalities and the difference in color between the two ponies: The colors that composed one’s mane were bright, made up of multiple hues, and they reflected the way she carried herself. In public, she was charismatic, charming, sickeningly modest; and she acted, and was expected to act, as if she was larger than life, soaking up the adulation of whatever pony chose to grovel in front of her for affection. In her private life and political, she was cut-throat, pretentious, elitist, and not scared to slander her political opponents in an effort to boost her own public standing or her family’s. 

The other’s mane was a dark hue—which appeared even more dark when it was placed along side that of her sister—as if to reflect her seemingly cold and uncaring nature. 

Disce looked once more to her face, then back to her mane; the colors were mute, just like the voice inside of her, a voice that was desperate to get out and speak the unadulterated truth. It was like the colors imprisoned some enigma, in fear of the destruction it would unleash should it be set free. 

Disce was determined to crack this enigma, for it was the one that he had been unable to initially. He had to go and talk to her.

He started at the group of Royalists and then stopped himself dead in his tracks. He had realized that he had already felt ill at the sight of the Royalists, who were gaining pleasure by sharing like ideas and confirming what they had already thought. He stopped and he waited, suspecting that being surrounded by such superficiality would only strengthen Luna’s prison and make it harder for him to exonerate her.

It was a long wait, and he feared that it would be in vain, as he never saw Princess Luna alone. He was amazed at how austere she carried herself in the presence of the noxious politicians. Disce was convinced that if he was put in the same situation, he would not have been able to restrain himself; and he would have retaliated in a violent, blind fury, lashing out at anypony in his immediate proximity until either they or he were dead.

He kept looking at Princess Luna. After about ten minutes, which felt to be an hour, he saw Princess Luna’s eyes dart around the room, as if looking for an escape route. For a fleeting moment, her eyes met his unsettling stare, and no sooner had they seen him, that they looked away as if he were invisible. 

Disce mouth curved into a furtive smile, while he kept his eyes on her; it was only a matter of time now. He could see that she was visibly uncomfortable, as if something had penetrated deep within her subconscious—a powerful, unremitting force that beckoned for whatever she kept locked away to appear in its full glory.

Disce kept watching her, like a predator keeping its distance waiting to pounce on its prey as soon as it appeared vulnerable. 

As Princess Luna grew more and more agitated, rocking back and forth on her hind and forelegs, Disce’s smile grew larger and larger. Eventually, he saw Princess Luna interject in one of her sister’s mindless platitudes, and she walked away from the group, the Royalists bowing to her as she left.

Disce followed, ecstatic that his tactics and patience had paid off.

She went down the hallways, taking every single turn when the opportunity presented itself, with Disce surreptitiously following ten paces behind her at every moment, never losing sight of his target. With every turn that she took, the hallway became less and less dense with ponies; until finally there was nopony in sight except the majestic alicorn, and the serpentine draconequus, now in full view behind her.

The deserted corridor she now found herself in, a maintenance wing, with its dim and humid atmosphere, with the large water pipes that snaked around the walls and up onto the ceiling, hissing unsettlingly as steam escaped from every one of their cracks and imperfections, all regrouping here in this single hallway, out of sight from the rest of the building, made Princess Luna think that she had, unwittingly, walked into the lair of a beast.

All she had to do was turn her head—which she, at this point, must have been making a conscious effort to not do. The slower and the lighter she walked, the quieter she tried to keep her hoof steps—and the louder and more ominous-sounding the steps behind her seemed to become.

She stopped suddenly. The sound of the steps behind her lingered for an instance longer, until finally stopping in their turn. Without turning around to face her pursuer, she called out in that voice peculiar to those of royalty, that voice which is inordinately loud in an effort to sound threatening: “We suspect we are being followed and we demand to know the reason!”

“Excuse me, Miss,” the voice behind her said. The voice carried so much weight and it was so pleasant to the ear, that Princess Luna was so put at ease that she turned around to see the source of this marvelous sound. She was shocked and terrified to see that this entrapping voice belonged to a creature so horrifyingly intimidating, but her initial terror was short-lived, as she recognized him as the United Party leader.

“I don’t believe we’ve met,” she saw him say, confirming to her conscious mind that the two entities—the voice and the figure—were connected: a thought that she had immediately rejected for its apparent contradiction. “My name is Disce Cordis; I’m the leader of the United Party.”

“Yes, we know who you are, and we have nothing to say to you.” Her voice echoed off the hallways in a manner that would have intimidated any of her fellow party members. She was even more frightened than before, as she saw that her usually authoritarian voice had no effect on this creature. 

Disce stood there, a friendly smile on his face. “Your use of plurals are quite odd,” he said, slowly stepping forward, admiring the fact that the princess firmly held her ground. “Why do you refer to yourself as ‘we’?”

“It is customary for us to use the plural form when addressing our subjects,” she replied without a moment’s hesitation in her voice.

“That’s a shame,” Disce said, scratching the back of his head with his talons, “because I had hoped that maybe I could talk to you as if we were born equal—you know, how the founders always intended one citizen to talk to another.”

“We have no desire to converse as equals with the subjects of lower class.”

“Oh, but I think you—thou—are lying,” Disce replied, stepping closer as he switched into the casual dialect and lapsing into his usual accent, which did not help to put the princess at ease. “Do thou want to know what I think?” he said, now coming so close that he was mere feet away from Princess Luna’s face. “I think that thou are regurgitating what thou were told to say since the moment thou were born. I think that thou think that thy fellow Royalists are profoundly stupid, and I think that thou just want to put them in their place; only something is holding thee back. I haven’t figured that out yet. 

“I think that thou are much smarter and more defiant than you let everypony believe.” He was so close now that she could smell his putrid breath on her face and could hear his raspy breathing.

She furrowed her brow and said back, defiantly: “Your assumptions are utterly false and unwarranted. How dare you speak to us in such an insolent manner!”

Disce’s eyes, which up until that point were squinting as if to see into the princess’s mind, suddenly relaxed in intensity, and his frightful smile remitted. He took a step back, looked at the ground and sighed, as if admitting defeat. “I sincerely apologize, Miss; I was frightfully incorrect. Please accept my most humble apologies.” 

Disce turned around, and started to walk away, his head still bowed in dejection. 

He did not see Princess Luna open her mouth—partly in surprise and partly because she meant to interject, but her words failed, through a mixture of apprehension and fear, to escape her throat. She closed her mouth and looked after that miserable creature who was still walking away overwhelmed with disappointment. 

What Disce had seen from behind the podium, although still unknown to him, was that the princess was tired, awfully tired. She now found it physically difficult to maintain the false smile that was requested of her. She now never smiled in public, never accepted the adulation that was heaped upon her, as she lived in a miserable existence. Her defense mechanism was simply to not think of a better outcome, to not think of her foalhood daydreams: She, when she was small, longed for a magnificent creature, carrying himself upon golden wings, to swoop into her room and tell her that she had nothing to fear. He would then take her to his redoubtable palace, where he would treat her justly, the way she deserved to be treated. He would offer no false praise, and he would accept none himself. The only thing that would come out of his mouth was the truth, and the only thing he asked was for her to give him the same. The highest thing he looked for from her, the thing he held highest in his esteem was her respect: respect for his honesty, respect for his candor, and respect for his virtues, and the only thing he asked of her was to make herself deserve the respect that he wished to extend to her, for he longed to find a pony that he could admire because she exemplified the values he held so highly. Such was the creature of her foalhood, her hero, her savior.

And, for a brief second, as she looked at the dejected draconequus walking away with his long tail between his legs, inside that repulsive exterior she saw her hero. It was for as long as a lightning strike, and the vision faded immediately afterwards; but lightning strikes, no matter how fast they are, still manage to sear their victims with their heat and purity, leaving a permanent impression upon their skins.

“Citizen, we command you to halt!” she said after him, her wavering voice filled with notable disquietude. 

The creature continued, as if he had heard nothing.

With her last effort before her breaking point, she called out with all the strength she could muster: “Please, don’t leave me; stay a little while longer!”

Disce halted, for he heard the sorrow and honesty in her voice. His mischievous smile crept back onto his lips in victory: He had won. The lock had been broken, and the prisoner had been freed.

He gathered his composure and turned around to face her fully. When she looked at him, she saw his face was stern and resolute, but also understanding, like he was giving one last chance for her to prove herself—but would not accept failure this time.

“Will you—thou—may I say ‘thou’ to you?” she stammered.

Disce smiled in the same manner a father does when he lets his filly know that it is safe for her to speak her mind freely. “Of course,” he said, in that soothing voice he had used in the debate that had taken place prior. “We’re friends, equals. Let us assume the tone of equals.”

“Will thou tell the other politicians what I’m about to say, or any of the editorialists?” she said, her voice shaky and uncertain.

He slowly walked toward her. He said, with his affected accent: “We’re speaking as equals, are we not? I saw in thee a trait that I thought to be extinct in Equestria by this point: a thirst for justice and truth. There’s nothing I value more than that. I want to help thee; I want to understand thee; I want to see this marvelous value brought into its full glory, as it hurts me to see thee sit there and not say a word, in fear of what others would think. I wouldn’t get what I desired if I wasn’t completely devoted to these goals. I didn’t earn the United Party’s leadership by betraying the ones who had trusted me,” he replied. Then he added, with a smile: “Besides, let’s be honest here: If I truly had ulterior motives, thou would’ve known it by now. Thou, like me, can spot a lie from the second thou hear it.”

“Thou are right, Mr. Cordis; I can, and it seems that my talent for recognizing deceit is better than yours, because thou didn’t realize that I had lied earlier, when I had said that thine assumptions were unfounded. In truth, I’ve never heard anypony speak so accurately about myself and my life.”

“I want thee to tell me all about it, and I don’t want thee to stop until thou have said everything thou feel toward me, yourself, and the world.”

Princess Luna took a deep breath. “Nopony had ever spoken to me like that before. Nopony had ever treated me like an equal, or entreated me to speak my mind freely. Ever since a foal, I was raised in royal manner: I was taught that a true princess never caused a social disturbance and that a princess never tells lesser ponies what she thinks, as it shows weakness to her crown and her family. I was taught to speak with an uncomfortable and unnatural dialect—the plural form thou noticed earlier—that my elders insisted made me sound more affected, but I think it sounds nothing but pretentious. Throughout my life, at every social gathering, I was told to sit and smile sweetly, while my elders talked in tones that were so spurious in their amity, ostentatious in their dialect, and deceitful in literal meaning.

“And if I didn’t comply, the punishments were relentless. For the slightest thing, I would be disciplined without mercy to the point where I would lie in a puddle of my own tears, sobbing uncontrollably, and I would look up at my sister, with my forelegs extended toward her for help, and she would only respond with a cold shake of the head and a simple: ‘You should have known better, Princess Luna.’

“I mean, for the smallest, most insignificant things! Whenever I said a word improperly or said something that wasn’t a word, never were my parents more angry. Among other things, they yelled at me, my sister joining them, until my ears were ringing. The punishments that ensued from my misuse of language was more painful than if I had done anything else, for whatever reason.”

“Wait,” Disce interrupted her, cocking his head to one side and staring at her intently. “What do thou mean: ‘said something that wasn’t a word’?”

“Thou know what I’m speaking about. Thou must know about the incoherent babbling that foals use before they fully master their mother tongue.”

“Foal-babble? Thou were punished for foal-babble?”

“Not only punished, but without mercy: more harshly than if I had done anything else, like I said. There was one time where, after I had mumbled one of those unintelligible pieces of nonsense—what foals say!—my parents immediately took me to their personal enchanter. I wasn’t in the room when they explained to her what I had done, but I could sense the graveness in their voices through the door. 

“When they came out, the enchanter dragged me into her room and performed some sort of spell. I don’t remember what she said, what it entailed, or what the effect of it was. All I remembered that I was in the most pain through its entire duration. My parents couldn’t stand to hear me screaming, so they left the room. My parents! How could they treat me like this! I couldn’t summon up the strength to speak for nearly two months after that.

“But the worst was when I mispronounced my sister’s name: I’ve never heard the end of—”

“Wait, what?” Disce interrupted, yet again. “How could thou mispronounce thine own sister’s name?”

Princess Luna blushed. “I’m ashamed to admit that it was only quite recently that I started, unconsciously, pronouncing her name properly. No matter how many times I was censured, I would always pronounce the c with a hard sound and give only three syllables to it—”

“I did that, too, the other day, and everypony stared at me, as if I was crazy. That may have been because it was the first time I said it out loud, but that’s how it had sounded in my head for years, and it feels and sounds right.”

At this, Princess Luna’s eyes lit up with the most brilliant of lights that Disce had ever seen. “What!” she said, completely ecstatic. “Thou did that too!”

“The pronunciation that she insists on using still sounds weird to me.”

“As to me! Do thou know what the most peculiar part is? With most words that take the soft c, it feels natural to say. It’s only that word, and a few others, that still feels odd on the tongue.

“Thou have no idea how happy this makes me, that I’ve found one who shares some of my plights. Because, Mr. Cordis, until thee, this had been the worst part: Aside from my sister, who said that my punishment was very normal and who told me that I had deserved it, there was nopony else—literally nopony else!—who would be able to empathize with me. The second I felt comfortable with anypony, whether it be my secretary or my chambermaids, I would bring up this situation in a sort of off-hoof and innocent manner. They would, without fail, immediately become surprised and would say how horrible my foalhood had been. It seemed that out of all the families in the world, I got stuck with the most indifferent one. 

“Now thou, who I now feel comfortable with and who has shared a elocution problem of which I thought to be the only sufferer—I ask you: have you had similar experiences in your youth? Were you treated with the same harsh way I was?”

“No,” Disce said wistfully, staring blankly at the wall behind Princess Luna, while scratching his goatee with his talons. “I . . . I can honestly say that nothing like that . . . has happened to me before.” Then, he reestablished eye contact with Princess Luna, and when he saw that she was expecting him to say something, he shook himself out of his strange torpor and asked: “So, what else do you believe to be unjust?”

She groaned. “From the moment I was born, my parents knew that, unlike my sister, I was incorrigible and dangerous; because of this, all my life, I’ve been taught to keep my ideas to myself and I’ve been told that it was improper for me to express disapproval of any of the actions of my family members. My elder sister, Celestia, has always been favored over me by all the members of our family; they always saw her as the princess I could never be, for I was too strong-willed and resistant. They always told me to look up to her, that she always knew better. 

“My sister always knew exactly what to say to illicit the approval of all those around her, while I did not. My sister knew to say what was popular, but I refused to do so, as what’s popular is not always right and what gathers the most praise is not always justice. 

“When my sister joined the Royal Party, she, and the rest of the family, pressured me into doing so as well, to follow in her footsteps, to be taken under her wing as a sort of mentor; I guess they figured that this reduced the chance that I would ruin their good name. They threatened to disown me if I didn’t show my full and uncompromising support to her, her ideas, and to the Royal Party—which, as you probably know, was founded by the first president, and my ancestor, Princess Platinum.”

“Why didn’t thou just tell them to leave thee alone and that thou would be better off by thyself?”

“That’s easier said than done. Thou are not from a noble family; thou don’t understand how interdependent we are on each other—we’ve always been raised that way and I’m scared to live any other. I saw my aunt—thou remember her as the former president—upon being found guilty of her crimes, after she had been ignominiously impeached, was worried more about what the family would do to her, rather than the punishments of the law. It’s almost like we have no individuality, like we’re a single unit all working in unison to some amorphous, undefinable goal—and I’ve been raised to believe that any other existence is impossible. 

“When I first joined the Royal Party, I couldn’t stand it. It was so difficult for me to sit there and watch my sister say those things, and it was physically painful to watch her make such inaccurate and aggravating things while being incapable of doing anything about it. The pain came from how powerless I felt, how I was merely a pawn in their eyes, like I could do nothing—and even worse, they raised me to be dependent on that powerlessness. Who am I, if not Princess Luna? In my public appearances, at which I’m always beside my sister, I can say nothing, but my silence is taken to be tacit approval of the absurdities she spouts. 

“I’m at each and every one of the Royalists’ debates. As I sat there while they shouted obscenities at each other, I used to get silently indignant and so mad that I thought I was going to explode with rage. It’s different now: it’s gotten to the point where I find myself so apathetic to what they say, that I’m actually worried that it might be unhealthy. 

“What choice do I have, if I want to keep my sanity? I sit there, unaffected by the insults and the conflict, figuring that eventually they’ll get tired and fall apart, in their exhaustion. It’s a miserable existence, but it’s kept me through even my most darkest days.

“But then I saw thee at the debate just now: I saw how firm, how resolute thou were, and how each one of my sister’s foalish arguments passed through thine ears without disturbing thy train of thought. There was no flicker of a change of emotions in thine eyes; it was like thou didn’t even care. Even though thou didn’t win the approval of the audience, thou knew that thou were right and that they were wrong. I was incredibly inspired, so much in fact that I think the little defiant foal that’s been dead in my heart is stirring in her grave and kicking at the coffin, eventually to wake and scrape at the dirt, dying to get out and show them just how wrong they are. Mr. Cordis, you better start heeding my family, for I think they’re going to have a new greatest enemy.”

Princess Luna stood there, breathing heavily; she had never felt so good in her entire life.

Disce smiled affectionately at her. “Thou are perfect,” he said. “Thou are absolutely perfect.”

“What do thou mean?”

“I have another debate in a few days. I think it’s just against thy sister, as I imagine the independents will be dropping out soon since they’ve said all they needed to say. Will thou be there so I can talk to thee afterwards?”

“Unfortunately, I’m always there.”

“Meet me here right here, in this exact spot, immediately following the debate; we’ll continue this conversation then. I want to give thee some time to think about what thou just said here and to strengthen thy mind to make sure that thy defiance has no holes, hesitations, or whims. While thou think about it, I must tell thee that there comes a time that each one of us must choose to live the life they’ve always known, or to stay ignorant and stunted. Thou must think about this, too, as thou must make thy decision soon; I trust it will be the right one. 

“I thank thee so much for this opportunity, but I must bid thee farewell for now.”

Disce nodded respectfully to her and turned around, walking back the way he came. When he turned the corner, and was therefore out of her sight, he slyly grinned to himself, as if he had just encountered an untapped and unknown gold mine.


* * *


Disce hurried home and played back the tape he had used to record the debate he had about an hour ago over the radio. He fast-forwarded the tape through Princess Celestia’s opening statements—and while doing so, scoffed a second time at how riddled it was fallacies and straw pony arguments—to get to himself. Sitting there, listening to his own opening statement and rebuttal, he was in a state of awe: his voice commanded so much authority, so much respect, that one was obliged to stop whatever they were thinking about and listen to him. He was proud of himself for having created such a beautiful sound from his vocal chords, such that he forced an almost imperceptible smile while thinking about his ingenious image consultant—then he quickly snapped back to his usual resolute composure. He could never allow her to know how he felt. 

An hour earlier, back at the United Party Debate Hall, the image consultant had smiled to herself after the broadcast of the debate had ended. The draconequus had thought he was so clever; but, while he had been enjoying himself, he had not realized that the last laugh had been surreptitiously taken from his throat.

“Well, you win, Mr. Cordis,” she said, during their first session together following his first debate. “I see how resistant you are to my advice about your voice, and I’m not going to push the issue any longer.” She made sure that Disce saw her exaggerated sigh.

“That’s more like it,” replied Disce. “However, despite the fact that you may have failed in just this one aspect, I see no reason to fire you just yet. Prove to me that I should keep you on my team.”

“I was listening to your debate, and for the most part, I was quite impressed . . .”

“Who wouldn’t be?” said Disce, with a mixture of both incredulity and anger, as if he was greatly offended that the awe of his rebuttals would be questioned so rashly.

“But I couldn’t help but notice that, although Princess Celestia is, by her nature as an alicorn, very tall, you slouch a great deal. You need to always have your head higher than hers; you need to tacitly imply that you believe you are her equal, if not better. Can you do that for me?”

“I can’t make any promises,” Disce replied, closing his eyes and turning up his nose at her. “Although I do rehearse these debates, they’re very unpredictable, and it wouldn’t be fair for me to tell you that I will adhere to your plan.”

She shrugged, as if to admit defeat. “I guess that’s the best I can do.”


* * *


Disce stood in front of the podium, on the stage’s right side, squinting in an effort to reduce the glare from the massive chandelier which hung on the ceiling of the debating chamber. 

To his right, he saw his opponent, the leader of the Royalists, Princess Celestia, whispering to a comparatively short pony. 

The audience members were speaking among themselves and were looking at Princess Celestia with endearing delight, but had they been looking at Disce, they would have been able to see the emotion that he held on his face during that very moment, and they would plainly see that it held nothing but contempt: contempt for her family, contempt for all the straw pony arguments she was about to construct—and, most importantly, contempt for how disingenuous her superficial air was.

He didn’t have to stay on stage for that long; as soon as he finished this last thought, the arbiter—the same one from the last debate—walked in and sat down behind a desk, positioned to face the debaters. He was a young pony, but the signs of the stress and aggravation emitted by the debates he oversaw made it easy for one to mistake him as middle aged; all the fire and the passion, that is peculiar to the youth, had been sucked out of him, and it didn’t even look like he had put up that much of a fight.

“We are here at the second presidential debate between Princess Celestia, the leader of the Royal Party and Disce Cordis, the leader of the United Party,” he said, after a couple of quick coughs. “By virtue of a coin toss, Princess Celestia has elected to make the first opening statement, lasting no more than three minutes, by which time Mr. Cordis will make his three-minute opening statement followed by a rebuttal lasting no more than one minute. Princess, you have the floor.”

“We extend our thanks,” Princess Celestia quickly replied, as to make clear that her courtesy was merely obligatory and she wished to begin as soon as possible. “We are running as leader of the Royal Party, because we have directly seen that the policies perpetuated by the United Party under my unfortunate aunt, Princess Cadenza, are the causes of all the plight of the working-class Equestrians. To start with, their perquisites toward the Canterlot Elite have been nothing short of damaging for the lives of our subjects . . .”

At this last word, Disce immediately turned off the listening centers of his brain; he did not consider the platitudes that would no doubt emerge from her mouth in the next few sentences deserved his valuable attention. When he was young, he had always tried to refute any offensive and unfounded comment that his opponent had immaturely thrown at him, because he had thought that they had intended it as a valid, constructive point and having not realized it was being said completely maliciously. With that naivety peculiar to teenagers and young adults, he had believed that anypony could be persuaded to change their minds if he just pointed out to them their fallacious thinking, and that his opponent’s sanction upon himself was the goal of any debate. Unfortunately, as he now knew, the world lacked such justice; and, by virtue of having tried to explain the semantic and structural errors that his opponents had used against him, he had unwittingly agreed to argue on their terms—and he had lost both the dispute and his dignity the second he had opened his mouth. He had learned long ago that the best way to counter such arguments was to let its speaker tire herself out.

“Excuse me, Mr. Cordis? It’s your turn. Do you wish to make an opening statement?” the arbiter said to him, clearly agitated, as Disce had not responded the first time to his request.

Disce was taken aback at how quickly the three minutes had passed, at how fast and how many words Princess Celestia has spoken—but, ironically, how little she had said.

“Yes, I do wish to make an opening statement,” he replied, finally regaining complete control of his senses. “This isn’t a time to be looking for scapegoats. Although Celestia’s plan to fix Equestria seems ambitious and attainable, it is actually—”

“If we may be so bold to interject,” interrupted the princess, “we would like to take this opportunity to strenuously insist that our opponent addresses us by our family title.”

Disce’s nostrils flared as that feeling of contempt, which he had suppressed out of courtesy while she had been speaking, slowly crept back up to his conscious mind from the recesses of his brain. He was appalled at the audacity that it took from her for her to interrupt his opening statement, when he had so quietly and so difficultly sat through hers, riddled with logical flaws, without making a sound. 

He sighed. He was better than this. 

With a desperate effort, he summoned the last little drop of childhood naivety that still remained within him. He refused to stoop to her level and do the worst thing possible for a debater to do: raise his voice. He took a deep breath, and said, in his sweetest possible voice: “If I may respond—I believe that it explicitly says in the first article to the COMTOIS, that all ponies are created equal in the eyes of the law and the government. Here, I emphasize the name of our beloved country: The United Republic of Equestria—a virtue of our country, explicitly outlined in the COMTOIS, that I couldn’t be more proud to say that our founders knew to be right. 

“The title by which my opponent has requested to be addressed by is an ancient relic: one that is left over from the days before Unification. 

“When the Union was formed, slowly, but surely, we discarded ourselves from the remnants before: among these included hypothermia, starvation, and disease. For convenience reasons, although quite understandable, my opponent’s family has kept their monarchical title under this new republic for the sake of, I presume, sentimentality. Anypony who addresses my opponent and her kin with this title is, also presumably, doing so for sentimental reasons; but I’d like to remind my opponent that this debate is, not a social gathering, but to help the citizens of Equestria decide which one of us is more fit to uphold the COMTOIS. Because of the nature of this meeting, being of a legal and governmental one, I address each and every one of its participants by their legal name. If this perturbs my opponent, she can humbly request to not attend these debates in the future. This would be an unfortunate decision as these debates are, not for us, but for the ponies of Equestria—nevertheless, we would respect your right to do so. 

“Now, Mr. Arbiter, and my humble opponent: may I please request the permission to commence my three-minute opening statement and my one-minute rebuttal without further interruptions?”

The arbiter sat with his mouth ajar, his brain still trying to gather what had happened. His face displayed every single emotion he was feeling, ranging from incredulity to inspiration.

The princess, for her part, retained a coy smile; but not one among them knew, save Disce—for spending years observing the faces of the officials of many administrations and his fellow Unionists had accustomed his eye to picking out the deepest thoughts that they had tried to hide—that she was feeling raw, powerful, dangerous, and hateful emotions that none of the audience members could possibly fathom.

“By . . . by all means, Mr. Cordis,” stammered the arbiter.

“Thank you.” Disce smiled at the colt. “As I was mentioning earlier, Celestia’s plan are no doubt ambitious and have the best of intentions, but looking for scapegoats is hardly productive, and her policies are hardly in the spirit of the COMTOIS, for . . .”


* * *


When Disce got back to the United Party Debate Hall, exhausted with what he had just been forced to put up, he flung open the doors to the cafeteria; and, for the first time, all heads turned toward him—not in confusion, but in awe. 

“There’s our fearless leader!” yelled a voice, and every single pony’s face lit up with a bright smile, and a round of applause erupted from every single corner of the cafeteria.

Three ponies, who, by coincidence, were closest to the door through which Disce had entered, immediately swarmed him, and their glares deterred any of the other Unionists from doing the same. There was a black earth-pony stallion, with a complementing gray suit and red necktie, and whose slick mane-cut gave off the impression of a seasoned politician, somepony who knew all the ropes and who only had wisdom to impart. 

Behind the stallion was a pure white unicorn, also with a black suit; but a maroon clip-on bow tie and his eagerness, as he approached Disce, betrayed his young age. 

The third was a purple old mare, who had not bothered to wear anything; and the scowl that seemed permanently glued to her face, along with her absence of formal attire, showed that the cynical nature that comes with age had long ago taken its hold of her.

“That was amazing!” said a stallion to Disce, as the leader was queuing for a meal.

“Truly inspiring!” said the young white unicorn.

“In fairness, he was just voicing what none of us had the guts to say. A pony is lying if he says that he’s always respected the royal family and what they stood for,” said the mare.

“That is true,” replied the first pony, “but still, none the less amazing! Think about it: you’ve set a historical precedent!”

Disce was not feeling like himself today: he felt more chipper, lively, sociable, and hopeful. In honesty, he was not surprised at his entrance to the cafeteria being greeted in such a manner; since the moment he stepped into the debate hall this afternoon, he had not been able to walk past another Unionist without being complimented on his performance. Sometimes the compliments were long-winded conversations that went on for minutes; other times they were a simple “Brilliant!” or a “Great job!” 

No matter in what form the compliment came, it made him feel very different: he felt warm; he felt loved—he felt like he was making a difference. Just since this morning, he had stopped seeing the expressions in his subordinates’ faces, as if there were no ulterior motives; and he had stopped analyzing the countenances of those who passed him, trying to unearth their secrets, and instead treated every expression toward him at its face value, as genuine. He was definitely not feeling like himself—he was feeling better.

“Do you really think what you said was fine?” the unicorn asked. “I mean, good job and everything, but you really kicked dirt in the eyes of the royal family. I’m not saying I disagree with what you said, but—”

“What’s the problem?” said Disce. “I didn’t insult her, I didn’t make a straw pony, unlike what she does all the time. She interrupted me, and if the arbiter wasn’t going to do anything about it, I had to say something. Sure, maybe, one could argue that I used a bit of guilt by association when I compared her title to the pre-Union pestilence”—at this, he chuckled—“but it wasn’t overt and I can claim to anypony accusing me of faulty arguments that the fact that I made them completely separate sentences and had no intention of ridiculing my opponent means that their accusation says more about their feelings than mine!”

The first pony, and even the elderly mare, laughed.

“No, that’s not what I meant,” replied the unicorn. “I meant that the royal family is probably one of, if not the, oldest family in Equestria. They founded the Royal Party, for Pete’s sake. They no doubt have many connections, and I don’t think I need to remind you that they have a history of stamping out anypony who insults them or gets in their way . . .”

“Ah, don’t listen to him,” the first stallion said, waving a forehoof dismissively at the unicorn. “You want to know what we call Chrome Finish? We call him the bandwagon pony. He’s the quickest to jump onto any new theory, just for the sake of being extreme. I would like to remind him that he was the loudest in voicing his support for Cadenza when she ran for leader and during her presidency.” 

This statement gathered laughs all around, except from Chrome Finish, who tried to hide the fact that he was blushing.

“But seriously,” the earth-pony continued, “the royal family makes a lot of hoo-ha, but that’s just because they’ve been terrified ever since Unification and President Platinum, in effect, signed away any authority they had carried. Really—and these are words of experience, mind you—their bark is far worse than their bite.”

The four Unionists paid for their food and shuffled through the crowd to find a seat, but not after Disce received a few more compliments from passing ponies.

“So, have you made a decision yet?” said the mare, as they sat down at an unoccupied table.

“I don’t understand what you mean,” replied Disce.

“Humph! We’ve elected an ignoramus!” she scowled, and then she proceeded to blow on her soup.

“What my senior colleague means to ask,” said Chrome Finish, in a mocking tone, “is that have you picked a running mate yet?”

“A what?”

“Wow, you really are thick!” said the stallion, as he sipped from his coffee.

“Well, the president of the Union must have a vice president of the Union, right?” the unicorn continued. “Have you thought about it?”

“Hey, come now, Chrome Finish,” said the stallion, as he poked the young unicorn in the rib with his hoof. “Don’t bother the leader right now; he’s probably got a lot on his mind, and the last thing he needs is for some young rascal interrogating him.”

“No, it’s fine,” Disce said, with a smile creeping to his lips. “I’ve guess I’ve given it some thought; in fact, I think it would be fair to say that I already have the pony in mind.”

“Really? Who?” said Chrome Finish.

“I’d rather not say. Nothing’s final.”

“Oh, come on—don’t tease us,” said the first pony. “We’re your friends.”

“You didn’t even vote for him!” whined the unicorn.

“Come on—tell us!”

“Alright, alright,” said Disce, with a smirk that might have been construed to imply that he was clearly enjoying the power that he held over his subordinates, “but this is not final, and the decision can still be easily changed. In fact, it’s not really a decision; it’s more like a passing thought. Not even a thought, really, more like—”

“Tell us!”

“Alright, just calm down and don’t make too much noise!” said Disce, while nervously checking over his shoulder. “Come closer—nopony is supposed to know until the announcement in a week, so you have to keep this a secret.”

The ponies leaned in closer, their faces dripping with anticipation.

“Do you . . .” Disce said, as he glanced over his shoulder one final time, “do you know—Luna?”

“What!”  yelped the mare.

“I thought I told you to keep your voice down!” Disce snarled, as he looked around and noticed their table was starting to attract a few fleeting glances.

“Who?” said Chrome Finish.

“Or, if you’d rather, Princess Luna,” continued Disce, rolling his eyes at the title.

“Princess Celestia’s little sister?” said the first pony.

“And you call me thick!” replied Disce.

“But she’s a Royalist!” Chrome Finish whined. “You can’t have a Royalist as your running mate!”

“Why not? Nothing in the COMTOIS says that the vice president must be in the same party as the president.”

“What I want to know is what he was doing talking to the Royalists,” muttered the mare.

“An excellent question, and I’m sure I can assuage your feelings of apprehension if you just let me explain—”

“I’ve seen her,” said the first pony, as he chewed nosily on a piece of bread. “During the debates, I’ve seen her. She always sits at the front, with all the other prominent members of the Royal Party. I’ve stood beside her, in the hallways before and after the debates, and let me tell you: In terms of a snooty, noble mare, she’s fine. As a politician, especially if one desires one of the scrupulous caliber, who you like to say you value so greatly, she’s terrible. I see everything bad in her, politically, that I see in Princess Celestia. On top of that, she’s so cold, dismissive, and rude to anypony that tries to talk to her.”

“That’s because ‘anypony’ isn’t me,” said Disce, with a sly smirk. “While I was talking to a few of the Royalists—”

“Why were you talking to the Royalists?” repeated the mare.

“Well,” Disce said as he leaned back in his chair. “That really depends on who’s asking. If you ask potential voters, I was talking to the Royalists because I’m not dogmatic and I like to keep my mind open; but, because my fellow Unionists are asking me, I was talking to the Royalists because all the best military manuals say that the best way to defeat your enemy is to know them better than you know yourself.” Disce smiled in his peculiar manner. “But to answer your question of, ‘why Luna?’ Well . . . that’s slightly more complicated, and I don’t feel like getting into it right now. Just wait for the announcement in a week.”

The three ponies stared at Disce, still listening intently.

Disce tilted his chair back and smiled. “I don’t expect you to understand; but, if you ask me, there is nopony in Equestria more fit to be my vice president than Luna.”
> Chapter IV: Supero Omnia
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------


“The Freedom of the Citizens to Write and Publish shall not be abridged, except in Cases of Slander and Libel, where the Law is obligated to act in all its Force.” 

—Amendment VI to the Constitution of Meeting Tribes of Immediate Siblings



In the beginning of November, the value of gold hit at an all-time low. Investments in the Equestrian economy responded appropriately—that is to say, almost all of it disappeared—and unemployment rate shot up to a record of twenty percent, while homeless rate was also at a record high of ten percent. 

Nearly every corporation that still remained, albeit by a thread, changed its business model every week, latching onto one that was popular at the time by the most vocal writers of the middle-class. Each week, they would see their figures slipping further; and, each week, they would frantically grasp onto the slightest whim, deluding themselves into believing that it would work—similar to an insect who incessantly smashes itself into a glass window and after each insane iteration still manages to convince itself that the next attempt will be successful. No matter how much entrepreneurship or spirit that they lost, no matter how “friendly” they showed their business model to be, no matter how much money they announced that they were losing, they could never exonerate themselves in the eyes of those who blamed them for the poverty that had stricken Equestria. 

The stock market continued to crash as reliable corporations, that had been around for decades, were slowly closing their doors. The business leaders that were not fired—the ones who had the drive and the initiative to run the company—were quickly abandoning their posts, leaving their dying companies to their incompetent subordinates, who only ran them quicker into the ground.

Despite the daily announcement of a multinational corporation going out of business, with each announcement more shocking than the rest, none of them could have shocked the nation more than then the news that the United Party leader, Disce Cordis, had chosen Princess Luna as his running mate.

The editorialists were relentless. Every waking moment, whenever he walked down the street from his house to the debate hall, Disce was inundated with incredibly obnoxious and uncomfortably personal questions:

“Are you aware that Princess Luna is a Royalist?”

“Does Princess Celestia approve of your choice?”

“Do you consider yourself a traitor to the United Party?”

“Are you doing this simply to get the undecided Royalist votes?”

“Members of both parties claim that the princess is your ‘special somepony.’ How do you respond to this?”

The questions chilled him more than the cold November air.

One by one, the Unionists back in the debate hall approached Disce to entreat him to answer a few of the editorialists’ questions; and, by the end of the day, they had convinced him—or rather, had subdued him—into agreeing. Clever were his colleagues, and they had learned that resistance to incessant exhortations was not one of Disce’s strong suits.

During his voluntary interrogation, where not a second passed without an unpleasant bright light from one of the reporter’s cameras blinded him, he stood proudly by Princess Luna and ignored any questions hurled by the impatient reporters who could not wait their turn to ask him.

Princess Luna watched him say everything, but not a single word he said processed in her mind. In each series of sounds he made, instead of language, she heard pure moral integrity, as he defended his decision against a torrent of accusatory questions. There was nothing in the sounds or gestures that he made which indicated he showed regret for his decision. Through the short, dismissive phrases he spoke in response to the prying words of the reporters, the message of each blared loud and clear to anypony who cared to listen: this is my decision; it is the right one, and I’m sure of it.


* * *


“Thou know what thou are going to say, yes?” Disce said to her, minutes before her first debate.

“Yes,” Princess Luna responded, “but, truth be told, I’ve never been partial to arguments: Even when they’re formal, polite, and controlled, they still remind me too much of strife, of violence, and discordance. I’ll rebuff tiny things when I need to, but I’m not too keen on the whole sport aspect of it. I don’t practice in front of a mirror, unlike my sister, nor do I have any urge to, so she does all the speaking—and then I, whether I like it or not, get tied to it. One of the things that has helped me keep a hold of my sanity is that—as much as I hate to admit it—I’ve acquired a sort of taste, if you can call it that, watching her argue: even if one doesn’t agree with what she says, one still has to admire her charismatic eloquence, how good it sounds when she puts forth her ideas.”

Disce rumpled his cheeks, stuck out his tongue in the same manner as if he had just sucked on a lemon, and made a strangled gagging noise from the bottom of his throat.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” she said, with just a hint of an air of affront.

“I can’t stand that,” he said. “If something can’t stand on its own substance, if the only way it can be digested is to be heaped in sugar, lest one figures out that it’s unbelievably sour, then I don’t care for it. Call my restrictive tastes dogmatic, if it pleases thee.”

“Alright,” said Princess Luna, “do thou have any advice toward me that suits thy refined palate?”

“Nothing thou don’t already know. Whenever thou are encountered with a fallacy, no matter how small, don’t argue against it; just keep talking as if it had never come up. I’ve learned the hard way that the more one argues with an irrational pony, the more one tries to show them how wrong they are—by attempting to use reason to convince and irrational being, one has already conceded the argument. This is the perfect opportunity to say to Equestria what thou said to me: thou have an opponent, a forum, and an audience. Conditions could hardly be more appropriate.”

For her running mate, Princess Celestia had chosen a portly, middle-aged, brown earth-pony named Colonel Buckner: a professor at the Republican Military College in Canterlot who had went into politics and who had won the delegation in his riding for the past three general elections in a row. He had a long, curly mustache, which he kept fastidiously; and though he was not in the royal family, his speech, his sharp clothes, and his gestures paralleled the elegance of them and had earned him their admiration and friendship. Even as he stood there, by himself, waiting for Princess Luna to join him at the other podium, he showed absolutely no signs of agitation. He stood there, calmly and collectedly, as if he was entirely comfortable being in the spotlight and in complete silence.

Colonel Buckner’s serenity did not put Princess Luna at ease, but she still walked out onto the stage where the debate was to take place with her head held high and with that confident stride of hers. As she spoke, the hearts of the ponies watching swelled and their eyes twinkled; the twinkling, more likely than not, came from the reflection of light upon the gems of her tiara, which rebounded the brilliant rays of the lighting across the audience, seeming to fill the onlookers with the hope and the faith which every member of the royal family had inspired in them. 

The more she spoke, the more assured she became as she saw her onlookers gradually sit further and further on the edge of their seats, and even Colonel Buckner leaned back in admiration with a smile on his face, giving due respect to what she was saying. 

But if she had looked behind her offstage, her concentration may have been broken; for, backstage, there was only Disce staring at the ground with his paw over his eyes, shaking his head and groaning miserably.

She left the stage to a thunderous applause, and she immediately went up to Disce and looked up at him.

“Well?” she asked. “Not too bad, if I do say so myself.”

Disce raised an eyebrow at her quizzically. “Not bad?” he said.

“I spoke with conviction, with passion, and they must have seen it, the audience, for they responded with jubilation.”

“If ‘passion’ is being used synonymously with ‘volume,’  then I must concur.”

“‘Volume?’”

“Thou were certainly loud,” he said, sarcastically sticking one of his talons into his left ear. “The volume disguised the fact, even to thyself, that thou were saying nothing. It fooled the ponies watching it—understandable, as many of them are simple-minded—but I’m surprised that thou managed to fool thyself.”

Princess Luna jumped back with her mouth opened, startled at the first dissenter. “What are thou talking about?”

“At every word thou said, I was embarrassed to be associated with thee. Thou were using the same fallacious arguments that Colonel Buckner used, albeit at a much louder tone.”

“Are thou sure about that?” Princess Luna replied, leaning to one side and casting a skeptical eye at Disce. “Surely, that comment wasn’t another one of those smug and esoteric remarks that thou like to make, in an effort to feel superior to everypony else?”

Disce cocked his head to one side. “Really? Have thou fooled thyself on that accord, too? Think about what thou said, and then apply it to what thou know to be right. Forget the cheers that thou heard; forget the fact that the colonel, in essence, conceded the argument. Look down upon what thou said, as a disinterested bystander: Were thy premises valid? And, above all, were they sound?”

Princess Luna broke eye contact with Disce, and her eyes darted to the left, at the wall behind him, then to the right, anxious as she was at this imposing presence judging her previous actions. Her lips mouthed silent words as she recounted her arguments. “Yes . . . yes, they were,” she finally said, her voice tentative. “They were all valid.”

“But were they sound?”

Princess Luna’s heart skipped a beat when she realized that she had fallen into Disce’s semantical trap. “I . . . I think that he . . . I mean I . . . I think that I—”

“Thou said that a growing city means a healthy country. Thou pointed to the inflation rate, which you said was healthy, in Canterlot, and then implied that this means that the economy in Equestria was strong. Thou are right when thou say that thou have a valid construction—it’s perfectly valid. Obviously, if thou are correct, thy conclusion logically follows; but I need not tell thee that they’re self-evidently false and, thus, not sound. It’s the fallacy of composition.”

“Thou are oversimplifying,” said Princess Luna, her voice noticeably lower in volume now and with a marked fluctuation in pitch. “I was saying—”

“When thou were criticized on that note, thou said that any disagreements to thine own policies would lead to a complete national bankruptcy—a false dichotomy.”

“Thou see where the country is headed, so I don’t think—”

“And, worst of all, thou said that the ‘Hooves-off, hooves-clean’ policy should be adhered to since it has always has been; and, instead of presenting proof for its integrity, you insisted that the colonel disprove it first—fallacies of both placing the onus probandi onto the negative and argumentum ad antiquitatem.”

She flinched and jumped back in shock. “But thou support that policy, more so than anypony else!”

Disce shrugged, crossed his forward extremities, and assumed his smug smirk of condescension. “So?” he said. “If thou can’t properly derive thy conclusions, then it’s just as if thou had not said it at all. If you say something thou have been told to say and thou don’t understand its meaning, its essence—then, if thou say it anyway, the sounds that thy vocal chords make are the intellectual equivalent of a mockingbird imitating the sound of a record player.”

As if to prove him right, Princess Luna made an unintelligible gurgle of disbelief, trying to form a thought—something that might protect her against the horror of what she had just done. But, because of the collisions of neurons in her brain firing and falling in contradiction, going in one direction and then the other, constantly accelerating and changing their path, trying to find something, anything, that would make her irrational actions, which she had been so convinced in moments prior, make even a shred of sense, the thought that she meant to put into words was mangled to the point where only nonsense could be sputtered. 

She faltered, and she shrunk back from Disce, who was still looking at her with the disapproving stare of a disappointed mentor. 

“I . . . I can’t explain it,” was all she managed to say, at length.

“Thou know what happened? Like an adolescent school-foal, thy mind has been oppressed. A foal, when she sees something her teacher says to be blatantly false, has one of two options: she can either stand on her own certitude, challenge the notion openly, refusing to let herself get caught up in her indoctrinator’s lies, or she can sit back down in her little plastic seat, saying nothing more. Thou, like virtually everypony, have chosen the second option.”

Princess Luna slapped the bottom of her hoof against her face, knocking her tiara ajar, and she rumpled the skin on her cheeks. “I didn’t mean to. When I was talking to thee before, I had told myself that I would say what I always wanted to say. It was the time and the place to do so. But, in front of those prying eyes . . . I guess they turned my willful consciousness into one of automatization. It must have been some mystical force; that’s the only explanation. Believe me that I would never do that on purpose.”

“Well, of course thou didn’t. Thou know very well that the honest thing for the filly to do, the moral thing, would be for her to stand on all four legs without a single tremor in them, and, without a nervous flutter of her eyelids or an anxious stammering of her voice, simply and plainly say: ‘No—you’re wrong, utterly and fully.’

“But, she doesn’t, of course. There are too many variables for her to consider: What would her classmates say? If her teacher fails her because, on a test, she answered the truth instead of the lies that she had been taught, what would her parents say? If she doesn’t pass the class, will she be able to get into a university deemed ‘credible’ by an arbitrary accreditation board—the Republican Military College, for instance, which, as a test of admission, requires its students’ teachers to say the meaningless phrase: ‘She got an ninety-five percent grade average,’ as if that even means anything—so that she can regurgitate even more lies there, the same lies, the lies that somehow gain more credibility because her old elementary school teacher has now grown an exotic hairstyle, speaks with a thick accent, and calls himself a ‘professor’? If she doesn’t pass Colonel Buckner’s course on ‘Modern Diplomacy and Negotiations,’ will she be stripped of the rank that was pushed onto her, that rank which her parents were dying for her to obtain at the cost of anything—her life and her ambition, for example? How would she ever manage to exist in this world without that piece of paper which bears her indoctrinator’s stamp of approval?

“The one thing that her overlords fear the most, the one thing that they try to exterminate in her as long as she’s under their ward, is her ability to say: ‘No, I refuse to play your game. I reject your faulty premises and the conclusions that are erroneously derived from them. My reason, my judgment, is the supreme guiding factor in my life, and I won’t let you squander that. I won’t let you kill me.’

“I’m not saying anything thou don’t already know. Thou know what thou said was wrong the second thou opened thy mouth. Even when I saw thee coming over to me, I saw in thine eyes the unmistakeable mark of guilt. Thou are strong, Luna, but even the strongest of us aren’t immune to that pernicious virus called ‘societal expectations.’”

Princess Luna sighed. “Well,” she said, “if only we could all be so enlightened as thee. If only we could all break the invisible veil over our eyes, that barrier which we lesser ponies cannot see or feel, but which thou see in all its ugliness. It must be frustrating for thee to be forced to spend thy life yelling upon deaf ears proofs for the existence of that obstruction, feeling like thy words are wasted; because, to you, the existence of that veil, like an axiom, needs no proof and is self-evident.”

Disce gave a hearty laugh, and Princess Luna was taken aback when she heard that it was nothing but an expression of ridicule. “Thou think that I’m some supreme, divine being?” he said. “Thou think I’m some sort of enlightened visionary, who will guide the world into the utopia of tomorrow? Thou think I always act in the way I speak, and that I’ve reached my full potential? Please, don’t make me laugh! I’ve sat in the back of the United Party Debate Hall for the better part of my life. I’ve watched the indoctrinators of the entire spectrum: the young college graduate student advocating a cause he doesn’t believe or understand in, justified to him by some irrational, mystical force that tells him that it’s plausible; the mendacious bureaucrat, who puts on a smile so that his victims don’t realize that he’s just waiting for their approval to choke the life out of them; the seasoned intellectual, whether from the RMC or the University of Canterlot, who calls himself either ‘Captain,’ ‘Colonel,’ ‘Doctor,’ or ‘Professor.’ I’m guiltier than thee; for I, unlike thee, have no excuse. Thou at least can claim that thou were brought up from birth to carry thyself as thy did just now, that thou would’ve achieved perfection if that behavior wasn’t so ingrained in thee; I, however, have no such claim.

“These creatures I saw, and who I’ve named just now for thee, have, in each one of their minds, a flashy piece of machinery built around their theories, and each one is equally convicted in its design. But they’re deathly afraid to take it apart, to examine its gears, to check their premises, because they’re worried that the blueprints are faulty. And who can blame them? Wouldn’t thou be terrified if thou took apart the machine, upon which thy life and reputation have stood for thine entire life, and found out that it was held together with flimsy wire and tape?

“So, instead of fixing this machine, they install it into the impressionable minds of their children, who, in their turn, give it to their children—until society is finally precariously balancing on this inefficient and barely functional amalgam of metal and levers, slowly rusting over the centuries as it succumbs to the merciless test of reality. Part of them knows that this course of action will doom them all; but, because they made everypony else operate in the same way, they take comfort in the fact that they have company—at least they won’t feel alone when they die.

“So, why did I sit in the United Party Debate Hall for all these years? I tell myself that it’s because I thought I could make a difference, but the thought I didn’t care to admit to myself was that I had been conditioned to accept them, to live with them. The phrase ‘What would I do without them?’ has, like everypony else, been branded onto my brain when I was very young, when I was still discovering the world, leaving an irreparable scar.

“But here’s where we—thou and me—differ from them, Luna: We, unlike them, know that it’s wrong. Even though they’ve installed the vicious machine in our minds, we stare at it skeptically, and it only turns on if we’re pushed into it by an oppressive, angry mob. But, when their backs are turned, we take it apart piece by piece until, before they realize it, we’ve dismantled it and, in its stead, constructed the ultimate weapon against them: conviction in our knowledge. And even the grizzled soldier Colonel Buckner will tremble in his boots when he sees thee coming with it.

“I’m not a visionary. I’m simply, like thee, a drowning soul, crying out for help in this world that is smothering him. Eventually, I hope to break the surface of the murky water, to breathe the world anew. And, in thee, I’ve found a fellow victim, someone with whom I can hold onto any lingering scraps of the solid wood of truth. Will thou help me find some?”

Princess Luna rolled her eyes and sighed loudly. “Easier said than done,” she replied.

“Oh, absolutely. There’s no argument on that accord.”

Princess Luna leaned to one side and tapped her forehoof against the ground. Casting a pleasantly satisfied glance at Disce, which was not without its ironic skepticism and incredulity, she said: “Well, Mr. Non-Visionary—anything else thou want to say to thy partner in asphyxiation? Any wise remedies thou care to impart unto lesser beings, such as myself?”

Disce chuckled. “Just keep this in thy mind at all times, and be aware when thou act contrary to what thou know to be right. That’s what I’ve been doing—and so far, so good.”

Princess Luna furrowed her brow, and she said: “What, that’s it? I must say that I’m slightly disappointed.”

“It’s the smarter approach,” he replied. And, gesturing toward the stage and to the audience that had not yet completely cleared the auditorium, he added: “It’s not too late to go rectify the mistake. Thy captors are still there; go martyr thyself.”

Princess Luna looked plaintively looked over her shoulder to the shuffling crowd. Then, turning back, she shook her head. Still feeling Disce’s judgmental stare on her, she shivered and attempted to shift the conversation to a more positive note. “Aside from that,” she said, “I carried myself well?”

Disce raised an eyebrow. “So, thou mean to ask me: ‘Aside from everything bad I did, did I do well?’”

“Well, I mean, I won—didn’t I?”

“Who cares?” he scoffed. “If thou won, thou did not win on merit. And, if that’s the case, what’s the point of winning at all?”

“Well then, in that case, Mr. Cordis, I truly am the victor. If what you say is true, and I had used the same arguments as my opponent, then I was, as I’m sure thou will agree, more consistent and more popular than he was. When integrity is gone, consistency and popularity are the next best thing, are they not? Thou saw how the crowd reacted; I’d say that’s a victory.”

Disce opened his mouth to say something, but the words failed on the tip of his tongue.

“It’s more important than ever that we persevere,” she said. “But, like thou said, it’s pointless to martyr thyself, and it would be martyrdom if we were to not take what little victories we can get, even if they’re ill-founded. I apologize for my poor rhetorical skills, and I promise to refine them for future debates. But I’m not the only one who needs to edify the necessary skills and endurance for the future: I hope thou are ready to withstand what’s going to come next and will be able to persevere in the face of moral bankruptcy.”

“What do thou mean?


* * *


Then came the Royalist political attack campaigns, via street posters and radio broadcasts. Disce knew that they were going to be mean-spirited, but he had not anticipated that they were going to be unavoidable. 

At first, he had laughed at how alarmist of a tone they assumed, how the narrator of each ad spoke as if the victory of the United Party would cause Equestria to explode. 

“Oh, this is my favorite one!” he yelled, as he cranked up the notch on the radio. “Ha! What does it matter if I’m a biped?”

“Doesn’t this bother thee?” asked Princess Luna.

“What? No, of course not! I love them! The statistics are so inaccurate, and my quotes are taken so out of context, that I think they help my campaign by showing Equestria how ridiculous the Royalists are.” And then, glancing at Princess Luna out of the corner of his eye, he added: “No offense.”

“Are thou sure about that? I think that thou might be giving too much credit to the general public.”

The princess proved to be right. When Disce stepped out of his house that day to go for a walk in the park, he came across a foul-smelling pony who regurgitated the ads with such conviction in his face. With a powerful flick of his tail, Disce shoved him aside easily, scoffing at him as an anomaly, that there was no possible way that the voters were that ignorant.

But, as the days went on, and similar events became more frequent, he started to worry.


* * *


He had to endure it for three months. Three months of debates, three months of speeches, three months of distributing pins, kissing foals—to the chagrin of their parents—and rebuffing attack campaigns. Disce feared that three months would be insufficient to shake the stigma from his party following President Cadenza’s impeachment, and his failure to do so would compromise his public image further, as he had chosen one of Cadenza’s nieces as his running mate. 

He had tried to assure the public that he and Luna completely repudiated any connection with the former president, and that Princess Luna had disowned her from the family the second she was pronounced guilty.

“It was a lie!” snapped Princess Luna when she came into his office directly after she saw what he had said to the citizens of Equestria. “Thou know very well that I love my aunt with all my heart, and that it kills me that they won’t permit me to visit her in prison.”

“I’m profoundly sorry,” replied Disce. “I feel even that’s inadequate. I feel that there are no words that will be able to express how I feel, nor make thee view me in a lighter way. But thou said that the more popular candidate wins, yes? My comment seemed to increase my popularity and decrease thy sister’s.”

“But it was a lie, a deliberate doctoring of the truth to further thine own short-term goals. Have thou been so inundated with insults, have thou spent so much time in the realm of the deceitful, immersing thyself in their game and rules, that it has come to the point where thou now believe that that’s how one pony ought to deal with another?”

Disce threw his head into his forward extremities. “This was the only one; I swear it on my life and all that is good. Regardless of whether we win or not, I swear that that will be the only lie that I will have ever told.”

Disce looked at her, his face truly expressing nothing but remorse and sorrow. He saw Princess Luna’s eyes begin to twinkle.

“My beloved friend,” he continued, “will it ever be possible for you to forgive me?”

At this, Princess Luna stormed out of the room, turning quickly so that he would not be able to see her tears.

After an agonizing three days, the third day being, coincidentally, election day, she returned to him while he was in his office with his long face on his even longer desk. He looked up at her, and it was clear to her from his look that all he felt was exhaustion.

“I forgive you,” she said, her voice firm and resolved. “But I am nothing if not a mare of justice. If you ever betray me in such a way again, my retribution will be swift and excruciatingly painful.” She walked forward and leaned so close to Disce’s face that his eyeballs—which had always seemed to protrude from their sockets—for the first time in his life, sunk backwards into his sullen skull. “Painful,” she repeated.

“Agreed,” he said, backing his chair up uneasily; but, while doing so, he could not help but make a smile. And when he could not hide it anymore, he leapt up from behind his desk and threw his forward extremities around her. He was genuinely surprised when she returned the gesture.


* * *


After six hours, when finally, all the votes were counted, the United Party had won more seats than any other party, beating the Royalists by a mere two seats in Congress.

It was inexplicable; it was unthinkable that the skinny draconequus, Disce Cordis, had bandaged the mortal wound on the abdomen of the United Party, pulled it up from the dust, and made it charge head-on with the charismatic juggernaut of the Royal Party—and the charge had somehow halted the juggernaut’s inexorable progress. 

And on November the nineteenth, 182 BC, Disce Cordis was sworn in as the thirty-second president of the United Republic of Equestria.
	
> Chapter V: The President
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------


“The President of the Union holds supreme Power in Congress, and, acting in Its name, exercises  Congressional Authority over the Union and its Citizens for their future Welfare.”

—Article XIV, Section I of the Constitution of Meeting Tribes of Immediate Siblings



The Horseshoe Office is located in the Presidential Mansion, right in the heart of Canterlot. A large mahogany desk sits right in front of the room’s only window. The window, which is nearly seven feet high and ten feet across, faces the eastern horizon, so that the occupant of the room may have the sun shine on him as he begins his work for the day.

On the north wall of the room, above a bureau that spans the length of the wall, sits the portrait of President Platinum. In the five foot by three foot painting, Platinum is sitting on a chair, her hind legs crossed. Her mane, other than being combed to one side around her neck, has no decorations; and, instead of one of her extravagant dresses, that she was so known for exhibiting with glee at social gatherings, Platinum is wearing a black gown made out of a single piece of velvet, under a small single-knotted white scarf—in the same manner and dress as a judge overlooking a court. And, like a judge, her face is austere, and her eyes seem to be staring straight at anypony looking at the portrait.

The president, as he walked into the Horseshoe Office for the first time, looked at her, and she stared straight back at him. He then took a deep breath to absorb the room’s smell, and in the smell, he absorbed the entire meaning of this room. The smell, unlike a mental assessment, allowed him to savor it fully within an instant, and it let him gather the full implication of his presence in the room. Three months ago, he was a cynical and disturbed politician; now, everything had completely changed.

He chuckled to himself. That’s not completely true, he thought. I’m still a cynical and disturbed politician—it’s just now that I’m a cynical and disturbed politician who’s the president. 

From here on in, the only place he could go was up.

The information of his victory had interrupted a very deep sleep, such that when Princess Luna had burst into his office, slamming the door loudly on the wall behind it, he had convulsed like a foal that had been hit on the soft spot of its head; and he had sat up, his legs shaking, his breaths shallow and rapid—and, above all, feeling very poorly rested.

“Two seats in Congress!” she had yelled. “That’s by how much the Unionists beat the Royalists!”

He had sat up, rubbing his eyes vigorously with his forward extremities. An unintelligible grumble of his throat was the only vocalization that he had managed to make.

“Well, let’s get going,” she had continued. “The barouche is here.”

“The what?”

“The barouche, to take us to Canterlot. Thou are delivering thine inaugural speech tomorrow.”

“Barouche? Fine, let’s go to the barouche. I like me a good barouche.” He had got up and, still rubbing his eyes, had stumbled along the floor of the office and had finally made his way out the door, but not without running into a few walls before getting there.

He had stepped on the running board into the carriage and then had sat down on the cushioned bench. His head had begun to nod; but, all of the sudden, he had felt an extreme pressure on his claw, as if it was being crushed, and he had started in the same manner as he had done when he had been awoken by Princess Luna—and the interruption had been just as traumatic. 

He had looked in the direction of his tormentor, and he had seen a teal pegasus pony who was ecstatically grabbing his claw with both hooves and was shaking it with a death grip. While shaking it, as though he had been waiting his entire life to do so, the pony had said: “Glad to meet you, sir! I’ve heard nothing but good stories—nothing! You have no idea how happy I am right now, to see you, to be able to came face to face with you and say: wow! Just . . . wow!” 

The president-elect had exchanged a nervous glance with Princess Luna. The pegasus had not stopped talking, and it had not appeared that he was going to let go of his claw anytime soon.

“My name is Enforcer, and I’ve been the humble assistant to the president of the Union for five administrations,” the pegasus had said. “I haven’t let any of them down, and I’ve been nothing but eager to serve them. Believe me when I say, sir, that this old sack of dust is nothing but happy to see you and is eagerly looking forward to serving you. Have I said how much of an honor it is to meet you, sir? It is—it really is.”

It was only just then that the president-elect noticed the pony’s countenance: the pegasus’s graying hair betrayed his age, but the virility which is peculiar to young ponies had not waned in him at all. Not a wrinkle ran across his face; and, through his eyes, the president-elect could see that Enforcer’s mind was sharper than most ponies he had encountered, and Enforcer reflected this in both his quick speech and his expeditious manner. In addition, his firmly tied necktie, and his sharply pressed tailcoat which nearly completely obscured his cutie mark—which the president-elect had caught a glimpse of and had seen that it was an overfilled manila envelope—spoke of a time where his intellect, efficiency, and style were the most valued skills in the world, if they were not now.

As if on cue, Enforcer had slammed a large folder down on the president-elect’s lap, and the president had wheezed with surprise as the unexpectedly large mass crushed his thighs. “These are a few legal technicalities that you need to look over as president, sir,” Enforcer had said, ignoring the president-elect’s winces of pain. “It looks like a lot; but, trust me, it’s not that much. You’ll find that they’re all organized in terms of priority and highlighted in a system that optimizes productivity and speed. It shouldn’t take you that long to look over, and—”

Enforcer had choked on these last words, as the president-elect had put his large paw over his mouth. “Nice to meet you, Enforcer,” he had said calmly, as the assistant had stared at him, wide-eyed. “But, as much as I appreciate your enthusiasm, I would like to use this carriage ride to enjoy my last few moments of idleness. In addition, I’ve never seen Canterlot, and I’ve heard it’s nothing short of amazing. I’d like to see it for the first time while letting nothing distract me. Can you let me do that?”

The old pony’s face had turned a bright red, as the president-elect had taken his paw off of his mouth. “Of . . . of course, sir. I’m sorry to have disturbed you. Please forgive my indiscretion. I never intended to interfere with your experience. I apologize again, and I hope that this doesn’t interfere with our relationship, nor does it make you look any less of me. I’m sorry.” 

Enforcer had said nothing for the rest of the ride to Canterlot. 

It had been a long ride, despite the strong pegasi who had pulled the carriage with all haste, and the president-elect had fallen asleep the second they had reached their cruising altitude. But, as if the city’s energy was transmitted in a form which his body had perceived even in its deep state of slumber, the second they had emerged from the tunnel in the mountain on which Canterlot was built, the president-elect’s eyes had opened just in time for him to see the spires of the towers, the tops of which could not be seen as they exited from the tunnel. 

Unlike the miserable piles of concrete in Fillydelphia, which have the audacity to call themselves “skyscrapers”—which seem to groan beneath the weight of their approaching, unwashed visitors, the travelers who grumble in their turn as they near the buildings, the structures’ dull, monochromatic colors appearing to reflect their daily trundles through life, those buildings which sigh relentingly as they are approached, conceding to the whim of their visitors, the only complaint coming from their facades being the shedding of a thick layer of dust—the skyscrapers of Canterlot are immediately seen by commuters as proud and imposing, majestic and regal, terrifying any lesser souls with their superiority as they see them loom over the horizon, causing the barbarians to huddle against the seats of their carriage and shut their eyes as the buildings draw closer, intimidated as they are by the power of the city conveyed through these monoliths.

The president-elect had stuck his long neck and head through the window—all signs of fatigue gone in him—and had faced the city head-on, a daunting cry consisting of a mixture of admiration, provocation, and incredulity coming from the bottom of his throat. 

Princess Luna had looked at him and then had looked back at the city; and even though she had seen it many times, having lived there for most of her life and having only came to Fillydelphia for the purposes of her campaign, she had to restrain herself from making the same act of filial amazement; because, even in the worst depression Equestria had even seen, the city—at least to passersby—still stood tall and proud, not letting any sign of hardship show on its ramparts.

But like a cheery host who puts on a smile for his guests and then promptly scolds his family for their insolence after the party is over, the city’s interior, after the initial impression of its elegance had been received, reflected reality just as harshly, if not more so, as any other city. As they had flown past, Princess Luna had noticed just how bare the streets were, how cold and dark the shops looked through their translucent windows, and how much litter tumbled through the streets. The evidence of the depression was, in fact, more convincing here, at least to her, for she had seen the city at its height and had seen its full potential—and then she had seen what it had been cast into.

The inauguration had went without incident. The ponies watching fully expected to be inspired—and, no matter what he had said, they probably still would have been. What they did not know was that, while every single president-elect taking the oath before had been nervous, as they had the entire weight of the world bearing down on their shoulders and was worried that they would not be able to uphold what they were about to say, the brand new president never felt more right in his position; as soon as the chief justice of the Supreme Court had finished administering the oath and had introduced him as the president of the United Republic of Equestria, he had felt the importance that the title carried, felt the honor, felt the dignity; and he could not imagine any other title belonging to him and, at that moment, could not recall a single moment in the past where he had not been the president.

He had delivered his short, but informative, speech that, like all inaugural speeches, inspires its listeners when they hear it, but which promptly vanishes from their memories the second the speaker leaves the stage. The president’s theme, his argument, was that it was time to stop the blaming, to stop the scapegoating, to start Equestria anew with each pony responsible for nothing but his actions, and to take responsibility for the fortunes and misfortunes that came their way— and it was promptly forgotten. 

As soon as he left the stage, about five minutes after his opening line, the political activists immediately started dissecting his speech and were trying to find ways to use it against him; but, at that moment, that was the last thing on the president’s mind, as he had been flown to the Presidential Mansion.

In his delightful miasma of having just experienced the highest honor any citizen of Equestria could ever hope to achieve, he had not noticed the Presidential Mansion as he walked through it: a tall, ovular building with many great spires decorating its roof and, with its illustrious design, instantly conveyed to any viewer the importance of its resident. He had been led to the Horseshoe Office, where, after he had spent a few minutes admiring the portrait of President Platinum that watched over the room, he sat in the sacred chair behind the sacred desk, where he immediately requested that he be left alone.

As he sat in the chair that every president had sat in before him, his eyes started to close, as his conscious mind had finally absolved himself of the stress of the last few months. At first, it had fought back, yelling that there was still too much to do, that it was too late to rest on his laurels, but it was soon silenced by the feelings of accomplishment and fatigue, working in tandem in an effort to give him his well-deserved rest. I’ve earned this, he thought—I deserve this.

He slumped in the chair and allowed his head to nod—when his eyes snapped opened, his heart pounding at nearly three times its normal rate, as he heard one of the doors to the office open. Enforcer and Princess Luna had entered, the former with a briefcase slung with a strap across his back. 

Enforcer approached the desk, while Princess Luna stayed back to partake in the sort of pleasure one feels at seeing their friend accepting the responsibilities of a new position to which they were recently elevated.

Enforcer slapped the briefcase on the desk and out of it took fifty or sixty sheets of paper which he then proceeded to arrange in front of the president. “Here are the bills that are about to reach the Senate,” he said. “The former President Cadenza was working on these before her impeachment—a formality really, as they’re probably going to get voted against, all things considered, but it’s important that you look through them nonetheless. And here is . . .”

Enforcer was looking down at the documents, so he did not see the president look from his papers to Princess Luna, give her a playful smirk, and make a gesture toward him and his papers as if to say: “Look what I have to put up with from now on,” which resulted in the vice president responding with a muffled smirk. 

Enforcer was still speaking. “And here’s the budget, which Congress insists on talking about during the next session. Does the president have any questions or services he wishes me to perform? As your assistant, I’m obliged to your service. Do not hesitate, even for a second, to call me if you need to perform your duties as president.” 

The president smiled at his precision and his loyalty. “Actually, I would like to make my first presidential decree,” the president said while tapping the fingers of his paw against the talons of his claw. “What would be the official procedure to issue a presidential pardon, if I may ask?”

“Ah, that’s quite straightforward, really; and, unlike most things the president will request from me in the future, I can bring forth this particular article immediately. The president must simply fill out a document with the prisoner’s name and number, and he must list a reason for the pardon. The reason is a formality, really; it’s there for the more conservative members of Congress, and it is almost never called into question. But if the president feels that he can not put it so eloquently, he may wish to ask me to put a reason in for him. Would the president permit me to fetch him the appropriate documentation immediately?”

“Please do, as I feel that it is my obligation to myself and every Equestrian to not get complacent and to begin my work immediately.”

Enforcer gave a polite bow and, not using his hooves, flew away in a flash through the same door from which he and Princess Luna had entered. 

When he had left, Princess Luna looked toward the president, her face beaming.

“Do not think,” said the president when he saw her reaction, “do not think, even for a second, that I’m using my position with sentimentality, or as a favor to thee as my friend and vice president. Thou said thyself that thou were a mare of justice first, and that’s exactly why I chose thee: I look for the moral values I see in myself in other ponies. I’m sure it goes without saying that I expect thee to not take this next action out of context.”

She said nothing and still looked at him with that eager grin.

Trying to change the subject, the president said: “Have thou seen the assistant? How is that possible?”

“How is what possible?” she replied.

“That a stallion his age could be so adept, fast, and so eager. He must be twice thine age!”

“I appreciate thy flattery,” she snorted.

“But how is that possible?”

Princess Luna shrugged. “I know the type.”

“What do thou mean?”

“He lives for his work; he can’t imagine ever being without it. I guarantee thee: if ever he were to come into work and find that there was nothing for him to do, he would die. His work is his food, his lifeblood.”

“I’ll never be able to understand that,” the president replied, kicking up his hind legs onto the desk and leaning back in his chair.

At that moment, Enforcer had returned, balancing neatly, with an admirable skill, a piece of paper and a pen upon his forehooves. On his approach, the president immediately took his hooves off the table and sat erect.

Setting the paper and the quill down on the desk, Enforcer said: “Here is the order that the president has requested. I’m sure he will find it self-explanatory. Regardless, if the president has any questions, he will, most of the time, find me in the very next room, over there.” He gestured toward another one of the doors to the office.

“No need,” responded the president. “I’m quite confident that I can complete this immediately. Besides, I believe that all three of us are going to have a strong relationship together for the years to come, and I desire that this positive moment be remembered as the start of it.” 

The president dipped his pen into some old ink sitting on the right side of the desk, which was still wet. He said, as he brought his pen to the page: “‘Be it known that the president of the United Republic of Equestria, acting with the authority as head of state and as a vessel of justice, formally pardons the former president Evviva Cadenza, for her crime of Bribery and her Crimes of Misdemeanor.’”

With his large eyes and his wide view of peripheral vision, the president could see Enforcer assume a rather flummoxed look. Princess Luna was still grinning.

“I sense that you are confused, are you not, Enforcer?”

“It’s just that, as the president no doubt remembers,” said Enforcer, who spoke this time in a strangely resolute voice and did not make eye contact with him, “the former president committed the most heinous crimes against the state and its citizens, and broke the trust of every single honest and hard-working pony in Congress.”

“I’m quite aware,” the president said in an airy, dismissive voice. “But what I’m thinking about right now is not her crimes, but rather that you would miss my inaugural speech, if you’re going to be working for me for the next few years. If we’re going to start a new acquaintanceship, it is most undesirable for you to miss one of the biggest days of my presidency.”

“Sir, I was with you in the carriage to the Hall of Congress and when we came here to the Presidential Mansion. I’ve never left your side.”

“That can’t be true; because, if you were there, you would’ve known that I emphasized that, as a country, we must start fresh. We need to wipe the slate clean and stop blaming some particular pony for our plights, whether it be the Canterlot investment banker, or the unfortunate former president. It’s time we took responsibility for our own actions, and make sure that in the future, we do not put ourselves in a position to be so dependent on another pony to such an extent that we feel that any of our misfortunes are of their doing.”

The president looked up from the pardon, and he glanced at such an angle that it appeared to Enforcer that he was looking right at him when, in reality, he was staring directly into Princess Luna’s eyes. They both watched the president, as his smug, foreboding, and malicious smile crept onto his lips. Princess Luna felt her mane hairs stand up on their ends.

“What I mean,” said the president, grinning in an even more unsettling manner than before, “is that I’m giving her—and Equestria—one last chance.”


* * *


When the delegates entered the Congressional Chamber for the first time, they were surprised to see the president already there, sitting at the front of the stage in the speaker of the house’s chair with his head slumped into his paw. 

The United Party delegates, as they occupied the seats on the left slightly closer to the president’s seat, entered first. Each and every one of them flashed a big smile to the new president but were disappointed when he did not return them and only responded with the same impassive look.

It was not until the delegates belonging to the Royal Party—the official opposition—walked to take their seats that the Unionists noted that the president had instantly assumed an erect position, his blood-red pupils enlarging and a smile creeping onto his face, as if something had aroused his attention. They turned back to look. 

Princess Celestia, the leader of the Royal Party and the official opposition, was escorted to her seat near the front. Her subordinates stood as she walked by and bowed, but if she had recognized the gesture, it was not apparent from her manner: she walked by brusquely without showing any sign as to what she was feeling—of course, the keen president knew. 

The delegates who were bowing as she walked past were not offended by her impassivity; they would have felt the same way had they been the leader of a party favored to win and only lost by two seats. 

“I’m new to this,” were the president’s first words before Congress. “And I think that the best way for me to start is to follow one’s example: it was President Platinum, who watches over my every action in the Horseshoe Office from her portrait, who introduced the ‘Hooves-off, hooves-clean’ policy, and it is up to us to honor her name by adhering to her version of Equestria.”

There was an immediate voice of protest from the Royalists who insisted that, while they had nothing but respect for President Platinum and her ideas, the policy was unfit for Equestria. 

Princess Luna looked toward the president, expecting him to point out the contradiction, but he just leaned back in his chair and smiled insouciantly.

The session was unstimulating and unremarkable; but even if it had been exciting, Princess Luna would not have noticed, for, throughout the entire sitting, she was looking at the president who would never take his unwavering eyes off of Princess Celestia. When the president was presented with a proposition or asked a question, he only responded to each with monosyllabic and dismissive answers. When there was an uproar of protest from the Royalists at a passing comment he made, with Princess Celestia carrying the loudest voice of dissent, Princess Luna would see the president form the most ugly sneer she had ever seen. She could not tell what he was thinking, but it must have been something unnerving; for, when she caught a glimpse of this mendacious smile, she felt a surge of fear run through her veins. 

As is usual in a president’s first sitting in Congress, the session served as an orientation to the new administration; regardless, it wasn’t long before the political commentators criticized the president’s behavior at the meeting and insisted that the Royalists stay wary of his actions. 


* * *


Unsurprisingly, because the president had only been in office for a week and had not implemented any of his policies, the economy had not seen any radical improvements: unemployment still hovered at around twenty percent; and there was, more often than not, an editorial in the newspaper that was always accompanied by one of those ubiquitous pictures of the crowds of homeless ponies sitting on the street, with the author insisting that the president redistributed the wealth and stopped making concessions toward the Equestria’s richest. 

The president always laughed when he saw these editorials: even if he were to follow their advice, what wealth remained, and what entrepreneurship was left to create it?

But some disagreed, because on December the third, 182 BC, a mere two weeks after the president had been inaugurated, came a historic and unprecedented response: the city of Los Pegasus declared secession from the Union.

“We find the president’s actions to be unjust and indicative of a creature that uses his position to further his own goals as opposed to the benefit of the welfare of its citizens,” read the Los Pegasus Deceleration of Secession. “As such, we, the delegates of Los Pegasus, with the permission of the mayor, hereby declare that Los Pegasus is, henceforth, a free and independent state, with all her ties to the Union to be severed immediately.”

An emergency session was called into Congress the following day. Once again, the delegates arrived to find the president there before all of them tapping the talons of his claw nosily on the desk in front of himself. 

Once they had taken their seats, the president, disregarding the preliminary formalities to the commencement of any congressional session, stood up, and, in an alarming and urgent tone, began to speak. “No doubt all of you are as perturbed by this message that Los Pegasus has sent the citizens of the Union as I am,” he said. “You are all probably wondering what the proper course of action is to take.

“Well, as the president, I say: Let there be no further debate, as the answer should be quite clear and obvious to all here. Let it be made clear to Los Pegasus, to Congress, that any recognition of Los Pegasus and its surrounding boroughs as a separate entity by Congress would be in violation of Article II, Section I of the COMTOIS.”

A rummer rose through the hall. The president raised his paw, asking for silence, and continued: “Therefore, we are obligated to act.  The Union Army should be sent into the streets of Los Pegasus tonight, to implement a state of martial law, until the insurrectionists are found and brought to justice.” 

The president sat back down, with a satisfied smile on his face, expecting to receive a resounding applause from all of Congress; but, to his surprise, there was silence—dead silence. He shrugged, as he waited for the gravity of his words to sink in.

Finally, Colonel Buckner, in the front row, stood up and said: “If I may be permitted to speak, Mr. President, and if I may do so with all candor for the sake of expediting my ideas—allow me to say that your actions, your proposal, are rash and unwarranted.”

A surge of energy went through the room, agitating the delegates, each one now slowly gaining the courage to speak their minds.

“Mr. President,” said a Unionist in the balcony, standing up. His voice was piercing and loud, which managed to get the attention of all of Congress despite its secluded position. “As much as I’ve agreed with you in the past, as ardently as I’ve fought the Royalists and their opposition to you, I begrudgingly must agree with the colonel. We’ve so little information about this; all we have is a telegram with a list of demands, and I hardly think that’s enough to justify a military action.”

The delegates now began to speak among themselves loudly, as an audience does before the curtain draws open to signal the beginning of a great drama, and individual conversations could be heard, growing in intensity.

“Allow me to take this one step further,” said a young Royalist in the middle of the crowd on the ground floor, loudly, and with a fiery baring of his teeth—in the gaps of which, one could almost see foam—“and say that the president is acting contrary to the spirit of the COMTOIS. He’s completely disregarding the founders vision of the harmonic Union: if Los Pegasus feels that only depression and disharmony can result in remaining in the Union, then I disagree with you that we should chain them to the iron ball of the COMTOIS as its slave!”

At this, every single delegate sprang up from their seats in an explosion of rage and fury. Each one tried to yell louder than every other, hoping that the president would hear them; but, no matter how loud it got, the president just sat back at his chair, and smoothed out his black robe with his paw.

Princess Luna buried her face in her hooves.

The president did not slam his gavel against the block to call for order, as was usually customary for a president to do should Congress get too enthusiastic; instead, he twirled it between the talons of his claw, a bored look on his face. He stared back at the floor, at the epicenter of the calamity, and said, in a very quiet voice: “May I respond?”

When the request went unheard, he shrugged, and pulled his mouth back in a strange sort of smile, the end of his large protruding tooth digging into his lower lip.

The speaker of the house, noticing the president’s reaction, and noticing that he had absentmindedly let his gavel fall to the floor, reached down beside him, picked it up, and offered it silently to him. The president completely ignored the gesture; he did not even glance in the speaker’s direction.

Worried, panicked, the speaker braced her teeth, and rapidly slammed the gavel with all her might against her own podium until the outburst had waned. Sweat was beginning to form on her temples by the time she restored order to the house.

The president did not begin to speak immediately; he waited until even the last few mumblings that remained after the shouting had ceased and silence reigned unobstructed. He even gave silence a few seconds of dominion before saying, in the low volume that he had used earlier: “You should be ashamed, everypony, either Royalist or Unionist. Some of your proposed actions are contrary to the COMTOIS, and they disregard the very principles upon which Equestria was founded. Have you forgotten the principle of Perpetualism? You’re traitors, each and every one of you, to the Union.”

Princess Luna let her face fall into her podium as she heard another uproar, even louder than the first.

While the president said something unintelligible, in an even quieter voice than he had used in response to the first outburst, the speaker of the house slammed the president’s gavel again until her teeth began to hurt.

Amazingly enough, after this process repeated in a similar manner for about an hour; and, equally amazingly, the president relented and reluctantly agreed—or rather, grew weary of being berated and nagged, as he frequently became—to make a compromise. 

After a further hour of debating, which was surprisingly calm and collected, the course of action was settled: although allowing Los Pegasus to secede was strictly out of the question, as it was expressly illegal under the COMTOIS, because no activity of militia was observed in the city of Los Pegasus, the president would simply make a public appearance to declare the secession illegal and assure the city that no disciplinary action would occur should they decide to stop protesting. When this had been resolved, the president had sat back in his chair, grumbling some short words under his breath, which the delegates could see but could not hear.

For his part, the president got Congress to agree to send an order to all cities to call up local militias in the event of an “emergency scenario.”

When the president got the press together to explain the current circumstances to the country and to issue the ultimatum to Los Pegasus, he also took the opportunity to make a quick note on his own behalf. After he had read off the page containing insipid statement Congress asked him to make, he added briefly: “On another note, mares and gentlecolts, there is a disturbing concern that I have about the amount of libel that is targeted toward not just me, but to some of the other members of Congress. Let me make this perfectly clear”—and at this, he leaned closer toward the journalists, as if he was speaking directly toward them—“To Los Pegasus, and any others who believe they can use the pretense of a constitutionally protected right to violate the integrity of their fellow citizens or the Union: if you do not cease in your activities, you can be assured that I, acting with the full authority of the government, will respond with all the force necessary to put an end to it.”


* * *


When the president read the editorials in the Horseshoe Office and learned that his announcement had only angered the opposition, who claimed that he was using the threat of force against Los Pegasus and his opposition in place of a persuasion, he simply scoffed, tossed that section of the paper in the trash can, and stared at the portrait of President Platinum hanging on the north wall of the room. 

After he had discarded the evidence of the signs of objection, the president had looked at her. She had observed the scene, and her expression of cold, merciless judgment had not changed. The president kept staring at the portrait, squinting so that maybe he could see it talk or give some signs of reaction; but, despite the expert brushstrokes that gave life to her cheeks, the president received no signs of approval or censure. The only thing he was sure of was that she had indeed come to a conclusion.

At that moment, his concentration was broken by the sound of the door conjoining the Horseshoe Office with the office of his secretary, and Enforcer flew into the room, carrying yet more documents. He approached the president, who was still facing the portrait, and nudged him on the shoulder. 

The president spun around, and Enforcer was surprised to see him smiling, given the circumstances. “Yes, what is it?”

“I simply thought the president might like to see that the orders have been carried out: here, I have the latest figures on the Union Army,” said Enforcer, as he laid down on the president’s desk sheets filled with technical information that only a hoof-full of ponies, not including the president, understood. 

“On this first paper,” Enforcer began, “you can see the receipt for the order of three hundred thousand Trottingham Rifles from Stallion’s Manufacturing Company—”

“If anypony asks,” said the president, addressing the unspoken question that Enforcer had been pondering for the past few hours, “the Union Army’s weapons are outdated, as we haven’t fought a war in decades. How are we supposed to keep our citizens safe with obsolete weaponry?” 

“Of . . . of course, sir,” replied Enforcer. Enforcer quickly hid the receipt and rearranged the papers until another one appeared forefront on the president’s desk, which bore the seal of the Union Army. “As the president can see, over the past twenty-four hours, the Union Army recruiting offices in Canterlot has managed to gather approximately one thousand and sixty-seven volunteers, and they expect to gather thirty-seven thousand strong by the end of the month.”

“Hmm, not bad . . . not bad at all.”

“That’s not all,” Enforcer responded, more enthusiastically this time. “These are only the recruits from Canterlot which, as I’m sure the president can agree,” Enforcer said, while forcing a strained laugh which was intended to cut the stress of the precarious situation, “that the soft, cushy lifestyles of the bankers and their foals hardly makes the Union Army recruitment in Canterlot indicative to the statistics of recruitment in the rest of Equestria.” Enforcer flipped over one of the papers. “Here, we have the statistics for recruitment in Manehattan: they’re reporting approximately forty-seven thousand two hundred sixty-eight volunteers in the past twenty-four hours alone. Their offices are completely swamped, and they predict approximately one hundred and thirty-seven thousand recruits by the end of the month.”

“Those Manehattanites . . . they’re a tough bunch, aren’t they?” said the president, in a sort of depressed snicker. The remark had been made as a joke, something to lighten the mood, but he could not hide the sadness he was feeling, and it came across in his voice.

Enforcer looked up at the president, who was viewing the documents with a sort of placid look on his face. The assistant gave a sad smile and said: “You see, Mr. President, the citizens of Equestria are good. Look at these figures, and then tell me that no more loyalty remains. If you want my advice, it’s that you shouldn’t let a vocal minority cloud your view of the goodness of the majority.”

The president glanced at Enforcer with languid eyes. “We’ll see,” he said. “Is there anything else you need to show me?”

The smile dropped from Enforcer lips. He swallowed nervously, realizing that what he was about to say contradicted what he had just said. “Unfortunately, it is at this moment that I must bring the president undesirable news,” said Enforcer, as he looked the president in the eyes, the tone of his voice dropping in pitch and volume, as if to reflect the solemnity of what he was about to say next. “Ponyville has not responded to the congressional order. Although Union Army intelligence does not detect any violent activity there, the same cannot be said of Los Pegasus, who has also not responded to the order. Scouts of the Union Army have seen recruitment offices that lack the flag, or the authorization of the Union—they report approximately twenty-three thousand militia recruits within the first twenty-four hours.” 

At this point, Enforcer quickly looked around the room, as if he was trying to keep something a secret. He stepped closer to the president and, in a very hushed voice, said: “If the president desires, I can call the delegates into Congress. They won’t be able to refuse this new evidence; and the president can, as he wished earlier, implement martial law and have the Union Army in the streets of Los Pegasus within the next hour.”

The president closed his eyes and exhaled, while putting his paw on the shoulder of the secretary. “Enforcer, you are a saint, and I mean that wholeheartedly,” he said, as he opened his eyes with a profound feeling of pride. “I don’t think that will be necessary. Congress was right to refuse the order of martial law. 

“After all,” he continued, suddenly erupting into the most chilling of laughs, which Enforcer could feel resonating its way to the marrow of his bones, “they’re bankrupt, aren’t they? Where are they going to get the weapons and supplies that could rival any modern police force, much less the force of the Union Army? Let the little tin soldiers have their fun.”
> Chapter VI: Vox Populi
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------


“The Right of the Writ of Habeas Corpus shall be upheld in all Cases, except on Order of the President through his Powers of War.”

—Amendment XI to the Constitution of Meeting Tribes of Immediate Siblings



At exactly four p.m., the double doors to the Congressional Chamber flew open, and the delegates swarmed out, desperate to get some fresh air. For the past hour and a half, they had been suffocating underneath an atmosphere thick with speeches that had been brief, but moving; facts that had been presented in the harshest of voices which they did not want to believe, but were not any less true; and the president with his unctuous manner, like always, but who was nonetheless firm and implacable in his will and who still urged them to take more extreme measures against Los Pegasus. With all this in mind, it was becoming harder for them to maintain their mental evasions; and each one of them knew that, sooner or later, they were going to have to come to a decision—a decision that, more likely than not, would lead to a worst scenario than the one that they had to deal with at this moment. 

Los Pegasus had still not acknowledged the congressional orders, and the ranks of their unauthorized militia were now reaching around forty thousand.

Princess Luna, who saw Enforcer taking the precise second of the conclusion of the congressional session to drown the president in papers and took it as a reason to excuse herself, exited through the double doors along with all the delegates, her head spinning as much, if not more, than the rest of them.

She stared at the delegates meandering in the lobby: each one was carrying a private conversation, attempting to keep them in hushed tones, but they could not hide their apprehension; and a confection of anxious conversations turned the lobby, which usually saw deliberate, calculated explanations of policies to be presented in the impending session and rational, calm recollections of the previous session, into a sort of bomb shelter for politicians—where the prevailing mood is one of near panic. She looked at their mouths and saw their teeth chattering up and down, and she began to feel her own do the same.

Then, one mouth caught her eye: In the corner of the lobby, by the coat check-in desk, was an old, brown earth-pony. He was leaning against the counter with one hoof and was twirling his slick mustache with the other. His royal blue uniform was impeccably pressed and washed, and on its lapel could be seen a silver brass button in the shape of a rising phoenix—the unmistakeable mark of a colonel of the Union Army. Underneath the insignia were a multitude of colorful decorations, each one hanging loosely and swaying freely as their bearer shifted his weight from one hoof to the other. With each undulation of the threads of the medals, the phoenix quivered; and it seemed to Princess Luna that the phoenix was eagerly waiting for one more heavy laurel to be placed in its talons—so that it could finally combust, engulfing itself in a plume of smoke, and fall to the ground in a pile of ash. But Princess Luna thought that this phoenix, unlike many of its less ambitious colleagues, would not rise from the cinders in its old form; it would emerge as a single, shining five-pointed star—the only pet worthy of a brigadier general.

The owner of the phoenix was Colonel Buckner, and his mouth was not moving at all; it had the most sublime pout of contentment. As Princess Luna approached him, he did a double-take, saw her coming, and then immediately planted both hooves on the ground to face her, the pout quickly turning into an awed smile of respect.

She stopped three feet away from him, and said: “Colonel Buckner.”

Taking this as his cue to begin his formalities, the colonel gave a sharp bow, saying: “Vice President and Her Grace Princess Luna! To what and to whom do I owe the pleasure of being graced with your presence?”

“To me, as a friend who wishes to speak to her friend over a matter that he had experienced alongside of her.”

He gave a large smile of the mouth without showing his teeth, and his mustache twirled up, seeming to smile too. “Very well,” he said. “Would thou like to talk about something in particular?”

“Well, there seems to be a lot of disagreement with the president over his uncompromising condemnation of Los Pegasus—to that, I will say he’s right, as provided by the COMTOIS, and nothing more—but . . .”

“Yes?”

“I really wanted to know thine opinion.”

“My opinion!” Colonel Buckner gave a friendly laugh. “Look at thee, Princess Luna, coming to the little old colonel for his opinion! My, my, how the tables have turned.”

“Yes, thine opinion,” Princess Luna said, just as coldly as before, and not laughing along with the colonel, “not only about the situation, but also . . . also what thou, and the rest of the Royalists, think about the president’s stance.”

“Well,” Colonel Buckner said, followed by an amiable snort, “on the account of the Royalists, I say that thou should know as well as I do, considering the fact that thou are a Royalist as well. But, given the increasing volume and the tone of the conversations around us, I think thou are already aware of not only the opinion of the Royalists but also the opinion of the Unionists.”

Princess Luna sighed with a hint of humor. “Of course,” she said.

“My opinion?”

“Yes.”

“Like thou said, the president is right; he is right to condemn the secession as illegal, and he’s right to want to respond with force, militarily if necessary. But I will say that he’s right only in the technical sense of the word. The COMTOIS fully supports him to the letter, and the law dictates him to undertake the course of action that he suggests. He’s technically right, as he’s technically within his power as the president of the Union.”

“I don’t understand.”

“What he technically must do is very different from what he ought to do.”

Princess Luna stopped noticing the buzz of voices around her. She remained staring at the colonel, whose mustache sat satisfyingly on his lip after he had said this last sentence. 

“Elucidate, please,” said Princess Luna.

“He fails to realize the fact that the president’s duty is, first and foremost, to protect the lives of the Union’s citizens. Any powers he has is granted to him along with this duty. He could easily send the Union Army into the streets of Los Pegasus, and their protest would be over within the hour—but would their voices be silenced? Would the rest of Equestria ignore, not only the violence that the Union Army would no doubt wreck, but the name of the cause which their fellow Equestrians gave their last breaths to utter? What’s to stop others from following in suit, and what’s to stop the Union Army from marching into each and every one of the cities? How long until the only way order can be maintained for any extended period of time is from the point of a rifle? How many could band together at once, before they could actually topple the Union, out of outrage for how the president had treated them?

“The president is blind to the reasons why Los Pegasus feels that they have no choice but to break the sacred contract of the COMTOIS. If he never sees, then it’s only a matter of time until the protest turns into a full crisis. 

“If it were up to me, I’d listen to what they wanted. I wouldn’t grant them everything, and I’d make sure they understood that I was in charge, but at least they would feel like they’re being heard. That’s all this is, isn’t it? They’re like misbehaving foals, who commit acts of destruction and insolence just to make sure that their loving parents are still watching them and still holding them in their care.

“In any case, regardless of whether you agree with me or not, I ask thee—not as serf to a princess, not as a Royalist to a fellow Royalist, not as a delegate to the vice president—I ask thee, as a friend to a friend, to tell the president to keep his big mouth shut.”

“Excuse me!” said Princess Luna, partly out of outrage and partly out of confusion.

“Every time he opens his mouth to the press, no matter what he says, somehow he manages to make Congress, all of us, look bad. Could thou simply ask him to refuse to deign to reply to them? This is an extremely volatile situation, as thou no doubt can see; and the last thing Congress needs right now is for it to assume an extreme position, alienating even more citizens, who were once undecided on the issue, toward the other extreme. Just tell him to give no comment. Tell him that he’s too important to answer their questions; he’d be satisfied with that.”

Princess Luna gave a laugh. “Thank you, Colonel Buckner.”

The colonel gave another bow. “My pleasure, Your Grace.”

Princess Luna turned, and began to make her way through the crowd, back to the Congressional Chamber. She pushed her way through the crowd—who, for once, did not even notice her presence, too wrapped up in their own nervousness—when she nearly ran head-on into Princess Celestia on the way there. 

Princess Luna was surprised to see that her sister had her tiara and her outdoors cloak on, as if she intended to leave.

“Thou still here?” said Princess Celestia, incredulous.

“I don’t understand what thou mean,” Princess Luna replied.

Princess Celestia sighed. “Didn’t thou hear? The president has told all the delegates to go home early today, just now, a moment ago. He said he wanted us to get home safely, before the streets are overrun.”

“I still don’t understand. In any case, I’m staying. Thou may only be a delegate in Congress,” Princess Luna replied, puffing out her chest and standing as tall as she could, “but I am vice president of the Union. I have a duty to both my country and my president.”

Princess Celestia, whipped her mane around her neck and, with the condescending scoff of an older sister, said: “Thou honestly have no idea what’s going on, do thou? When was the last time thou picked up a newspaper?”

“Since I counted more than five fallacies in one sentence a week ago.”

“Oh, Luna, thou were always so naive and oblivious. No matter. I’m heading to the family mansion. I know things have been complicated between us, doubly so between thee and the family—but, as thy sister, who will love thee regardless of any circumstances, I still ask thee: would thou like to come with me? I’m sure the family will be glad to see thee after they’ve been away from thee for so long. In any case, thou should trust me: thou should get out of the city while thou can, at least for tonight.”

The offer was way too tempting, Princess Luna thought. She looked back toward the doors to the Congressional Chamber—through which she could see the president tossing some papers angrily in the air and then proceeding to march indignantly out through another door on the opposite side of the hall, and she closed her eyes, overwhelmed with exhaustion and melancholy. 

She had not experienced this kind of caring and affection from her sister for a long time, and she had not talked to anypony in the family for months, so, when she learned that they missed her—and since she did not feel like chasing the president across the Hall of Congress—she did not hesitate. 

Princess Luna followed her sister toward her carriage, a heavily decorated barouche, and they both climbed into it and sat on the cushions, facing each other. The mansion was on the outskirts of Canterlot; and, despite the fact that it was a few hours ride away, it was experienced in complete silence, with both sisters looking wistfully out at the landscape. Neither of them minded; the sharing of the solemnity of the circumstances was sufficient to constitute a bonding experience.


* * *


If the average pony had learned about Princess Luna’s ignorance concerning the matters of that evening, it would have no doubt been used as an argument against the government, as it would have been used as a reason to claim that they cared nothing for the ponies that were beneath them. In Ponyville, Los Pegasus, Fillydelphia, and Manehattan, or any other city with a significant working-class population, there was nopony who was not aware of the significance of that night. 

For the past week, there had been constant communication, constant rallying, and constant planning, and it had been mostly overlooked by the news of Los Pegasus’s act of protest—or, rather, if one is to adhere to the terminology used by the conservative delegates of Congress and, more importantly, the president—act of insurrection. Each argument against the president, with varying degrees of validity and soundness, were building upon each other a device of extreme emotion that held the powerful feelings of injustice from every single dissenter who contributed to it. With every single speech the president gave, with every single meeting in Congress, with every single action he took, this device got became more intense, made more powerful by the increasing number of fervid engineers of the working and middle-class. Upon hearing the entire city of Los Pegasus cry out in pain, the device was filled to its brim and was armed. And, upon hearing this news, upon seeing the last remaining seconds of the bomb’s timer tick away and seeing that there was no possible way to disarm it, the president prudently dismissed Congress early, hoping to get them safely out of the blast range until the malicious fallout of feelings had settled. These feelings, this maelstrom of passion, were contained in a four-word phrase and was echoed through every single medium of communication that existed at the disposal of the citizens of Equestria. This angry, vicious phrase pounded in the mind of the president, as if all of its speakers were smashing into the conscious part of his brain upon every hearing of its instance.

March on Mane Street.

March on Mane Street: this phrase was shouted across the country in response to the increasingly destitute calls of help from every single pony suffering from economic disparity. They pointed toward Canterlot: to the city full of the richest and most successful ponies in the country and the home of the president and his administration, who increasingly sought sanctions for them. 

In the thousands, they hiked to the capital of Equestria, where the cause of all their problems lay. In the backpacks and haversacks of each and every one of these warriors were the essential belongings and the weapons they needed to kill the beast that breathed poverty upon them and their households. The snow-lined streets, while hazardous and impeding to the carriages of the Canterlot bankers, presented merely an annoyance to protesters, as they held their scarves to their snouts with one forehoof and their walking sticks with the other.

And on the morning of December the eleventh, 182 BC, the president watched the sun’s rays dance across the sublime face of President Platinum in the Horseshoe Office. He ignored the rays that missed her, which instead shone past the Presidential Mansion and onto the backs of the protesters and down the concrete of Mane Street, as if the sun itself were a medallion of truth, illuminating the path of justice to anypony who saw it.

“You wanted to see me, sir?” said a voice to the left of the president. It was the chief of the Canterlot police, who the president had summoned to his office.

When the president turned around to face him, the chief removed his hat and saw only the president’s stage face: it was the president’s most amiable face—the one that had the most reassuring and friendly of smiles and which only the vice president knew to be completely fake.

“Ah yes, Chief, of course! Please, sit down,” said the president, as he gestured at a conveniently placed chair facing the one that sat behind the president’s desk. The chief sat down, while the president remained standing.

“So, Chief, are your officers ready?”

“Of course, sir. As soon as we were informed of the protest, my officers were outfitted with the appropriate gear, and they touched up on their crowd control abilities.”

“Perfect, Chief. Now, listen closely, as what I’m about to tell you is to never leave this room. In fact, if you ever breathe a word of this to anypony”—the president approached the chief, his blood-red pupils swelling and focusing right on the chief’s own eyes—“my denial of it will be the least of my reproaches toward you.” 

The chief used the sleeve of his uniform to wipe the sweat that was beginning to form on his brow.

“Now,” the president continued, “the protesters are going to be lining Mane Street, where all the major bank headquarters are and where the Hall of Congress sits to, no doubt, wave their picket signs and to make a bit of noise. That’s fine; that’s their right, as outlined in the COMTOIS, so long as they do not interfere with the rights of their fellow citizens. However, it’s not unheard of for protests of this scale to escalate quite quickly; and I’m sure that the last thing you want is for any of your honest subordinates, who are only trying to uphold the law and make an honest living, to get hurt.”

The chief leaned closer, drawn by the captivating gaze of the president. His heart pounded furiously in anticipation.

“Therefore,” the president concluded, “I am authorizing you and your officers to use whatever force necessary to uphold the law and to protect themselves. When presented with a threat to their lives and the lives of their comrades, the last thing I want is for your officers to worry about the negative repercussions they may experience if they retaliate. You need to go tell them that their safety and their well-being comes first, above all. I would feel personally responsible if any of your officers got hurt, because I did not properly quell the feelings of apprehension that they had.” 

The chief stood up, his blue collar now completely soaked in sweat. He swallowed painfully, as his throat had gone dry, and he said, his voice raspy and weak: “Mr. President, while I greatly appreciate your concern regarding my officers’ safety, you must be aware that, if we operate under your rules of engagement, we cannot guarantee the safety of any of the protesters.”

“I’m quite aware of that, Mr. Chief,” replied the president, while smirking condescendingly. “In fact, I’d even go so far as to say that I’m more aware of that than you will ever be.”

Never had the chief in his entire life felt any more uneasy than he did now under the president’s unwavering gaze. Excusing himself as politely as possible, he gave a sharp bow and, with a nod of the head, said, “Sir,” as he showed himself out.


* * *


December the sixteenth, 182 BC, was a bright, crisp, cloudless day. After the clouds had exhausted themselves the previous night with an impressive show of flurries, the weather team up in Cloudsdale had cleared away every single one in sight, allowing the sun a complete command of the earth. But when it graced the protesters with its presence, their teeth chattered more so at the fact that they could not feel its warmth than at the fact that the temperature was frightfully cold. 

The president ordered the snow on the roof of the Hall of Congress be melted and its patio be salted before the delegates arrived in the morning and before he got there. As tensions between the protesters and the police grew more fervid, the spectacle was becoming more entertaining; and, since the march was supposed to pass in front of the Hall of Congress today, it could only get better.

In the afternoon, he finally found some time to himself. The president went to the roof, and was surprised when he found that his orders were carried out to the letter, without protest or hesitation. 

Despite it being a cold winter day, the president didn’t bring a coat; the stuffy and humid corridors that lined the Hall of Congress made one feel as if they escaped from a dungeon upon breathing the cold winter air. All the president brought to the roof was a fold-up lawn chair, a bag of popcorn, a newspaper, and the most ostentatious of bright red sunglasses. In the cold December air, without any insulating garments, he sat there as comfortable as he would have been in the finest of beds; not a single chill passed through his steel nerves.

From the roof, he could see the square in front of the Hall of Congress, the skyscrapers, the disheveled protesters, and the police lines that had formed on all sides of the protest. He took a deep breath and sighed with contentment, as he opened the newspaper: its headline said that, on the previous day, three protesters had been killed and twenty had been injured; to finish off the casualty list, one officer had been injured. 

He made a scoff that expressed disapproval. “Oh, that’s unfortunate,” he muttered to himself. “I hope the officers aren’t getting complacent.”

The protesters did not think so. For the past five days, they had been, in a single mass, using the little energy and ambition they had left to make themselves be heard, while slowly walking down the length of Mane Street. Some yelled their plights at the top of their lungs, while others banged on trashcan lids with their hooves, while a few more broke the windows to some of the smaller stores. To this last group is where the policeponies got involved, and the violence that ensued resulted in the most iconic pictures taken of the event—which showed the densely packed crowd of shivering protesters pushing desperately against the snow beneath their hooves, to hold back the line of policeponies armed with riot shields. 

There was such cacophony, activity, and emotion in the square that, if any bystander happened to be in anywhere under a kilometer’s radius from the event, they would have certainly been bombarded with the paroxysm of emotion, which the protesters were transmitting from that square all across Equestria.

The president’s ears perked up, for he thought that amidst the shouting, he could hear an voice as if it were speaking through a crudely made amplifier. Indeed, if he listened harder, he could discern it:

“Mr. President!” the voice resounded. “We know that you can hear us! Too long have we suffered while you sat back and did nothing! Too long have we cried out in destitution while the bankers on this street bathed in their gold. We, the ponies of Equestria, tell you that we have had enough! We are the mares, stallions, colts, and fillies of the masses, and we have this to say to you: this is the time that the elite of Canterlot falls and the common stallion rises!”

The response from the crowd was a sonorous, defiant cheer that could be heard across Canterlot; the response from the president was a happy crunch of his teeth on a kernel of popcorn.


* * *


The president found each subsequent day, up until December the eighteenth, 182 BC, to be more entertaining than the last; and, after the protest had moved from in front of the Hall of Congress, he tried, in vain, to find ways he could still view it in relative safety. 

How small the protesters looked, how impotent they were, how much they complained, and how easily the police beat them down with their shields! 

Each evening, before the delegates went home, Princess Luna would find the president in the Horseshoe Office reading every single newspaper that covered the protest. Anything that she had to say to him would vanish under a single, terrifying thought, which would take a walk through the entire length of the Presidential Mansion to rid her brain of. When the thought finally vanished, she would sigh, and then tell herself that the protesters knew what they were getting into well in advance, and that the president was hardly the one who could be blamed for the violence. Then, she would return to the Horseshoe Office and say what she had needed to say.

December the eighteenth was the day when the protest reached its climax.

On that day, the protest was reaching the end of Mane Street. The officers on the police line kept their distance, backing down the street, facing the protesters as the protesters marched toward them. The lieutenant overseeing the event was not intimidated; in fact, she was surprised at how relatively peaceful the protesters had been so far that day, compared to the previous days. 

This continued until about two-twenty in the afternoon when the protesters suddenly stopped: they stood at the bottom of the stairs of the Equestrian National Archives, with the only thing standing between them and the door being the police blockade.

All of the sudden, the yelling and the noise that emitted from the protest suddenly died away. For about thirty seconds, the protesters stood at the bottom of the wide staircase, looking up at the police who, still holding their shields at the ready, glanced at each other, wondering if something had gone wrong.

Then, somewhere in the crowd, a lone voice was heard simply yelling: “Now, my brothers!” The protesters made a battle cry that made each officer on the line tremble in fear, and they stood in horror as thousands of protesters with sharp sticks and blunt instruments charged straight at them.

The lieutenant yelled an order to dress the line; and the policeponies regained their composure, dug their hooves into the snow, and assuredly hoisted their shields. They had ran the drills; they knew exactly how to deal with an angry mob, and they were determined to be and act like soldiers of the law. 

It was a shock when the first wave of protesters slammed their bodies against the shields; but the officers, working in unison, absorbed the blow, and, together, pushed the line back. The first ponies unfortunate enough to hit the riot line, fell back against the stairs, many of them hitting their heads firmly against the pavement. 

The police, standing at the top of the stairs, had the clear tactical advantage, as they only had to stand there while the cold, shivering protesters worked their way up the stairs only to be pushed back down again.

Then, the protesters pulled out their homemade explosives: these were made from common household supplies and fuels; and when they were thrown directly behind the police line, they exploded in brilliant, deadly fragments. 

The policeponies, while reading the manuals on proper riot control and appropriate ways to deal with makeshift explosives, had felt certain that they could preform the actions outlined so clearly and so simply in them; but, like in any stressful situation, their minds immediately went blank as they saw the fire crawl toward them, the snow powerless to extinguish its raw fury. 

The line crumpled, as many of the policeponies fell to the ground. The remaining officers tried to fight back, but many of them were simply shoved aside or beaten to the ground by the protesters. 

The lieutenant ordered the line to fall back and wait for backup. As the police scattered, she turned to look back and saw the protesters beating with their instruments on the locked door to the archives.


* * *


At four p.m., Enforcer came into the door to the Horseshoe Office and found the president sitting in the chair behind his desk and thoroughly absorbed in a small blue book with no cover art.

“Mr. President?”

The president looked up from his book, and he did his best to look surprised. “Ah, loyal Enforcer! What brings you into my office on this fine day?”

“Unfortunately, sir, it is under the most undesirable circumstances. I’ve just received this telegram,” Enforcer replied, as he pulled out of his jacket pocket a small crumpled-up piece of paper. He unfolded it and said, in an uneasy voice that was filled with fear: “On December the eighteenth, at approximately two twenty-seven p.m., March on Mane Street assaulted the police blockade and broke into the Equestrian National Archives. In the conflict, thirty protesters were killed, forty-two were injured, and six are in critical condition. Eight officers were injured and one . . . was killed.” Enforcer bowed his head to the ground, partly in mourning, but mostly because he was afraid to see the president’s expression.

“There’s more,” he said, still looking at the ground. “I am extremely sad to say that . . . once the protesters had domain of the archives . . .” He sighed, still with his head bowed. “The original copy of the COMTOIS, signed by our beloved founders, lies in ashes on the Archive’s floor.”

He looked up, but did not look at the president; instead, he looked back to his piece of paper and said: “The municipal government of our neighboring city of Ponyville has expressed their condolences, their sympathies, and their full support of the actions of the protesters. We’ve received a message from their city hall: they’ve declared secession from the Union, breaking their affiliations to the United Republic of Equestria to join Los Pegasus in what they’re now calling the ‘Friendship of Equestria.’”

Enforcer looked up from his paper, held his head erect and, like a soldier, stared directly at the wall behind his commander, not making eye contact. “Sir,” he said, his voice monotone and devoid of emotion, “I await your orders.”

After a few seconds of standing at attention and hearing nothing in response, he finally looked at the president: unlike most of the time when he brought the president undesirable news, the president’s face was entirely placid, as if he felt nothing. Enforcer was surprised: the document that the creature before him swore to uphold to the best of his ability lay in cinders, crushed beneath the hooves of the disheveled protesters. He expected a reaction, a shock, to express the indignation he no doubt felt. Instead, he saw nothing, as if the president did not care.

The president took a deep breath and, in his kindest voice, containing no traces of hostility, anger, incredulity, or frustration, said: “Enforcer, please call the delegates to Congress; I need to address them immediately.” 

Enforcer gave a tentative bow and turned to leave the room. As he was slowly walking with his head bowed to the floor, he did a double-take, expecting to notice something he had missed the first time. Seeing nothing, he continued his funerary march.

As Enforcer was about to exit the threshold of the room, he looked back sadly at the president one last time and still saw nothing of note. As silence prevailed, his heart started to beat faster and louder in order to fill it; it was if his heart was uncomfortable that there was no word of protest spoken and as if it would not stop sending adrenaline through his veins until its body had said something.

Enforcer put a hoof over his chest in a sort of gesture of patriotism, but mostly to assure his heart, which was beating so fast that it felt like it was going to explode, that its cry for a eulogy would not go unanswered. “Mr. President,” he said, his voice austere, “the animals have destroyed paper, nothing more. The word and spirit of the COMTOIS lives on in our hearts; and the protesters’ simple minds thought that by destroying a piece of paper, they could destroy the eternal document’s meaning and its pertinence, when, on the contrary, it was never more pertinent to us than right now, and their actions have only increased our awareness of the paramount importance that it is upheld.”

At this, the president sat up, and gave a look of paternal assurance, his body and mind devoid of any fear or hesitation. “I know, Enforcer,” he said. “Please go gather the delegates.”


* * *


For the first time in the history of the current administration, the delegates entered the Congressional Chamber to not find the president already there. As they shuffled into their seats, they spoke frantically to one another, as most of them had been informed of the disaster only moments ago.

Eventually, they heard the main doors through which they had entered swing open and bang against the side walls, and they all turned to see the president, who had just arrived. 

Instantly, the entire hall became silent. They all got up from their chairs and stood as he walked to his place at the front, the only noise in the room coming from the few sheets of paper that he carried under forward-left extremity rustling in the air. His brow was furrowed, as if expressing resolution; his mouth and nostrils accompanied his appearance by adding the looks of anger and anxiety respectively. Only his eyes conflicted with the rest of his countenance, as they darted back and forth, as if thousands of extreme and precise calculations were firing every second in his brain. 

If the delegates were not aware of the disparity of the situation when they entered the room, they were now.

The president assumed his place and began his speech, which was written out on the papers he was carrying. During the speech, the delegates, along with the president, bowed their heads in reverence and mourning; whether they were Royalist or Unionist, they all understood the sorrow that came with the destruction of one of Equestria’s oldest and most revered monuments. 

After the beginning of his speech, which consisted of the obligatory platitudes of sadness, he looked up at the delegates, with a sort of fire in his eyes, as he began the part of his speech—which was the real reason he had called them all to this meeting.

“Ponyville has joined Los Pegasus in defying the Union,” he said, as his tone of voice changed from that of a weeping relative to that of a merciless judge. “And the COMTOIS has been destroyed in actions that both municipalities explicitly approved of, and this act is unequivocally one of insurrection. It’s your fault, all of yours, for disregarding me when I had foreseen this calamity, and it’s your fault for not allowing me to take more firmer actions toward the secessionists—which could have prevented a disaster such as this. 

“Well, listen to me now: Los Pegasus’s insurrectionists are now armed, and they’re ready to fight, tooth and nail. The time for appeasement, the time for waffling, is over. If you wish to not see any more damage befall our cherished Union, you will vote in favor of the motion I am about to propose. I move that the protest be crushed and the debaters arrested. I move that compromises and concessions to Los Pegasus be ended and that quick and forceful military action be taken against the insurrectionists, which will only relent in the event of the unconditional surrender of the city to the complete control of the Union Army. 

“Finally, I beseech you to vote in favor to extend upon me the Powers of War, as provided by the document that has just been destroyed in physical form, but whose spirit still lives on and which I will fight for using its provisions.”

Perhaps, in less emotional times, a greater number of the delegates would’ve voted against this course of action; but, at that moment, every single delegate was overcome with sorrow and despair; and, with only five percent of Congress dissenting, the president’s motion was passed, and the Powers of War were enacted for the first time in the history of Equestria.

Within the hour, the Union Army was in the streets of Canterlot, and they started by firing on the protesters with small arms. Over the period of the half an hour that ensued, eighty protesters had been killed, around twenty had been injured, and two thousand had been taken into custody.

And on December the eighteenth, 182 BC, at five thirty-nine in the afternoon, Equestria was at war with itself.
> Chapter VII: Ante Bellum
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------


“During Times of Crisis and upon Vote from Congress, which shall be no less than two thirds of the Seats, the President is granted his Powers of War and holds supreme and unobstructed Power over the Military and its Laws.”

—Article XIV, Section IX of the Constitution of Meeting Tribes of Immediate Siblings



Underneath the Presidential Mansion, sixty feet down and fortified with cement, is the war room of the Union military. It is locked under a multitude of powerful magical algorithms, specially developed by the Department of Magic and Defense for this very purpose. Unless the president, along with the vice president, and at least one general are present, the spell keeps the door sealed at all times. The magical aura surrounds those who are outside of the door and will detect if any of the officials requesting entry are under duress—and if that’s the case, the door will refuse to open, and a warning will be sent to the current occupants of the room. From the war room, the president of the Union, on the advice of the generals of the Union Army and the Union Air Force, can issue precise commands across the country, through a hidden transmitter on the roof of the Mansion, and can order his military to pillage a civilization or to defend against a foreign invasion.

In front of this solemn room stood Princess Luna. Next to her stood General Wildflower Sherbert of the Union Army, who carried a blue poster-sized paper under one of her forelegs. 

The green earth-pony, known as General Sherbert, had her gray mane done up in a bun. Not a crease could be seen in any place on her royal blue uniform, and the military decorations that could be seen weighing down its fabric were barely hanging on by their weak clips—but this weight was not reflected in her body, which she kept upright and alert. Her uniform was of the female cut, so its short torso exposed her cutie mark: It was a medal for an award; and, surprisingly, it was not a military award. It was the medal for the title of Colleague of the Union—an award only bestowed by the president of the Union and which any citizen could earn. She stared unwaveringly at the door, a somber expression on her face.

There, too, was General Jovial Hoop of the Union Air Force: He was a tall, muscular, and yellow pegasus pony with enormous wings, which were twitching nervously at this moment. His large veins running up the side of his thick neck pulsated every time he looked at his watch. He paced back and forth in front of the door, his teeth clenched tightly together and his gaze fixed on the ground. When the tails of his uniform flapped up in the air, caused by the twitching of his wings and the rapid movements he was making, one could see his cutie mark: a gray funnel cloud about to make contact with the earth.

Keeping his distance from the nervous general was the director of the Department of Magic and Defense, Brilliant Star: a slender, short, gray unicorn, who was nervously rubbing the rims of his glasses with a forehoof. His cyan bow tie hung lazily around his shirt’s collar—which was a plain white long-sleeved dress shirt and which conflicted oddly with his cutie mark: a strangely black symbol for an electrical resistor.

Enforcer was there, too: he had poorly affected placid look on his face and could not hide the fact that he was dreadfully anxious.

An hour ago, the first meeting of the military was scheduled to commence; and, on the eve of conflict, these five ponies stood impatiently in front of the war room for the president to arrive to allow them entrance. The secretary of state, the secretary of defense, and the war recorder had left ten minutes ago; after hearing no news of the president, they had excused themselves with the pretense of believing that the meeting had been postponed, but, in reality, were enraged with the president’s antics up until this point. No attempt had been made by the remaining five ponies to stop them; there was nothing they could blame them for.

“Is there honestly no other way into this room?” Princess Luna asked for the fifth time since they had gotten there.

“Again, Ms. Vice President,” said General Hoop through his teeth, “we cannot enter without the presence and the authorization of the president. Those paper-pushers over at the Department spent an entire year making the spell that seals this door. With their obsessive and strange antics, nopony is getting through.” He grunted in frustration while gesturing toward Director Star. 

Director Star, obviously perturbed by this cheap insult, stood up straight, pushed up his glasses and looked straight up at the large pegasus pony, who was nearly three times his height. “Well, actually,” he said, “there’s is a secret backdoor that only I and the vice director know, but it’s only supposed to be used in emergencies.”

“What!” bellowed General Hoop, and he grabbed the director’s shoulders with his powerful wings and suspended him off the ground. “You could get in all this time and you never told us! Why not?”

“Because it’s only supposed to be used in emergencies—”

“This is an emergency! Don’t you realize what’s going on?”

Director Star looked nervously over at Princess Luna and General Sherbert as he was being held by General Hoop, his hooves swinging freely from the floor. 

Princess Luna glanced at General Sherbert.

“Director,” General Sherbert said, in a much more reassuring and less intimidating tone than that of her colleague, “the general is right. It crucially important we get in, so we can stop the insurrection before it gets too large. If you don’t mind . . .”

“Of . . . of course—no problem.” The director glanced at General Hoop, who still grasping him firmly. “General,” he said, gesturing his horn toward the door, “if you would permit me?”

General Hoop grunted and set the skinny unicorn down. 

Director Star adjusted his glasses and looked at the door for about a minute in silence, while the other ponies exchanged nervous glances. “I haven’t done this before,” he said. “So I can’t make any promises. I shouldn’t even be doing this; it’s such a breach of our security policies.”

He closed his eyes, and his horn began to glow. It slowly increased in intensity, eventually becoming so bright that the other ponies were forced to look away. Then, there was a radiant flash, and Princess Luna thought she was going to go blind from its intensity, despite the fact that her eyes were firmly closed. 

Then, it began to die down, and the bystanders blinked furiously, trying to regain familiarity with their surroundings. The bright light still burned into their retinas.

“Sorry about that,” Director Star said, meekly. “I confused the algorithm at the beginning with something else, but it should be open—now.”

There was a heavy metallic clunk the second he said this last word, as the ponies heard pieces of the metal begin to fall away. The door creaked indecisively; but, finally, the heavy piece of metal began to move. 

At that moment, every observer’s heart sank for what seemed to be an inexplicable reason, as if somehow they had failed at some task. Deep down, every single one of them had clung to the foalish hope that, maybe, if the war room could not be opened, then a conflict could not ensue. It was as if the clang of the metal door was the sound of Death itself awakening from its grave to greedily claim the lives of thousands of young ponies—and they were responsible for unleashing it.

When the doors finally opened, they filed through the door in an order that felt natural under the circumstances: Princess Luna went in first; the two generals walked abreast behind her; the director staggered behind them, still slightly dazed by the complex spell he had just performed. Enforcer dawdled well behind the rest, looking around himself in wonder.

They walked until they came into full view of the room—upon which, they stopped dead in their tracks, completely bewildered: There, sitting at the circular table, with his body directly facing them, was the president. He was reading a small blue book. 

When they halted in confusion, he looked up at them and did his best to look surprised. “You’re an hour late!” he said, in a halfhearted tone. “We’re going to be having a lot of these meetings, and your tardiness is probably not the best way to start them. But you’re here, so I guess that’s what matters. Where’s the rest of you?”

The four ponies stood there with their mouths gaping.

“Is something wrong?” he continued. “Please don’t tell me that my best officials have been stricken with a serious mental illness at this crucial hour.”

Princess Luna was the first to speak. “Sir!” she gasped. “Where . . . where were you?”

The president looked at her as if she was making a joke. “I’ve been here for the past hour. Quite frankly, given the circumstances, I don’t think you’re in a position to be asking such questions,” he said, with a playful grin.

“Sir . . . if I may . . .” stammered Director Star. “How . . . how did you crack the door? We designed it to be impervious to invaders!”

“I say!” the president replied, with facetious incredulity, “I am the president of the Union. I hardly think I’m what you would call an ‘invader’; and, quite frankly, I’m deeply offended by your comment, my good sir.”

“But . . . but . . . but we spent a year engineering it! I supervised it myself! There were no holes or flaws in it! On my word!”

“Well, obviously,” the president said, while waving his paw dismissively at the incredulous unicorn, “you didn’t do a very good job. Come on, seriously? A textbook magical loop spell? That’s something I expected from magic kindergarteners. Took me no effort on my part to crack, and I’d assumed that if it was so easy for me to get in, the director of the Department, with the help of the best soldiers in the military, should have no problem at all. Remind me: what’s the Department’s budget?”

The president’s four subordinates stared at him, both in awe of his ability and fear of what he might do to them if he was provoked further.

“Enforcer,” said the president, “please take a note to remind me to order that the aptitude tests be updated and mandatorily run again on all the departments. Also, as of now, you’re the war recorder. Consider it a promotion of such—that is, a promotion that has many more responsibilities and no additional benefits or compensation. You’re welcome.” The president looked at Enforcer, while still retaining his condescending smile. At this, Enforcer removed a notepad and pen from his jacket pocket, slipped the feather into his mouth, and started scribbling furiously.

“Sir, I . . . I was not aware that you had any training or ability in magic,” said Princess Luna.

“Here’s a word for you: autodidacticism. In my free time, I’ve been teaching myself the mystical arts. You’d be amazed what you could learn if you just picked up a book once in a while,” replied the president. He turned up his nose and tried to mimic the patronizing sigh of a haughty intellectual. “That’s a concept that I think is completely unknown to the folks over at the Department, ” the president continued. 

At this, Director Star blushed and stared at the ground, while he twirled a forehoof absentmindedly into the carpet.

“But enough out of me,” said the president. “Where’s everypony else? Don’t they realize we have a national crisis?”

“Sir,” said General Hoop, breathing heavily through his nostrils and scowling at the president, “the secretaries and the recorder left, as they took your absence as your indication that the meeting had been postponed.”

“Oh, that’s not good,” said the president, while scratching his short, white goatee. “This is a bad omen of things to come. Can the meeting still happen without them?”

“Sir,” said General Sherbert who, up until that moment, had been silent, “we are fortunate; for, in this meeting, we are to simply monitor a plan put into action after it’s been granted your approval. The army had spent the previous evening devising their initial battle strategy, and we simply needed this meeting to acquire your authorization and to transmit the order.”

“Oh, that is fortunate! Well, then, come! Quickly! Sit down. The insurrectionists won’t kill themselves.” He gestured toward the nine open seats that surrounded the table. 

It took a while for the ponies to get past their shock of this last morbid comment. When they saw the president clearly getting impatient, his eyes beginning to glow with rage and decisiveness, the ponies feared standing in their places any longer more than they did sitting next to this strange creature, and they quickly took their places at the table. Directly on the president’s right, sat General Sherbert; to her right, sat General Hoop. On the president’s left, sat Princess Luna—and across the table, as if he were deliberately avoiding close proximity to the president, sat Director Star. 

“General Sherbert,” the president said, while looking back at his book. “What’s this meeting about?”

“Sir, I remind you again,” she said, rolling her eyes, desperately trying to keep her composure,  “we came here today to run the preliminary war measures—”

“General,” the president interrupted, “I must insist that you refrain from using such inaccurate terms.” He was still reading his book and did not even look up at her.

“Sir?”

“War measures? Who said anything about a war? A war implies two or more belligerents. There are no belligerents here. All I see is the insurrection and us. We are simply the police, and we have a duty to protect the lives of our citizens from criminal actions.”

General Sherbert furrowed her brow, squinted, and turned toward General Hoop. General Hoop returned the expression; and, as Sherbert turned back to the president, Hoop, under his breath, mumbled: “Bureaucrats.”

“Mr. President, we came here today to run the preliminary police measures and to gain your approval of the first battle plan.” The general looked at the president to see if he had indeed heard it. He was still engrossed in his book.

She continued: “Hostile presence has been seen in both Los Pegasus and Ponyville. We have concluded that since Ponyville is the closest city to Canterlot and because it sits right on our exposed southern flank, it’s paramount that threats there are neutralized and our military presence there is fortified at once. As such, the army has spent the last few days devising the battle strategy, that I think—”

“Here’s something interesting,” interjected the president, still not looking up as he read from the book. “‘Old philosophers have worshiped their Law of Causality, regarding it as fundamentally and self-evidently true, but our very nature relies on that being not the case.’”

General Sherbert shot a worrying glance over to Princess Luna who responded with a melancholy shrug of her shoulders.

“Sir, here I have the battle plans that I ask you to peruse before giving us permission to carry out,” said General Sherbert, as she unveiled the twenty-four by thirty-six inch poster and set it down on the table such that it was oriented facing the president. 

Princess Luna’s heart sank when she saw what it was: it was an aerial view of Ponyville, with various symbols running down the side of the sheet which meant nothing to her; and on certain prominent buildings, there were large translucent circles with bright red centers, whose color faded into a dark maroon around the circumferences.

“Sir, here is a map of the battle area. There’s Ponyville City Hall and there’s the library,” said General Sherbert as she pointed to the respective buildings on the map. “These circles are—”

“‘For Causality is a simple model,’”  the president mumbled, “‘used by the neanderthal ponies, who crawled the earth looking for scraps, with no understanding of their nature. Even the average citizen may find themselves using this archaic thought process and becoming addicted to it, as a crutch.’”

This time, General Sherbert just glanced at him hopelessly and continued as if she had never been interrupted. “These circles have been meticulously calculated by our intelligence officers. We believe that artillery bombardments on these locations should maximize damage to the infrastructure, render any location where artillery units may be placed useless—which I need not tell the president that such units would be in firing range of Canterlot—and minimize civilian casualties . . . ”

Princess Luna put her hoof to her mouth in an effort to hide her terror. Such cold, calculating destruction and death was abominable and unthinkable—but the creatures that came up with such a cruel algorithm were no doubt working toward the same goal that she was. How could any cause be labeled as good, when such evil was required to achieve it?

Nopony, save Enforcer, noticed the princess; Director Star and General Hoop were entranced by the authoritative and unwavering voice of General Sherbert. The president appeared not to care for either.

“Over here, on the northern flank, the Twentieth Canterlot, the Ninety-Eighth, and Ninety-Ninth Manehattan Volunteer Infantry Regiments stand by for orders. On the south south-western flank, the Twenty-Third and Thirty-Eighth Manehattan, the Third Baltimare, and the Second Canterlot Volunteer Infantry Regiments also stand by for orders. After the bombardment, which will last twenty minutes, they will clear the buildings here, here, and here,” said General Sherbert, as she pointed to places on the map. “We expect the bombardment to have cleared out most of the opposition, but we also expect—”

“‘But in fact, Causality can be shown to be erroneously deducted, as its entire foundation forms a post hoc ergo propter hoc; moreover, with the natural art of magic, this becomes self-evident.’” the president interrupted, yet again.

At this, General Hoop slammed his hoof down on the table, sending an ominous sound echoing through the room and causing the director to reflexively recoil. Princess Luna’s heart skipped a beat. 

The president looked up at him with a coy smile.

“Mr. President! I must protest!” snapped General Hoop. He stared at the president as if expecting a response, but he received none. “General Sherbert is a brave soldier and a noble officer. I served with her in the Changeling War and she has never let any of us down. Her strategies have proved to be the most effective in the history of warfare in this country. In short, she is the only pony in Equestria with the tact and the experience to fight the enemy; and if you want to preserve the Union, Mr. President, then you will give her your full and undivided attention!”

Enforcer sat in his seat, staring at the ebullient general, and opened his mouth; and the assistant’s quill, which had not left the notepad this entire time, fell to the floor as a result.

Princess Luna glanced at the president with a look expressing nothing but incredulity. Director Star shifted nervously in his chair, rubbed his glasses, and slouched down as if trying to avoid being seen.

As for the president, he stared at General Hoop for a good twenty seconds. Even as the general’s broad shoulders rose and fell rapidly in tune with his shallow breaths, that same tranquil smile never left the president’s face.

“I appreciate your input,” the president finally said, in the sweetest, non-intimidating voice he could make. “You may sit down now.”

“But, sir!”

“I’ve heard what you’ve said, and it’s been noted. You may sit down now, General.”

General Hoop glanced at Princess Luna, as if he was looking at her for sympathy and approval. When he received none, he gave a loud exhale of exasperation and slowly sat back down, while a somber, sorrowful cloud passed in front of his brow. He averted his eyes from the president, terrified of what he might see; but his curiosity got the better of him, and he stole a glance at him. At the sight of the president’s blood-red pupils, staring directly at him, he quickly looked away, his heart pumping with fear.

The president turned to General Sherbert. “All we need is your approval, Mr. President,” the latter said, “and the bombardments can commence within minutes.”

“I see . . . I see,” said the president, stroking his goatee with the fingers of his paw. The talons of his claw drummed loudly on the table, while he looked thoughtfully at the poster.

“Does the president care for me to repeat the plans?”

“No, no, I think I understand them.” 

General Sherbert looked uneasily behind her at General Hoop, who responded with a look of marked destitution and despair. 

She looked back at the president, who was now using his talons to scratch the large tooth that stuck out of his mouth. “All the president has to do is to give his consent,” said General Sherbert, looking eagerly at the president.

At this, the president looked back at General Sherbert and smiled; oddly enough, the smile was a smile that the president never gave—it was full of earnestness and trust.

“General,” he said, “you’re a brilliant officer, a military genius, and the Union Army is proud and fortunate to have you in its ranks.”

“Thank you, sir,” she said, while nodding and smiling modestly.

“However,” continued the president, looking up apprehensively at the ceiling, “your plan—despite it being extremely expeditious, pragmatic, and conventional—doesn’t really . . . I guess what I’m saying is that your plan doesn’t incorporate all the knowledge and intelligence we have on the enemy.”

“Sir, what do you mean?”

“General, we aren’t fighting foreign invaders; we’re fighting our own citizens. Therefore, we know their desires, their fears, their routines, their hobbies. And your plan . . . well, it doesn’t incorporate our knowledge of these things, when they would, no doubt, come to our advantage.”

“Sir, I don’t understand . . .”

The president leaned uncomfortably closed to her and looked straight into her eyes. General Sherbert cleared her throat, out of anxiety. 

“General,” he said softly, “what do you fear the most?”

“Sir, I—”

“Come on, think about it. You know the answer; you’re just afraid to say it.”

She stared at him blankly, and a bead of sweat ran down her temple.

“General, what if one day you got out of bed, only to find that up was down? You then try to look out your window, except your window had turned into a tree, and the sun’s rays gave your face frostbite. You’re not even sure you’re in your own house anymore, since everything is not what you remembered it to be. In fact, you’re not even sure if you’re in reality or in a terrible nightmare.”

“I must admit, sir, that would be quite odd.”

“Quite odd!” the president roared, leaning back in his chair, and General Sherbert gave a sigh of relief. “You’re a tough soldier, aren’t you? Well, I think most ponies would find that terrifying to the point where they would just want to hide away forever—don’t you agree?”

The ponies exchanged nervous glances with one another, and the president gave an unsettling smile.

“Mares and gentlecolts,” said the president, addressing the entire group, “what I propose against Ponyville is so simple, yet, more effective than any bomb or rocket: make the world one they’ve never seen. Make every action they undertake have no relation to what they expected or what has always happened. Make houses rise with no lift, right out of their foundations. Make animals dance gleefully in the street while common ponyfolk chew at the grass and filth in their animals’ stead. Make every action, every thought, and every concept to have no context or relation to one another. Make the world one of complete unpredictability.

“In other words,” continued the president, leaning forward on the table and setting his eyes in such a position that it seemed to everypony at the table that he was looking directly at them, “Chaos.”

There was a silence, caused by half of the ponies listening being in a state of utter confusion, the other half in such an awe that something so diabolical, so unthinkable, could come out of the president’s mouth.

Director Star broke the silence. “Sir, although that plan is quite . . . interesting . . . and although I do not doubt its effectiveness if it were implemented, it’s just that what you’re saying . . . I don’t know if what you’re saying is possible or, if it is, if the Department has the power to do it.”

“Of course it is!” bellowed the president; and, at that, he slid the blue book that had such monopolized his attention across the table. It hit the director right in the chest, which caused the slender unicorn to flinch with pain. The president threw his forward extremities in the air, expressing disbelief. “I was trying to tell everypony this, but nopony listened to me. Honestly, my dear director, you really need to read a book sometime.”

Director Star adjusted his glasses, picked up the book, and squinted at its cover. “‘Philosophy and Magic, by Starswirl the Bearded,’” he read. At this, he smirked condescendingly and said: “Mr. President, I studied this book during my undergraduate years at the University of Canterlot. It’s a great stepping stool for novice wizards, but it’s hardly anything as advanced as what you suggest . . . ”

“Were you not listening to me earlier?” the president said in a harsh tone, which immediately ended the snickers coming from Director Star. “Obviously, your professors are know-nothing hacks and, clearly, you didn’t read the book properly. If you did, you’d know that the Law of Causality is a myth. Magic, by its definition, abrogates all of reality, so what I’m suggesting is not that unheard of.”

“Sir, I believe what Starswirl the Bearded meant is that the wizards of his time weren’t utilizing magic to its full potential.”

“Exactly. Do you want to know where you, your professors, and the Department failed? You failed to think. You were too busy ogling over how impressive they sounded, how impressive you sounded when you talked about them, while you condescendingly dismissed them and relegated them to undergraduate students. While you were squabbling among each other, you did not see the actual meaning and implication in this text. You missed the potential for magic, all right; you missed its potential for abridging reality. You missed its potential for circumventing every single law of logic. You missed its potential for unadulterated chaos.” The president stared at Director Star, looking at him as if he expected an applause or a compliment; he received neither. 

Slightly disgruntled, the president continued: “Now, it is my decree that the Department of Magic and Defense implements, to the letter, what I have just said here. The Union Army will stay well outside of Ponyville and watch as its residents descend into abject madness until they die, in a world that nothing alive is fit to live in, or surrender.”

“But . . . but it can’t be done! It can’t be!” whined Director Star.

The president glared at him, and Director Star froze with fear and stared directly into the president’s eyes. “Now,” the president said, “are you going to disobey a presidential order? Because if so, tell me now, so I can do it myself. And don’t doubt me for a second that I won’t or that I’m unable—I will do it myself if you and the Department are too incompetent.”

Director Star shook in his chair and let out a little whimper.

“Well?” said the president.

“Yes . . . of course, sir! Absolutely . . . sir!”

“Then it’s settled!” said the president, leaping out of his chair in jubilation. “I hereby dismiss the members of this meeting!” And, giving the traditional military salute, he added, in an enthusiastic and patriotic voice: “The Union forever!”

The ponies attending the meeting stood up and gave the same salute, but with less vigor and conviction. “The Union forever,” they murmured.

As quickly as they could, the ponies gathered their things and started toward the door.

“Except you, General Hoop—I need to speak to you privately,” said the president.

General Hoop turned around and stared at the president, and the other ponies could see that his knees were shaking. They tried to look at him in sympathy, but they could not for long, terrified as they were at the prospect of what may happen to him—and, at the same time, not wanting him to see that they were incredibly relieved that it had not been themselves. 

After exchanging a few wistful glances with General Hoop—General Sherbert even touched him on the shoulder with her hoof as she walked by, as if to say “Good luck”—they hurried toward the metal doors, which Director Star wasted no time in opening and who was the first one to leave the room. The director, upon seeing that the survivors had safely exited the room, slammed the door shut, leaving General Hoop encased in his metal execution chamber.

General Hoop turned back to look at the president. Upon seeing the president’s face and eyes, he cried out in fear.
> Chapter VIII: Miserabile Visu
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------


“The Military of the Union, or its Laws, shall have no Jurisdiction inside the borders of the Union, unless on Order from the President through his Powers of War.”

—Amendment IX to the Constitution of Meeting Tribes of Immediate Siblings



On December the twenty-sixth, the president’s scheme was implemented. 

The Department of Magic and Defense was skeptical about it, but they surprised themselves and the country when the spell was successfully cast, effectively abrogating reality and causality in Los Pegasus and Ponyville. 

It had taken a few days for the press to notice, but eventually they became puzzled at the fact that the front line of the war was deathly quiet. Upon reaching the vicinity of these cities, their mouths had dropped in confusion and disbelief, and they immediately started writing about the terror and pushing their frenetic scribblings to their newspapers as fast as they could.

The president never saw the magic himself; and, to compensate, for around thirty-two hours after the first articles had been published, he had read their reports gleefully from behind his desk in the Horseshoe Office—a stack of which stood two feet high beside his chair. 

It was here that Princess Luna found him, still glued to his chair, his eyes riveted on a newspaper.

“I thought I said that I did not want to be interrupted,” he said, not deigning to take his eyes off the newspaper to look at her.

“Mr. President,” she said, her voice and expression completely placid, “Enforcer has informed me that the Union Army has their latest figures, if thou would care to read them.”

“Have thou seen this?” said the president, finally looking up, and he extended the newspaper toward her with both his forward extremities. “Look, look: the idiots over at the Department of Magic and Defense actually did it. To make it even better, I’ve never seen the editorialists so angry in their entire life! They’ve never been more entertaining to read or to see! Just to spite them—or, rather, to show my love for them—perhaps I should have them arrested for sympathizing with the enemy. I can do that now, thou know; Congress said I could.”

Princess Luna said nothing, as her eyes wandered aimlessly around the room.

“Hmm, perhaps I won’t,” the president continued. “They’re actually getting very clever now. Thou know what they’ve started calling me? It’s hilarious, honestly; it’s the best thing they’ve ever done in their entire careers.”

“Thou shouldn’t be reading them; thou know how angry they make thee. Didn’t we both agree to stop listening to them and taking them seriously?”

“They’re calling me ‘Discord, the spirit of chaos and disharmony.’” 

“‘Discord?’”

“Usually, their juvenile insults and names are ill thought out; there’s no effort in slander these days. But ‘Discord’? How clever is that! I rather like it, actually; it makes me seem like some sort of crazed maniac who sits in this office grinning menacingly out a window while watching his torment unfold, all the while petting a purring white cat.”

Princess Luna glanced away as soon as she saw the president try to make eye contact with her. “Doesn’t it bother thee that my sister hasn’t been in the congressional sessions ever since we declared Ponyville and Los Pegasus in rebellion?” she asked, looking at the ceiling.

“Really? I hadn’t noticed,” the president replied, making a weak attempt to sound remotely surprised. “No, that’s not true. I have noticed that it’s been a lot quieter recently.”

“I just . . . I haven’t seen her at all. Ever since the war started, I haven’t been able to get in contact with her.” Princess Luna looked at the ground, digging her front hoof in to the carpet absentmindedly. 

The president could see that she desperately wanted to elaborate, to cathartically pour her stresses and plights into his ears, as he was so eager to do once before, but all he had to say to her was: “Thou said that Enforcer told thee something for me; well, get on with it. I’m very busy, and I can’t allow thee to waste my time.”

“I know only what Enforcer told me.” And closing her eyes, trying to recall the assistant’s rapid-fire speech, she recited: “Military intelligence is ambiguous on the actual damage done, as you no doubt would imagine given the circumstances of the besieged cities; but rough estimates are that, in Los Pegasus, one hundred twenty rebels are dead, with an additional eighty in critical condition, and three thousand civilians dead. In Ponyville, estimates are forty civilians dead, eight in critical condition, while twenty rebels are confirmed dead. In addition, they estimate damages around—”

“What about Union Army causalities? How are my colts and fillies holding up?” the president interrupted.

“Well, a few hours ago, Corporal Cupcake, a filly from the Thirty-Eighth Manehattan Volunteer Infantry Regiment tripped and fell over a rock while getting coffee for a few of her colleagues. She’s being treated in the hospital here in Canterlot for a sprained ankle.”

The president winced. “That sounds rough. Make sure that she gets sent my regards. Other than that, what other casualties has the Union Army suffered?”

“None. Thou ordered them to stay well outside the cities and the spell’s radius; they’ve been there ever since the operation started, awaiting your command.”

“Good, that’s what matters,” said the president in a brusque manner, while turning back toward his papers. “I’m glad to know that no blood is on my accord.”

She shivered at the coldness in his voice. In an effort to cut the uncomfortable silence that ensued and to perhaps stir some emotion in the president, she said: “Do thou remember General Hoop?”

“I do believe so—the former general of the Air Force? The one that deserted?”

“Today, the police obtained a warrant to enter his home, as he had not appeared at his post for three days, making him officially absent without leave. When they entered his house, they found him dead on the floor. They think he had committed suicide a few days earlier.” After she said this, Princess Luna walked at an angle toward the president, such that he did not notice she was coming closer, but that she could see his face more clearly.

“Ah, that’s a shame,” replied the president, in a disturbingly nonchalant tone. “He was a fine stallion, and he seemed rather enthusiastic last time we spoke. Who knows what could have driven such a proud and distinguished military officer to such extreme ends? Such is the question of these times, really.”

Princess Luna stood there for a few seconds with her jaw slightly ajar, as if trying to elicit something else from him, while the president pretended not to notice. “Aren’t thou even the slightest disturbed? Thou just spoke to him recently, and now he’s gone, a speck of dust in the wind that thou are just flicking away.”

The president turned his head slightly toward her but still did not look at her directly, on the pretense that he was busy shuffling through the mound of papers on his desk. “What do thou want from me?” he said, keeping the same monotone he had sustained through the entire conversation so far. “I didn’t know him that well, and I’ve only spoken to him a few times. I’m surprised nopony saw this coming earlier: what self-respecting officer deserts his post on the eve of war? I’m not going to waste my time trying to understand his struggle; a problem to which a definitive solution can not possibly be found doesn’t interest me.”

Princess Luna, dejected at the fact she saw no reflection of emotion in his countenance, walked back toward the door, preparing to leave this unsettling room. Before she left, she turned her head such that she did not have to look at him, but the sound of her voice could still reach his ears. “Is that all, Mr. President?” she said. 

The president was surprised at her tone: it was slightly louder and angrier than she had ever spoken to him before. “Well, they should be here soon,” he said. “Would thou like to come with me?”

“Who?”

“My convoy. I’m going to go visit the troops in Ponyville—moral support, and all that nonsense. They should be here, right about—now.”

On cue, Enforcer came flying hurriedly into the Horseshoe Office, nearly running straight into Princess Luna. His mane was drenched in sweat, and his face twitched involuntarily when he spoke.

“The president’s convoy is here,” he gasped.

“Ah, yes,” replied the president. “Thank you, Enforcer!” He got up from his chair and made toward the door. Turning back to Princess Luna, he said: “Ms. Vice President, would you care to join me?”

“I will come. They will appreciate my presence,” she said. The president was shocked when she walked right past him without even giving him a second glance. He gave a sly nod with an equally sly smile to Enforcer after the princess walked by. Enforcer, like the vice president, did his best to avoid the president’s stare.

They walked through the long twisting hallways of the Presidential Mansion. Princess Luna led, with the president casually strolling behind her; and Enforcer, hovering a few feet on the ground, kept a slow pace behind the both of them.

Enforcer put his hoof to his neck and found that his pulse was reaching upwards of one hundred beats per minute. He rubbed the knee of his left foreleg with his right forehoof; he had bumped it two weeks ago on a table, and it still had a dull ache. 

In truth, Enforcer knew the cause of his stress: In all his years of service, he had never found the hallways of the Presidential Mansion in this condition. What was usually a bright, cheery, active establishment now felt cold, dead, and anxious, as if the building were reflecting the feelings of its occupants. The few ponies they did pass felt devoid of life; ponies who he once saw walking down the corridors with a grin on their faces, who would jump at the opportunity to shake his hoof and say, “How are thou doin’, Enforcer?” or give a polite curtsey to the vice president saying, “Top of the morning to you, Your Grace!” would now avert their gaze as he walked by, worried that they would no doubt see in him what they themselves felt. 

Only the president still walked with a smile, but it was hardly in the same spirit and the smiles that Enforcer used to see. 

Before they exited the mansion out onto the street, Enforcer, for a brief moment, caught the eyes of a pony in a business suit standing near the door. In that second, Enforcer understood the tacit explanation that those eyes said: something in this administration is an emotional black hole, gravitating all the happiness and pleasure that they all had once felt unto itself and only growing bigger, hungrier, and more powerful the more it destroyed. Enforcer looked away, but the pony he passed knew that Enforcer, as much as he hated to admit it, agreed with him.

The carriage ride to Ponyville was no more cheery. Through the entire ride, the president sat there, gazing wistfully out the window, while Enforcer and Princess Luna stared at the carriages carpeting and its seat cushions. For the first time in a while, she had nothing to ask of him and he had nothing of which to inform her. For a second, they looked at the president, content to look at the countryside, and they envied him; they envied his ability to drown out all the cries of dissent and the discomforting air which emanated from the strange and disturbing events in which their lives were enveloped. 

Enforcer pulled a pen and notepad out of his jacket pocket and closed his eyes in sorrow when he found that his mind could not will his pen to write. He rubbed his face, trying to smooth out a few wrinkles, which were now starting to appear on his cheek.

When they reached the outskirts of Ponyville, they were shocked by how much the scenery had changed: even ignoring the socioeconomic differences between Ponyville and Canterlot, it was as if their carriage had driven through a portal and into a world where nothing had any meaning. 

The clouds were a bright pink; houses levitated upside down with no visible means of support, and the once crystal-clear blue ponds were now a dark, syrupy brown. While only farmers lived in these outskirts, they observed a few in the mangled fields: some were prancing lively through their old crops, which turned into popcorn or cotton candy when they touched it, and others were lying down, while the grass that encircled them began to rip themselves out of their soil and fly off into the sky. 

Princess Luna closed her eyes, and held them firmly shut for the rest of the ride.

Too soon after she had done this helpless protest against the unknowable and the unthinkable, the carriage came into a halt. With her eyes still closed, she heard the door closest to the president open. It was not until she heard General Sherbert’s voice that she opened her eyes and looked in its direction. 

Through the door of the carriage, she saw the president standing fully erect; General Sherbert was standing to his left and giving him the military salute. Behind the both of them, she saw a blur of unrecognizable motion and color, and she stepped out of the door on her side to look.

The first thing that struck her was how warm and humid it was, despite it being the end of December. Then, she noticed that, despite it being midday, the sun had gone down, and the moon had taken its place. But after she looked at where Ponyville once was, the heat and the time of day were the last things on her mind. 

The once beautiful rolling hills where the grass grew full and thick, and its pleasant aroma carried itself on the breeze to delight the noses of everypony in the town, were now impossible to locate. In their stead, lay an abhorrent pink texture that spanned the length of the city with its misshapen form, as if it were suffocating the life and serenity out of the magnificent grass that once assured its visitors of order and serenity. This new texture was repulsive in its aesthetics, but also in the fact that it was nothing like Princess Luna had ever seen before: it was unusual, strange, unsettling—and, most disturbingly, it was implicitly cruel. 

The sight of this demon’s carpet made Princess Luna shift her eyes upwards, in an effort to not torment herself any longer by its sight, but the sky was no less unsettling; for, at this moment, the moon plunged with a startling rapidity out of the sky, and the sun came out again. 

In the light, she could see that the great, old trees—that the residents of Ponyville were most proud of for the virtue of their age, their shade, and their delicious fruit they consistently bore year after year—were floating, unattached to anything on the ground, above what remained of the infrastructure. In the sky, they were oriented in a multitude of different angles, and their thousands of twisted and helpless roots twirled in the sky, looking desperately for their cause and purpose in a world where those concepts did not exist anymore. 

The buildings were not immune to this spell either: they, like the trees, arranged themselves in the sky, in the grass, and everywhere except in their foundations. Looking at these great structures, that were now nothing more than detritus, and looking at how they settled impossibly in the air made Princess Luna continually question as to what direction was the sky and which was the earth; and this caused the her to only become more aware of her nausea, as she stumbled on her own hooves, trying to regain her balance and, at the same time, trying make sense of this dichotomy. 

The somber mood of this gruesome scene was supplemented by the fact that the sun now went behind a dark stratus cloud, casting the earth in an ugly pink shade of light.

That was to say nothing of the residents. For a war zone, for all the disorder and confusion that could be observed in the citizens in light of their situation, it was shockingly quiet. There were no screams of pain, no cries for assistance, no signs of suffering whatsoever; the few citizens they saw behaved as desultorily as their surroundings. One earth-pony pranced gleefully across the pink grass while another walked up the side of a curved lamppost who, either out of ignorance or obliviousness, was unaware that the lamppost had just spontaneously turned into a four-legged chicken. 

The other earth-ponies, who were still clinging onto the last of their minds and their sanity, were trying in vain to apply their old concepts and models to survive in their new environment which would only backfire as the outcome of their actions would be the exact opposite of what had been expected: They would touch their hooves to the ground, expecting that their muscles would support their bodies as they walked, but would find the ground lift them high into the air or crumble beneath their hooves; or they would hit, in frustration, the side of a building with their hoof, expecting the side of the building to hit their hooves back with the exact same amount of force that they had applied—but to their dismay, they would find the building would crumple like a deck of card, while feeling no reactionary force against their own hooves or, in the most unfortunate cases, would apply a reactionary force tenfold greater than that they had applied and send them sweeping upwards, every single bone in their forehoof that touched the building shattered. 

Princess Luna could see the horns of the unicorns, who did not submit unlike some of their earth-pony siblings, flash weakly, as they were pulled helplessly through the streets, trying to manage the contradiction between their magic and their impossible surroundings. 

In the middle of the square, she saw a young unicorn strain with all his might to fight the madness, as he summoned a ball of magical energy that grew quite large, quite quickly. Princess Luna’s heart leapt with hope at seeing the tenacity of the citizens of Ponyville, seeing that all was not lost and Ponyville was not condemned—then, the ball exploded in a bright purple flash. Princess Luna ducked behind the carriage, but not before she saw the explosion send the young unicorn flying into a nearby building, punching through its brick wall, and leaving a hole in the shape of the pony’s body. Immediately afterwards, the building began to evaporate, like steam off of a boiling pot, until it had completely vanished, as if it had never stood. 

The pegasi would simply fly straight into the aforementioned improbably placed obstacles repeatedly, like insects, as if their minds could not accept the existence of such an obstacle in that place and in that time—while others would fly loops in the air, taking no heed of their airspeed or pitch while all four of their legs flailed impotently, like an ant that had been cruelly knocked over for a larger animal’s entertainment.

When she looked at where Ponyville City Hall once stood, she fully came to realize the living nightmare she was in. The building had fractured into four pieces: one part lay in the sticky ground—which she now evaluated to be mix of cotton candy and soap suds; two other parts were floating in the air, and the third part was lodged into a neighboring building which had now just spontaneously burst into a wall of dark blue flame. 

Princess Luna recoiled, expecting a wave of heat, but what she felt was more painful than a wave of energy: she felt no sensation on her body whatsoever.  

She listened for the cries for help, but she heard nothing; the only thing she heard was the president’s raucous laughter. She turned to look at him; and the model of him that she had constructed in her mind, a testament to perfection and justice, shattered into a thousand tiny pieces. He stood facing the cataclysm fully, with his arms outspread embracing it.

“You’ve done it!” he shouted. “You did it! Oh, isn’t this beautiful? Simply magnificent! Such disorder! Such chaos!” 

Princess Luna saw him turn his head to the sky, close his eyes, and open his mouth—his ugly and mangled tongue stretched out to the sky. She looked away, feeling nauseated at this sight, afraid to look at him again. She summoned all her courage to look back for a second, hoping for the possibility that the dark magic had deceived her with such a cruel sight, and that it was just a fleeting chimera in her mind. 

When she looked back, she did not see the remnants of Ponyville or the president, as if those concepts were just replaced by a single glaring one: she saw a monster that rapaciously fed on the pleasure it received from causing depredation on such an enormous scale in such a small amount of time; she saw it pay homage to the vicious magic that he had used to obliterate all of reality; she saw a being that wanted nothing more but to cause the world he lived in to fall into abject disharmony; she saw the love of destruction for the sake of destruction incarnate in a serpentine creature with antlers; she saw the summation of its life and effort finally being realized, and she saw how dark it was; she saw Discord.

She closed her eyes, as they began to swell with tears. If the world was just and good, how could it ever permit such a creature to exist?

She felt something moist hit her cheek. She brought her hoof to her face, wiped it off, and then looked at it: it was chocolate milk.
	
> Chapter IX: Nos Vos Provocamus
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------


“Congress shall have the Power to, in Cases of Invasion, Rebellion, or other Acts of Terror, raise and fund Militias to defend, with full force, the Integrity of the Union.”

—Article II, Section II to the Constitution of Meeting Tribes of Immediate Siblings



On December the twenty-eighth, 182 BC, two days after the spell had been cast and news of it had spread across the country, the municipality of Fillydelphia declared secession from the Union.

“We, the delegates of Fillydelphia,” read the closing statement of the Fillydelphia Deceleration of Secession, “find the incumbent president of the Union’s crimes against the citizens of Equestria truly abominable and unforgivable. The cruel and unusual military action against our neighbors, being both an abrogation of nature and morality, incontrovertibly indicates the work of a creature of Discord. For these reasons, the delegates of Fillydelphia believe that peace, the sole desire of the Fillydelphians, can not be found in the Union. And it is for this reason that they, under the permission of the mayor, declare Fillydelphia to be, forever more, a proud member and entity of the sovereign nation of the Friendship of Equestria.”

When news of Fillydelphia’s defiance reached Canterlot, the president, overjoyed at the ease of issuing orders under the Powers of War, ordered military action to be taken against Fillydelphia. To any dissenters—though there were few, since Princess Celestia had inexplicably vanished and less delegates were showing up at each session—the president simply appealed to their emotions. He found it much easier to simply justify his unilateral actions under the Powers of War, rather than get permission from Congress for everything he wanted to do: he spoke alarmingly about the dangers of the Friendship to everlasting peace, how the Friendship planned to ruin any concept of order and society, and how if they did not act now, each and every single one of them would be responsible for the dissolution of their proud nation—and that would be a betrayal of the vision of President Platinum and the founders. 

It was so easy, he thought, playing them all; all he had to do was just speak loudly and somberly for long enough until he saw the most hardened faces of even the most conservative delegates melt into expressions of apprehension and horror.

On December the thirtieth, after the Union Army on the threshold of Fillydelphia was met with violence and hostility from the residents—who had their own little militia—Fillydelphia succumbed to the spell of chaos, just like its fellow deserters had.

The soldiers of the Union Army, who were sitting on the outskirts of these cities, could not be happier with the status quo; it was as if it were a party to which they were being paid to attend. 

When the editorialists visited the campsites of various regiments, as hard as they tried to find war crimes committed by the Union Army, they only found the soldiers jocundly singing old war songs, drinking fresh cider, while dancing and hugging each other around their nightly campfires. Any misapprehensions that the citizens still had about the danger of the war slowly dissipated as they heard of these nightly celebrations; and, in the month of February, the Union Army’s recruitment statistics doubled in all its regions.

In March, to compensate for the influx of new recruits, an order of an additional six hundred thousand Trottingham Rifles was filled and shipped to the regiments in dire need of replacements. When the crowbars pulled off the wooden casings of the rifles in front of the fawning soldiers, they cheered as they saw the light of the sun bounce off the wood finishing of the rifles’ barrels. As they lined up to receive their new toy, they fidgeted and whinnied with delight; and when the last one was distributed, they ran around their camp grounds comparing their rifles to their colleagues’, fiddling with the weapons’ sights, polishing them, and taking them apart.

Firearms were a rarity in Equestria, much less rifles, since ponies had no need to acquire food and the few ones in circulation left over from the Changeling War were smoothbore—and they themselves were falling into disarray from lack of maintenance. Barely two years ago, a clever pony discovered that if he rifled the inside of the barrel of a gun and a conical bullet was built to match it, the bullet would spin upon exit, greatly improving the weapon’s accuracy. 

The firing operation, while cumbersome, payed off in terms of sheer effectiveness: First, using his forehoof the soldier would remove, from a pouch on his neck, a paper tube filled with a premeasured amount of gunpowder sitting on top of a bullet. He would firmly bite his teeth around the twisted end that held the bullet; and, with a swift flick of his neck, he would tear it off, exposing the gunpowder—keeping the bullet in his mouth. Holding steady his rifle on the ground, supported by a harness around his body, he would pour the gunpowder down the barrel of the rifle and then spit the bullet following it—taking heed to discard the paper on the ground. With his mouth now free, he would draw with his teeth—the Union Army field manual insisted that it should only take two motions of the head—the ramrod laying on the underside of the barrel, and he would securely seat the bullet on top of the gunpowder. After returning the ramrod, the soldier would remove with his mouth, out of a smaller pouch around his neck, a brass percussion cap that contained oxidizers necessary for ignition of the charge; and he would bring the stock of the rifle close to his face, remove the previous percussion cap, and set the new one down securely on the primer. After this, it was a matter of fully cocking the rifle’s hammer and then pulling the trigger. The harness allowed a soldier to fire it with one forehoof, while leaving another on the ground; but, for further accuracy, a soldier could fire it while lying prone, using both forehooves to support the weapon.

When the soldiers received this brand new innovation, they were overcome with joy at the fact that they call this state-of-the-art piece of machinery of their dreams their own; it really was like they were foals and it was Hearth’s Warming Day.

In April, during the first warm day of the year, a sergeant of the Second Canterlot Volunteer Infantry Regiment lost a round—and with it, a modest sum of gold—while playing a card game with his colleagues. Dejected, he left the game and his friends to walk in the field around the camp completely alone, to be with himself and his thoughts. On a whim, he climbed the small hill, on the base of which the camp was built, which blocked the sight of the battlefield, and he looked over the top at Ponyville. He had only seen it once, on the day he had been assigned his tent and his sleeping arrangements, and he had been so repulsed by the sight that he had immediately averted his eyes. Now, as he looked at the dying city, he was overwhelmed with sorrow: he could still see the life and the energy of the city, still fighting helplessly against its oppressor all these months later. As the city kicked back in defiance, the dark magic laughed at its impotence—and, like a constrictor, squeezed harder with every desperate gasp of air that its victim took. The sergeant felt a tear run down his cheek as he silently cheered on the tenacity of the small city— which refused to submit so easily to the iron clutches of despair.

In May, Enforcer knocked on the closed door of Princess Luna’s office. “Go away; I’m busy,” was all he heard her say. He sighed and shook his head, disappointed that the princess’s passionate and caring personality had not shown in a long time; but, in view of the previous months, he honestly was not surprised. 

He watched her in the congressional sessions, which ended very quickly nowadays since the most prominent delegates of the Royal Party had stopped attending and since the president carried out all his orders unilaterally through his Powers of War nowadays, thus making the resistance that he encountered in the sessions much less potent, and Enforcer could see the disgust on her face whenever the president silenced any remaining dissent with his blood-curdling laugh. Enforcer had no idea how she managed to keep her resolve under the conditions. If he had to spend any more time with the president, other than the small amount he deliberately maintained in order to see him less, he would have lost any will to carry out his duties or to even get out of bed in the morning. 

After turning away from her office, he swallowed nervously, as he was now about to perform the most dreaded part of his daily routine: he was going to see the president. As he intentionally walked slowly down the dreaded corridor between the vice-president’s office and the Horseshoe Office, he cursed the designers who, hundreds of years ago, put the offices of the vice president and the president so close together. 

He approached the door to the Horseshoe Office and raised a shaky leg to knock on it, but he stopped when he heard a strange sound coming from inside. 

Enforcer put his ear to the door. He heard the president’s voice, but it was too quiet for him make out what he was saying. 

Usually, Enforcer would have extended the president his due privacy and waited until he was free, except there was one anomaly: the president was not scheduled to meet anypony today. As Enforcer listened, the president’s mumblings became louder and angrier until finally, Enforcer was too disturbed by the tone and intonation of the voice. He recoiled, slid the papers he wanted to show the president under the door, and took a deep breath, relieved that he had found an excuse not to talk to the president that day. 

He jumped to fly away, but as soon as he began to flap, he felt his right wing cramp with an intense pain—and he fell back to the ground. He rubbed his head in confusion and tried to flutter his lame wing, but it had been seized into a dreadfully stiff position, refusing to respond to his commands. Enforcer was obliged to walk back to his office, but this was made difficult by a tremor that had taken a hold of his entire being, caused partly by the physical pain that accompanied the cramp—but which was mostly due to the shock that comes with watching part of one’s body fail.


* * *


In June, which marked nearly six months since the day Ponyville declared secession and six months of complacency in the president, the federal government, and the Union Army, the soldiers of the Forty-Eighth Baltimare Volunteer Infantry Regiment, stationed on the outskirts of Los Pegasus, engrossed in their card games, their drinks, and their jokes, did not notice that the pink clouds, which had blanketed the city for six months straight, were beginning to part. 

The sun stretched its rays across the land, finally free to shower the forsaken city with its comfort and support after it had spent too long being impeded, and it would have shone directly on the Union Army camp over the horizon had it not been for the vast line of figures blocking it out—which nopony in the camp paid any attention to. 

The figures stood erect, unwavering, and resolute as they passed silent judgment on the boisterous and oblivious foals in the camp who had the insolent audacity to call themselves soldiers. The slits of their eyes narrowed and their noses expelled clouds of air, thickened with indignation and disgust. Although one could not see their faces, for the sun rose behind the figures and cast long shadows on them, one could faintly see harnesses around their bodies peculiar to the ones used to equip its user with a long-barreled firearm. 

When a private of the camp, noticing the increased amount of light, looked in its direction and saw the line of figures obscuring its source, he screamed in an effort to warn his friends, but it was too late. Not a moment after, the camp was hit by a volley of rifle-fire from the hill. The Union Army soldiers, neglecting their training for the past six months, ran in a frenzied, disorganized manner around their camp, trying to find their rifles and trying to find shelter from the remorseless and unrelenting rain of metal. They ran face first into each other, tripped over logs, and tore down their tents in confusion, while the figures on the horizon grit their teeth, kept their mouths in their cartridge-pouches, and their hooves firmly on the triggers of their rifles.

Thus, the Forty-Eighth Baltimare Volunteer Infantry Regiment was the first to fall to the Army of the Friendship.

The Nineteenth and Forty-Ninth Canterlot, the Twenty-Second Manehattan, and the Ninety-Fourth Baltimare Volunteer Infantry Regiments—who were stationed on the northern, north-western, southern, and eastern flanks of Los Pegasus respectively—never attributed the sounds of the gunfire to the attack on the Forty-Eighth Baltimare to the west; they assumed it was training, or some new event from the city, which always produced the strangest noises. 

It was not until each regiment suffered a similar attack, though no less relentless, each one ten minutes apart from the last that they had realized, too late, what had happened.


* * *


Holding the casualty figures, Enforcer stood outside the closed door of the president’s office. He loosened his necktie, as he felt his shirt clinging to the sweat of his body. He had full control of his wings again; but, after the injury he had sustained two months ago, they had never felt the same. 

But, as of this moment, as he stood right in front of the door of the Horseshoe Office, the loss of Los Pegasus was the last thing on his mind. He swallowed painfully, his throat extremely dry, as he opened the door and walked in unannounced. 

He found the president reclining in his office chair with his stubby legs on his desk, looking up at a ball he was repeatedly tossing at the ceiling and catching as it fell back to him. When Enforcer closed the door, the president caught the ball, swung his legs off his desk, immediately sat up, and shot Enforcer a look that was bemusement mixed with genuine amiability.

“Correct me if I’m wrong, Enforcer,” said the president, twirling the ball in a circle on his desk with the talons of his claw, “but I do believe this is the first time you’ve ever come in without knocking.” His face hardened and he leaned forward. “You must have an extremely good reason to warrant such a rude interruption.” 

The president’s eyes seem to bulge out of his head as he strengthened his gaze—which was piercing into Enforcer’s own eyes. 

Enforcer felt a bead of sweat fall off his brow; it hit the floor and spread out, leaving a rather large and noticeable stain on the carpet. Enforcer had this entire conversation rehearsed a million times, but when he started to speak, it was as if the president’s eyes were in his brain, deliberately sabotaging its speech centers.

“Sir . . . I . . . well that’s to say we . . . I have . . .” he sputtered.

The president stood up, walked around his desk, and stood directly in front of Enforcer. His tall body towered over the timid assistant; and his large tail slowly moved in a slow, calculated, pendulous swing, akin to a cat waiting to strike, and he leaned his head down right in front of the pony’s face, such that Enforcer could smell his putrid breath and could see how disproportionate and horrifyingly repulsive the president’s face truly was. 

Enforcer leaned his head back to put valuable centimeters between him and the president, closed his eyes, and yelled: “Los Pegasus is lost!”

He peeked out of the lid of his left eye and saw the president’s face relax, make an amicable smile, and then sharply pull itself up as the president roared with his unsettling laughter. Enforcer felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up on end. He dared not to move.

“Enforcer!” bellowed the president, once he was finished laughing. The president took a step back and Enforcer exhaled with relief. “How kind of you to brighten up my day with such a amusing joke!”

Enforcer’s wings fluttered with anxiety as he cleared his throat, summoned up his courage, and said: “Sir, I . . . it wasn’t a joke, sir.”

“Well, of course it was a joke, my good colt!” At this, his body language dropped the pretense of amusement; he crossed his forward extremities and said somberly: “And I know that because I gave explicit orders to the Department of Magic and Defense to apply such discording and reality-bending magic to those cities that its citizens would not even be able to grasp the concept of ‘retaliation.’”

“Well . . . sir . . . it appears that somehow . . . Los Pegasus has broken it.”

“What!” yelled the president, as he approached Enforcer in such a quick manner that the assistant backed up equally as swiftly until his head hit the closed door of the entrance to the office. “How is this possible?”

“I don’t know!” Enforcer wailed. “I’m not part of the Department. I don’t know how unicorn magic works. You’re asking the wrong pony!” Enforcer pressed his head against the door, closed his eyes, and extended his hoof, with an assortment of papers balanced on top of it, toward the president. He felt a searing pain on his hoof as the papers were swiftly taken from him, leaving a paper-cut. He opened his eyes and watched the president’s eyes move rapidly across the words on the page.

“What is this? I don’t understand this. Didn’t we have nearly twenty thousand soldiers around that city?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And you say that the camps of all five regiments were completely overrun?”

“Yes, sir.”

“So why do these reports say that there were only an estimated seventeen Union soldiers killed in action and forty wounded?”

“Sir, I—”

“While there are no list of casualties on the rebellion’s side? How can an engagement of a combined thirty thousand ponies yield such relatively low casualties and such little intelligence?”

“Well, sir—”

“I see no reports of the rebels keeping prisoner of war camps, yet I see no figures listing any of our soldiers as missing in action.”

“Sir, we believe they defected.”

The president looked up from the reports and stared at Enforcer with a blank look on his face. With a rapid blinking of his eyes, the president stuck a talon inside is left ear, scratched it, and said: “Pardon? Excuse me? I do believe I’ve misheard you.”

“Sir, while we do not have any confirmed reports of this, we believe that the rebellion refuses to take any prisoners and that the overrun regiments were given the choice to join them or to be executed. We do have one soldier, a private first-class, who escaped from the attack on the Ninety-Fourth Baltimare: the last regiment to fall. She’s being treated in a hospital here in Canterlot, and she says—”

“I’ve had it with this hearsay,” said the president as he slammed his paw, which was furled into a fist, down on the desk, causing Enforcer to jump in surprise. “I want to talk to the soldier myself; I want her in this office right now.”

“Sir, we’ve seen—”

“Oh, I’m sorry, Enforcer,” he said, affecting a false calm tone of voice, which clearly conveyed his sense of indignation. “But I do believe that when the president of the Union issues a command to his assistant, he expects it to be followed; therefore, the private will be here in the next ten minutes. And, after that, I want Director Star right after I’m done with her. You’re dismissed, Enforcer!”

Enforcer would have given anything during the last five minutes just to hear those three words sooner.

Seven minutes after Enforcer had flown out of the Horseshoe Office in such haste that the wind from his wings blew a few sheets of paper off of a bureau sitting against the wall, he came in through the door that neither him nor the president had bothered to close. “Private First-Class Meadow Green of the Ninety-Fourth Baltimare Volunteer Infantry Regiment of the Union Army,” he said.

With his elbows on his desk and his paw and claw clasped together in anticipation, the president stared at Enforcer. He then gestured them outwards, face up. 

Enforcer, interpreting the gesture, looked behind him, saw that there was nopony there, blushed, walked out of the office and led a yellow earth-pony through the door. 

PFC Meadow Green’s left eye was black, and there were multiple scratches on her right cheek. Her mane was matted and tangled with sticks and grass, and a blue ice pack was strapped to the back of her head in an odd sort of helmet. Her once beautiful Union Army uniform, which was made with a royal blue cotton, lined by an arrangement of gleaming gold-colored buttons up the torso, was now tattered around her shoulders and was covered with pine needles and dirt. The upper button was barely hanging on by a small blue thread, and her collar was popped up, wrinkled and bent. She was chewing nervously on her cap, and the two brass buttons shaped like crossed trumpets made a metallic clinking sound as her teeth chattered on them. She was staring at the ground when she walked in, but when she saw the president, she quickly placed the cap back on her head—which had lost all its shape and definition and which slumped like a pillow on the side of her temple—raised a shaky foreleg in the traditional military salute and coughed out, her voice raspy and quiet: “The un’un for’ver.”

Enforcer watched the disheveled pony take a seat in front of the president’s desk without invitation. As he saw her slumped in the chair, this once proud soldier now at rock-bottom, he thought that there was never a creature that symbolized the state of the Union as she did now, as she sat in front of the president. Enforcer wondered if the president realized this too.

“Now, my dear,” said the president, resting his chin on his paw, “Enforcer tells me that your regiment was assaulted and overrun by the rebellion. Is this not true?”

PFC Greene spoke with a thick Baltimare working-class accent; and Enforcer, being a refined upper-class pony from Canterlot, had a hard time understanding what she said, but the emotion in her voice told him all he needed to know. “Ah . . . Ah dun know what happen,” she said.

“Well, do your best,” said the president, in a tender voice which Enforcer had never heard him use before. “I want these rebels to be brought to justice for what they did to you and your friends, but I can’t do it on my own. I need your help. Can you help me?”

“Ah . . . Ah think so,” she stammered.

“Now, start from the beginning. Where were you? What were you doing?”

PFC Green took her hat off her head and used the fabric to wipe the tears that were now beginning to form in her eyes. “Ah was walkin’ ‘cross the campin’ grounds, gonna’ meet up with the lieutenant”—she gave a sad chuckle in the middle of her strangled words—“tell ‘im a funny joke Ah had heard from ma’ good buddy Chive.”

“And then?”

“Ah heard . . . Ah heard the most definite scream comin’ from someplace, an unnatural scream, sir.  Ah swear: if you’d been there, sir, you’ heart most definitely would’ve turned to cold.”

“And who made this scream?”

“Lookin’ back on it, it was probly’ the rebellin’ soldiers, ‘cause when Ah looked in its dirction’, Ah saw an entire firin’ line of ponies. They weren’t in proper colors,” she said, as she tugged on her collar. “Them were in a gray suit, with a red stripe goin’ down the legs. Ah didn’t think nothin’ of it until Ah saw the smoke from their rifles. One nearly got me.” She pointed to her shoulder piece, which Enforcer could see had a conical tear right across its seam. 

“Ah fell back,” she continued. “And then when Ah opened mine eyes, Ah could hear screamin’, and ponies were runnin’ all over the place. I did not dare stand up, mind ya; Ah cud still hear them bullets over mah head.” She made a whistling noise with her mouth and moved her hooves in the air, as if to imitate the path of the bullets. “From where Ah was, Ah couldn’t see mah tent or mah rifle, and Ah didn’t know what should be done . . . Ah am sorry—so, so sorry! Ah’ve betrayed the un’un! Ah’m a deserter! Ah’m a dirty rebel!” At this she buried her face in her cap and sobbed.

“Soldier, I don’t know if I understand you,” said the president, who leaned back in his chair with a skeptical look on his face.

“Ah promised to stand with ma brothers through thick ‘n thin, and Ah promised to uphawld the constutun, but Ah crawled away like a proper coward.” She made a despondent grunting noise through her clenched teeth. “Ah crawled and crawled, ‘till Ah couldn’t hear them bullets over mine head.”

“Well, from what I’m told, it sounded like nopony was standing with anypony.”

“That’s where yur wrong, sir,” she said, as she looked up at him. Enforcer could see that her eyes were red. “When Ah got to a safely distance, Ah climbed a tree, pulled out mah pocket binoculars,”—and she reached into one of the pockets on her belt and pulled out a small spyglass, its lens badly cracked—“and looked back. Ah could see the camp, and Ah could see a few of mah friends behind a makeshift barricade, firin’ back at the attackers with all them hearts. Ah saw a line of what I reckon to be a thousand rebels, firing down at our four thousand. Ah should’ve been there; Ah should’ve been at that barricade.”

“My dear, what I don’t understand is how one thousand disorganized and poorly equipped rebels, who have been under siege for the past one hundred sixty-eight days, could defeat four thousand highly-trained soldiers of the Union Army.”

“Yur guess is as good as mine, sir.”

“So what happened next?”

“Ah was sittin’ there, watchin’ my friends defend the camp; and, on the hill, Ah saw a good-lookin’ pony. He had the gray and red of the rebels, but he had them fancy-lookin’ epaulets, like the officers do. He was holdin’ a chest of some sort, and he faced it ‘twards the battlefield. He was about to open it, but before I could fancy a peek as to what was inside, the most p’erful light with the most loud’st sound came over the world—so bright that even when Ah closed my eyes and put mine two hooves here over them, it still was hurtin’. Ah assume it was a bomb or somethin’; but, in any case, Ah lost my balance and fell outta’ mine tree. I got quite the knock on the head, as you can see her’. 

“When Ah woke up, Ah didn’t know how long Ah’d been out, and my head was hurtin’ like there was no tomorra’. Ah was dizzy like ya wouldn’t believe, sir, but Ah didn’t hear no rifles no more, so Ah crawled close enough to see wot’ Ah could see.”

“And what did you see, Private?”

“Ya wouldn’t believe me, sir”

“I’ll be the judge of that. Now: what did you see?”

“Ah was expectin’ there ta be bodies layin’ all around, but what Ah saw was worst than that: Ah saw mah friends, naked, in a line. At the front of that line, Ah saw one of them gray and red fellows, and Ah could see many cardboard boxes, stacked upon another. Ah saw Chive . . . Chive! The strongest boy that had ever gone, he take somethin’ . . . that the gray and red pony gave to ‘em . . . Poor Chive! Oh my word, that poor boy!”

The president leaned closer. “What was it? I need to know.”

“It was . . . it was . . . one of them uniforms that they were wearin’. The gray one with the red stripe one, sir. And Chive . . . Chive put it on. He left the line dressed in their dress as the pony behind him got up to receive his. 

“It was at this point when Ah realized that the great plume o’ smoke that Ah had attributed to a far’ caused by somepony knockin’ over a lantern in his confusion was act’lly made by a great burning pile of the un’un’s blue uniforms.”

The president’s eyes bulged out, his ears stiffened, and he looked at her with his mouth open. “So you’re saying that they weren’t captured? Or killed? They’re all traitors to the Union?”

“Ah don’t know if they’d been killed, sir. When Ah saw that, Ah couldn’t take much more, and Ah ran away. Ah tried to make it to the other fortifications, ta warn ’em of the attack, but when Ah got there, they too were givin’ out them uniforms. Ah ran from the city, fastest as Ah could. I was dizzy, and Ah fainted a few miles out. If the flyboys from the Air Force hadn’t spotted me, I’d be a goner fo’ sure.” 

At this, PFC Green leaned close to the president, and the steeliness of her eyes almost rivaled that of his. “Sir, mark me: war is comin’ and it’s comin’ hard.”

The president stood up, his amiable expression completely gone from his face, took the private’s hoof, helped her up, and said: “I appreciate you taking time out of your day to talk to me. You’re dismissed. Go get some rest.”

She looked at him, and, with her free foreleg gave the military salute and said: “The un’un forever, sir,” before falling back into the chair. 

The president didn’t reply. He grasped her gently by her mane, helped her out of the chair, and gave her to Enforcer, who led her out of the office. 

Enforcer gave her back to the two nurses, who were waiting for her with a wheelchair. No sooner had he helped her into it then he heard a voice back from the office: “Enforcer, send in the other one!”

Enforcer popped his head back in to see the president sitting at his desk again. “Excuse me, sir?”

“Director Star—I asked for him, did I not? Send him in.”

Enforcer knew that this moment would come and he had prepared for it, but this did not quell his heart, which was beating at upwards of one hundred beats per minute. “Sir . . .” he said, “we couldn’t find him.”

The president’s eyes glowed with hate. “What!”

“He’s not at the department; he’s not at home; he’s not anywhere. We’ve looked. I don’t believe he’s even come into work for the past few months.”

“In that case, he’s a deserter, a capital offender, just like General Hoop. Put a warrant out for his arrest, and don’t stop until you find him. Also, have my carriage ready; I need to get to Los Pegasus immediately, so I can reapply the spell and, this time, do it properly.”

Enforcer raised an eyebrow at the president, and when the latter’s countenance did not relent in intensity—as one’s usually does shortly after one has made a joke—the former shrugged his shoulders in confusion. Nevertheless, Enforcer bowed and was about to walk out of the room when the president, as if it were just a passing remark, said: “Oh, and Enforcer? Make sure that General Sherbert relays to her troops that if they don the uniform of a traitor to the Union, no matter what the reason or the threat, they are traitors to the Union and they will be treated as such.” 

The president saw or heard no acknowledgment of this order, but the sound—or, rather, the lack of sound—of the pause in the assistant’s hoof-steps and the whoosh of air caused by his wings nervously fluttering, and a sharp crack of unknown origin, as if something had snapped at its seams, made the president certain that the pony had heard it and had no doubt made off to relay the order. 

When Enforcer was out of sight of the president, he leaned against the wall, loosened his tie further and breathed rapidly and shallowly until he had calmed down. It was only now that he collapsed to the ground, writhing in pain, as the realization as to what had happened to him sunk in: in his haste, he had broken his hip bone.

Two days later, General Sherbert received a letter bearing the stamp of the Horseshoe Office: it was a formal order from the president. Upon reading the letter, she knew that a good night sleep was not going to be hers; but, like a good soldier, she immediately relayed the order to the officers in the field.

On June the sixteenth, 181 BC, the president, acting under Amendment XI of the COMTOIS, suspended the writ of habeas corpus; and the thousands of court-dates scheduled for the March on Mane Street protesters, among others, were indefinitely postponed.
> Chapter X: The Good Fight for the Union
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------


“Congress shall pay Due in the Domain of a fallen or wounded Soldier in the Service of the Union, whose Integrity is of the honored Nature.”

—Amendment XII to the Constitution of Meeting Tribes of Immediate Siblings



Thus began the era of conventional warfare. 

Union Army scouts reported that the rebellion had used in the battle an assorted array of prototype rifles and muskets, no doubt stored in the basements of every single household in Los Pegasus: a city, whose citizens had been known for having incessant paranoia, a history of launching constitutional challenges against the federal government, and who felt the need to arm themselves. Thus, nopony was surprised that this city was the first to declare secession and was the first to retaliate against the federal government’s efforts to preserve the Union. 

After they had driven the Union Army from their boundaries, they had raided the camps and had taken a hold of the brand new rifles and ammunition. Like locusts, they only became stronger and healthier the more destruction they caused, and soon they became hungry for their next victory. 

As Stallion’s Manufacturing Company rushed to fill another order of small arms for the Union Army, Equestria breathed a sigh of relief as they saw the war take on a more familiar tone. 

After the first major engagement and the first tactical victory of the Union Army, the Battle of Ghastly Gorge, where the Second and Third Los Pegasus Infantry Regiments of Friends attempted to cross the gorge, on their way to either Fillydelphia or to Ponyville, and were repelled by the Twelfth and Nineteenth Manehattan and the First Canterlot Volunteer Infantry Regiments after an hour of sustained rifle-fire—which resulted in two hundred and fifteen rebels plummeting to their deaths, one hundred twenty-eight of them killed by bullets and an additional five hundred twenty wounded in action, while twenty-two Union Army soldiers were killed an action and an additional fifteen were wounded—the general unspoken feeling among soldiers of both sides was one of solace at the fact that the terrible magic that they had witnessed and experienced for the past six months was revocable; and that the new war had a cause, a purpose, direction, and predictability. When a soldier pulled the trigger of his rifle, he exhaled with contentment when he found that his pulling of the trigger caused the hammer to slam forward on the percussion cap, which he had placed seconds prior, which caused sparks to fly from the oxidizers in the cap, which caused the gunpowder to ignite, which caused the bullet to discharge forwards. The Law of Causality smiled warmly down on the soldiers at the gorge, and they smiled back, almost oblivious to the destruction occurring around them. It was destruction, but at least there was a reason behind it.

At least, this was true for the Los Pegasus regiments at the gorge and the Union regiments that had stopped them: Ponyville and Fillydelphia still lay in shadow. 

When the battered Second and Third Los Pegasus Infantry Regiments of Friends regrouped after their crushing defeat and awaited for further orders, while attending to each other’s wounds, they already were preparing eagerly for the next battle. Though they had been defeated in body that day, they had not been in spirit: their spirits were still as full as ever of devotion, powered by agitation, at the fact that their friends in Fillydelphia still needed their help, and incredulity, at the fact that there were actually ponies who were heartless enough to stand in their way.

As for the president, who had shut himself up in his office—after he had been forcibly restrained by Princess Luna and Enforcer, when he had rashly tried to leave for Los Pegasus, muttering something about how he would do the magic himself—and who only came out for Congress, the dates of which becoming increasingly irregular ever since the leader of the Royal Party and the official opposition, Princess Celestia, had disappeared, crushing the morale of any Royalists who still bothered to attend the unproductive sessions, he enjoyed a few months of silence; and the only noises he ever heard were Enforcer’s daily visits, which were only minutes long at the most, as the assistant slapped down papers on his desk and promptly left, and the propaganda of the editorialists, some of whom having taken up allegiance with the Friendship, who now spent their days designing posters and writing articles on the necessity of ponies to join the Army of the Friendship to stop Discord, the spirit of chaos and disharmony, who was currently occupying the Horseshoe Office in Canterlot. Despite the fact that this juvenile, but clever, name made the president himself laugh every time, he ordered the arrest of all the editorialists and the dissolution of all news corporations who published “ideas that were a threat to the Union, its citizens, and incited rebellion”—in other words, the ones that found themselves in jail cells that night were the ones who had not been smart enough to conceal their identities.


* * *


A young Manehattan stallion named Tree Root, whose eyesight was dilapidated to the point where it was considered a disability, who suffered from heart murmurs, and who thusly failed the physical which was required for enlistment in the Union Army, had waved a heartfelt goodbye to his childhood friends as he watched them march away with the Nineteenth Manehattan Volunteer Infantry Regiment. 

It wasn’t fair, he thought. Why am I not permitted to do my part? 

“Is there truly nothing I can do?” he said aloud to himself in the middle of a coffee shop, much to the dismay of the other ponies who were sitting around him. 

This was how he had spent the first few months of the war: if not sulking alone in his studio apartment, then in the coffee shop, wishing that his sicknesses, and the despondency that inherently came with it, would leave him. He felt like an invalid. 

When he had heard that the spell had been lifted from Los Pegasus, he was worried sick for his friends; and he buried himself, overwhelmed by his sorrow and frustration, in his room for an entire week. 

In July, when he had finally emerged, desperately needing groceries, as he was sick of eating ketchup, upon stepping out into the harsh sun of Manehattan and glancing at a newspaper box, he had learned, a few days after the event had taken place, about the bravery displayed by the Union soldiers at Ghastly Gorge—and he saw his friends’ pictures and names in the newspaper.

Such bravery, he thought. Such heroism shown despite being overwhelmed by immorality and terror. 

As he clutched the newspaper to his chest, he felt tears begin to swell. If only . . . if only every single Union soldier could feel the way he felt now, he thought, then maybe they could find the will to decisively crush the traitors, and they could all go home to their families . . . to peace.

And then, in an instant, as if the spirit of the Union itself had seized control of him, his body and mind were struck with a feeling of inspiration. After hastily purchasing what he needed at the corner store, he rushed back to his apartment and stayed there for another week, not in stagnation this time—but in innovation.

When he emerged once again, he went into the headquarters of his local radio station, paid a small fee; and, with a few buskers that he had met on his way there, recorded a song that he had written, after feeling inspired by honor and valor shown by the troops at Ghastly Gorge. 

When “The Good Fight for the Union” played over the radio for the first time, within the first hour, it instantly shot up to the top ten in the list of the most popular songs that month and, within the next day, became number one: 




For concord and virtue,
For us, or for naught!
Down with The Friendship; let’s go, Canterlot!
While we gallop hoof to hoof, noble Justice in our stride,
Fighting the good fight for the Union!


It enjoyed success in all the cities still loyal to the Union, in Canterlot particularly. Over the next few months, one could not turn on the radio or attend a social gathering in any city still affiliating itself with the Union without hearing this song being played. 

A trumpet whined the song’s opening notes and, with it, conveyed the ominous threat, the weight at what was at stake, and the losses that had already been sustained, but as soon as that was replaced by the sonorous roll of a snare drum, one heard the triumph of justice over brute force and the promise of others to come to its support.

Tree Root himself was on the lead vocals. His voice had the coarse, grating accent and tone of a Manehattanite and was technically subpar—as was agreed on by most opera snobs—but when the young stallion launched into the aforementioned refrain, there was so much passion, life, and energy in it that even they did not care. 

After he had duly sung the four verses, each separated by that glorious refrain, the drum roll slowed to a standstill and the trumpet came back. This time, it did not carry the threat of violence anymore; rather, it had a sad, mournful tone—like the crying of a mother waving goodbye to her son who was leaving for battle—and was slightly apprehensive. However, with the just cause espoused in the lyrics before and the implacable sound of the instruments that accompanied it, one knew that the outcome would be satisfactory. 

Tree Root’s voice became the rallying cry of soldiers—whether in spirit or enlisted in a volunteer infantry regiment—of the Union everywhere, and it was the vocalization of all the thoughts and ideals of the ponies that did not have the eloquence to put them into words. This is probably why the managers of every single record factory in Equestria, all of whom employed to produce the single, who had operated their machines for five days straight without rest and manufactured a total of over one hundred thousand records, collapsed with exhaustion when they received the order for one hundred thousand more. 

Tree Root, who lived in a studio apartment with a roommate, became a millionaire within the week and bought one of the most expensive and most prolific mansions in Canterlot. Enforcer, who was walking by this house, as usual, on his way to the Presidential Mansion, groaned when he saw who purchased it on the building’s sale listing. 

It was not that he hated the song—on the contrary, he thought the Union and its patriots needed it; it was that, ever since it was released on record, the president had been playing it incessantly and as loud as his record player would allow it, such that Enforcer could hear it from the floor directly below the Horseshoe Office and behind three closed doors, to the point where he was getting sick of it. He wondered how Princess Luna managed to get any work done from her office across the hall from the president’s, though a possible explanation was that she was coming into the mansion less and less often—and when she did, she was coming in quite late in the afternoon—and she was doing visibly less work while somehow looking more stressed than when she had first became vice president.

Enforcer was even more dismayed when, after he had finally found a quiet room in the mansion to get some work done, he was called up to the Horseshoe Office. For five minutes, he stood there in front of the president who shouted his instructions at the top of his lungs, in an effort to be heard over the music. Enforcer nodded and smiled; and, as soon as he saw the president stop talking, he flew out of the room as fast as he could, shut the door behind him and, grasping his temples, tried to rub away his splitting headache and stop his ears from ringing. 

He had missed quite a few words the president had said, but he had the general idea: the president wanted Enforcer to bring Tree Root to him so that he could ask the composer his permission to bestow upon him the title of Colleague of the Union—the highest title a civilian in Equestria could receive.

Enforcer, obviously, had no problem getting in contact with Tree Root and had no problem convincing him to see the president. And, after an eight-minute conversation with the president, Tree Root skipped out of the Horseshoe Office with an expectedly huge smile on his face.

The ceremony was to be in a week. The president had obtained Tree Root’s permission to hire writers to adapt the song for an orchestra, under his explicit guidelines; and he ordered Enforcer to hire the Canterlot Symphony Orchestra and their choir, at any price, and the most prominent opera singer of the time to sing the lead. Enforcer, in his infinite ability, got them together with little trouble, and he himself even arranged the decorations for the garden. 

Coming from an aristocratic and traditional breed of family, Enforcer had been taught that females had a certain je ne sais quois that made them experts in situations such as this, so he looked for Princess Luna—ostensibly, to ask her what she thought of his decoration plans but, in reality, in order to break the bubble of silence she had shrouded herself in—but she was so difficult to find around the Presidential Mansion during these times; and, when he did find her, she would always brush him off with an “I’m busy—not now” or would flat out ignore him with the coldness that he saw her display in the foyers before and after the presidential debates during the days before she was vice president. 

Three hours before the orchestra was to set up and the singers to take their places, Enforcer, in the garden behind the Hall of Congress, took a step back and looked at the arrangement of the seats, the orchestra pit, and the decorations. He took a deep breath and exhaled with a smile of contentment; it had been a long time since he could take a pleasure in his work.

And he would have been lying to himself if he had said that the ceremony and the performance of the song was not impressive: hearing the song live, a new rendition that was written to be played by the greatest orchestra in Equestria and sung by its greatest voices, was one of the most amazing things he had ever seen and heard. This was how the song was meant to be played, he thought: on a scale which was larger than life and played by the most skilled performers with the finest instruments, that only a grandiose song about victory and justice should be performed.

Tree Root, on the other hoof, who sat next to the president on the stage where he was to be given the medal representing his title, was slightly disappointed when he heard that the president had chosen to remove the threatening trumpet at the beginning, which took on a melancholy tone at the end, and replaced both sections of it with an equally as gallant arrangement as the rest of the song. He felt that a lot of the necessary juxtaposition he put into the song was now lost: if there was no threat of failure and despair, what were they fighting for? But he did like how the song he wrote sounded when it was not being played by five poor amateur musicians from Manehattan—four of whom probably homeless—and he liked the addition of the string section, so he did not mind too much.

A week after the song shattered every sale record for a single, an anonymous writer changed the lyrics to take a pro-Friendship message, so the soldiers of the Army of the Friendship could sing it too: 



For love and understanding,
For your homes, we will spring!
Away with the chaos; come on, let us sing!
Discord, up in Canterlot, will tremble when he sees:
That there is a power in our Friendship!


When Tree Root had first heard the grating voices of the tone-deaf rebels singing, over the radio, this song—his song—his heart began to race and he clenched his teeth so hard which caused one of them to crack. To him, this new version, with its awkward iambs and its discordant syllables, which poorly matched the accompanying music, which took a proud message for a cause he believed passionately in and changed it to mean the destruction of that cause, was so profoundly evil that it nauseated him. 

He hired the fiercest, sliest, and most expensive lawyer he could find in an effort to crush the insulting theft of property and its perpetrators while causing as much pain as possible to them. The attorney, the most skilled in his practice, found, within days, the well-hidden parodists and the news corporations that supported them. He was about to draw up the papers, when he found out that they had already been arrested on orders of the president, who cited that the arrest had been made “for egregious violations of copyright law resulting in an endangerment to the Union.” 

Normally, an arrest like this would have been accompanied by incredibly vocal cries that the president, by ordering these arrests, was violating Amendment VI of the COMTOIS; but, after the president had suspended the writ of habeas corpus, and after the CEOs of the ten biggest news corporations that had been known to frequently speak out against government policies and which were, coincidentally, all operated and funded by the royal family, had been arrested along with eighty of the most prominent journalists working for them, the only outcry that the president heard was from an old United Party member—the most revered and respected in the group and who, in less frantic times, probably would have become its leader—who said, in a particular congressional session, a session which felt even more uncomfortably empty than the last, that with this arrest, the president violated both the COMTOIS and the values for which his party stood. 

At this, the president, standing erect behind the podium at the front of the hall, leaned closer toward the crowd, which resulted in everypony recoiling reflexively and unconsciously, and said: “My dear friend—surely you’re not suggesting that the federal government upholds the rights of those whose sole intent is to destroy this right-upholding institution? That would be a fatal contradiction.” 

The old stallion pulled at his suit’s collar to let the air in and sat back, hunched, in his seat, trying to make himself invisible.

Two weeks after the battle at Ghastly Gorge, while jovially singing “The Good Fight for the Union” and polishing their rifles, the Union soldiers looked up and saw the Second and Third Los Pegasus Infantry Regiment of Friends marching up the ridge leading to the gorge. They smiled, grit their teeth, and cocked the hammers on their rifles. Not one of them had a single iota of fear in their hearts: they were ready; they were waiting, and they intended to wipe out the rebellion here and now.


* * *


Situated to the east of Canterlot lay the besieged city of Fillydelphia. To Canterlot’s east-southeast, lay Baltimare and, to the northeast, lay Manehattan. On the map, Canterlot was in the center of a wheel, the rim of which was made up by the rest of the major settlements. Perhaps this was the reason it was chosen to be the capital city: all the roads, with their twists and turns, all merged into a single road going into Canterlot—the perfect metaphor for the Union. 

The path to Canterlot leads from the base of the mountain’s southern—that is, the side that faces the city of Ponyville—and was scouted around one hundred fifty years ago by troops of the Union Army, under the auspices of Commander Hurricane; and, as far as it was known, was the only way up the mountain. 

Canterlot is built on an enormous mountain; and, any attack on Canterlot, given the fact that there is only one road up which one can travel to the city, would be suicide no matter the army’s training, no matter its size—if the city had not been, more or less, razed. It was a perilous climb for a pony on foot, especially if said pony was not to be permitted to enter by the sentries near the city’s gate, but it was the only way up. 

Truly, the prime piece of real estate was Ponyville, which General Sherbert had been prudent enough to recognize for its importance to the Union Army: it was almost indefensible by any regiment garrisoned in it, making it easy for an invading army to take it, and its location made the city a perfect spot for an invading force to set up its artillery units in order to bombard Canterlot.

Los Pegasus is on the far southwestern borders of Equestria, far removed from any other major settlement, and the rebelling city could not have been placed in a more inconvenient position. A Friendship soldier marching straight to Ponyville from this city would have to pass by the White Tail Woods, in which Union soldiers could take up a covered position, or would have to walk by Los Pegasus’s mountains, on which the Union soldiers would have the upper ground. Regardless of what avenue of attack he took, he would eventually have to cross Ponyville’s river—which, as is said in any credible military manual, is inherently treacherous—before attacking the city itself.

An easier route would be to go past the southern side of Los Pegasus’s mountains and then either to Ponyville or Fillydelphia. This is not to imply that the route did not have any obstacles; for what the route lacked in tangible obstructions in comparison to the direct route, it was made up in Union Army encampments, conveniently placed, for the purpose of guarding Fillydelphia. The only major obstacle, save for the aforementioned fortifications, would be Ghastly Gorge, which the Friendship would be forced to cross while taking fire from the Union Army from the other side.

For this reason, the ponies of the First and Fourth Los Pegasus Infantry Regiments of Friends had breathed a sigh of relief when they had learned that they were not to go by Ghastly Gorge and were to, instead, fight straight to Ponyville. When they had heard the crippling defeat that their friends had suffered at the First Battle of Ghastly Gorge, they walked on in silence which was composed of two parts: one part in reverence and mourning for their fallen comrades—the other part deliberately keeping their mouths shut, lest the selfish gratitude each one of them felt for the fact that it had not been them that had plummeted to their deaths become known.

It was not until they had reached the White Tail Woods, met the Union Army hiding in the trees, that they had found that their rifles had deteriorated from spending days in the marshes around it, and they were unable to defend themselves from the relentless barrage of cannon and rifle fire from an innumerable amount of invisible enemies—that the First and Fourth Los Pegasus Infantry Regiments of Friends had envied their friends at Ghastly Gorge. 

When they ran for cover, they found that either there was none, or it was occupied by Union soldiers. When they tried to fire back, their water-logged gunpowder refused to ignite. When they tried to surrender, they were executed without pity. When they tried to flee, the bullets ran faster that them. 

General Sherbert spent the two days following the Battle of White Tail Woods trying to figure out why these two regiments decided to take this route—this route that, no matter how it was drawn on the map and in what color pen, would always lead straight to a grave. Perhaps it was their lack of any formal ranking system and their lack of seasoned and educated military strategists, or perhaps it was the brazen nature of young ponies from Los Pegasus, who believed themselves to be immortal. Whatever the reason, after the Battle of White Tail Ridge, the First and Fourth Los Pegasus Infantry Regiments of Friends crawled away with six thousand, two hundred sixty-two killed in action and seven hundred forty wounded in action: a casualty rate of over sixty percent.

No matter their resolve, no matter their determination, and no matter their desire to win, there was no escaping the fact that the Union Army was better equipped, better trained, better supplied, better numbered, and better commanded. 

After the near extermination of two infantry regiments and the wounding of two others, the beast of the rebellion was bleeding from its artery; the only thing left for it to do was to squirm in the dust and try to crawl away from the Union hunter, who only had to step on its neck to acquire another trophy. This was what was on the mind of Second and Third Los Pegasus Infantry Regiments of Friends, as they were torn away from their mother while they were still lapping her wounds and thrust into the waiting sights of the Union hunter, who they could see grinning hungrily on the other side of Ghastly Gorge, anticipating the taste of its next meal. The news of the defeat at White Tail Ridge was still fresh in their minds, and the horrors from the First Battle of Ghastly Gorge was still plaguing their dreams and robbing them of sleep. No matter how much their leaders assured them that failure was impossible this time, they had little confidence in them, these leaders who had led them into the face of death not too long ago. 

But even as the first volley of rifle-fire from the other side of the gorge hit them, one thing was for sure, and this kept them smiling: They were friends—and there was nothing that Discord or his legionnaires would be able to do about that. And because friends do not abandon each other, even in their darkest of hours, they were going to cross that gorge, on to Fillydelphia, on to Ponyville—or they were going to face the enemy’s bullets head-on, their last breaths being that of defiance. 

They were going to live as friends or die as friends, they thought, as they stood looking down into Ghastly Gorge for the second time.
> Chapter XI: Enforcer
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------


“The Right of the Citizens to gather in Complaint shall not be abridged, except in Cases where such Complaints demonstrably and unequivocally evince a threat to the Union, its Property, or those in its Domain.”

—Amendment II to the Constitution of Meeting Tribes of Immediate Siblings



Not only did the Army of the Friendship cross the gorge, but they did so decisively and with minimal casualties. After the battle, there was no account of a single Union soldier from the Twelfth or Nineteenth Manehattan, or the First Canterlot Volunteer Infantry Regiment. None had been able to draw up a post-mission debrief. There was no concussed private to crawl her way back to the president. In fact, the only evidence that a battle had even taken place was that the Union Army scouts could see the Friendship marching inexorably on to Fillydelphia, each soldier armed, equipped, and in perfect formation. The only difference in the scouts’ reports this time was that only a few of the soldiers had the gray uniform with the red stripe; the majority were walking naked.

When the report got to the desk of the brigadier general responsible for that section of the war, she gave it to her supervising major general, who determined that his lieutenant general needed to have it, and the lieutenant general got to see General Sherbert’s mouth hit her desk when he gave it to her personally. 

The regiments at the gorge had every conceivable military advantage going from them, and all they needed to do was to stop them to end the rebellion. How was this possible? Those positions, those fortifications, that training—and not only a decisive defeat, but a defeat with one hundred percent losses? 

The lieutenant general told her that he would make sure that the regiments around Fillydelphia and Ponyville were duly informed, and then he advised her to keep the defeat a secret as long as possible, as the general opinion was that the Union had a firm hold on the war; and, with the report of a decisive defeat, the riots that would ensue in the cities still loyal to the Union was the last thing they needed. 

General Sherbert thanked him and then ordered that the number of military recruitment campaigns be increased in Baltimare and Manehattan. Then she gave a sigh of dejection, exasperated that this little impotent order was the only thing she could add to the war effort.

What was certain was that the Second and Third Los Pegasus Regiments of Friends’ numbers had tripled, for they had absorbed every single surviving member of the federal regiments stationed at the gorge, as the Friendship had done in the first engagement in the crisis. To General Sherbert, this was troubling, not to mention unthinkable: over the explosion of the cannons, over the orders shouted to the rifleponies, what possible argument, what possible rhetoric, could have convinced eight thousand soldiers to go back on their oath to uphold the COMTOIS? How could eight thousand ponies who, before, were singing “The Good Fight for the Union” at the top of their lungs, suddenly betray everything they had devoted their lives to? 

She had to, in spite of herself, believe that the Friendship was not one of those last-minute ad hoc movements formed out of the naive and foolish minds of university students: They were smart, and they knew what they were doing. They knew they could not take on the Union Army with force, so they turned to a weapon that the Union Army had failed to train their soldiers against, a weapon that the soldiers were taught was inferior to the rifle despite the fact that General Sherbert knew very well that it was more powerful than a bullet could ever be: persuasion. 

She had a letter sent to the president containing her thoughts and which found itself sitting in a small shelf on Enforcer’s desk labeled “IN” on the very next day.

But, on the morning of that day, when Enforcer walked into the Presidential Mansion and, after taking one look around, saw the desolation in the few unhappy faces looking back at him, he did something on that day that he had never done before: he took it off. 

He went to the pub down the street: the pub where he used to gather with his colleagues—and, on rare occasions, a president—on Friday nights. He had not been here ever since the first day of the conflict, when he had woken up and found that he had not wanted to go to work. The pub on Friday nights was supposed to be a celebration of a good hard week of work; and, since the beginning of the war, he had not felt that any of his work—save for that little spark of happiness he had felt when he had arranged the decorations for the celebration of a war song—had truly been good in the strictest sense of the word. 

After he had opened the door to the pub, the light of the morning sun shone through, cutting a path through the dim atmosphere of the bar, and he saw the face of an early drinker squinting at him from her stupor. When Enforcer saw the pallor of her face and the blank look that accompanied it, he felt a shudder run through his entire body. When her eyes locked with his, Enforcer gasped. This pony who, on a normal day, he would have glanced away from, was now quickly becoming the archetypal being in his life; it was only now that Enforcer realized that this state was the norm, and his state—still full of life and ambition—was the aberration. To see this creature, in the pub in the morning, with nothing more to live for, with no purpose to guide her life, terrified him . . . the sight was too prescient.

“Hey! Thou are in here early!” A voice freed Enforcer from the trance that the wanderer had trapped him in. He looked in its direction, smiled in salutation to the bartender and in thanks to him for saving him, but the smile disappeared when Enforcer did not recognize his face.

The bartender was a beet red earth-pony, and the clean apron he wore showed that he had not been employed long. He was wiping a mug with an equally clean cloth in methodical circles, and twenty or thirty polished ones were sitting on the counter in front of him. The bartender had a different face than the one that was usually there; but its grin, with its perfect row of teeth, conveyed energy; and naturally, in his unenergetic state, Enforcer gravitated toward it.  

“Hello,” Enforcer said back. “I’m just wondering—where’s Barley?”

“Who? Oh, thou mean the other guy?” the bartender replied. “Didn’t thou know? He’s in the Twenty-First Canterlot. Poor guy, I hope he comes back alright.”

“Oh . . . that’s a shame . . .” said Enforcer, as he sat down on one of the stools and slumped his head down on the counter.

“What can I get thee?”

Enforcer lifted his face from the counter, his mane full of static electricity and clinging to his face. “Hmm?” he murmured. He heard the bartender give a hearty laugh; Enforcer used a forehoof to part the hair away from his eyes, saw the manner and pose in which the bartender laughed, and he could not help but break a smile.

“Thou are not a morning pony, I see!” the bartender bellowed.

“No, no, I . . . I think I am. I’m pretty sure I am,” Enforcer replied, the smile draining from his face.

“Well, I know just what to make for that,” said the bartender, appearing to ignore the response and grabbing a few bottles that stood behind him. “Ponies say that this shouldn’t be drank in the morning, but to them I say . . . I say . . .” The bartender scratched his chin with his free hoof. “Well, I say something, and it was really clever; I just can’t think of it now,”  he said the best he could with the bottle corks in his mouth.

Enforcer chuckled. The bartender had a certain kind of charm, just like Barley. He wondered if Barley, after spending months in the infantry, still had it.

The bartender slid a foaming wooden mug across the counter to Enforcer. The latter took a sniff, which resulted in him wrinkling his nose and squinting his eyes.

“So, trying to avoid thy job then?” the bartender asked. “Do thou really hate it that much?”

“No, I love my job—at least . . . at least I think I do. I’m not sure . . .” Enforcer took the mug in his hoof and took a sip. It was strong and had a sour, unpleasant taste. He took a breath and downed the entire pint in ten seconds, without a single drop running down his chin.

“Whoa, Nellie!” the bartender exclaimed. “How was it?”

“Rancid, awful, literally the worst drink I’ve ever had in my entire life,” replied Enforcer, sticking his tongue in and out, while squinting his eyes.

“That’s pub-talk for ‘more please.’ And by the look of thee, thou need it, old-timer,” sniggered the bartender, and he started to pour another drink, having anticipated the event and not having returned the corks to their bottles. 

Enforcer eyes snapped to as he realized the horror in that seemingly harmless remark: despite being well into the years that would classify him as a senior pony, this was the first time he had ever been called old.

“So what exactly do thou do?”

“What?” said Enforcer, rubbing his right temple with a forehoof and rubbing his eyes with the other. “Oh, I work in the Presidential Mansion.”

“Ha! So thou work for Discord then?”

Enforcer used to laugh along with the president at this name, but whether it was the effects of the drink or the inappropriate context of the comment, he found no humor in it. “Yes . . . yes I work for—” he paused, as his mind trailed, trying to collect the thought that had slipped away from him, “for ‘Discord.’”

“And how’s that working out for thee?” the bartender said, as he slid the mug refilled with that repulsive fluid across the table. It bumped into Enforcer’s lifeless forehoof spread out on the counter, which imperceptibly twitched before slowly reaching up to the handle and attaching its weak grip to it.

“I worked there for the past five administrations. I was there for the Great Recession and the National Banking Crisis. I was diligent, loyal, and hard-working. There had never been a president who did not respect me and appreciate my work, and there was no president toward whom I did not feel the same way. But now . . . with this administration, and with this conflict . . . for the first time ever, I actually feel old.”

He put a hoof into his mane; and, as if to drive the point home, it emerged holding a rather large clump of pure white hair. He stared at it intently and in shock—until a breeze, coming from the door which he had carelessly left open, blew it away into a corner of the pub.

The bartender’s smile faded slightly, but it quickly came back—though not quite with the same feeling—as he tried to shrug off the comment and the unnerving event he had just witnessed with another one of his cheeky jokes: “Well, we all feel old eventually.”

“You—thou,” Enforcer said as he loosened his necktie, the drink beginning to take a hold of him, “thou do not understand.” Enforcer looked straight into the bartender’s eyes until the latter’s mouth turned into an expression of absolute dread. “I broke my hip the other day.”

“Do thou see? Thy job is killing thee. Thou should retire—” At this, the bartender put a hoof over his mouth and gasped. “Oh, I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to imply that thou should desert thy post in a time of crisis! I didn’t mean it like that! Please don’t tell the police! With all the arrests that have been going on, I’ve been watching what I’ve been saying—really, I have!”

Just like Barley’s, even the bartender’s fear was melodramatic, like he was doing it on purpose, and Enforcer could not help but smile. Then he caught himself and, allowing his mind to analyze the situation objectively, he realized that after he had not found any humor in the bartender’s previous attempt to be funny, he had found humor in the fact that the poor colt was terrified. He shook his head, trying to evade this thought, and said: “Don’t worry. I won’t tell anypony.” Then, quickly changing the subject he said: “But what about thee? I’m sick of talking about me. Surely thou do not want to be here forever? What are thy dreams and aspirations?” This last sentence was more of a plea than an item of small talk: a plea for some evidence of life.

The bartender froze and looked at him with a blank stare.

Enforcer, desperate, said: “I’m Enforcer. What’s thy name?”

“My name?” said the bartender, his voice dropping in volume and intensity. “It’s insipid, really, and I don’t like going by it. I’ve jumped from nickname to nickname through my life. Nowadays, my friends, especially the ones down on Mane Street, the ones who frequent the stock exchange, call me ‘Doctor.’”

“Why do they call thee that?” said Enforcer, just as he began to sip from the overflowing mug.

“They’re making fun of me. They’re teasing me for the fact that I’m waiting tables with an MBA and a PhD in economics from the University of Canterlot.”

Enforcer found a reason to spit out the disgusting liquid that he had been holding in his mouth and had been too scared to swallow. “What!” he exclaimed. “Why on earth are thou here?”

Doctor shrugged. “It’s a long and dull sob story; and I think that the last thing thou want to hear, especially this early in the morning, is some young rascal complaining to thee about his life problems.”

“Please, tell me!” Enforcer whined, sitting on the edge of his seat, his fatigue suddenly gone.

Doctor winced and set his cloth down on the counter. Leaning closer to Enforcer, he said: “Well—is this just between thee and me?”

“Of course!”

Doctor cast a wistful glance around himself, and his eyes started to droop with sadness as the painful memories came flowing back to him; they, swiftly and effortlessly, flooded through his body, destroying his false air of happiness, wiping off the affected and evasive smile on his face, and slouching his confident and cheerful shoulders. “Before, I really wanted to be one of those great Canterlot bankers one sees on Mane Street: a self-made businesspony basking in my wealth that I had rightfully earned and tossing aside any leech who dared to try to stop me. That’s what I had always wanted to be, ever since I was a colt: the king of the exchange, the champion of business, the conqueror of the market and my world. 

“I invested all my time into pursuing that goal, spent too many years in the make-work courses that they made me take in my university program, until I realized, by the time I had earned my MBA, that that was not really what I wanted to do—and I felt terrible. But I had sunk too much time into that degree, and if I had stopped my career at that point, that would’ve been admitting that I had made a mistake and that I had lost years that I would never get back. Ironically enough, I had learned in one of my courses that I did not hate so much that this was known as the ‘sunk-cost bias,’ but what did I listen? Hindsight is twenty-twenty, as they say. 

“So, I pursued my PhD: two long years of mind-numbing and grueling study and an additional two years of writing my thesis. The more research I did, the more time I wasted, the more I realized that I hated what I was doing. 

“When I stood in front of the dissertation committee, after speaking for hours from a mindless chart that I had memorized for all of the standardized questions that they would ask and after they had told me that I had successfully defended my thesis, I broke down into tears. They all applauded, for they thought that I was overcome with joy; but, in truth, never had my tears been more filled with sorrow. 

“What did I have after all that? What was my pot of gold at the end of the rainbow? A title and a piece of paper that said I was an expert in something that I did not care for, and nothing more. I started to receive calls from universities and banking firms, offering me quite well-paying jobs, but the more they offered, the worst I felt; for, at this point, I knew that any piece of gold they would give me would look as smudged as how I viewed myself.

“My parents were outraged, of course. They told me that they had expected me to do something with my life to justify the enormous amount of money in tuition that they had sunk into me. I told them that it wasn’t a waste, for university taught me who I was and taught me that I still had a lot of growing to do. They didn’t care. They kicked me out and told me to fend for myself.

“In my destitution, I came into here and sat down on one of these stools—come to think of it, it’s the exact same stool thou are sitting on right now. After I had too much to drink, I guess I had spewed my entire life story, and the bartender—Barley did you say his name was? I’m not good with names—told me that I could take the quiet hours, the hours that are the most unpleasant to work, if I so desired. I guess he was looking for somepony who was at rock bottom, who would take anything given to him, but when he said this, I felt my insides surge with a profound happiness. I don’t really know why, to be honest.

“Funny that thou should ask me if I wanted to be here forever: I thought I did want to, for a longer time than I would care to admit; but after I saw the protest and after I saw the Friendship—or the rebellion, if thou prefer—with no supplies, surviving by feeding off the land, I now know exactly what I want to do: I just want to wait until the war is over and then go walking across Equestria, living off the land as they did.” Doctor shrugged, leaned both of his forelegs on the table, and rested his head on his hooves, a pensive sigh coming from his throat. “Have thou ever, on the outside, denounced some misfortune occurring to somepony else but, at the same time, were secretly happy about it?”

“Recently, I have, yes.”

“I love abandoned buildings, because they’re so eerie and sad. They used to be bustling with life; but now, the only life there is ghosts, the only evidence of whom is a few crumbling walls and tell-tale appliances. Well, with the war that’s wrecking the land, the Friendship burning and pillaging villages, on their way to whatever big city they want, there will be dilapidated settlements all over the place. I can’t wait to just go out and live for a few days in a burnt out shed and then moving on to the next house, the next lost story.”

Enforcer felt tears swelling in his eyes as he tried to swallow the lump in his throat.

“Oh, but I’m sorry!” replied Doctor, clearly misinterpreting Enforcer’s sniffling as anger. “I shouldn’t have said that! How inappropriate of me to speak any thoughts that are anti-Union! I’m nothing but patriotic to this great country. The Union forever!” Doctor blushed. “Of course, my patriotism is undoubtedly dwarfed by thine.”

Enforcer shook his head sadly. “I don’t even know what that word means anymore.”

Doctor cocked his head to one side. “What do thou mean?”

Enforcer’s eyes glazed over as he began searching the recesses of his memory. He summoned all his will, all his courage to convert the abstract thoughts that had been swirling around in his consciousness for months into words, so that he may vocalize them for the first time. The words felt strange on his tongue when they first started to come out; but then, like a siphon that has been given the initial amount of energy it needs, they began to flow on their own accord: “I used to think that patriotism meant sticking by thy country, thy leader, no matter what the circumstances, no matter what loyalties changed. For a time, during my early years, the ponies I had surrounded myself with were so profoundly moral that it would have been a betrayal to myself had I not met their expectations. 

“Thou are probably too young to remember the Changeling War, but it’s still fresh in my mind. I was in the same position I was in now—that is to say, presidential assistant—with President Heartfelt, who had been the leader of the Royal Party before it had won and he succeeded to the presidency.

“When the changeling swarm had invaded our borders through Los Pegasus, there were so many of them that they had blocked out the sun; day had become night. I don’t want to blame the citizens of Los Pegasus; but when the changelings first appeared and President Heartfelt had warned the residents of the city to err on the side of caution, they, in their constant efforts to act contrary to the federal government, started to feed them and let them into their homes. Their gestures proved to be counter-productive; because, as soon as the changelings had found what they wanted, they were ravenous, ripping at any building, any structure they could find in search of their food. 

“I was there when Congress called the emergency session, and I was there when I saw the abject cowardice and appeasement that the delegates belonging to the United Party showed during the debates that had followed: Evading the fact that Los Pegasus, that beautiful city with its heroic monuments and magnificent buildings, lay in debris while still being fed upon, they criticized President Heartfelt for exhibiting ‘The elitism of the pre-Union days,’ for being quick to take to ‘extremes.’ They suggested that the Union was flexible and that all should be permitted to join, regardless of lifestyle or eating habits—and that accommodations should be made. I envy that time, as that was when I was so sure of evil when I saw it. The reason why was on the tip of my tongue; I had it conceptualized, but I couldn’t put it into words. I had asked President Heartfelt if he knew what I was talking about. 

“‘Yes,’ he said to me.

“‘But I don’t know how to explain it!’ I replied. ‘I’m not exactly a poet, but I know it’s wrong. I know that it’s implicit in our beings and in our Union that it’s the most unspeakably evil thing that I’ve ever heard. Can you explain it, sir?’

“‘I’m working on it,’ he said.

“‘When will you be done?’ I said, with my youthful impatience.

“‘I’m not sure,’ he said, and in his tone I could hear discomfiture, a quality unbecoming of a leader and which he usually prudently kept hidden, except from the ones he trusted the most. 

“‘But I know that emotions are meaningless without the proper reason behind them,’ he went on. ‘I know that there is a reason; I just don’t know what it is. But I do know that until one of us figures it out, we’ll never be able to save our home.’

“Eventually, after a needlessly long struggle, he got Equestria to declare war on the invaders. To this day I still remember how lucky Equestria was that the Royalists dominated Congress back then; if the bickering had continued any longer, we would’ve surely been overrun.

“I was standing beside President Heartfelt when he addressed the frightened throng of ponies who had gathered outside of Hall of Congress, begging for assurance. We had read the speech that was written for him, together, and we were both disappointed by it. I asked him if I should ask the writers to write another one, or if I should write it myself. He shook his head sadly and said that the ponies were looking for a benevolent savior to lead them to their salvation, somepony who he could not, in his ability, be. A speech more assuring than the one that I had been holding couldn’t be written. 

“On the day when he was supposed to give the speech, he walked out onto the podium to a thousand destitute faces, and he was not greeted with the applause that is typical when the president makes his appearance. And who could blame them? A good number of them had all their possessions destroyed by the swarm and were on the brink of starvation. I was shaking with fear. I thought that the president was attempting to swim to a drowning, helpless pony in an effort to give him a life-raft; and I thought that was only going to result in the pony grabbing him, overpowering him, and dragging him down into the dark sea with him. 

“As I took my place in the pit underneath the stage, so that I wouldn’t be seen by the public, I watched the president walk onto the stage—and the first thing I noted was the most serene of looks on his face. 

“I was shocked. For the leader of a country that had just been decimated by a foreign invasion that wasn’t too far away and who was about to assure his citizens, possibly falsely, that everything would be alright, and for him to walk out with such confidence put me into a state of awe. His expression was almost sublime.

“I held out my shaky hoof with the cue cards that held the text of the speech, and I saw him put on his glasses. He then started his speech; and, at the first sentence, I knew something was wrong: out of caprice or out of deliberate planning, he had abandoned the speech entirely. I tossed away the notes, looked up to the stage, and I listened to that speech. I will never forget that speech for as long as I live.”

“What was so special about it?” asked Doctor, with both his forehooves on the table, riveted to the story.

“Because never, in the five terms in which I’ve worked, have I ever heard something so presidential, so just, so inspiring, and so moral. There were no platitudes, or those promises which politicians make when they’re running for office but never follow through with; all there was was a stallion, who hid his fear so expertly, telling the ponies he had under his ward why they shouldn’t fear the upcoming war. And, when he was done, nopony did fear it. The philosophical base on which he had built his administration and on which he was about to defend his country could never be brought down, despite the power of any enemies that wished to see its destruction.”

“What did he say?”

“I don’t remember exactly,” Enforcer replied, a lie, as after the speech had taken place, he had gotten the transcript and read it until it was memorized. “But, in a nutshell, this is what he said: He said that, after Unification, the founders wanted their creation, the result of their efforts in order to stop conflict, to remain standing, for ponies to live free and in harmony with each other until the end of time. 

“A union is difficult. It requires some concessions, some compromise, and there would always be some occasional bickering. But one thing was for sure: Every single pony, who agreed to live under the Union, adhered to the same principles. Even though they may have day-to-day disagreements with each other, each pony had one ultimate principle implicit in every single one of their actions—a principle which was implicit during Unification and a principle which the founders tried their best to ratify in the COMTOIS: the principle that life is good and it should be carried out in harmony—that it deserves to be carried out in harmony. This was why the founders decided to end their feud and form the Union: as long as each and everypony carried this tenet in their hearts, the Union—and therefore, harmony—would be perennial.

“He explained this; and whether he had figured this out well in advance or he had deduced the conclusion on the spot by simply vocalizing his premises, I’ll never know, but he had done it. He had figured out why any opposition to an immediate retaliation that resulted in either an unconditional surrender or a complete extermination of the changeling species was more destructive to Equestria than the changelings could ever be: because it was the idea that we should compromise with a species that, by its very nature, survived by killing us. It was the notion that the ideal state was the middle ground between death and life. I knew that the ponies that held that idea were exponentially more dangerous than the changelings who, having just razed Los Pegasus, were beginning to multiply and spread out across the land.

“Thus, this creature, this parasite, which only carried death and destruction in its wake could not be permitted to the Union: It rejected the founders’ basic principle. It rejected that life and its corollary, freedom from fear of harm, were desirable. Our guiding principle was to live; their principle was to exterminate that life.

“When the president finished this speech, I looked at those emaciated faces in the crowd, and I would have never have thought that they would have had that much energy to applaud so loudly. The president’s eyes twinkled with valor and majesty as he lifted his head up, raised his hoof in the traditional military salute, and shouted ‘The Union forever!’ three times. After each time he said this, the crowd, along with myself, repeated after him in our loudest voices. It was so loud that, later, we learned that we could be heard from Ponyville. We shouted this until we had worn out our vocal chords, and I joined them. In that moment, I understood the full meaning of that phrase and its implication more so than I had ever in any point in my entire life. 

“The next day, the Union Army was dispatched to fight, armed with state-of-the-art technology and weaponry specially designed to fight the changelings, and the swarm was gone within a month. The Union Army suffered very few casualties, while the swarm was pretty much wiped out. With the philosophy finally worded and riding on their shoulders, nothing but a decisive victory was possible. The soldiers were welcomed home as heroes; President Heartfelt was dubbed a ‘visionary’ and was elected to three more consecutive terms, and he would’ve been elected to three more had he not retired.”

Enforcer chuckled. “This is going to sound really strange coming from a worker employed by a republic for over forty years: but after President Heartfelt, I really started to look up to the royal family and nobility in general. He was, as thou probably know, Prince Heartfelt before he was elected. We stayed good friends afterwards, and he invited me to many gatherings of the cream of Canterlot’s crop, hosted by his family. 

I loved watching how the nobles carried themselves. They really seemed, to me, to be the way we all should act, the ponies that we should all aspire to be like. I loved how they would refer to themselves in the third-person when addressing us commoners. When I saw a pony greet them with a bow, accompanied by a ‘Your Grace,’ which would be responded to with the most pleasant of smiles, my heart fluttered with joy on the wonderfulness of this encounter. When I would walk home on those nights and see how the majority of ponies, even those in the upper middle-class, carried themselves, it would make me feel very disappointed and sad—like I had stepped out from a sublime, colorful, peaceful dream, and back into the real world consisting of mediocrity and rudeness. The highlights of my life were always those social gatherings, which I sadly had stopped being invited to ever since President Heartfelt died ten years ago. 

“I miss him terribly. Nowadays, when I walk down the hallways of the Presidential Mansion, I stop at the portrait of President Heartfelt outside the western drawing room. I see him smiling back at me, and then I look at the portraits of the founders around him—and I can’t help but feel that they, with everything just and good about them, had been reincarnated in him.”

Enforcer sighed and looked up from his drink, which he had been staring at for the past ten minutes and looked straight into the eyes of Doctor—who, while still listening attentively, started to pour another drink. 

Enforcer continued: “President Cadenza was one of those nobles. When she was found guilty after her impeachment, my heart flutters, which had continued even after President Heartfelt’s death, stopped. If she was undesirable, what else did Equestria have left? Well, we had the leader of the United Party, Disce Cordis. At first, I really liked him: he had that attitude of austerity and certitude that I had felt when I had read the COMTOIS for the first time. Like President Heartfelt, he had the will to stand up for what he believed to be right even in the face of dissent and contradiction.

“I was shocked to my core when I heard how he insulted Princess Celestia, to whom I had talked to on plenty occasions and who was no less regal than any of her kin, and her family in front of all those ponies. He wasn’t wrong, but the royal family has its roots in the founding of Equestria and has a presence in virtually every single event in the history of this country. I felt that it was a slap in the face of everything good in Equestria.”

“So, why do thou think he won?” Doctor asked, putting the corks back into the bottles—a frothy mug awaiting himself as soon as Enforcer was finished.

“He was extreme, vocal, and audacious. Given Equestria’s state at the time, one can easily see why they’d want a radical, new thinker—or, rather, why they’d want someone who spoke as if he was a radical, new thinker. Of course, there are always two sides in a spectrum; and, however extreme he was, there were others who were just as extreme as him. This resulted in the protest and, as thou know, the war.

“It wasn’t until I saw the way he conducted a war that my illusion of him was destroyed. I tell thee: when I sat with him and he told us, with brutal coldness in his voice, his plan to fight the rebellion, I could feel the blood in my veins turning to ice. This isn’t to imply that war or its planning should not be cold. It’s just that, I saw the miserable faces of the protesters that started the movement; I saw with my own eyes the chaos in Ponyville, and I saw the ponies there grasping onto their last strains of life. What terrified me, even if I might not have been able to explain it then, was the fact that the president enacted this plan while all claiming it was for the benefit of the Union. Nothing in the eyes of the war’s victims made me think that they were a life-destroying changeling horde; all I saw were ponies desperately clinging on to the last remains of their life and struggling against an incomprehensible horror in the hopes of a better future.

“It shattered my illusion of the founders’ idea of the perfect union: here, we have ponies whose principles are identical to thine and mine. They don’t want to destroy this country because they’re parasites and destruction per se is their modus operandi; they’re fighting because they believe that they can make the Union better. They believe they can improve the Union, because they love the Union. Don’t get me wrong; I still think that their actions are rash and unnecessary, but they’re ponies, just like thee and me. They’re not changelings.

“So, what does ‘patriotism’ mean? Does it mean fighting for the spirit that the founders had when they united us? Or does it mean interpreting the COMTOIS literally, without context? The president swore to uphold the COMTOIS, so I guess I can’t really fault him for declaring the secession illegal, but the thing that bothers is how righteous and nonchalant he is about it: he paints them as these diabolical, life-destroying monsters, and he seems to enjoy watching their lives being stomped out, like he’s simply a vessel for justice. I used to have that simplistic view of the world, like him, but now when I look back, it horrifies me.”

Enforcer sighed while he looked wistfully around the room. Then, his eyes snapped back to those of Doctor. 

Doctor gave a melancholic smile, grabbed the mug with his hoof and raised it in a toast. “To whatever may come,” he said.

Enforcer lifted his own mug. “The Union fore—” he began, but then he stopped himself short. His eyes darted around the room again, while looking for different words, before finally finding their place back onto the friendly face of Doctor. “To justice—to a better future.” He downed the putrid beverage in a single gulp.

After several more drinks, Enforcer noted that it was well into the afternoon. Even in his current state, he was determined to make an appearance at work, if only for a few minutes. 

He stumbled along the sidewalk and up to the Presidential Mansion. When he walked through the gate, the security guard, either because he recognized the presidential assistant’s current state or out of apathy, did not question him upon entry. Putting one hoof against the wall to support himself, Enforcer eventually found his way down the corridors to the door of the Horseshoe Office.

Unaware of what he was doing, or what he would say, Enforcer—with what seemed to take an inordinate amount of energy to him—raised his hoof and slowly, but loudly, knocked on the door three times. He let his head fall to the door in exhaustion as he awaited a response. 

After waiting thirty or forty seconds without hearing anything from the interior of the room, he repeated this action. Finally, after receiving no response a second time, he pushed open the door.

“Mr. President . . . I’m . . . I’m here,” he said as the door opened, his speech horribly slurred. “Sorry I’m late . . . but . . . but . . . I need to say . . . a few things on my mind . . . which—”

When he saw the president, he stopped himself in mid-sentence. The room was dark, for all the lights had been turned off, but with the light coming from the hallway, Enforcer could see the president: He was reclining in his chair; his legs were propped up on the desk; a black sleeping mask was draped over his eyes, and yellow earplugs assured him against any interruption in his presidential duty. He was snoring loudly—and, upon hearing this, Enforcer only noticed then that the record player, which had played “The Good Fight for the Union” on repeat ever since the president had acquired that single, was turned off. 

Enforcer shook his head and closed the door. There was nothing more he could possibly say.
> Chapter XII: Conflictiones Incertae Ultimae
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------


“Congress shall not use its Power to make Concessions, Agreements, Compromises, Supplications, or otherwise perform an Action resulting in an Abridgment of this Constitution.”

—Article I, Section XX of the Constitution of Meeting Tribes of Immediate Siblings



On July the twenty-eighth, 181 BC, the Friendship gained control of Fillydelphia and its surrounding boroughs. 

After the long and arduous hike, taking almost two months, the Friendship had finally reached Fillydelphia, worn-down and exhausted. When they had not been walking, they were skirmishing with the Union soldiers protecting the road to Fillydelphia—and the insurrectionists had swept them aside like ants, letting nothing stop them on their march to liberate their friends from the iron clutches of Discord.

Despite these seemingly overwhelming odds, despite the fact that the rebels had looked up, with tired eyes, at the well-rested, eager federal soldiers standing on the ramparts around Fillydelphia and who were vigorously loading their rifles, the Friendship had defeated them with yet another decisive victory. 

The Union Army garrisons tasked with repelling the invasion around the city had suffered nearly one hundred percent casualties—as their comrades had at the Second Battle of Ghastly Gorge, at Appleloosa, at Dodge City, and at Rambling Rock Ridge. 

And, after the victory, the rebels had wasted no time in curing the city of Discord’s hex.

The residents of Fillydelphia had been stirred from their miasma by the battle cry of the Friendship. It was not until the sky had parted over the skyscrapers and they were greeted back to reality by the warm summer sun that they knew: they were free, able to breathe again after suffocating for seven months. The only thing that had kept them alive was the subconscious hope that they would be able to feel something, anything, again. And, when they finally felt something, warmth, after feeling nothing for seven months, and when they turned around to see thousands of cheering soldiers welcoming them back to life, every single resident of Fillydelphia—stallion, mare, and foal—fell to their knees, weeping with joy and gratitude. The veil which had cast them and their city in shadow had been lifted.

With the victory, the Friendship gained, not only a new city full of young and eager ponies whose hooves itched to pick up a rifle against Discord—the creature that had condemned them to their torment—but also the Union Army soldiers that they had, also, somehow managed to convince to join their cause.

General Sherbert, at this point, had given up on trying to understand how they were doing this, how they were breaking the Department’s spells and how they had persuaded thousands of Union Army soldiers to commit high treason. She had sent scouts to infiltrate the Friendship’s camps: they had sifted through the belongings of whom they believed to be the highest ranking officers and, aside from a few seemingly precious personal trinkets, nothing notable had been found. 

The president, if he had found out about the general’s dejection and the abandonment of the Union Army’s subterfuge toward the war effort, who would have no doubt complained about what he would perceive to be her apathy, her carelessness with the Union which had been entrusted in her hooves, and this would all be said with that alarmist tone which politicians frequently loved to assume and to which the general had become accustomed to through her long years of service. But the president did not find out, as General Sherbert had deliberately chosen not to inform him, telling herself that the knowledge was on a need-to-know basis and that nothing the president would say would ever change anything.

When her clerk had brought the angry telegram from the president to her, she smiled, thanked him, and ordered him back to his post. When he had left, her face hit her desk, for the thought—the very real possibility—that she had been pushing out of her mind, was fast becoming a reality: the Friendship, unless something changed in their strategy which allowed the Union to push them back, or at least hold them for a while, the Friendship was going to march straight on to Ponyville and then eventually on to Canterlot. The Union Army could not afford any more one hundred percent casualties. 

No matter how many simulations she ran or calculations she made, the glaring and decisive fact remained: with every victory the Friendship achieved, their military strength relative to that of the Union Army’s grew exponentially. With every victory, the Friendship increased while the Union waned as the Friendship welcomed the defectors to their ranks, while the morale of the federal soldiers that remained abated, a few of them deserting their posts—evidently, not wanting to wait for the Friendship to shoot at them.

From Fillydelphia, the Friendship then set their eyes on Baltimare and Manehattan, to the south and north respectively, and Ponyville to the west-southwest. Then, like a cell undergoing mitosis, the amorphous blob of the rebellion divided into two and then divided again, to go on their separate ways and for each to absorb any of its surroundings to grow larger in its turn: one to go to Manehattan, one to Ponyville, and one to Baltimare. 

Once Baltimare would see, on the horizon, this parasitic mass sprawling toward them at an inexorable speed from the neighboring city, which they had seen the dark cloud pass over and which they had been assured was completely under control of the Union, there would be no way to control the information. General Sherbert ordered Manehattan and Baltimare to be placed under martial law, for the Union Army to put each citizen under house arrest and to shoot anypony seen outside their homes at night. 

Her pen shook uncontrollably as she wrote the order and so did her hoof when she gave it to her clerk. The clerk didn’t say anything, but he could tell by her countenance and the brusque manner in which she said “You’re dismissed” that she was evading the one thought that everypony still loyal to the Union was trying to evade but who could do so no longer: the Friendship was on their doorstep, and it was banging loudly and insistently upon the shuddering wooden facade. 

The Union Army, the leviathan and the titan, had now become the underdog; the Friendship, the rat and the tabby, had now become the lion.

The last hope of the Union lay in Canterlot and its single, narrow, and precarious path up the side of its mountain—but even then, Canterlot would still have to survive the relentless artillery barrage from the cannons and ammunition that the Friendship had looted on their path of attrition. 

General Sherbert told the lieutenant general to go to Ponyville, to give the soldiers their instructions and to deliver one of his speeches that had earned him his prolific position. As soon as she sent the order, she immediately regretted it; even the standard military propaganda and platitudes seemed petty to her now, painfully and dishonestly shallow.

She got up from her plush seat behind her desk and approached her window. The sun lit up the chrome spires of Canterlot’s skyscrapers and seemed even more brilliant than before, as if they were determined to shine one last time, as brightly as they could, before being put out—and if they were lit again, it would be only under causes, under values, which they had not been erected for originally.

She sighed; and, for the first time in her career, spoke out loud to herself or, rather, to that invisible and unknowable figure that hovered over the rebellion, guiding its soldiers to salvation: “Well, sir, wherever you are, whoever you are: you did it. You beat me and my army. My only hope is that I can meet you when this is all over, that I may shake your hoof, look into your eyes, and fully and simply say: ‘Congratulations, you are the better pony.’”

She shut her eyes; and, for a second, she could almost hear the shells exploding around Ponyville and a lieutenant barking orders at his soldiers. And, for a fleeting instant, she could almost hear her children screaming as they saw the approaching, unmitigated storm.

She heard a clattering noise behind her, and she spun around rapidly, her eyes darting around the room and her heart beating with an intent to rip itself out of her breast. 

When she saw that the breeze, coming from an open window from across the room, had knocked over a few of the gray pieces representing insurrectionist fortifications on her large map sprawled out on a table in front of her desk, she laughed with the relief and humor that comes when realizing any overreaction. 

She moved toward the window, shut it firmly and locked it, and then went over to the map; she then set the pieces back up to their appropriate locations.

A thought, an odd thought, struck her, as she stepped back from the map and cocked her head to one side: the line of gray pieces from Los Pegasus to Fillydelphia, the entire front of the Army of Friendship, which started from Los Pegasus and enveloped Fillydelphia on the other side of the map, looked liked the long neck of a hungry draconequus, eagerly devouring the newly taken city.


* * *


Enforcer stood just outside the door of the Congressional Chamber. In his hoof, he held the casualty figures; and, under his breath, he was rehearsing his speech. The documents contained the obvious, the unoriginal—but what they did contain was the truth. They contained the truth about the status of the war which, up until now, had only been known to the top officers in the military. 

Somepony had to say what they were all thinking. Somepony had to wake them up. Somepony had to be strong when everypony else was intimidated by an invisible giant. 

Enforcer swallowed, loosened his necktie, and glanced at the clock: it had just struck 12:59. The session was scheduled to start at one. 

He stared at the second hand as it began to make its ominous journey around the clock. It was only now that he was aware of the beads of sweat on his brow, as he clenched his teeth and hoped that the sheer power of his will would slow down the timepiece.

Thirty seconds to go. Enforcer began to summon his courage; he was determined that that was the only thing the delegates were permitted to see in him.

Twenty seconds to go. I can’t do it, he thought. What if nopony listens? Isn’t this attitude of truth, honesty, and certainty obsolete? Didn’t that die ages ago?

Ten seconds to go. I can’t do it; I’ll be lynched for the truth. The Union is lost! There’s no point hiding it anymore! Deal with it yourselves!

Five seconds to go. I’m a loyal soldier of the Union; I have a duty to myself, to Congress, and the COMTOIS. I say what those cowards are too scared to say. I say what the president is too apathetic or ignorant to say.

One second to go. For the Union.

At the precise moment the clock struck one o’clock, the door parted, giving entrance to the presidential assistant—who had never missed or been late to a session where he was needed, and who had never before been admitted into the Congressional Chamber with such a resolute expression on his face or such pure determinism in his stride. 

He probably would have walked all the way to the speaker’s podium with all confidence, but he was stopped dead in his tracks by an unforeseeable sight, the horror he had felt before entering the hall suddenly filling himself full again despite having used his greatest efforts to push it out.

The floor was completely empty. Enforcer stepped forward and turned around to look up at the balcony seats: empty, deserted.

“Enforcer, I’m glad thou have come!” said a voice.

Enforcer spun back around and looked at the front of the hall in the direction of the voice: a brown, serpentine creature with antlers sat in the seat of honor, its legs casually crossed in front of it, a horrifying smile on its face.

“Mr. President . . .” said Enforcer, not wanting to believe the sight, “am . . . am I early?”

“Oh, not at all, my faithful assistant! Thou are neither early, nor are thou late: thou are precisely on time, and thou have always been on time.”

Enforcer’s mouth opened, but the words were delayed by his incredulity, and he stood there for some time in this ridiculous pose before finally sputtering: “But . . . but where are the delegates?”

The president squinted and rumpled his cheeks, his mouth twisting into a look of ironic puzzlement. “How should I know?” he replied. “I told them to come, but who listens to me these days? No matter: they’re traitors to the Union, just like the rest. Enforcer, put out a warrant for the arrest of each and every one of them when we’re done here.”

No, he thought. No, this can’t be happening. This is a dream, a nightmare.

The president continued: “Well, at least thou are here, because we have plenty to do today!”

Enforcer swallowed, and a painful burning sensation in his throat followed, dry as it was with fear. “What . . . would could we possibly do . . . sir?” he choked out.

“Lots, my friend! I’m about to pass this revolutionary new bill!” said the president, barely able to hold back his snickers. “This bill will completely revolutionize the way that ponies think about politics. This is history in the making, Enforcer; thou do not want to miss this!”

Enforcer dropped the papers; and the air from the beating of his wings that propelled him faster than he had ever flown before in his life, back through the door he came, scattered them across the floor of the Congressional Chamber. He beat his wings harder, despite the unbearable pain that came from them, and he put his forehooves to his ears—but even that was not enough to drown out the president’s blood-curdling laugh that followed him through the corridors.


* * *


The Battle of Ponyville took place on August the eighteenth, 181 BC. The night before, the soldiers of the Second and Twentieth Canterlot, and the Thirty-Eighth Manehattan Volunteer Infantry Regiments—three regiments, down from the original seven stationed there, since the rest had been called to other battles, where they had been swiftly defeated—had a relatively joyful night: They all left their camps around the city to meet at one location for one night of enjoyment. They drank cider, sung “The Good Fight for the Union,” and made fun of the way the lieutenant general had slurred his words during his speech when he had been there to inspire them before the attack. Even though they had made fun of his accent and his slang, they were all inspired by the sentiment that he had put into it. At first, any of them could have seen how indefensible their position was, but after they had had a lieutenant general come all the way down just to visit them, they were much more assured: the Union was forever. 

They sang throughout the night. Not one of them had dared to go to sleep in fear of missing the festivities—and, subconsciously, in fear of being surprised.

At about eight thirty in the morning, on August the nineteenth, the Union soldiers started to notice the growing rumble. At first, they had ignored it, as they had heard a similar sound all night, but when they noticed that the sound was becoming louder and increasingly anti-Union, they sprang to their camps and looked to the eastern horizon.

On the plain, instead of the friendly green blades of grass, stood an entire legion, an ocean, of multicolored ponies with rifles—every fourth one adorned in a gray uniform, with a glaring red stripe running down the length of their croups. The morning sun rising in the east cast oblong angles on them and obscured their faces, like it had done for the soldiers in Los Pegasus during the first engagement of the war, and it blinded the Union Army soldiers who were just now stricken with absolute terror at what they heard: in perfect unison and harmonization, the rebels were singing “The Good Fight for the Union” with the modified lyrics. 

The Union soldiers swallowed nervously and cocked the hammers on their rifles.

They had never stood a chance.

The Friendship had obliterated the entirety of every single Union Army regiment in each of their engagements, and the Battle of Ponyville was no exception. The engagement had lasted only half an hour; but, in that time, the Friendship had managed to equip the foes that they had managed to convince to betray the COMTOIS, bury the bodies of the more obstinate ones, and set up the artillery units, which they had captured on their long walk, to aim right at Canterlot. At nine o’clock in the morning, immediately after they had eaten their breakfast, they began firing. 

Not even a year after the Friendship had declared secession from the Union, the first shell was launched into Canterlot, which hit the spire of the last remaining banking firm that had not closed its doors, and any citizen who hadn’t been aware of the glaring fact was suddenly brought to reality. 

The second shell had hit the top of an old, rundown, building—but, in spirit, it had hit one of the support beams of the once great monolith of the Union. 

And it was starting to crumble.


* * *


In the Horseshoe Office, papers were scattered all over the president’s desk, in no particular order or relevance. About a quarter of the drawers of the various filing cabinets that lined the walls of the room were placed in assorted locations around the office, some of them spilling their contents on the floor. The old janitor would have had a fit if he had seen this, for there were only a hoof-full of ponies that understood the presidential assistant’s complex filing system and who would be able to arrange these vagrant documents back to their original locations. 

On a small table, a few feet from the desk, the president’s record player sat alone, playing “The Good Fight for the Union” very slowly and at its quietest volume. In the corner directly adjacent to the door leading into the office was the closet, its door wide open; various suits, with the finest of cloths, tailored precisely to the president’s figure were tossed over their rungs like towels, creases plaguing their once elegant shoulders. 

Just then, an artillery round hit the west wing of the building, causing the office to shake violently, throwing one of these suits to the ground, upon where it stayed, immobile, and waiting for the next explosion to send it on its next journey. This explosion had been the closest yet to the Presidential Mansion, and it had sent the old, pristine, chandelier, that hung from the ceiling of the office, careening upwards into the ceiling, shattering its glass lamps against the concrete; the lamps rained their glass in fine, dust-like particles, which floated lazily to the ground before finally settling on the strewn papers and the carpet. The rumble also knocked the record player off the table, the needle skimming the record and making an awful scratching sound as it fell, until it hit the ground with a dull thud, whereupon it lay motionless.

However, the president didn’t see any of this, for his back was turned to this scene so that he was facing the window; a contented smile rested on his lips. As a shell obliterated the Canterlot Center of Performing Arts, a vile sneer replaced the smile, while the light from the blast cast ghostly flares across his face. The president had been standing there for around two hours now, mesmerized by this scene; and, over the explosions, he didn’t hear Princess Luna knocking at the open door, as he was too busy making squeals of joy as he watched another shell hit the Canterlot Symphony Orchestral Auditorium.

“Mr. President?” she said in a completely casual tone. The performance that masked her fear would have put the best actors in Equestria to shame.

“Hmm?” the president murmured. Princess Luna could not tell whether this remark was made to her as a sign that the president acknowledged her presence or if it was in the same vein as the sound made by an art critic enjoying a masterpiece.

“Sir?” she spoke again. “The rest of the delegates are trying to get into the war room downstairs. They were hoping that you might be able to let them in—”

“Thou are saying ‘you,’ to me,” the president said, in an oddly mirthful tone. “Have I done something to offend thee?” 

Ignoring him, she continued: “So that they may take shelter from the bombardment and coordinate with the army to form a plan to repel the siege that will follow.”

Without deigning to face her, the president replied: “I’ll be there in a minute. I just want to see this a bit longer.”

On the reflected glare from the window, Princess Luna could see the president’s face: she could see each one of his yellowed teeth, bared as if in a predatory response, and she saw the light bounce off of the large one that protruded from his mouth even when it was closed.

She averted her eyes. “I thought you’d like to know that General Sherbert tendered her resignation an hour ago. She said—”

“Traitor to the Union and a deserter,” the president interrupted. “Send . . . out a . . . warr . . .” His voice trailed off as his attention was recaptured by the light and the thunder of another shell, which had landed on Canterlot City Hall.

Princess Luna ignored this comment, for there was nothing in his voice that indicated that he wished to be taken seriously or that he wished to be heard at all. 

“Mr. President, we—”

“Luna,” the president interjected yet again, “what do thou know about the language from which thy name comes?”

Princess Luna’s mouth opened as if she wanted to say something; but, because of the impromptu and casual nature of the comment, thrown haphazardly like one of the shells falling around her, the only sound she could manage to make was: “Huh?”

It was only now that the president turned around to look at her. What struck Princess Luna immediately was how peaceful and serene his face was; it was like he felt that he was completely one with the destruction—like he was simply another one of those shells that had successfully hit its target. He spoke again: “Thy name: it really isn’t consonant with the names of those around thee, isn’t it?”

Princess Luna’s could feel her mental facilities shutting down as a result of the complete nonsense that was spewing out of the president’s mouth. Her involuntary and canned personality, typical in ponies with noble breeding, took over for a split second, and it deployed an equally canned response: “What do you mean by that?”

“I mean,” the president said, taking a step closer, not with hostility as he had done before, but with amiability, “that we have names like ‘Enforcer,’ ‘Sherbert,’ ‘Tree Root,’ and ‘Hoop’; and then we have ‘Luna,’ and ‘Celestia,’” and he pronounced this last name with only three syllables and with the hard c sound, which made Princess Luna shudder.

“Even my name is in the same vein,” he continued. “Something doesn’t match up here!”

“What is your point?”

“My point is,” replied the president, taking another step toward her, his face growing more and more stern as he continued talking, “that I’ve been reading about it. I think our names come from a completely different language, a very old language which has been dead for millenia. There are still traces of it in our language today, but I had never really thought about it until now. I couldn’t explain it then, but perhaps the meaning of my strange name has been the reason why I have always felt like an outcast with my peers, and perhaps it’s the reason why we gravitated to each other so quickly. It sounds implausible, but it’s almost as if we share a special sort of bond in the very core of our beings because of this ancient language.

“In my free time, I have been doing a bit of research. Of course, on account of it being so old, it’s hard to get a truly accurate account of the history, but it appears that the language had an unexplainable connection to the most powerful magic ever experienced by ponykind. It’s been said that each word alone had the magic to topple mountains and raze entire societies with just a single utterance. It was so dangerous, in fact, that the scholars of the time systematically destroyed any document that detailed its use and syntax. The language didn’t simply die, Luna; it was murdered. The scholars executed it, because they felt that nopony should ever be able to have that kind of power.

“The legend goes that it’s innate in some of us; one out of every million one of us are born with this power inside of us. The scholars did their best to destroy it; but, like any instinct, one can only suppress it. It still exists, to some extent, and it’s in many of the words and phrases you use today, without you even realizing it. But that is enough to kill it, because when anypony uses it, it so stripped of its meaning and context that its power is lost too. Just like you can’t rip an idea out of its context and expect it to have the same intellectual power, so you can’t use the language in its full force without using it in its appropriate syntax and grammar.

“So,” he continued, his eyes narrowing and his nostrils flaring as he spoke, “I was really interested in this lore, and I was reading about it. I wanted to ask thee, Luna: what do thou know about this language?”

Princess Luna’s left eye twitched involuntarily, her mouth still open prepared to say something, her brain searching for another trivial, canned response. 

Just then, an artillery shell hit the east side of the Presidential Mansion. The shock shook the office even harder than the first one had; and, this time, the chandelier crashed right to the ground behind the president. 

Princess Luna lost her balance and fell on all four of her knees—but the president remained standing with that stern look upon his face. It was like the explosion had not disturbed him in the least bit, and he looked at Princess Luna, sprawled on the floor like a newborn foal learning to walk, as if he was still expecting an answer.

Princess Luna struggled to her hooves. Her usually well-kept mane and bangs were sprayed all across her face, full of static electricity. Behind that wall of hair, Princess Luna’s brow furrowed, her teeth clenched, and she looked up at the president fully, as if expecting her expression to affect him alone. But, seeing only hair, the president still stood there, looking at her coyly.

“In what universe,” she hissed, as she shakily rose to her hooves, her voice quiet but accompanied by a great deal of breath which signaled the onset of a fit of rage, “is that question not impertinent!”

The president’s face remained unchanged for five or six seconds after she had said this—then, it relaxed, and the president bowed his head and chuckled, while darting his eyes playfully around the room. “Oh, I’m sorry,” he said, in the same tone as if he had just made a slightly embarrassing social faux pas at one of her family’s ball’s. “Thou are absolutely right—how rude of me. Thou must forgive my indiscretion, Luna: thou know how easily my thoughts wander and how short my attention span is.” He gave a polite bow and then turned back to assume his pose at the window, the pose in which she had found him. 

Princess Luna brushed away the hair that was clinging to her face while an artillery shell finished off what remained of the National Archives, her teeth chattering in unison with the shock wave.

“Nice weather we’re having today,” said the president.

He felt his face smash into the window as his frail body was hit from behind, throwing him forwards. For a split-second, he thought he had been thrown off balance by an artillery shell; but when he peeled his face off the window and turned his body around to look behind him, he saw an indescribably fervid fire ensconced in a tall blue alicorn, who was pressing both her forehooves firmly to his chest and uncomfortably near his throat. 

Her face was close enough so that he could smell every exhalation she took; her normally pleasant breath tasted, at this moment, just as rancid as any other’s. The president could see her bloodshot eyes, caused by, presumably, days lost of sleep. He could see their veins pulsating every time she took a breath; and, for the first time in his presidency, even if it was for just a brief moment, he was afraid. 

He tried not to let his fear show on his face, but he couldn’t help himself as soon as she began to speak. “Disce!” she yelled. “Thou are not listening to me! Don’t thou understand what’s going on? Soon, the bombing is going to stop. Soon afterward, the Friendship is going to march up Mane Street, the whole of Canterlot in their sight. They’re going to burn, pillage, and murder anything unfortunate enough to stand in their way. They’re going to walk right through the front doors of this mansion, and they’re going to kill everypony they see, because they hate us the most, Disce. They hate us politicians: we, who showed them and their families no mercy. They’re going to kill everypony, including thee and me. I don’t care if thou are too fatuous to stay up here and get obliterated; but, downstairs, outside the war room, are the last ponies still loyal to the Union. They need thee right now! Because, Mr. President, if thou want any chance of preserving the smallest iota of the Union after this, thou need to let them into the war room!”

Throughout her rant, Princess Luna was satisfied that she was producing a feeling in him that was not callosity—the only emotion that she had seen him exhibit for the past months; but, as soon as said these last few sentences, she saw the president’s features relax and twist into those that express incredulity. Her heart sank as she realized that her worst nightmare—the one that she constantly evaded, in fear that if it was allowed to occupy her consciousness for any extended period of time, it would be too much to handle—was glaringly true.

The president made a muffled snicker. “Oh, thou think . . . thou honestly think that I . . . have any desire to—preserve the Union?” He was barely able to speak this sentence; for, after he was done, he opened his mouth as wide as it would go and let out the most nightmarish laugh that Princess Luna had ever heard. The sound constricted her heart with its icy-cold and redoubtable grip, and she felt her legs tremble as it took all of her will to stay standing. 

Just then, a shell exploded in the courtyard, which the window overlooked, knocking over the statue of three Union Army soldiers under the flag of Equestria, which had been erected on the tenth anniversary of the defeat of the changeling swarm. The light from the shell cast a menacing light over the president’s face, and she could see straight down his horrible, gaping throat. Even this was too much for her strong composure to handle, and she fell backwards, releasing the president from her grasp. The president, on the other hoof, was still against the glass, apparently not even noticing the blast, and still laughing with that horrible sound. Not even the reports of the artillery could drown it out.

At length, the president’s laughter subsided, and he closed his mouth. He wiped a few tears from his eyes, while a few remaining fits of chuckles still managed to escape from his lips.

“Oh, that’s priceless—truly priceless,” he said. Then, noticing that Princess Luna was on the ground, tears welling in her eyes; and, apparently surprised that they were not tears of joy as his had been, his face undertook a somber expression, and he glared at her with those menacing eyes of his.

“Thou are serious, aren’t thou?” he said.

She said nothing.

“Thou know, I always thought thee so smart, a free thinker, but I’m sad to see that thou are as stupid as the rest of the unthinking masses.”

She crawled backwards away from him; and, looking up at him from the ground, tears flowing freely from her eyes, she said: “What happened to thee, Disce?”

The president looked sadly at the ground. “Nothing happened to me. I’ve always been a disturbed, sardonic, judgmental monster who nopony would ever talk to, nor even give a passing glance, either out of rudeness or fear. I’ve been sitting at the debate hall of the United Party for as long as I can remember; but, every day, I would sit there and see these ponies tear each other’s throats out with the most obnoxious insults I’ve ever heard in my entire life. Each day, I would find that I would wake up more cruel and remorseless than I had been yesterday. Shortly after Cadenza had been found guilty, I had promised myself that, within the week, I would burn the United Party’s debate hall to the ground with every single one of those vermin locked inside. I grew up in such abject evil and filth that is the United Party Debate Hall, in the country of Equestria. Knowing this, are thou really surprised about my view of the world?”

“But thou used to be so moral. Thou were my tiny beacon of hope, morality, and passion in a world lacking all three of those things. There was nothing thou held higher than the welfare of the country, the COMTOIS; and, above all, thyself and thy integrity.”

“I did, for a brief moment. Despite the fact that I would think nothing but atrocious thoughts of the ponies that I had worked with, all I had ever wanted was for us to live in harmony. When I had been told that I had been elected leader of the United Party, I broke down in tears, for I was overwhelmed with the fact that there was still a chance for good in the world, that I would be able to foresee its future and guide Equestria into a better tomorrow. Thou saw and met me on the peak of my naivety, when I somehow was instilled with the essence of a young creature, who can only look at the future with optimism and hope.”

“Why have thou abandoned those values? Why have thou become so indifferent?”

“Truly, if I could have kept them, I would’ve, believe me. I was genuinely ready to take on the future with a smile on my face, to forget the woes of yesterday and to give all those who had assaulted me with such evil for all those years of my life a second chance. That’s really the only thing I wanted in the world: a second chance, a fresh start.  

“And then Los Pegasus declared secession from the Union. As the president, I swore to uphold the COMTOIS and to ensure that others did the same. Even though this act was such a blatant disregard for it, I was willing to look at this as an anomaly rather than the rule.

“But then came that protest. When I saw how many rats had gathered on Mane Street, when I had heard nearly unanimous support for the protest and virtually none against it, I had seen that, truly, I was the only one who had wanted peace and civility. The citizens of Equestria feed on conflict; they need it. I tried to fight this, but I found that the more I fought, the more the dissenters would take my protestations out of context, and that my efforts toward a peaceful future would be used against me to achieve a cause that was opposite of my intentions. 

“I, who wanted concord, was elected to lead creatures that wanted discord—so, to please them, I became Discord.

“I threw away my fruitless efforts to fight insanity with reason, and I accepted their premises: I accepted their notion that only through conflict is it possible that we may live with each other. I had my own theories on the proper way to live in society, but I’m nothing if not open-minded. I figured that, if so many beings disagreed with me, if they were so ready to show me how wrong I was, then they must have something right.”

Princess Luna, having overcome this shock, had risen to her hooves, her eyes now burning, not with the tears of sadness, but with the imposition of defiance.

“So thou used the position of the president of the United Republic of Equestria,” she said, her voice getting louder and angrier as she went on, “this sacred position with every single one of its responsibilities to the precarious gears of the country—to indulge thyself, and every single citizen within its borders, in your insane ramblings? Because thou, the scheming individual thou are, thought that every single one of us must also be scheming individuals who always have an ulterior motive for something?”

“And they were right! I mean, just look at this!” And he turned to face the window once more, his arms outstretched in embrace to the carnage and destruction. “‘Concord is the best way to live’? How so, so, wrong I was! Isn’t it beautiful? Most of these buildings took years to build, but add a little bit of gunpowder, and they’re gone in an instant—like they never actually existed! There’s something idyllic about it, wouldn’t thou say? Gratitude is the only thing I can give to the citizens of Equestria; for, had they not elected me to this position, I would have never been able to see the beauty of what they were saying! They turned a judgmental and disapproving draconequus into a draconequus who finally realized what joy can be obtained from such utter chaos!”

“You monster,” she said through her teeth. “Thou have destroyed this beautiful country.”

“No, thou see,” the president retorted with phlegm in his throat, turning back to face her in order to drive the point home, “that’s just it. I’ve seen this chaos building up for ages, and I had realized that I wouldn’t see its climax in my lifetime—so all I did was speed it up. The boulder was already rolling down the cliff; I just gave it a little push to make it go faster—and I was hoping thou could lend me thy strong hooves. 

“Why do thou think I chose thee as my vice president? I saw thee when I was debating thy sister; I saw how quiet, cold, and indifferent thou were, always having to stand by thy noxious sister. I thought that thou were being troubled by the same thoughts I had. I thought that thee, like me, had the intelligence to see society for what it was and the curiosity to want to see its conclusion, but I guess I was wrong.”

“Well, it ends now,” Princess Luna said while making an admirable effort to hold back her tears, and she nodded her head forwards as her horn began to glow.

“Oh? What are we doing now?” said the president, chuckling to himself, as he stared self-assuredly at the ball of energy beginning to accumulate on the tip of Princess Luna’s horn. 

“I don’t think so,” he said, and he snapped the fingers of his paw. The ball of energy fizzled and then collapsed in on itself with a bright light. 

Princess Luna let out a cry and was thrown backwards into the wall behind her. The sound of her body hitting plaster and concrete echoed through the interior of the room; and the shock wave caused the old painting of President Platinum, which hung on the north wall of the office, to fall from its mounting, face down. Princess Luna curled into the fetal position, her forehooves placed firmly on her temples, breathing through her teeth in an attempt to cope with the pain.

“Unicorn magic,” the president said condescendingly, “How primitive. All one has to do is to apply a little bit of reversal magic in the right quantity and in the right degree to a unicorn performing the spell, and the spell backfires—leaving the victim with a searing headache! I know this, because I’m a frequenter of the Canterlot Archives, Equestria’s most prized possession, and if thou apologize, perhaps I’ll consider giving thee a year’s free membership.” He laughed once more, and Princess Luna could feel the sound crawling its way through her brain and throwing itself against its membrane. 

After having his fill, he walked over to Princess Luna, who was still sprawled out on the ground, and he bent down and looked at her with the most sublime look on his face.

“Maybe thou will come around,” he said. “I’ll be in the courtyard enjoying the sun, should thou want to tell me that thou has changed thy mind, but I refuse to allow thee to waste my time any longer, when I could be outside enjoying this excellent chaos.”

Princess Luna opened one of her eyes to a sliver, and the increased amount of light its retina received twisted the knife that was sticking clear through her brain, but she saw the president put on the most ostentatious red-framed sunglasses, that covered nearly half of his face, and produce a tattered pink umbrella that was turned inside out. 

The president stood up, held the umbrella directly over his head, with no hint of irony about him, and strutted out of the room with his most presidential stride. 

Princess Luna closed her eyes, and the only respite she received from her agony was that the president had been wrong when he said that she had believed his facade the whole time.

As for the president, he walked out from the back door of the Presidential Mansion and into the courtyard. 

In addition to the grass labyrinth that spanned nearly half the area, the courtyard showcased some of the most revered monuments and exhibits in all of Equestria. At one end of the courtyard was a statue commemorating the signing of the COMTOIS; and beside it, ensconced in a glass case, was the pen that the founders had used to sign the original copy. At the other end of the courtyard, also in a glass case, was the first stain-glass window that had ever been installed in the Presidential Mansion. Halfway in between these two relics was where the aforementioned ruined statue once stood; the figures had been completely shattered and was lying in pieces around its column, smoke still rising from the ruins. 

This did not seem to bother the president in the slightest, as he pranced down the length of the courtyard without a care in the world. His comment that the weather was satisfactory had been aptly made, for there was not a cloud in the sky, save for the contrails that the numerous shells had left behind. 

On normal days, this courtyard would have been full of workers who decided to spend their breaks among these revered historical pieces. Despite the obvious reason for why the courtyard was deserted at this current moment in time, this would not have made it any less eerie for the casual observer, who would have seen the puzzling sight of a strange bipedal creature with antlers and a goatee, in large sunglasses and brandishing a broken umbrella, skipping through the overgrown grass.

The president looked skywards at the sound of an object moving through the air with that high-pitched screech peculiar to items moving at nearly the speed of sound, lowered his glasses slightly to see a new volley of bombs lazily arching their way toward the city, leaving their contrails in their wake, and he smiled gleefully. As soon as he heard the sound begin to drop in frequency and saw the bombs streak toward their targets, he dove under a nearby picnic table. 

The bombs began to land on their targets, which were obscured by the tall leaves of the labyrinth, and even though their explosions were deafening, the president’s face lit up with glee as he thought he heard the screams of the shell’s victims and when he saw the large plume of smoke rising from behind the labyrinth. He scrambled out from under the table and stood fully erect looking skywards, not wanting to miss the next volley. 

His heart raced in anticipation of the beautiful streaks of light that he longed to see twirling their long, puffy, white dresses in the sky and singing the most beautiful of operatic sopranos he had ever heard; but, as he stood there, his heart started to slow as disappointment settled over him when he realized the ensemble was over.

But then his ears perked up as a new sound reached him. It started off as a low growl, but it increasingly became louder, and the president could hear that it sounded like a blend of a choir of roosters and jubilant bar singers: It was a sound that struck fear into the hearts of anypony that would oppose its inexorable advance. It was the sound that had caused thousands of Union soldiers to drop their weapons and flee for their lives—or, even, to become part of the sound, to contribute his own voice to its making. It was the battle cry of the rebellion. 

The president heard intermittent rifle shots as the sound grew louder, as if the Friendship was not stopping to have a shootout—but rather they were, like a rolling storm moving across the land, advancing without hesitance, blowing aside anything that stood in their way.

The sound grew louder as the president stood there looking in its direction, and his smile got wider and wider. At last, it sounded like it was all around him, like it was in the heart of Canterlot itself.

The president looked toward the mansion and heard sporadic rifle fire coming from the threshold, which was accompanied by flashes of light that could be seen from the outside through the windows, and he could hear screams that shook the entire building. 

He shrugged, turned his back to the building and kept walking down the courtyard, using the sounds of conflict as the backdrop to his peaceful stroll.

He found a worn-down bench tucked away in a corner, its commemorative plaque caked with dirt from all the years it had watched over the mansion—so much so that the president could not make out the words on it. As he sat down in it, he heard the voices of orders being barked. 

Through the gaps in the leaves of the bushes and trees, he could see a blur of motion that scattered in every direction. He followed one of these particular blurs with his eyes, a blur that seemed to be moving faster as it came closer to him; until, finally, it rounded a corner, and the president came face to face with a young white unicorn. 

The unicorn was harnessed to a Trottingham Rifle, and he was outfitted in the gray uniform with the red stripe of the Army of the Friendship. When he saw the president, he leveled the rifle at him, cocked his head to one side and said, in the most stereotypical Los Pegasus accent: “Well, look what we are having here! Discord, the king of chaos, out for a stroll to be feasting his eyes on his domain!”

The president removed his glasses and lay flat on the length of the bench, putting his paw, palm up, on his forehead like a maiden in distress. In the most sardonic voice he could assume he said: “Oh, you have captured me! On August the nineteenth, be it know that the rebellion captured Discord! Truly, I am perturbed, for I am—” the president stopped himself short when he opened his eyes to look at the young unicorn. He sat up and said: “Wait a moment—don’t I know you?”

The unicorn rocked uneasily on his hoofs. He swallowed and said: “No . . . you don’t know me. Stay right there!”

The president stood up and stared intently at the unicorn with a look of inquiry and perplexity: the unicorn had said this in an upper-class Canterlot accent. “Your Los Pegasus accent was fake,” he said. “Why did you fake it?”

The unicorn shook his head and aimed down the sights of his rifle. “It’s not being fake. I am born and raised in Los Pegasus—so had my father and so had his father. You’re not being fooling anypony with your dastardly mind games.”

“No, no, you’re not,” retorted the president. “By the sound of your genuine accent, my guess is that you come from a very wealthy family, with lots of ties to Canterlot.” 

At this, the president’s face lit up and the memory came back. He clapped his paw and claw together; and, with delight, he said: “Yes, yes I do know you! We had lunch that one time after my debate with Celestia—don’t you remember? You asked me who I had chosen as my running mate!” The president tapped the palm of his paw on his forehead and closed his eyes tightly, trying to force the memory back into his conscious mind. “Chrome Finish! Yes, that’s your name! I remember now!” He took a step toward the unicorn.

“Stay right where you have been,” replied the unicorn in that ridiculous Los Pegasus accent, nervously taking a step back, still keeping his rifle on the president. “I’m not going to be falling for it. We had a warning that you would try to play those mind games of yours on us, and I a’ ready. You’ve have been killed a lot o’ my friends, and you’re going to have to pay.”

The president shook his head sadly. “How did thou come to such a position as this, Chrome Finish? Thou were so full of youthful optimism. Now look at thee: fighting thine own home town. And for what?”

The unicorn’s brow furrowed, and he swallowed with difficulty as a shiver shot through his entire body. “I’ve been having enough of you right now.” And he turned his head behind him and yelled in an incredibly loud voice: “Come on over here! I have Discord!”

At once, the president heard the sounds of hoof-steps of three or five soldiers marching toward him. The unicorn turned his head back toward the president and smiled, showing a row of perfect white teeth. “They’re a’ comin’,” he whispered.

The president rocked back and forth on his hooves. “I like that uniform, Chrome,” he said in a nonchalant manner. “It looks good on thee.”

Just then, from out of the bushes, four ponies appeared, each harnessed with a Trottingham Rifle. Only one of them were outfitted with the gray and red uniform—the other three were naked. When they saw the president and the unicorn pointing his rifle at him, they stopped in their tracks and looked up and down the president for a few seconds. 

“Wow,” said one naked pony with a Canterlot accent. “I knew he’d be tall—but not that tall.”

“That’s because Discord grows in strength when disharmony occurs around him,” said the uniformed pony, in a Fillydelphian accent.

The president laughed. “Please tell me you don’t actually believe that,” he sputtered, incredulous.

The uniformed pony narrowed her eyes and a malicious smile crept onto her lips. “You’ll find out what we actually believe during your impeachment, and right before you are executed, we’ll be shouting it at you while we watch with glee.”

The president snorted derisively and bent down to examine a flower at his hooves that still had managed to flourish despite the death that surrounded it. “Impeachment? What impeachment? I was fully within my power, outlined by the COMTOIS, which you thought you could destroy by burning a piece of paper. You’re going to be disappointed, but just because you disagree with what I did doesn’t mean you can impeach me.”

The uniformed pony opened her mouth to say something, but she stopped herself short. She then turned to the naked pony who had spoken first and said: “What do thou think, Barley?”

The pony named Barley scratched his chin, with a free hoof. Then his face twisted into a evil expression which rivaled those that the president was so fond of making in terms of sheer malevolence.

“Why don’t we just skip the impeachment then?” Barley said in a casual manner.

The uniformed pony turned to look at the president and was surprised to see that the president had absolutely no change of emotion on his face upon hearing this comment.

“Yes,” she said, “we’ll just say he ran, or he attacked us, or something. Who would know?” And, upon finishing this sentence, the four new rebels leveled their rifles at the president’s head.

“Stand down!” came an authoritarian voice from behind the hedge, and all five ponies turned their heads in the direction of the sound. Despite being tranquil throughout this entire encounter, at this sound, the president looked toward the direction of it; and, for a split second, felt a slight pang of apprehension when he recognized the voice.

When Princess Luna came around the corner, every rebel removed their hats, lowered their rifles, and gave polite curtseys and bows. She looked at the president, who smiled at her and gave her a cheeky wave with the fingers of his paw. She averted her eyes, pretending not to see the gesture of familiarity, and turned to the squad leader. 

Princess Luna turned to the uniformed pony. “Sergeant Major, we would like you to inform us at once what you were intending to do.”

The president smiled as he saw fear strike into the sole of the officious sergeant major who had, moments ago, ordered his execution.

“Your Grace, I was—”

“You intended to execute him, is this not correct?” she hammered on. The president bared his teeth in delight, for he loved that harsh tone of hers she assumed when she wanted to control the flow of any conversation she wished and which always kept her opponents stammering and off-guard; he thought she was the perfect politician.

“But, Your Grace, it’s Discord—”

“You received explicit instructions to stay your rifle, should you encounter him. You know that our sister, Her Grace Princess Celestia, specifically decreed that he shall not come to harm.”

The sergeant major once again attempted to say something, but Princess Luna held her hoof out in front of her to signal that she wished her subject to stop talking. The sergeant major threw her rifle over her own back and gave one more polite curtsey.

“So, the royal family, using my vice president as their pawn, is responsible for the destruction of this great republic,” said the president, which caused all eyes to turn to him. “Why am I not surprised?”

“You are not allowed to speak, Discord, as long as you are under the ward of the Friendship!” snapped the sergeant major.

“What!” exclaimed the president, making a dramatic attempt at indignation. “I am the president of Equestria, of the Union! I am your president! You will address me as ‘President Cordis,’ or ‘Mr. President,’ or—”

“I do not recognize your position, nor your dominion over this land. This land belongs to the Friendship, to which I am a proud member. As long as that’s true, you’re nopony; to us, you’re only Discord,” she replied, and the president couldn’t help but think she sounded like an actor reading off of a script or a parrot simply repeating a profanity that its owner continually used. 

He decided to test this theory. “What do you recognize?” he asked. “What do you believe in?”

“I believe in friendship,” the sergeant major replied, without a moment’s hesitation in her voice.

“Of course you do.”

“And I believe that you, Discord, are the antithesis of friendship.”

“All’s fine and well, but what are the fundamental principles that guide you, as an individual? And what is the philosophical base from which it is derived?

The sergeant major tapped her hoof against her chin for a second. “I don’t . . . I don’t have a philosophy as an individual.  My philosophy is with, and for, my friends.”

“Thank you, my dear—that’s all I needed to know.” And the president shot a look at Princess Luna. He laughed and pointed at her with his talons when he saw her desperately try to hide a smirk. 

The rebels, clueless to the meaning of this exchange, would have no doubt turned around to see their princess laughing at the values under which they had marched through thick and thin for the past eight months and possibly might have second guessed themselves, but they quickly snapped to attention and stared straight forward as another pony appeared from behind the bushes. He had the gray and red uniform, but this one had more decorations and, unlike the sergeant major’s, did not have a single crease in it.

“Lieutenant!” yelled the sergeant major, and the president recoiled his head and squinted at the loudness of her voice, with a clear intention to mock.

“Her Grace Princess Celestia requests an audience with Discord. She’s waiting for him in the middle of the courtyard. Bring him to her.”

The white unicorn poked the bayonet on the end of his rifle against the president’s tail. “Move it, Discord,” he said brusquely.

The president put his claw and paw in the air in a gesture of surrender and began to walk in the direction indicated to him. 

He was guided into the open field of the courtyard. Behind him walked, in order, the white unicorn, Barley, the two other naked ponies to whom the president had not been introduced, the lieutenant, and Princess Luna brought up the rear. In other words, the president’s view was completely unobstructed as soon as they made their way out from the bushes and into the field, and he saw the summation of the past eight months of the Friendship’s struggle.

In the middle of the courtyard, among the ruined statues and back-dropped by the Presidential Mansion with its broken windows, stood Princess Celestia, surrounded by twenty soldiers all standing at attention, each one equipped with a Trottingham Rifle and fully uniformed in the gray and red of the Friendship. A few yards away stood her carriage, adorned with the laces and flowers which were such a common sight on the vehicles belonging to those of noble breeding. She was standing next to a middle-aged, brown earth-pony with a mustache and epaulets decorating his shoulders. Harnessed to his back was a diamond-plated case, a large lock hanging off its side. Behind the princess stood a young unicorn, and even further back, an aged teal pegasus. Though the president squinted, he could not make out their faces and could only recognize Princess Celestia, for she was the only alicorn in the group and towered above those around her. 

The president swallowed nervously at this scene, his throat dry: despite all the times he had ran this scenario in his head and despite the number of times he had mulled over and accepted its implications, it was another thing entirely to see it fully animated. This reservation occurred only for a second and was not noticed by anypony in the vicinity, and the president soon assumed his smarmy countenance yet again. 

When the president came within fifty yards of the group, the pony with the epaulets gestured in the president’s direction, and when Princess Celestia saw him approaching, she turned and looked down at him with an icy cold glare. There was no hint of weakness or hesitation in her appearance. She looked well-kept and well-groomed, as usual; and, despite the president’s attempts to break her composure with his own confidence and stare, she made no concessions, and she repelled the president’s visual attack, no matter what odd minute eccentricity he attempted to assume in an effort to change his strategy. 

As the president got closer, the faces of the ponies standing around her became clear. He recognized Director Star as the unicorn, who was wearing the gray uniform, and the old pegasus as Enforcer. When observing the former, the president simply scoffed with disapproval and scorn; but when he saw Enforcer, the president’s mental machine, which was running simulations of every single way this encounter could play out, jammed, for it had not anticipated this picture. 

It was only now that he saw how worn-down Enforcer was, how much he looked his age, and how much the last few months had done to him: sharp, jagged wrinkles creased his face like the Badlands to the south. His knees wobbled either out of anxiety or weakness when he saw the president approaching, and they were bent forward, giving him a hunch. His eyes stared lazily off into the distance, like those of a blind pony trying to concentrate on a nearby sound. He was still wearing that same tailcoat, which was now folded and creased like his face, and his once fastidious necktie now hung lose and impotent around his neck, which swayed along with the trembling of his legs. His mane was now completely white and was nearly gone from the scalp of his head. He truly looked like he would collapse at any second and turn into the grass and dirt beneath his hooves, to dissolve away into nature—to rid himself of his painful earthly form and to forever be at harmony and at peace.

Princess Celestia smiled when she saw the president’s features relax, for she had believed that she had won their duel of glares; in reality, the president had felt a surge of powerful emotion pierce his heart. 

He had spent the last eight months robbing himself of those emotions of life that would have inhibited his ability to carry out the deed, so that he would have been able to become the creature that he had promised himself to be to the citizens of Equestria, and he had rebuilt his being to survive under such remorseless conditions, so it was not prepared for such an ardent fire to occupy such a large space in his essence at this time. At the sight of this pony—who was once so powerful, so competent, who had held the respect of the most revered leaders and who had enjoyed their awe at his expert skill, his eagerness to improve, and his youthful optimism with which he looked up to those he deemed to be heroes—the president felt tears coming to his eyes. To see this innocent soul, loyal to those around him even in the face of all odds, to be so destroyed by the weapon that the president had only intended to use on his most perfidious enemies was too much for him to handle. 

He shut his eyes and tried to force his tears back with the thought that he was the president and that he could not allow the ponies under his care see him, even for a second, in a moment of weakness; but the word president had no meaning when it echoed in his mind anymore, as if it was just a collection of useless sounds, as if it was as meaningless as the animalistic jabbering the rebels made with they made to pillage a proud city. He slowed his pace, and he felt that there would be no stopping the tears, and he was convinced that he would curl into a pitiful ball on the grass and break down in front of every single one of his enemies, who would proceed to ridicule him and stab him with their bayonets, and he would die to the sound of their hideous laughter. 

The president tried to fight the perceived inevitability, but he felt his legs begin to shake, and they were on the verge of giving way—until he looked back to Director Star.

At a single, brief, but more thorough glance this time, the president’s sadness instantly vanished and was replaced with the single emotion that he had been working up to and which he had prepared only to show at this moment: malice. He watched Director Star bat a fly off the shoulder of his uniform, and the president’s nostrils flared while he bared his teeth like a rabid animal. That wretched figure was just what he had needed to see: it was cowardice, evasion, and obsequiousness incarnate in a skinny pony with gaunt lips, emaciated cheeks, and glasses—who had deserted at the first sign of doubt.

The president felt a bayonet poke him in his tail a second time; and, this time, he had no problems walking fully erect and with complete confidence toward Princess Celestia. At the sight of the pitiful unicorn, he had instantly been reminded of the evil among which he was forced to live and the chaos which it brought in its wake, destroying those who fought helplessly against it and inciting glee in those who guided and welcomed it. Mere paces before Celestia, he was reminded of the being who he had become, and when his guards had told him to stop in front of her, he stared at her face to face—not as the president, but as Discord.

When Princess Celestia stared into his eyes, she saw nothing but evil and psychosis. 

Around their legs lay the ruins of the Changeling War statue, and next to them stood the column on which it had originally been laid; the column itself was still intact and waiting for a new piece, a statue that would no doubt embody the value on which the society formed in the wake of the dissolution of the Union would be founded.

Though the president’s stare caused the soldiers to avert their eyes—for they did not want to admit to themselves that the repulsive creature that was standing right in front of them represented the end result of their own contentious nature—only Princess Celestia managed to keep eye contact with him with a stare of genuine righteousness, which somehow managed to hold back his. 

After this thirty-second encounter, which seemed like an hour to those watching, Princess Celestia broke her eye contact and turned to the soldiers around her. She had the sweetest look on her face and, with her caressing voice which, like a mother’s, convinced anypony that listened to it of her unending love for them, said: “We wish to extend our utmost congratulations to our dear subjects, who, in precarious odds, have successfully and decisively struck, with all fury, at the core of this pernicious institution. You have liberated your homes with your honor and strength alone and have brought Discord to me—and, thanks to you, he now awaits his reeducation on the lessons of friendship and mercy. Friendship has emerged triumphant.”

The president let out a histrionic whine and sighed heavily while looking up at the sky, so that he may more easily read the script etched into his brain, and said: “Oh, what a calamity for chaos, this day is—this day, which will eternally be known as the day when the tyrant Discord and his legion of demons fell to a most baffling power, of which they could never possibly conceive! How, with all that is known, is this even possible?” And he made an impressive attempt to showcase his disgust, which involved him violently keeling over, placing his paw on the ground, and performing the most painful-sounding and accentuated dry coughs.

Princess Celestia turned to face the eager mass that encircled her, who were all leaning so far toward her that they almost toppled over—so that the wisdom that would no doubt come from her mouth would reach their ears sooner. With a haughty voice, she said: “Don’t be fooled by his inherently mendacious tongue. Discord knows, without a doubt, that Friendship is Chaos’s trump; therefore, he endeavored to divide you, to not let you realize the power that each and every one of you held. However, his efforts were in vain; for you have, perspicuously, found your friends. You have consolidated our power, and friendship has shown to be triumphant, as it always has and always will be.”

The president rubbed his face and eyes with his paw, annoyed at Princess Celestia’s verbosity, which was inherent in any noble who spoke to ponies to whom they believed to be lower in class, and he was slightly perturbed at the fact that she would not deign to address him directly. “Enforcer,” he said, using the pretense of a headache to rub his eyes to avoid them being terrified at the sight of the decaying geriatric pony, “remind me to request the permission of Congress to amend the COMTOIS to ban any titles of nobility.”

Enforcer started, but Princess Celestia held out her hoof, demanding that he be silent. “Enforcer is not Discord’s comrade any longer. He has now seen the light, after being swallowed by the bowels of the darkness of disharmony for over two score years, and he stands ready to defend his friends.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” the president scoffed, still in character. “Enforcer is the most loyal pony in the Union, to the Union, and has been for the past five administrations. He exemplifies the loyalty of the Union; and if he’s defected, to join your wretched ranks, no doubt this is a sign that the Union, too, is dead.” The president still refused to look at him.

Enforcer looked nervously at Princess Celestia, and she nodded to him, signaling that he had been fortunate enough to be granted the permission to speak in her presence.

When he spoke, the words cut into the president’s ear. It was a raspy, strained voice, desperately clinging onto life, and its words spoke of a time they were trying to keep alive that, like the voice, was passing. “Mr. President—” he said, as he hesitated at a glare from Princess Celestia, “I mean, Discord, I am loyal to the Union. I have always been loyal to the Union and to the values it embodies, and I always will be; but, in our current circumstances, that means being disloyal to you.”

The president sneered and avoided eye contact with him; little did the observers know that this act was only thing standing in the way of a very un-presidential stream of tears.

Princess Celestia continued: “Some of us have succumbed to Discord’s will, our own sister being one of them, but friendship is the most powerful force in the universe, and not even our sister”—and she shot a striking glance over at Princess Luna who was standing behind the president and whom the president, even though he could not see her, could feel trembling at the intonation of her words—“under the power of the spell that has enveloped this entire country in its whim and which caused this terrible conflict, was able to fight against the love exuded from our bond. When she finally saw the error of her ways, she prudently used her eminent position among Discord’s ranks to help her friends outwit his armies of chaos. 

“In addition, our family, having anticipated a cataclysm of this proportion, has utilized the previous five years researching the essence of friendship, and, with the help of Director Star—who has also once been infected by Discord’s spell, but who, by his strong nature, was able to see its evil in its early stages, who was able to resist its influence upon him with his sheer will alone, and who has now recognized importance of the battle against chaos and has generously delegated his efforts to its noble cause—it is finished. We have effectuated what Discord fears the most: friendship in its most purest form. It is the power that released many of you very guardians of harmony, who stand before me and who brandish rifles in defense of all that is good, from the ranks of the army of chaos.”

She looked lovingly at the quiet, attentive soldiers around her, but it was not the warm stare of a caregiver; instead, it was a eerie sort of smile, unsettling in the sense that it was clear that it was merely a facade, hiding what she really wanted out of them. 

After the soldiers exchanged a few nervous murmurs, unsure of what to do, and after they saw her brow start to furrow, they had understood what she wanted. Obeying, they cheered and stomped her hooves on the ground. This seemed to please the princess, but the president shuddered as he heard the contrived nature of the sound in its intonation.

Five or six seconds later, when the soldiers had felt that they had followed their order long enough, they became quiet once again and looked back at the princess. 

“General Buckner,” she finally said, seemingly satisfied with the her servants’ performance of their loyalty and adulation, “if you please.” And at this, she gestured toward the old pony with epaulets, beckoning him to come forwards.

General Buckner stepped forward and used his mouth to unharness the diamond-plated box from his back. With one foreleg, he held it as high as he could in front of Princess Celestia, bowing his head in respect as he did so. 

Princess Celestia leaned her head down and inserted her horn into the box’s lock. The front of the box glowed with a blue light before the lid swung open. A slight burst of light emitted from the interior of the box before finally dying away to reveal six smooth stones, each one with a different symbol carved into it.

“Behold,” said Princess Celestia, turning to the president, “the Elements of Harmony.”

The soldiers of the Army of the Friendship’s eyes sparkled at the sight of these artifacts. Each one leaned in to get a closer look, and each one could feel their power coursing through their own veins. All the killing and the destruction had been worth it, since they could now see what it was that they were fighting for. They turned to each other for confirmation, and their smiles only got wider when they saw that their friends were all filled with the same wonderful feeling. 

However, their smiles vanished when they looked at the president and saw that he had not suddenly dropped to his knees and begged for mercy from the Elements that would no doubt obliterate the chaos within him, as it had done for some of them; instead, all they saw was a draconequus with a fatuous look on his face, his mouth ajar in complete bewilderment.

“Rocks?” the president said, after he had collected himself. “You’ve defeated the Union Army—and all its countless hours of training, all its experiences from history, all its tactics, tools, and supplies—with rocks?”

“Discord doesn’t understand,” responded Princess Celestia with a fiery look in her eyes, and seemingly addressing him directly for the first time. “These ‘rocks’ are alive. They are living creatures with wants, hopes, and desires—and they’re not amused to see what you’ve done to this land or what you’ve done to their friends.

“Each one represents one of the six most important tenets of friendship, without which friendship cannot exist.” And, gesturing to each stone in its turn with her forehoof, she said: “Laughter, generosity, magic, loyalty, honesty, and kindness.”

At this, the president closed his mouth into a small smirk and then began to snicker and apparently felt the need to cover his mouth with his paw and claw to not let his expression of beguilement grow any larger.

“Does Discord find humor in this, in any form?” Princess Celestia snapped.

“It’s just that,” the president said between chuckles, “wow, you named the rocks? It’s just that this whole scenario . . . all of it . . . is just so ridiculous . . .”

Princess Celestia’s brow furrowed and, turning to her soldiers again, she said: “Is not this quintessentially constitutional to Discord: laughing in the midst of uncertainty and defeat? Methinks he needs a lecture on the virtues of friendship and harmony. Soldiers, if you would give us a moment of privacy.”

The rebels exchanged looks of apprehension.

“Have no fear, my subjects. Just retire into the thicket, and you will be called when you are needed. You deserve the rest, for you have achieved the greatest possible victory, and Equestria will thank you for your sacrifices for eternity.”

This assuaged their fears, for they all politely bowed, throwing in a few “Yes, Your Graces” and “Of course, Your Graces,” harnessed their rifles and walked slowly back toward the bushes, each one casting wistful glances over their shoulders back toward their leader and the president.

When they had all left, the president turned around to see Princess Luna: she had not moved from her position, but she had assumed that stone cold look that the president had seen her make in the foyers of the debate halls during the prepresidential debates. Her eyes were a dull red, and the president instantly recognized this as a sign that she was holding back some sorrowful emotions. Like he had done months prior, the president glared at her trying to unlock the secrets of her mind, like he had successfully done with anypony else that he had encountered—but this time, much to his dismay and confusion, he found that he could not break her, and he was struck with the disappointment that he would never get the opportunity to.

“You as well, my sister,” Princess Celestia said, in that stern voice that she had used when talking about her to the president. 

Without a moment’s hesitation, Princess Luna made a sharp turn in the direction of the thicket, and she marched to join the soldiers. The president watched her until she was out of sight. At not one moment did she turn to look back at him.

Then, he turned to face Princess Celestia. He looked at the bare column which they were standing next to, and he looked at its ruins that were scattered ignominiously across the field; then, he looked back in the face of the pony who had ordered its destruction. He took a deep breath, puffed out his chest, and stood taller than he had ever stood before—for he needed to not only stand for himself, but also for the statue, which would never stand again.

“I can’t believe you,” he said. “I knew you were cutthroat; I knew you to be determined and austere in your actions, and I always knew that you would not hesitate to do what you wanted to do and to not hesitate in the face of dissent, regardless of difficulty. But to entice an entire country to violence, start an entire war, kill thousands of your own ponies, make up this ridiculously grandiose story which depicts what you are doing as just, overthrow the government—my government—brainwash an entire army of ponies who would rather die than live in your world, just because I insulted the nobility and your family deemed me unfit to be the president?”

“You’re wrong on two accounts,” she responded brusquely, and there was no hesitation and uncertainty in her voice, as if she had been waiting her entire life to say this. “Firstly, this was not one of those shallow personal vendettas, and the fact that you thought it was says more about your feelings than it does mine. 

“Secondly, I never killed, or intended to kill, a single pony. The last thing I wanted was blood to be shed on our own soil: that’s why we developed the Elements of Harmony. We gave the Union soldiers a chance to join us or even walk away. When the clerks go over the casualty reports after this is all over, they’ll find that the number of soldiers killed in action on the Friendship’s side is more than quadruple those on the side of the Union Army. 

“You can spin this any way you like: You can say that we’re the aggressors and that we were in direct violation of the COMTOIS; but you’ll never be able to evade the fact that every single lost life, including those who are dying in Baltimare and Manehattan as we speak, since they are not protected by the Elements of Harmony, rests on your shoulders. All the bloodshed in this conflict is the fault of the Union, that naive amalgam of conflicting ideologies that, somehow, was guaranteed by its founders to effect everlasting peace and tranquility.”

The president groaned, rolled his eyes backwards, and put the palm of his paw on his forehead.“What interest could you possibly have in all of this?”

“How can you be so blind?” she retorted, and a genuine look of concern appeared on her face. “A republic is simply unsustainable; the only reason it worked so well for so many years was that everypony was riding on the hope and faith still emanating from Unification. When they realized that the founders’ promises were empty, that they said anything to keep themselves and their subjects from starving to death, they revolted. This is the crucial flaw in republicanism: it assumes that the common pony is a free-thinker, can recognize his surroundings, and can identify and neutralize any problems that are affecting him.

“Can you honestly not see the self-evident falsehood of this axiom? Have you spoken with any of my soldiers? Have you asked them what they were fighting for? They would not have been able to give you a straight answer and they never will be. They’re like bats caught in a mist net: they know something is wrong, that something is impeding their welfare and happiness, but they have not the mental capabilities to make the connection that they have been tangled, so they angrily thrash around haphazardly and will only become more ensnared in the process unless a guiding, intelligent hoof calmly and deliberately untangles and frees them. You remember that protest all those months ago, no doubt, but can anypony among us even name one thing against which they were protesting?

“We, my family, have accepted the republicans as an inevitability, a necessary evil, a consequence of the Union—but never have we encountered such a willful a republican as you. You made no concessions to the thoughts and feelings of others and were incorrigible in your ways and policies. The other republicans recognized the need for there to be somewhat of an understanding between them and their citizens—but for you, there was absolutely none. You saw them crying, and all you said was: ‘Such is life.’”

The president scoffed and waved his paw in a dismissive motion in front of his face. “There’s a painting,” he said, “or, rather, was a painting, that sat above my desk throughout my entire presidency. Do you know who it was? It was the first president of Equestria, your great ancestor President Platinum, who every president in history has aspired to emulate in terms of honor and valor. Ironically, she was my favorite president and the most virtuous republican that had ever sat in the Horseshoe Office. She penned my favorite sections of the COMTOIS, the sections that I used to protect this country. Do you want to know what I and her had in common? We both knew that thoughts and feelings meant nothing in the face of uncompromising reality. All the founders knew that, and every republican knows that. There is nothing more dangerous than the capricious whim of a monarch.”

Barely had the president time to say this last sentence before Princess Celestia, obviously having rehearsed this conversation before, said, without a single stutter or pause: “She had a difficult position, my ancestor. She knew that the monarchy was desirable, but had she not agreed to the earth-pony’s terms of republicanism, Unification would’ve never happened, and they all would’ve starved to death. That’s why she formed the Royal Party: to make sure that at least the spirit of the monarchy remained, if not the body. Regarding the commoner, even though she had to repress the knowledge she had for the sake of the Union, she knew that their feelings reflected connections they observed in nature, but they were too ignorant to realize it. They were too ignorant to realize that they needed a benevolent leader, a monarch, who they can worship and fear—not a scraggly, mendacious president, who is on the same socioeconomic level as they are and whom they feel they have the right to challenge. 

“This conflict was inevitable: the republicans embrace it, while the monarchists shy away from it.”

“How convenient that you can ascribe the thoughts and feelings to a pony who’s been dead for hundreds of years, despite the fact that all her work, her writings, and her speeches prove the opposite of what you’re saying,” said the president, as he absentmindedly, and with an ironic sort of manner, as ironic as the tone he had just assumed, scratched the nail of one of his talons against the white column. “So, let me recount: you and your family are carrying this cumbersome task”—and he emphasized these last two words in an attempt to ridicule her—“of being too smart for the average pony. So, you felt that you had the right to brainwash them.” Now, the president’s expression changed from its affected, sardonic manner to one of sternness and austerity.

A small grunt of amusement came from the princess’s throat, accompanied by a shaking of her head. She knew that the president understood the meaning of this gesture too well, even before she saw its affect upon him manifesting in the form of a silent groan of dismissal: it was the gesture one makes when one wants to let her adversary know, without indiscreetly and impolitely saying outright, that she feels superior, in every way, to her opponent. “If calling it that it makes you feel any better about your current actions, if painting me as some insane revolutionary makes you feel that you’re a vessel of justice, then go ahead,” she said. “But know that the Elements of Harmony aren’t one of those curses that your Department of Magic and Defense are so fond of utilizing: all the Elements do is show its followers the beauty of friendship, and that sight is too wonderful for a pony to not instantly devote his life to it.”

“You’re deluding yourself!” said the president, giving a loud laugh of condescension. “Did you not see my assistant, Enforcer? A noble, healthy, old republican—and your spells, which you now attempt to disguise under the veil of logic and necessity, turned him into a walking corpse. It’s a spell; it’s magic; it’s not the purity of logic and reason.”

“Are you any different, really? Do you use different tactics? You attempted to instantiate fear in the hearts of any dissenters. You called anypony that disagreed with you ‘traitors,’ ‘elitists,’ and ‘rebels.’ You’re also wrong in one more respect: unlike many of the soldiers you’ve just seen, there was no spell used on your assistant. When my soldiers raided the mansion just now, he had barricaded himself and a few of your workers in a secure room and was firing back with small arms against my soldiers. After they had failed to breach the room and after they had listened to his demands, the soldiers finally called me up to him, saying that he had wanted to talk to their commander, and I explained everything to him. 

“I’ve talked to him before, and I know that he’s extremely reasonable. I explained what we were doing, the virtues of monarchism. I explained the flaws of republicanism. I used the tool of reason, of which you try to depict me as being so devoid, and he opened the door to me. You, on the other hoof, didn’t present any of your precious arguments or logic, didn’t use the tools that you so vehemently now praise, despite all evidence to the contrary that you actually believe in their effectiveness; you simply scared them, him, into believing you. His aging is the fact that the fire in his heart that kept him alive was extinguished by you.

“You’re a hypocrite in the largest sense of the word; it was only when I realized this glaring fact that I understood why they call you ‘Discord.’”

The president felt his fur rustle. The juvenile insult, when it came out of her mouth, when she said it with such conviction, suddenly seemed more potent, more effectual—and, most disturbingly of all, more true. He shook his head, trying to force the thought out of his mind. “I didn’t need to say anything,” he said, after he saw that Princess Celestia had interpreted his tic as an expression of disagreement and was waiting eagerly for him to say something so she could say what she had planned to say next—apparently having learned her lesson the first time as to what happens when he is interrupted by his opponent. “Their acts were explicitly prohibited by the COMTOIS, and I was fully within my powers as the head of state. I was ignoring the feelings of the dissenters, those feelings which have no relation to reality but which are still used in place of arguments. I have no time to waste on ponies who feel that I’m wrong, when I know that I’m right.”

“Typical republican,” snorted Princess Celestia. “Everything is so glaringly obvious to you, that you cannot even possibly conceive of the idea that it might be obscured to others. That’s why you’re always doomed to fail: family disputes are always inevitable, and no measures are taken to correct them.”

The president made an ugly sneer. “There you go again: telling yourself that this is somehow a United Party versus Royal Party issue. I can tell that you yearn for those days. Want to know a secret? We all do—I above anypony else. I miss those days when I would laugh at your childish arguments and your pretentious pontifications, and we concerned ourselves with such trivial issues, that it was almost like we were children arguing over who destroyed our house of blocks. Those were the days before insurrection and before anypony had died for some cause which they had no conception of. 

“But you, Celestia, have shrouded this entire issue under the banner of ‘friendship’ because you can’t face the fact that you’ve been overcome by the most primitive of emotions, an emotion that you’ve considered yourself too high and mighty to ever feel: jealousy.

“Don’t interrupt, because any words you say would be fruitless; unlike your minions, I will never substitute your own judgment for mine. 

“What I do know is that, when I sat in the Congressional Chamber for the first time as president, nothing angered you more than to see me sitting in what you believed to be your rightful seat. In an unforeseen turn of events, a slimy serpent, who quite a few ponies recoil in disgust at the sight of, sat in the most sacred position of this country—when, in normal times, it should have gone to you. 

“This is the crucial flaw in your argument, dear Celestia: Its core, once exposed, dissolves away leaving only one fact. If the republic is so inherently flawed, if disputes were inevitable no matter who was in what position, then why were you so determined to become the head of its state? Why haven’t you extolled the virtues of monarchism before? It’s not like you wouldn’t have had any supporters. In fact, had you done so earlier, you probably would’ve beaten me. The fact is that you don’t believe a word of what you’ve said to me, and this whole insurrection that you’ve spearheaded is all designed to disguise your feeling that you should have been president and I should have faded into obscurity.

“And do you want to know something? I absolutely agree. You are loved by almost everypony, and I am a disturbed, disgruntled creature. You and your nobility are worshiped as gods, and ponies would bow in your presence, while I was shunned like a demon, and those same ponies would recoil in horror, just at my appearance. 

“I tell you, Celestia—and if there’s anything you take away from this conversation, be it this: in all my months of presidency, the thing I enjoyed the most was watching how angry you were at me, especially during that first congressional session. I loved how loud your cries of dissent were but how impotent and weak they became in my presence. I could see the righteousness and indignation in your eyes when you objected to any topic I tried to introduce, and those moments were the reason I looked forward to the sessions. You are part of the nobility, an ancient heritage that should have died out upon Unification; and it felt too good for me, a simple serf, to wield the highest power in this country over you, while you were helpless to my whim.” 

The president took a step closer toward Princess Celestia; and, for the first time, a look of terror appeared on her face. She gave ground as he took a second step closer. At this, the president’s horrifying smile only grew wider; and, to drive the point home, he said: “Do you hear me, Celestia? This was my prime motivator for my presidential actions, and the basis of all my war policies: there was nothing that gave me more pleasure than to watch you squirm.”

“I’ve had enough of this insanity!” she screamed, as she stumbled backwards. “Soldiers, I call you!”

No sooner had she said this than a flurry of gray and red leapt out from the thicket. Obviously sensing the urgency in her voice, they, with efficiency and expedition of professionals, assembled in front of her, forming a wall with their bodies to protect her from harm. 

Behind them, walking casually, was Princess Luna and General Buckner; the latter was still carrying the Elements of Harmony in their diamond-plated case. When these two got closer, they saw the expression of dread on Princess Celestia’s face, and they kicked up their pace to a quick jog, their feeling of dread increasing with every step they took.

“Our sister!” Princess Luna was the first to speak. “Pray tell, what is the cause of your ire?”

Sweat was forming on Princess Celestia’s temples as her eyes darted around the courtyard. “General Buckner,” she snapped, addressing the pony with epaulets, “we delegate our authority to you at this current point in time. Beckon to us when your deed is done.” And she made off toward the mansion and kept walking until she was out of sight behind one of the walls.

Immediately, General Buckner turned to face the president, who was left alone standing among the rubble of the statue. The president scratched his goatee and flicked his tail in anticipation, as he assumed a puzzled look on his face.

“The prisoner will stand to!” General Buckner yelled.

The president leaned against the cracked column. “I was born to stand to,” he replied, in a snark manner.

Without a moment’s hesitation or emotion in his voice, the general barked: “Make ready, and present arms!”

At this, every single pony in the line cocked the hammers on their rifles and leveled them at the president. Princess Luna averted her eyes.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa! Hold your horses!” yelped the president, his eyes bulging wide with surprise. He held out his paw and claw with their palms facing the line, urging them to stop.

“There is nothing that you can say that will abort or delay the inevitable,” General Buckner said, his voice icy-cold.

“That’s fine, and I accept that. However, regardless of the dubious legality concerning a summary execution, there are still unwritten conventions that must be followed, especially considering my eminent position.”

“Such as?”

“Well, for one thing, aren’t I entitled to speak my last words?”

The general hesitated. Then he said: “I suppose so. Out with it, then. My colts are impatient.”

“I wish to address them only to Luna. May she approach me?”

The general looked nervously at Princess Luna, who looked back at him with the same expression. Upon a tentative nod from her, he turned to the president and said: “Fine, I grant your request. But be warned: my colts are excellent sharpshooters; and, if you try to pull a fast one on the princess, they’ll be able to put you down in a second, without even leaving a scratch on her.”

“Come now, Colonel,”  said the president, emphasizing the rank with a cheeky grin. “You are—or, rather, were—a professor at the Republican Military College. You’re a soldier of the Union Army, first and foremost, and an RMC one at that: a teacher, a role model, of that university which emphasizes the virtues of loyalty and honor. If I were to assault Luna—if I were to take advantage of the right of the condemned to have his last words, which you, the honorable and loyal soldier you are, had been so noble to uphold—that would be rather dishonorable, wouldn’t you say? I’m surprised your expectations of me are so low, Colonel.” 

The soldiers looked with incredulity at their general—who was now starting to shake in his boots. They exchanged worried glances with each other, no doubt each one of them having second thoughts about their fearless leader—who had spoken so passionately about the need to stop the Union Army, those empty shells of soldiers who had been brainwashed by Discord. 

A bead of sweat dripped from General Buckner’s neck onto the gray fabric of his shoulder pad and then ran in a stream through his epaulets. He glanced nervously around at the prying eyes, each one questioning and judging him silently. 

In an effort to deter their attention, he gestured his hoof under the pretense of making an order; and, instantly, the soldiers resumed their professional countenances, obeying the general and ceasing to devote any more time in thinking about the president’s comment—like they had been trained to do. They parted, like a wave or like an amorphous single piece of mass, to make a path between Princess Luna and the president. 

They looked at her eagerly, as she slowly walked between them. She had reassumed that expressionless look of hers; and, as she got closer to the president, she saw that snarky grin dissolve into one of complete sublimity—the one she knew he was capable of doing and the one that she had always longed to see but rarely did.

When she came within three feet of him, he slouched to meet her at her height. He said nothing.

“I just want you to know that none of this was personal,” she said at length, emotionlessly. “You brought this upon yourself, and you should have seen it coming a long time ago.”

“I know,” said the president, in a completely calm and assuring voice. “And, for what it’s worth, I forgive thee.”

“Wasn’t there something you wanted to tell me?”

“Yes, there is. This is only for thine ears. You must promise to not tell anypony else. Do thou understand?”

“What is it?”

The president leaned over, just for a second, and whispered something incredibly brief into her ear. The soldiers tilted their heads toward the pair, hoping they could catch something, but all they heard was a short, muffled whisper. However, when the president leaned back, they saw that Princess Luna’s calm and reserved countenance had been replaced by one with pure shock and horror. She stepped back and looked at the president, who was looking at her slyly.

“What . . . what does that even mean?”

The president nodded for a second with his smile of contentment and assurance—before instantly assuming that deranged look of his; and Princess Luna, along with the soldiers, recoiled with surprise.

“It means nothing!” he hissed. “Absolutely nothing! You should see the look on your faces! Too funny!” 

After Princess Luna had overcome the initial shock, she looked back at him with that implacable stare of hers; and, without a single shred of fear, she said: “Your scary faces don’t work on me anymore, Discord. You look ridiculous. You’re just an overgrown infant who is crying for attention. Grow up.”

She could see the exact moment when her words had sunk into him, and his eyes drooped to show that pathetic stare he was constantly trying to hide. 

His weakly held out his claw, begging her to stay by his side for an instant longer, but she refused. Princess Luna turned around and walked back toward the firing line, giving them a clear line of sight to him. She did not even grant him the privilege of a second look back.

“Make ready and present arms!” the general yelled again, and the soldiers assumed their original stance. Princess Luna stared straight at the president this time.

“Wait, wait. Wait!” the president yelled a second time.

“What is it this time?” said General Buckner in a tired voice filled with impatience. “You’ve had your last words. What more do you want?”

In a monotone voice and with an accompanying blank expression, he stared straight at the general—not as an adversary, but as a colleague—and said: “I am the president of the United Republic of Equestria. I deserve not be shot like a rabid dog. It’s only right that I am permitted to choose the method of my execution.”

“I’m not going to delay the execution any longer to find you a more intricate manner of death just because you’re afraid of bullets.”

“No need. You defeated my army, the most powerful military force on the planet, with technologies that I cannot possibly fathom. I, too, am a soldier, and I wish to be granted the same death as my soldiers did. I want to see the power of the Elements of Harmony.”

At this, the general, once again, looked at Princess Luna. She did not deviate her gaze or shift her eyes nervously. She stared straight at the president and said: “Fine. Grant him this one thing. He deserves at least this.”

General Buckner nodded and unharnessed the case from his back. It was still unlocked from the time Princess Celestia had showed them to the president, and the lid swung open easily, exposing the six smooth stones. The general tapped on one gently with his hoof, and he said, speaking to the stones as a foal speaks to a doll: “Hello, dear Elements. Do you see that creature over there? That’s Discord; he’s responsible for all the damage done to your friends. He’s ready to face his punishment, and I hope you have something special in store for him.”

The stones remained motionless. 

The general looked up nervously at the president; the latter crossed his forearms, leaned on the destroyed column, and looked at the box skeptically.

“Give them a second; they’re exhausted,” the general said.

“Oh, by all means, take your time, Colonel,” the president replied. “Believe me when I say that I am literally the last creature on the face of the earth who wants you to rush this process. I’ll be right over here when you’re ready.” And the president slithered up onto the broken column and stood straight, tall, and proud. He then launched into the first verse of “The Good Fight for the Union.” 

As soon as he began to sing, the stones began to glow.

The soldiers harnessed their rifles and put their forehooves to their ears; the president was singing the tenor part of the song wildly off-key and in a manner which would cause pain to anypony present with even the smallest amount of taste in music. The louder and more cacophonic the president became, the brighter the stones glowed. When the president reached the refrain, he threw his head back and put all his horrible passion into it, and many of the soldiers dropped to their knees and pushed their heads to the ground, making low humming noises from the bottom of their throats, trying to drown the horrible sound out.

When the president attempted to sing the highest note, which resulted in the most discordant sound so far, an incredibly bright flash drowned out the scene in its light, and the soldiers moved their forehooves from their ears to their eyes. 

Down in Ponyville, the soldiers of the rebellion still stationed there stopped polishing their rifles and looked up the mountain at Canterlot. They saw the brilliant light erupt from the center of the city, and they threw their caps in the air while shouting many hurrahs in victory. The flash lasted for nearly ten seconds and burned into the retinas of everypony observing it. 

When the light finally started to die away, the rebels in Canterlot who were fortunate enough to be at the epicenter of this fantastical event slowly opened their eyes and rubbed them vigorously with their forehooves. 

When they finally looked at the column upon which the president had stood, they rubbed their eyes a second time, for they could not believe it: the president, on the highest note in his most victorious song, stood upon the podium completely petrified, as stone as the ruins of the statue around the column’s base—frozen in time, to be singing his song of hope in vain for forever.

The ponies looked at each other with expressions of amazement; even General Buckner and Princess Luna could not hide their awe. The Elements of Harmony had simply reeducated most of them; never had they done such a strange thing with their power. Even though this was on everypony’s mind, nopony spoke it, for it was not their place to question the intent of the Elements of Harmony.

Princess Celestia came out from her hiding place and her eyes were instantly drawn to the remnants of the president. After spending ten or twenty seconds simply staring in shock at the result, she finally managed to speak. “What has occurred here?” she asked, and every single pony mutter a silent thanks toward her, for prompting the question that was on all their minds.

General Buckner walked over to the statue and tapped on it. His hoof made a sonorous sound against the stone, music to the ears of everypony around—especially after hearing Discord destroy even music itself. He then turned to Princess Celestia, puffed out his chest, and said: “We’ve destroyed Discord with the Elements of Harmony—a fitting end for such a creature, if I do say so myself.”

Princess Celestia swallowed nervously and brushed a tangled piece of her mane that had fallen in front of her face out of the way. “Good . . . good. You’ve done satisfactorily, General. All of you have preformed satisfactorily. You have won. Now is the time for celebrations.”

The rebels yelled hurrahs, in the same manner as their comrades had done shortly before in Ponyville, and tossed their caps into the air. 

Princess Luna did not join in and just stared at the statue in contemplation. One of the soldiers took notice of her and stopped his boisterous cheering. He looked pleadingly at Princess Luna in the same manner as a newborn foal does when it wants something from its mother. Princess Luna, noticing this gesture, looked kindly at him and said: “You are permitted to speak.”

“Princess,” he said, “what did Discord say to you?”

Even through the loud cheering, the other soldiers still somehow managed to hear this almost whispered voice. Their minds had been actively searching for anything that had even remotely sounded like that phrase; and, upon sensing it being spoken verbatim, they stopped and turned their attention to Princess Luna, eagerly expecting an answer.

Princess Celestia heard it too, and she cut the rest of them off. “Sister? Did Discord utter something to you?”

Princess Luna looked at her sister hesitatingly. “We’d . . . we’d rather not repeat.”

This resulted in murmurs of confusion echoing through the entire ranks.

“Elucidate your position,” Princess Celestia responded.

“We have made a promise to the condemned, right before he was executed, and the condemned’s final request is sacred,” Princess Luna said, speaking to her sister with righteousness.

“Sister, we are disappointed that you would choose to hide grave information, passed on to you by our greatest enemy, that would no doubt be beneficial should it be given to the Friendship.”

“‘Twas nothing of importance. Complete nonsense.”

“Then you should have no compunctions recounting it.”

Princess Luna sighed. “If that is thy wish, my sister, then we shall say it; however, thou has been warned that it is useless.” And she, in front of every pony there, repeated the exact assortment of sounds the president had whispered in her ears.

Her listeners looked at her with complete confusion. The sounds were unconnected gibberish syllables, with no relation to any experiences they had had before. They sounded exactly the same as the sounds made by a chipmunk. They were completely meaningless, and the soldiers stood there scratching their heads, trying to figure out the importance the president had placed on them and why he felt the need to convey them in secrecy.

But even though nopony there had understood it, upon hearing it being said, it produced an indescribable effect on them: they felt their knees trembling beneath them and felt their hearts pounding furiously and vigorously to the point where everypony who had heard Princess Luna repeat the president’s last words could hear the pulse of their heart in their ears, drowning out any other noise in the world. The sounds produced a feeling of utmost terror in its listeners, as it had with Princess Luna when she had heard it from the president’s mouth—and which she had felt again upon repeating his words.

General Buckner loosened his collar and summoned up the courage to speak. He swallowed nervously and, with sweat pouring down his temples, said: “Princess Luna, if you don’t mind me asking: what does that even mean?”

“We have no idea,” she responded, not making eye contact with him and expertly hiding her emotions.

The general let out a dry cough and turned to Princess Celestia. “Your Grace, what do you make of it?”

Princess Celestia said nothing.

“Your Grace?” the general said again.

Princess Celestia’s eyes snapped to his, as if out of a trance. She stared at him blankly for a few seconds. Then, she assumed that warm smile she was so commonly seen exhibiting in public and said: “Who among us knows? And who cares? It was the rantings of a mad creature, who desired nothing but to plunge this beautiful world in chaos. If you try to ascribe a meaning to these rantings, you will find that you will grow as insane as he was. But no matter: the friendship is victorious.” Princess Celestia, noticeably breathing much heavier than she did normally, added: “Soldiers, rejoice! You have driven chaos from this land. You are now dismissed to enjoy yourselves. Go celebrate.”

The soldiers looked at each other in bewilderment and, instead of gallivanting away in a manner as soldiers who had just found victory on the battlefield and who had all their limbs intact should do, walked slowly and cautiously off the field, looking over their shoulders worriedly, their eyes jumping at the slightest movement.

One soldier did not join the others; instead, he went right up to Enforcer, who had stood silent for this entire scene. He put a forehoof gently on the assistant’s shoulder and then immediately took it off when Enforcer stumbled beneath its weight.

“Hey, Enforcer,” he said, soothingly and affectionately, “want me to make you a drink?”

Enforcer looked up at the soldier’s face, smiled weakly, and, with tears forming in his eyes, said: “Oh, Barley—you have no idea how long I’ve been waiting for you to ask me that.”
	
> Chapter XIII: Post Nubila Phoebus
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------


“No Article, Section, or Amendment shall be construed, nor Amendment be instantiated, to abridge any Article or Section of this Constitution.”

—Article XV, Section I of the Constitution of Meeting Tribes of Immediate Siblings



In the early hours of the morning of August the twentieth, 181 BC, a young private smoothed out his gray uniform on the floor of his tent and made sure that there was not a single crease in its red stripe, while his comrades lay fast asleep in their tents scattered across the streets of Canterlot, exhausted and relieved upon reaching the end of their long struggle. When he finished, he put it on and was instantly soothed by the warmth of its fibers, as if they were stroking him in congratulations for what he had just accomplished and in encouragement for what he was going to do next.

He put on his cap and started to walk down Mane Street. His rifle was slung over his shoulder and loaded; but the steam that was rising off the streets and the sound of the creaking of buildings, waiting for the slightest nudge to knock them down, told him that this precaution was probably unnecessary.

When he reached the foot of the tallest building in the city, he stepped back and looked up at it; and, for once, he was not intimidated by its height. This building, full of nearly four hundred office units, had been used for many purposes, constantly exchanging hooves to suit whatever purpose had been demanded of it by the economy of the city: Originally, it had been used as the location of hundreds of different radio broadcasting stations; then, it had been a medical building, specifically, one specially equipped to fight pandemics. Before the elections nine months ago, it had been the headquarters of the largest banking firm in Canterlot; and, from shortly before the protest up until now, it had been completely abandoned. On its roof was a long, narrow, chrome spire which shot straight up into the sky, more often than not beyond the clouds. It seemed to pierce straight through them, breaking up the clouds the weather factory happened to send by Canterlot that day, leaving long gashes in their surfaces as they drifted away, which seemed to serve as a warning to interlopers who would dare to consider encroaching on the building and its clear goal that it was very well-armed.

The private looked up at this building and, instead of seeing the powerful monolith daring anypony to stand in its way, he saw a gaping hole in its side, water dripping out of it and papers being blown away into the night by the capricious winds that held domain at that altitude. Instead of the bright chrome spire, which shone like a beacon of victory even in the darkest hours of the night, he saw nothing but black against a black sky: the spire had been covered in soot from the dust in the contrails of the countless number of shells that streaked by it so that now it was completely black. The sun would rise in about half an hour and, for the first time, the spire would not amplify and reflect its beams to whomever looked at it; before it would eventually collapse due to damage, decay, and lack of maintenance, the spire would now absorb and block the light of sky, drawing the gaze of anypony who happened to look in that direction, and it would leave a sinking feeling in their hearts, leaving them to wonder what went wrong. The victory beacon had turned into one of distress, warning the city and its residents that they were not safe, and that the building could not watch over them any longer.

There was a reason that the private did not feel the building’s usually imposing presence: it had been disarmed and was now awaiting death. As such, even as he climbed up the sixty-seven flights of stairs to reach the observation deck and felt the stairs creak under his hooves, he did not feel the building would swallow him whole at any second; he felt as if the groaning of the building was one of pain, that it had submitted and was begging for him to show it mercy.

When he reached the observation deck, he saw the light from the impending sun had caused the clouds on the horizon to grow a dull purple. He could not see the impact craters scattered around the city, caused by the hundreds of shells that had bombarded it for hours, but he could nonetheless tell where they hit: the city of Canterlot, for as long as it had stood, had always inundated any observer who was fortunate enough to look at it with its countless number of lights, signaling activity. The private could tell where the shells had landed from where there was blackness, nothingness, in the light grid which separated all the lost lights, which flickered in the wind, seemingly calling for one another.

He took a deep breath at the sight, and he envied his comrades who would wake up that morning victorious—while he had one final mission to do.

He unharnessed his rifle and set it down on the floor of the observation deck, leaning the barrel against the guard rail. He then turned around and cast a worried eye up the spire of the tower. 

Up close, the charred black column looked even more menacing; and, for a brief second, the soldier thought about turning around and heading back down the stairs, so that he may be there when his friends woke up. He shook his head, removed his cap, and wiped the sweat from his brow, closing his eyes and letting the high altitude winds blow through his mane.

After scanning the base of the spire for five or six minutes, he saw that there was a line of decorative grooves lining one of its sides, running its entire length and ending at a flag pole—on which sat the tattered flag of the United Republic of Equestria. 

He began to climb. The grooves fit his hooves perfectly, and he started to make his slow, deliberate ascent to the top of the spire. 

A quarter of the way up, a powerful spine-chilling wind buffeted him. He pulled his body closer to the spire and pressed his face against the chilling metal, while the wind blew the cap off his head. As he watched it spiral into the dawn, he looked down at the city, and his body froze with fear when it became clear to him how high he was and the physical danger that it had presented. He looked back down at the observation deck, not far below him, and his foot almost went down a notch, as he thought about how easy it would be at this point to climb down and catch his breath. But then he looked back up at the top of the spire, at the flag of Equestria which flapped in the breeze, as if it was provoking him to come up there to start a fight. 

He swallowed; and, after noticing his throat was dry, took a drink from his canteen harnessed to his belt, then raised a shaky hoof to reach the next notch.

One rung at a time, he thought, one rung at a time. That rung was easy. This next rung will be easy; that was indeed easy! Step, lift, clutch, repeat, and the flag looked less grim and less omnipotent with every single iteration.

He reached the top; and when he stared right into the fabric of the flag, its tip skimming the front of his nose, he used his forehoof not holding onto the notch to lift it out of its holder. With a great swing, he maneuvered it out of line with the spire. Then, with an implacable eye, he studied its features. As its little torn pieces thrashed helplessly in his clutches, he saw past its facade and he saw the truly impuissant core that lay within it—and there was absolutely no qualms in his mind when he unfurled his hoof and watched it plummet. 

The threads twirled haphazardly as it fell, like the forehooves of a drowning pony looking for anything to grab onto, as it was dragged down by the reality of gravity—before hitting onto the floor of the observation deck, the pole sending out splinters horizontally as it shattered. 

When the private looked down on the flag, he could see that it was no longer twitching. Sheltered by the solid concrete guard rail, the wind did not fill its sails; it lay there, lifeless, as cold and dead as the bodies of the Union soldiers lying in the fields around Equestria, who had died so that it may not have.

Just then, the private saw the sun peek its head out from the cusp of the horizon; and, as the light raced across the city, it seemed to illuminate his face with a large smile. With his free forehoof, he opened a pouch on his belt and pulled out a small brass bugle.

He turned to face the sun and pressed the bugle to his mouth, with his other forehoof wrapped around the metal bar of the empty flag holder. With all the energy and passion he could convey through his lips, he played, loudly and clearly, the song he had heard every night when he had been a recruit in the Eighteenth Baltimare Volunteer Infantry Regiment. This song, a traditional tune played in every single camp in the Union Army, signaled the onset of dusk, the call to every Union soldier to unlace his boots and to retire for the evening. When he had heard the bugler in his crow’s nest sounding this tune across the camp, in his days before he had seen the magic of friendship, he, and all other federal soldiers, had known that it was time to end the day, to return to their cots and to sleep until they heard the call to war again in the morning.

But, as the private hung there, blaring out this tune across the city so that every single one of the soldiers in their tents would awake to hear it, it was no longer a command of withdrawal, to recede into the night: at this time, in this context, being played by a private proudly wearing the insignia of the Army of the Friendship upon his breast, having just toppled the selfish flag of the Union, perched on the summit of the ruins of Equestria’s most arrogant and egotistical building, and who was now sending this song across the city as a message to his companions, it was a cry of victory.


* * *


The first ray of the light of dawn hit Enforcer square in the eyes through the large window behind the desk in the Horseshoe Office. He was standing in the threshold of the door immediately opposite the window, and he instantly slammed his eyes shut, rubbing them vigorously with his left forehoof. He felt the veins in his temples throbbing; and, with each pulse, his teeth clenched harder together. 

He turned around to face the hallway, and he saw three stern faces staring back at him. He blinked rapidly; and then he recognized them as the three ponies who had found him slumped over on his desk, with a half empty bottle casting an oblong shadow over him in the light of a single lantern burning on the table; had picked him up, had shaken him out of his torpor; and, almost quite literally, had dragged him to this room. Enforcer had heard their voices in his half-conscious state, and he had heard himself mumble something in response; but, as he stood there now and stared at them with a blank look on his face, he could see in their postures that they expected something of him; however, he could not ascertain as to what.

“Why did you bring me here?” he whispered groggily, his voice registering in his consciousness this time.

Directly in front of him stood two ponies, one unicorn and one pegasus, both with rifles slung over their backs. The pegasus was a pale purple; and her mane was a dark orange, which looked brown, covered as it was in dust and dirt. Across her face were many cuts and bruises, and on her right hindleg was a loosely tied bandage. 

The unicorn was a dark blue and, unlike the pegasus, was in his full fatigues, albeit with each brass button missing so that the front of the gray coat swung freely like a vest. His oversized gray cap that accompanied his uniform fell down over his eyes and his blonde mane stuck out through a thin hole in its top, suggesting that it had been punctured with a bayonet. 

Behind these two figures was a tall earth-pony: he was dressed in a full dress uniform, impeccably pressed and adorned, with shiny pieces of colored metal across its breast and his shoulder pads. His mane was perfectly combed, with not a hair out of place, and had a sleek shine. The shine was reflected by a thin layer of water that covered it, which told Enforcer he had just stepped out of the shower down the hall. Enforcer recognized him as the lieutenant who had brought the president to Princess Celestia.

“Thou are going to help us look through Discord’s office,” said this last pony. “Since thou were so close to him, it will be easier for thee to find articles of importance. Thou need to make thyself useful, to do thy part for the Friendship.”

Enforcer shrugged lightly, his shoulders aching the more he moved them, and he stared at the soldiers, impassively.

“Well, come on, you old geezer,” said the unicorn. With his forehoof, he turned Enforcer around to face the interior of the room and then gave him a firm shove, which sent him head first into the room. Enforcer stumbled a few steps inward, trying to regain his balance, and then fell face first into the room’s carpeting. As he peeled his face off the carpet, he heard sounds of laughter coming from behind him.

“Wow,” he heard the unicorn say. “Are all you pegasi so clumsy?”

“Not usually,” he heard the pegasus reply. “For whatever reason, gravity seems to pull him harder than the rest of us. Having trouble there, Solid-Bones?” 

As he heard pejorative laughing erupt from behind him, Enforcer frowned; he had not heard that insult since elementary school, on the day when his wing had cramped in mid-flight and he had plummeted like a rock right through a cloud. The phrase was immediately hurtful to any school-aged pegasus that had heard it, resulting in the object of the insult suffering irreparable scars that were carried all through adulthood; and, under normal circumstances, it would have filled Enforcer with rage if it were not for the fact that when he put weight on his forehooves in order to lift himself up, they shook uncontrollably and unreliably. When he shifted some of the weight to his hindlegs, they too shook as if they were about to crumble like an condemned building. With the unreliability of his own limbs, the way he could no longer trust them to perform his basic tasks, as if they were as despondent as his own mind, made Enforcer shrug off the insult, as he believed his bones were anything but solid.

After a pathetic flailing of his extremities, which only exacerbated the laughing, Enforcer made it to his hooves and looked at the two rifleponies. They were no longer laughing; with the short attention span peculiar to foals, they were not looking at him anymore and were now looking out the window to the rising sun, which had now completely cleared the horizon and was now filling the office with its candescent light. 

Enforcer looked back toward the window; and, at his hooves, he now saw the shattered chandelier, with its glass strewn across the room. It was only now he noticed in how much disarray the office was in: in addition to the gaping crack in the middle of the window, many of the filing cabinets had been knocked over, spilling their once deliberate contents all over the floor. Enforcer’s heart fluttered for a second as he glanced at one of them and saw that it contained sensitive material, but then he breathed a sigh of relief, figuring that the two unwashed grunts in front of him would never be able to read it.

“Amazing,” said the unicorn, “look at that sunrise: the start of a new day and the beginning of a victorious Friendship.”

“And we’re stuck here, doing clerical work,” grumbled the pegasus. “We should be out in the streets, celebrating with our friends who we’ve fought and died along side of. I’m a soldier, not a janitor! It’s not fair!” And she kicked over a small table with a lamp on it that she was standing next to, that somehow had miraculously not fallen over in the bombing. The table toppled to the ground, its circular top breaking off and pathetically rolling a few feet before spinning in on itself and settling on the ground. The lamp’s lightbulb shattered against the floor, sending out its shards of glass to intermingle with those of the chandelier’s.

“Hey!” Enforcer snapped, feeling a small, reassuring surge of that youthful energy that he had thought had completely drained from his body. “Have a little respect for this room! Whether you like it or not, this room is still a part of your history. You may have defeated it, but at least let it be until it’s decommissioned and repurposed. Don’t add insult to injury!”

He breathed heavily, and he bared his teeth at the two rebels who stood in front of him. He expected them to relax and to give a nod of deference, but when he saw their features harden and pure anger brewing in their eyes, his energy completely drained in an instant; and he keeled over, put a hoof to his mouth, and erupted into a horrible coughing fit. His throat burned with each spasm, and he convulsed there helplessly. The only thing he could do was to wait for it to stop.

When it finally subsided, his looked up at them, his eyes bloodshot and watering. He expected to see at least some signs of pity mixed with the anger after that spectacle, but all he saw was a look of condescension, along with the aforementioned anger.

“I’m going to pretend thou didn’t say that,” said the pegasus, raising her eyebrow at him—and she pulled a filing drawer out of the wall and held it upside down until its papers dropped to the floor. 

The unicorn looked at Enforcer, shrugged his shoulders, and then bent down and started gazing at the documents.

“You’re to take this room apart, paper by paper,” said the pony in the dress uniform, standing outside the room. “Anything you find of interest should be reported to me immediately; and I shall take it to Captain Pierce, who will take it to the general, who will take it to Princess Celestia should he find it noteworthy. Is that understood?”

“Yes, Lieutenant,” the two rifleponies grumbled.

“Do not try to hoard anything for yourselves, to sell as war-mementos or any other juvenile purpose your stupid little heads might think up. Everything you find goes directly to me. If you choose to go against this order, it will be considered as treason, and it will be dealt with accordingly.”

“Yes, sir,” they said. 

The lieutenant nodded to them and headed off down the hallway. The two rebels started toward the filing cabinets.

“At least make sure you know where everything was,” piped Enforcer, meekly. “I spent months organizing them perfectly, getting the filing system just the way I like it. I can find anything, anywhere, and within seconds, so I’d appreciate it if you kept everything straight—”

They did not even find him worthy to warrant a second glance and began to pull out the shelves.

“Oh, forget it,” Enforcer mumbled. “I was the only pony who understood it, anyway.”

Enforcer moved toward the large desk in front of the window. He saw the antique chair behind it lying on its side, presumably knocked over during the bombardment yesterday. He bent down to lift it up, and he heard and felt a loud crack emitting from his spine, accompanied by a dull ache. He grit his teeth and tried to ignore it, looking over toward his two helpers to see if they had noticed. 

The unicorn was poking through an overfilled folder with his bayonet, and the pegasus was looking at an old desk sculpture, hoof-carved from wood. 

Enforcer maneuvered his shoulders behind the chair and heaved it upright, and he was surprised at how heavy it felt now, despite having performed this action many times over the course of many years. He then slid the chair out of the way of the desk. 

As his eyes wandered around the room, he then noticed, against the north wall, a large canvas laying face down on the floor. Behind it, its string was poking up in the air, as if begging somepony to orient it upright.

Enforcer swallowed nervously; and, as he went over to it and grabbed the string with his teeth, he hoped that it had not been the painting he thought it was—but he knew very well that he was lying to himself. 

After pulling it up and putting it against the window, he walked around to the other side of it, and he looked straight into President Platinum’s eyes. She still had the calm, reassuring stare, as if she had not even been dazed by the fall of her capital city.

“That’s Platinum!” came a voice from behind him; and Enforcer turned around to see the unicorn staring at him, grinning avariciously, his eyes wide with hunger. “Oh, how I’ve always longed to do this.” And he began to walk toward Enforcer, who was still crouched in front of the canvas as if to protect it.

“Wait!” yelled the pegasus, holding out her wing in front of him, blocking his path. “That’s the princess’s ancestor, isn’t it? She’ll want that for herself. If nothing else, she deserves the right to put her hoof through it herself.”

“Ah, come now!” the unicorn whined. “It’s a dirty relic of the awful Union, as dirty as anything else here. Who cares about rights? I found it first, and I get to have it!”

“Oh no thou don’t!” the pegasus yelped, and she jumped off her hooves and barreled toward Enforcer, the unicorn in hot pursuit behind her. Enforcer dove out of the way just in time as the pegasus landed head-first into the painting, the unicorn landing on top of her almost immediately afterwards.

He watched them scramble over it, trying to yank it out of each other’s grasp. They pulled each other’s manes and maneuvered themselves into the center of the room, playing a game of tug-of-war, the painting serving as the rope. And all Enforcer could do was shake his head sadly. 

Enforcer turned back to the large desk and looked at its drawers; and he noticed that, on each one on the left side of the desk, there was a small white label; and, on closer inspection, he saw that the writing was not his—it was the president’s.

He bent down and pushed his face an inch away from the drawers, squinting so that he may be able to read the tiny writing. There were four drawers on the left, arranged one on top of the other and increasing in size as they went down, and they were within close reach of anypony sitting at the desk. 

The topmost drawer read: “Illegible Documents (give to Enforcer).” Enforcer gave a silent, sad chuckle as he read this, and he clasped his forehoof around the handle and pulled open this drawer. 

When he looked inside, he gave an audible laugh when he saw that the inside was completely empty.

Enforcer looked up and saw the two soldiers staring at him with puzzled expressions on both of their faces. They had stopped their quarrel under unknown terms and were now standing over a couple of black strongboxes with a series of buttons corresponding to numbers written directly above them. 

The canvas was lying on its face in the corner closest to the door. Amazingly, the picture, despite the battle that had just taken place, had no visible tears or scars.

“Just,” Enforcer mumbled, “just some amusing memories . . .”

The pegasus gave him a dirty look, made a clicking sound with her tongue at him, and then looked back at one of the boxes. She unharnessed her rifle; and she hovered slightly above the carpet, the air from her wingbeats ruffling a few papers around on the floor—much to the chagrin of the unicorn who was glancing over them—grabbed her rifle with both of her forehooves, and then slammed the butt of it against the lid of the box. The rifle bounced off harmlessly, leaving no scratch in the metal. 

After tucking the rifle under one of her forelegs, she wiped the sweat off of her brow with the other. Then, grasping the rifle more firmly, she brought it down on the box again—and then a third time. 

Enforcer turned back to the drawers, not even aware that his face gave a convulsive twitch every time the grating sound of metal on metal filled his ears.

The second drawer, slightly bigger than the first, was labeled “Speeches.” The third drawer was labeled “Congressional Documents.” The fourth drawer, bigger than the first three combined, was simply labeled “Misc.” Enforcer gave a shrug of his shoulders and wrapped one of his forehooves around the handle. He gave it a tug; and, when he found that it did not open, he put his other forehoof around the handle and pulled with all of his might. The drawer creaked, and then began to open slowly.

Enforcer, delighted at his progress, sat down on the ground, out of breath. He loosened his tie and then got back into his crouching position with his two forehooves around the handle, ready to try again. After two or three minutes of hard pulling, he had opened up the drawer a satisfactory amount so he could see inside. He stood up, panting, and looked into it.

The drawer was compacted with beige folders, all filled to the brim. There was no empty space in this drawer, and the folders were so tightly packed together that they looked like they would forcibly eject out of their positions if they were so much as tapped.

Enforcer gave a weak smile: this was one thing that he remembered he was good at.

He glanced around him, looking for a suitable place to work. Upon finding nothing, he stepped back—hoping that it would increase his visual span of the room—and his legs bumped into something. He spun around and saw the chair that he had put upright moments ago. 

He grabbed its armrests and was about to pull it toward him when he stopped and gave a good hard stare at it: It was a wood chair with a plush pink cushion. The wood’s varnish made the surface immaculately smooth, and the wood glowed almost a bright red due to it. The arm rests were curved downwards and ended in a rough curl, almost like a lion’s paw. The legs stood perfectly straight and were all exactly equal lengths. The back of the chair was also lined with the pink plush, like the seat cushion; and it curved backwards and flared out at the sides, giving the illusion that the occupant of the chair had broad, commanding shoulders. Every detail about the chair, every curve and every carving, gave signs of an expert hoof, giving the same amount of care to the chair as he would with his own child. Thus, it is no surprise that this was the president’s personal chair.

It was this reason that Enforcer stopped himself from plopping down in it immediately to assume his clerical duties. He looked at the chair and he took a step back from it. It had been the same chair that President Cadenza had sat in while she had waited for the police to arrest her, and it had been the same chair that President Heartfelt had sat in, pouring over stacks of military documents and written speeches during the earliest hours in the morning. The sun would rise; and, from this chair, President Heartfelt would see Enforcer sitting across the room in a modest, brown chair with a white polyester cushion and a black fabric net in its backrest, staring back at him through nearly-shut eyes with dark bags underneath them, with the only thing keeping them from shutting into a deep sleep would be the smile underneath them, directed toward President Heartfelt with pure admiration. 

This lesser chair also saw the presidential assistant casting a filial glance at President Cadenza who, while being escorted from the Horseshoe Office, looked back at him for some reassurance and who shed a silent tear when she saw her assistant looking back at her with his mouth open, dying for her to explain what went wrong. In this chair, now sat a disheveled, foul-smelling unicorn, who was prying at the crack in the strongbox with his teeth.

Enforcer sighed. There was no honor, no heroes in the world anymore.

He turned around and gently lowered himself into the president’s chair. As soon as he touched the cushion, his body instantly surrendered; and he gave another sigh but, this time, in total relaxation. The chair was truly fit for a king—or rather, a president.

This repose only lasted for a second; then, Enforcer eyes weakly opened as he remembered the monumental task ahead of him. He put his hooves around the arm rest and, with his hooves pushing against the floor, dragged the chair to the desk. He leaned down without getting up—but not without that cracking noise in his back along with the dull ache—and, with both hooves, grabbed as many folders as he could. With great effort, he lifted the folders up out of their place, with the intent to place them on the desk. Halfway up to their destination, he was forced to stand up on his hind legs and flutter his wings to support himself, so that his entire body would contribute to this task, which used to be so simple to him once upon a time. 

Finally, he brought them above the desk and was relieved to let them drop. He expected a startling thud when they hit the desk, but all he heard when they made contact was the quiet sound of papers rustling. He grunted and then leaned down to grab some more folders.

When he had finished pulling out the last of the folders, he collapsed back into the chair, exhausted. Between the two stacks of folders that formed towers on the desk, he looked over to his two companions. The unicorn was still sitting on the chair, apparently having given up with the strongbox, and was now dopily looking through one of the folders in front of him. Enforcer watched the unicorn’s eyes carefully for a few moments, and not once did he see a single flash of comprehension pass across them. Enforcer shook his head disappointingly and looked over at the pegasus, who was standing and looking filially at the assorted sculptures in a glass case near the door.

Enforcer grabbed the top file off the stack and opened it. “Form J128 . . . 129 . . . 6503 . . .” he mumbled to himself, as he had done every day for more than forty years.

Like any experienced clerk doing repetitive work for an extended amount of time, Enforcer turned his conscious mind off and let it operate on its own through the routine tasks. He even became unaware of his own mumblings. Like clockwork, the stack of unread folders slowly began to shrink; while his new stack of files—already perused—grew at an equal rate to the one that was waning.

When he got halfway through the stack, Enforcer was startled when he was thrust back into his conscious state. His experience told him that this only happened for one reason: there was clearly a discrepancy in his organization system. His heart started to pump viciously, and he leafed through the stack of folders he had already read looking for something he may have missed. Finally, it occurred to him that he had dropped a piece of paper or had forgotten to pull it out of the drawer. 

He looked down, and he put a hoof over his chest in relief when he saw a lone piece of paper in the drawer.

He hastily leaned over, picked it up, and was about to turn his mind off a second time when another discrepancy appeared, regarding the action he had just taken. He looked back into the empty slot, and he noticed that he had lifted up the piece of paper, leaving the compartment empty—and exposing a small latch on the bottom of the drawer. The latch was painted brown, the same brown as the wood that surrounded it; and, had it not been covered by the folders, it probably would have been missed by a casual observer. 

Enforcer leaned over to the right of the desk, pulled the largest drawer on that side open—with, surprisingly, relative ease—and, seeing that it was completely empty, looked at the bottom. He, through five administrations, had always regarded the desk as perfectly symmetrical, but as he looked into this other drawer, this image was shattered as he saw that it had no accompanying latch.

Instinctively, he leaned back over to the left drawer and pulled the latch. He heard the sound of a gear turning and almost immediately afterwards felt something soft hit his hooves that had been resting on the ground. He looked down and saw a small brown book, a bright red ribbon snaking out of one of its pages. 

Enforcer got out of his chair, bent down, looked up at the underbelly of the desk, and saw a single flap dangling wide open. The hinges were on the inside, meaning that the door would have been nearly invisible to anypony looking at it in its closed state.

Enforcer grinned at such a clever contraption and his acute abilities of discernment for having found it, as he closed it shut with a satisfying click. Then, he reached for the book. 

He opened up the cover and read:


Disce’s Diary
KEEP OUT
(Yes, that includes thee, Enforcer)


Enforcer giggled when he saw that in place of the titles on the three i’s, the president had chosen to use hearts in a pink pen. He smiled at the president’s foresight at specifying that he specifically not read the contents of his diary.

All of the sudden, as if struck by a spear straight through his chest, Enforcer dropped the book to the floor and gave an inaudible gasp, as the full implication of what the book was finally settled in. His hooves turned icy cold, and his face and ears burned fiercely; the symptoms of a dark secret nestling in his brain finally started to show. 

His hooves shaking, he reached down and picked up the book.

Holding it behind the desk, obscured from view, he shot a furtive glance back at the soldiers. When he saw that they still had not bothered to pay any attention to him or his activities, he propped up a folder against his desk and put the book behind it. 

He summoned up the courage to turn to the second page; and he read the following passage, spanning nearly four pages, while looking up at the soldiers after reading every two words:

What, are you illiterate? I told thee not to read this!

If thou are still reading and thou happen to still be alive, that must mean that I’m not around to strangle thee personally. And the only reason I can think of which causes me to be absent is that I’ve been captured or killed. Consequently, the only two ponies I can think of who would be able to get this close to me to be able to read this is Luna, my dear friend and vice president, and Enforcer, my loyal servant. However, the only one observant and thorough enough to find this would be Enforcer; and, therefore, it is to him that I address this forward.

The entries in this diary date from December the 26th (thou will know this as the day the first act of war, that dreadful spell, was implemented by the Union) until now, whatever this day is. By now, if everything goes according to planned, I will have become a being of unspeakable evil and destruction. I am completely aware that there will be no return down this path, but I have chosen the path regardless as I feel that there is no other option. 

Enforcer, thou hold in thy hooves the physical manifestation of my inner thoughts and feelings, which I’ll do my best to keep updated as I am consumed by this voracious power.

If this book fell to thee under unpleasant circumstances, then I must say that I am truly sorry, Enforcer: thou will never be able to understand how much it hurts me, knowing that thou should succumb to the negative effects of my ensuing chaotic whim. I know that now it will be of no assurance, but thou need to believe me when I say that everything that follows, everything terrible that will no doubt ensue, is absolutely necessary: for thee, for me, for every single citizen of Equestria.

After the date December 26th, nearly everything I say to thee and the ponies around me, nearly anything that comes out of my mouth will be a lie. This is precisely why I’m keeping this diary: the following pages contain the untarnished truth, the honesty that still lives inside of me and which can never completely be silenced. Truth isn’t dead, Enforcer. It sticks around through good times and bad; it’s that nagging feeling thou get in the back of thy head that thou can’t seem to get rid of. But for my purposes, it needs to be locked away, forever hidden from view. And that’s why I’ve kept this diary: to lock the truth away, to keep it in a dungeon of my choosing, where I am its only guard.

As president of the United Republic of Equestria, I order thee to do one last thing for me, dear presidential assistant: thou need to guard this book with thy life until thou can see it personally delivered into the hooves of Luna. Tell her what this book contains, and tell her that she needs to read it. She will no doubt stick up her nose, telling thee that I’ve already told her what the truth is, but thou need to be insistent. Thou need to make sure that thou do not leave her side until she takes the book from thee. This book is written for her and her only.

Which brings me to thee, Enforcer. Thou do not have my permission to look through this book. Obviously, evidenced by the fact that thou are still reading this, I’m powerless to stop thee; but, if I wasn’t, believe me that I would. Thou are smart, Enforcer; but thou couldn’t possibly understand, or live with, the truth. 

There’s a good reason why I’ve incarcerated the truth: it, under no circumstances, can be granted parole to anypony but Luna. It would be too dangerous. Thou has spent a good portion of thy life living a lie, Enforcer, and it would be too traumatic for thee, or anypony else, to be exposed to the truth. General Hoop, when I exposed him to the truth outright, confirmed my suspicions about its danger: he was unable to cope with it; and it caused him, the strongest soldier that we ever had, to take his own life.

Enforcer, I’m not telling thee to not read this book because of some massive secret; I’m telling thee to stay away, because I care about thee, and the last thing I want to see happen to thee is to meet the same unfortunate end that the general did.

After thou deliver the book, go home, Enforcer. Go live the rest of thy days in whatever peace thou can still possibly find in this world. Thou have always been loyal, and there’s nothing I appreciate more than that. Out of every single pony in Equestria, there’s nopony that deserves tranquility more than thee. Good luck.

For what possibly may be the last time,
Disce Cordis, president of the United Republic of Equestria

Enforcer looked up from the book with a blank stare on his face. Then, after looking intently at the two soldiers and waiting for them to both turn their backs simultaneously, he surreptitiously slipped the book into his jacket’s breast pocket.


* * *


Princess Celestia stood on the roof of the Presidential Mansion watching the sunrise. She closed her eyes as she allowed its rays to embrace her fully, smiling as she felt its warmth on her face.

She turned to her right and saw her sister. Princess Luna’s forelegs were sprawled out over the balcony’s guard rail; she was staring at the ground, presumably at the massive impact crater right in front of the mansion, still giving off its black smoke.

“That’s beautiful,” Princess Celestia said, wistfully, turning back toward the rising sun. “Oh, my sister: thou have no idea how much I’ve missed the sunrise. Not a moment went by during my seven months in our family’s bunker that I didn’t consider opening up that trap door and exposing myself to the Union Army, just to be able to see this.”

She rubbed her eyes with one of her forehooves, trying to massage out the bags underneath them. “In an environment sequestered from the rest of the world, which is only lit by lamps that burn eternally, time has no meaning. The concepts of ‘day’ and ‘night’ become meaningless, and one simply works when one needs to. But it’s all over, my sister—we’ve won. Finally, now, we can rebuild.”

Princess Luna said nothing and still glared down at the crater.

“Why are thou so melancholic, sister?” said Princess Celestia, turning her head toward Princess Luna. “We have achieved a victory today, and the future is nothing but bright.”

“I’m just thinking about all those who have died to get us here: those who are unable to celebrate what we have achieved,” she murmured, still not looking her sister in the eyes.

“It is true that we have made some sacrifices, but they have all been necessary, for thou can see the new world that has emerged out of it.”

Princess Luna turned her head sharply toward her sister and stood up straight. Her brow furrowed; and, in a caustic voice, she said: “Why do thou speak as if the lives of those dead ponies belonged to thee? Why do thou speak of them, not as separate entities, but as a part in a collective? They were all individuals, every one of them, with a mind and consciousness, which had been abruptly destroyed without warning or reason. They were fighting for themselves, for a better future, one that they will never get to see. How can thou speak so nonchalantly about them?”

Princess Celestia turned toward her sister. Her mane blocked out the sun and shrouded her face in complete darkness when she said: “I’m sensing doubt, Princess Luna. I’m sensing a bit of hostility and fear on thy part. Is this true?”

“I’d be lying if I said there wasn’t.”

Princess Celestia sighed, and she bowed her head to the ground. “Princess Luna, thou know that this can’t work unless thou are in it fully and unwaveringly. I thought thou promised me that thou wouldn’t go back, that thou would stay with me and our family, and that we would support thee if thou needed it.” 

At this, she looked back up at Princess Luna. When Princess Luna saw that there was nothing in her sister’s eyes but a full expression of familial love, she closed her eyes, trying to hold back her tears.

“Thou are right,” Princess Luna said. “Thou are absolutely right.”

“So, can thou do this?”

“Yes,” she choked, “yes, I’m with thee. I’m with thee until the very end.”

“Good,” Princess Celestia said, a warm smile appearing across her lips. She raised one of her forehooves in front of Princess Luna. 

Princess Luna looked back into Princess Celestia’s eyes once more; and, when she saw that that reassuring expression had not left her face, she leaned over and gently kissed her sister’s hoof.

“So, what happens now?” Princess Luna said, turning back toward the balcony.

Princess Celestia looked back toward the sun, and she said: “I go make the announcement.”

“What will thou say?”

“Well, I was hoping thou could help me with that. I’ve got the details worked out quite extensively in my head; I just wanted to run them by thee, to make sure that thou know exactly how we will usher in a new Equestria.”

Expecting a response, Princess Celestia glanced over to her sister. Princess Luna was still staring at the crater, as if she had not heard a word.

“I will go to them,” Princess Celestia went on. “I will go to them and tell them that friendship has emerged triumphant. I will say that we, thou and I, will be their guiding hooves as, together, we rebuild the country from the ground up.”

“Are thou going to tell them that thou executed the president?” Princess Luna said in an off-hoof monotone.

Princess Celestia turned with a stern look; and a mixture of incredulity, confusion, and suspicion caused her brow to narrow and her nostrils to flair. “Excuse me?” she said.

“That’s what they wanted, right? I mean, there’s not a pony in the Army of the Friendship who did not dream of coming here, to Canterlot, and ending that miserable creature’s life. Is there nothing they want more than to hear thee shout that fact from the rooftops of his conquered castle?”

“I thought about that, but I ultimately decided against it.”

Princess Luna turned back to her sister, her jaw wide open. “Excuse me? Why ever not?”

“I fear that if I come off as dogmatic as he did, as blood-thirsty as he was, it will scare them. There’s no common cause they all share. They don’t know what they were fighting for, and if I say something extreme, it will inevitably scare a great deal of them to hear their inner most thoughts. Thou saw how easy it was to incite them to rebellion, Luna. If they even suspect any bit of hostility, pugnaciousness, or authoritativeness on my part, it won’t be long until they rebel a second time. They’re like anxious cats, Luna: if thou make a loud noise, they’ll jump. It’s best to take this slowly. If I were to tear up the COMTOIS—figuratively, of course—in front of them and then proceed to crown thee as queen of Equestria, they’ll fight, as they’re so ready to fight against anything they perceive as an authority figure. If we press the issue gently, they’ll wake up one day, who knows how many years from now, and realize that they’re living in a monarchy—and if we play this right, they won’t be able to imagine living any other way. But we must be patient, sister.”

Princess Luna’s features relaxed, and she bowed her head in respect to her sister. “Thou are right. I don’t want another conflict; I want to live in peace.”

Because she was looking at the ground, Princess Luna did not see the flash of reservation across her sister’s face. All she felt was a calm, firm, hoof on her shoulder and her sister saying: “That’s what we all want, dear sister. Now, come look at the sun with me; we have a lot of work ahead of us, and we won’t be able to see it like this for a while. Look at that! Do thou see how the rays, skimming off of their surfaces, make the clouds glow with that beautiful pink-red hue? The future is going to be bright, and we’re ready for it.”
> Chapter XIV: Adversus Solem ne Loquitor
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------


“Barring Death or sufficient Proof of physical Incapacitation, the President shall be present to observe the Oath of his Successor.”

—Article XIV, Section XX of the Constitution of Meeting Tribes of Immediate Siblings



A dark plume of smoke, suffocatingly black and dense, rose from a large impact crater, which had a radius of nearly two hundred yards. The crater itself was partly obscured by the twisted and malformed skeleton of the colonnaded building that surrounded it; but, because the remains of the iconic sculptures and architectural decorations could still be made out against the soot and the ash, one could still tell that this phantom of a building was once the Hall of Congress. 

Princess Celestia approached the podium in the field in front of this sight; and, unlike her ancestor, who had stood in that exact spot about one hundred fifty years ago, was greeted with a roaring crowd. Her adulators were the soldiers of the Army of the Friendship, the heroes of the Battle of Canterlot, who had pitched tents—so that they would not have missed their princess’s speech—in the grass that remained in the strip directly in front of the Hall of Congress and in the smaller, though no less black, craters that dotted the field in front of the big one. 

The field, the street that ran through it, and the imperious craters that had torn up the foundations of both were completely filled with garbage, left there from the intense celebrations that had taken place without end for the past three days straight. 

Princess Celestia had planned to give this speech when the celebrations had concluded, figuring that they deserved as much time as they needed; but, after three days, with no end to the festivities in sight, she reevaluated and assumed that the best time to present the information would be while they were still in high spirits. With a confident smile, she looked over the sea of ponies—some of them still wearing gray and red—and stood there for a few minutes, presumably seeing how loud the cheering could get before it would plateau. 

When she thought she had enough, she raised her hoof calling for silence. Princess Luna’s heart fluttered anxiously when she saw that the noise did not die down promptly; it persisted for a few more moments before complying with her sister’s request, but not without impromptu whistles coming from a few individuals and assorted murmurings persisting throughout her entire speech.

Princess Luna stood behind her and, all these years later, was still in awe about how charismatic and how influential a public figure her sister was. She definitely had a way with words, being able to take any fact and, using a little bit of clever word choice and emotionally moving rhetoric, making it imply anything she wanted.

Among other things, she called the president a “misguided idealist” and claimed how all he had wanted was the best for all of them, even if it did not seem like it. Above all, she never identified him as the unequivocal enemy and instead kept talking about how they needed to resist “disharmony” among themselves. She said that the president had been unable to be located, and that they were still searching for him as she spoke.

Princess Luna’s eyes lit up when she heard the pivotal moment in her sister’s speech, how ingenious a method it was to implement a government which the COMTOIS warned about. Princess Celestia pointed to an obscure article in the COMTOIS: because the president could not be found to stand trial, nor could a body be found which would allow them to confirm him dead, no election would be held until one of these two conditions had been met; and, in that time, the vice president would act as head of state—and, coincidentally, fully endowed with the president’s war powers. 

Princess Luna stood there and stomped her hooves on the ground with the rest of the crowd, although not for the same reason: they applauded at her moving words, while she applauded at the intricacy of her plan, how amazing it was that her sister somehow managed to destroy any meaning of the COMTOIS using the text of the COMTOIS itself.

In the meantime, Princess Celestia said that she—as leader of the official opposition—would help guide the country along to recovery in tandem with Princess Luna, who was acting in the president’s stead. She said that they, together, would act as assuredly and consistently as the sun and the moon does, moving as a unit along the sky as seeming polar opposites, when in reality complimenting each other so beautifully: the moon lighting the path along one side of the earth, when the sun attends to duties on the other side. She said that the roles that they were assuming were absolutely crucial in the upcoming era of reconstruction; it was as if they themselves were raising the sun and the moon on their own backs, each day, over Equestria.


* * *


From the way Princess Celestia delivered that speech, everypony listening to it thought that the war was over. Nopony had suspected that the Elements of Harmony had spent the last three days on a convoy en route to Manehattan: the last city still flying the flag of the United Republic of Equestria and where the federal soldiers, still stationed on top of assorted skyscrapers and corner stores—and who had not heard that the capital city had fallen—still held out against the hordes of the Army of the Friendship, who slowly, but surely, poured through the winding streets of the city, the Union Army firing down on them from all angles. Despite the fact that each and every soldier in the royal blue knew that the fall of the city was inevitable, they harkened back to the time when they had sworn to uphold the COMTOIS, and they loaded their rifles with their waning ammunition, determined to bring down as many traitors as they could before the city capitulated.

In a two-story Manehattan house, Wildflower Sherbert drew up the covers on her youngest foal and kissed him on the forehead. She looked over across the room and saw her other child, a teenager on the cusp of adulthood: she had rolled onto her side so that Wildflower could not see her face.

“Custard, are thou all right, dear?” Wildflower said to her foal from across the room.

“I’m fine, mom. Can you stop talking, please? I’m trying to sleep here,” Custard responded, with the insolence peculiar to adolescent fillies. She did not turn to face her mother as she said this. 

Wildflower did not get mad, for she suspected that the remark had only been made to hide her fear; and when a shell landed not even fifty yards from the house, causing the room to shake and setting loose dust that sprinkled down onto the children’s beds, she could see a shudder run through Custard’s body, confirming her thoughts. 

Wildflower opened her mouth to say something, but when she realized the words that would follow due to her mothering instinct would only break her teenager’s fragile ego, she closed her mouth and hoped that Custard knew what she meant to say.

“Mommy,” came a young voice, and Wildflower looked down at her son, his eyes wide open. “Can you bring me some earplugs? I’m scared of the bombs, and I can’t fall asleep.”

Wildflower sniffed, stepped back into a shadow so that he could not see her tears, and she said: “Mommy doesn’t have any earplugs, Wool, but she can get thee some tissue paper to put it thine ears instead. Would thou like that?”

Wool nodded, and Wildflower went across the room and grabbed a box of tissues. Swiftly, and assuredly, she pulled out two of them in front of her child and crumpled them up beneath her hooves. As she lowered the box, she pulled out a third one that he could not see.

“Hold thy head up, sweetie, so that mommy can put these in thine ears,” she said soothingly. The colt complied, and Wildflower pushed one and then the other into both of his ears, wiggling them left and right before they finally settled into place.

“How’s that?” she asked.

“Good,” he said, and he snuggled down into his pillow and closed his eyes.

“Who’s my little sugar cube?” she asked, playfully.

“I am,” he giggled.

“Thou sure about that?” she asked rhetorically, as she playfully poked him in the ribs, which caused the colt to give a little squeal of glee.

Then, Wildflower leaned down, put her mouth close to his ear; and said in the magisterial voice of a parent, loudly enough so that Custard, across the room, could hear it too: “Now, listen very closely. You are to follow the same rules for tonight as you have for the past few nights. Stay in bed; and, no matter what you hear, no matter how loud it gets, do not come downstairs. You are not to leave your beds or this room until either I or your father come up here to tell you that it’s alright. Is that clear?”

“Yes, mom,” said the colt.

“Good. It’s up to thee to make sure that Custard follows these rules,” she said in a lighthearted voice—which caused the colt to let out a very forced giggle, strained as it was under a blanket of fear. “I’m going to leave, and I’m going to shut the door, and your father and I will be back very soon.”

She gave Wool another kiss on the forehead. Then, she stood up and made her way toward the door. She grabbed the handle with a hoof; and, before shutting it, she added: “Your father and I love you very much. No matter what happens, always remember that. Good night, my children, and I’ll wake you in the morning for breakfast.” And then she shut the door.

She stood outside the closed door of her children’s door, wiped the tears from her eyes from the third tissue she had pulled, and then promptly covered her mouth with it to muffle her cries. 

Then, in an instant, as if a switch had flipped in her mind, her posture changed from one of a worried mother to that of the implacable soldier, willing to die before seeing the values she swore to protect come to harm.

She walked down the corridor, her boots thudding loudly against the floor, as if serving as an ominous warning to her enemies. 

She reached the stairs and started down them. The stairs fed into the living room, and she saw her husband, a green earth-pony with a brown mane, sitting on an armchair. 

In his mouth was a ramrod draped in a white cloth, and he was struggling with cleaning the badly fouled barrel of a Trottingham Rifle. His face was covered with black soot, and he grunted as he tried to force the rod down the barrel, pushing it as hard as he could. He heard the boot steps and looked up to his wife on the stairs. He gave her a nod, acknowledging her presence, but said nothing and continued with his work.

“Stompton, did thou clear out the bodies?” she said while coming down the stairs, no emotion in her voice.

“Yes,” he responded just as coldly. Then, he nodded in the direction opposite to the stairs. “They’re out back. I got a little bit of ammo off them, but not much.”

Wildflower reached the bottom of the stairs and picked up another rifle leaning against a book case next to a battered door. Nailed across the door, which had a gaping hole right through the top half of it, was four wooden planks; many nail holes around the arch of the door and sawdust scattered across the floor suggested that these were not the first barricades to be erected across it. 

“The foals didn’t see thee, did they?” she said after a moment’s pause.

“I don’t think so,” he said back, not making eye contact with her.

Without harnessing the rifle around her body, she cleared the old percussion cap off of the rifle’s primer and then reached for a paper cartridge in a box on the bookshelf. She bit into it and said, her voice muffled by the paper: “How much do we have left?”

Stompton put his free forehoof into a box full of bullets, stirred them around, and cast a quick glance into it. “I’d say about sixty for the both of us.”

Wildflower spat out the paper and poured the gunpowder from the cartridge down the barrel. “Thirty each?” she replied. “That . . . that should be enough, I think.”

“Enough for what?” Stompton snapped, and he stood up and walked over to her, his eyebrows bent angularly downwards. Speaking through his teeth, he continued: “Enough for the fourth wave? What about the fifth wave, or the sixth? How long does this last? For how many more days must I spend my evenings dragging around the mangled bodies of the never-ending horde of intruders? When will I finally be able to say to my children, ‘Everything will be alright,’ and honestly believe it myself? How long are we obligated to stay our deaths?”

The sound of a volley of rifle-fire from seven blocks down the street flooded the interior of the house, and Stompton kept staring at Wildflower, using the sound along with his words to drive the point home.

“What are thou suggesting?” she asked.

“Let them in this time, and beg them to show mercy upon our family.”

“No,” Wildflower retorted immediately. “If I was in my last bunker, surrounded by my soldiers, and it was us against a truly superior army, we would only come out should a single soldier come in unarmed and carrying the white flag of parlay. He would ask for my surrender, and I should grant him it; because there is an honor in two soldiers sitting down at a table, speaking to each other as moral equals, even though not physical equals, and negotiating the terms of a surrender. But I have not seen such hospitality in those barbarians out there, and not one of them wishes to make peace. As such, I am morally obligated to defend myself and my family.”

“So that’s it, then,” he said, the rage now overflowing in his eyes, which manifested itself in tears. “The truth comes out: thou care nothing for our family, in itself. The only reason thou won’t negotiate is because thou fear a tarnished reputation.”

“How dare thou accuse me of neglecting my domestic duties, when, throughout my entire life, I’ve only done what I’ve thought was best for our family. I abandon my post, to come back to this lost city, and this is the thanks I get?”

“That’s how I see it, and thou won’t be able to change my mind.”

“Well, why don’t thou look at it this way: if thou are so certain that death is inevitable, despite the fact that we’ve laughed in its face even after it has sent dozens of its own assassins through that very front door, would thou rather see thy children remember thee as the guardian that stood in front of the horde of monsters with only a bayonet, throwing thyself at them with all thy might and fury, so that thy children remember thy last breath to be one of defiance, of which they take example, or would thou rather them see thee as the appeaser, who delivered them personally into the hooves of their killers?”

At this, they heard the animalistic battle cry of the rebellion coming down the street, firing their rifles madly in the air, about to try for the fourth time to take this house in this small neighborhood: the house that had not crumbled as if it were made of cards, unlike the rest of the ones that immediately surrounded it.

Stompton unclenched his teeth, and the muscles in his face relaxed. He stepped closer to her and, with a calm voice, said: “Please, Wildflower, listen to me: the more we kill them, the less likely they will show our children any mercy. I understand where thou are coming from—I really do—and if I was an officer in the Union Army, I couldn’t be prouder to call thee my general. But the foals up there”—and he gestured up the stairs—“are not soldiers, and this house is not a bunker. I think that both we and the rebels expect the other to brandish the white flag first. In thy bunker, the invading army enters with the white flag as a symbol of goodwill; but they’re expecting us, a household, to come out with the white flag, to admit we’re weaker. It has nothing to do with conventional warfare; our house is tactically insignificant and has no impact on the outcome of the war. All it has to do is with their egos, to know that they beat us, and nothing more. If that’s all they want, then I say we give it to them. If we admit we’re weaker, then maybe they’ll find no pleasure in adding insult to injury—and they’ll leave us alone.”

Wildflower closed her eyes, tears flowing freely down her cheeks. Stompton wiped them with the back of his hooves and then kissed her on the forehead. “We’re still in this together,” he whispered, “and nothing will ever change that.”

The old soldier opened her eyes and looked up at him in worship. She blinked, clearing her eyes, and wiped her nose with a forehoof, sniffing while doing so. “I’m tired of fighting,” she said wearily. “I just want it to stop.”

“Then let’s take the first step in doing so,” he replied affectionately. “Let’s take the moral high ground.”

She nodded and he held onto her a little while longer before gradually letting go. His departure was slowed down by Wildflower’s firm grasp upon his mane.

Stompton picked up his rifle and removed its ramrod. He then grabbed the off-white dishrag that he had been using to clean his rifle off the floor and tied it around one end of the ramrod. Then, he moved toward the barricaded door, after casting a loving glance back at Wildflower. As he worked on pulling the nails out of the boards, Wildflower heard the sound of the battle cry grow louder and louder; still, her husband pulled at the nails one by one, refusing to let their intimidation tactics interfere with his work. 

At last, he pried the final nail out, and the boards fell to the ground. He kicked the broken door, and it gave way without much effort. The light of the moon shone down upon him as soon as he cleared the threshold of his fortress—unarmed, naked, vulnerable, and raising his ramrod to the approaching line.

Wildflower looked past him, and when she saw that the line had assumed the ready position, she cried out to Stompton—but it was too late. Even though she had heard the sound thousands of times, the report of a rifle volley never sounded more terrible to her. As she watched her husband fall upon the foot of his house’s doorstep, she dove to the rifle he had left on the ground of the living room and pointed it toward the approaching horde, which had now begun its charge.

She only got one shot off before her house was bathed in an intensely bright light.


* * *


Enforcer sat on his couch, his entire body cold with fright and his teeth chattering uncontrollably. With tears streaming down his face, he madly tore out the pages in a small, brown book with his mouth. In turn, he spat each one out into a garbage can at his hooves.

It had been four days since he was in the Horseshoe Office with the two grunts. Afterward, he had went directly home and, until now, had not once left his house. His jacket and tie lay in a wrinkled heap at his doorstep. Across his face were deep wrinkles, and the last bit of completely white hair in his mane had fallen out a day earlier. His eyes were deeply sunk into his skull, and his teeth were a dark yellow. His tail had become totally white; and, in addition to his dreadful pallor, it made him look like a ghost.

He had not reported to the lieutenant, or to the captain, or to the general, or to Princess Luna, or to Princess Celestia, since he had left the office. As far as he was concerned, nothing existed for him any longer.

“No!” he cried. “This can’t be so in my world! It’s a blatant contradiction, and it can’t possibly be true! Contradictions can’t be true! I won’t allow it!”

He tore out the last page of the book and tossed it with the rest into the garbage can. 

By his side was a box of matches: he picked it up, removed a match with his mouth; and, after many failed attempts at igniting it against the rough fabric of his couch, the muscles of his neck becoming more stiff and painful every time he tried, he lit it and tossed it into the garbage can.

The match rolled around for a while until it found a dry part of the paper. It caught on fire, and the fire slowly crept up the rest of the pages. The fire, for the first time in his life, gave him no comfort. He did not even feel its warmth upon his body.

On his other side lay a coarse rope. He picked up the end of it that had been looped, and he pulled the loop taut with his mouth as hard as he could. He felt a tooth crack and fall out of his mouth, and he winced at the pain, but he kept pulling.
> Epilogue: Ordo ab Chao
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

                  Praise Celestia!—came the cry from Los Pegasus in the West—for she brings the sun and its glory across our lands, feeding our crops and warming our homes! Praise Luna!—came the cry from Manehattan in the East—for she raises the moon in its turn, lighting the way when no other light exists!

Princess Celestia had made the metaphor nearly one hundred eighty years ago, but it had been rhetorically repeated by her and her supporters due to the overwhelming appraisal it had received the first time; so much so that, as far as the citizens were concerned, it was an undeniable fact.

An eminent geneticist hundreds of years ago had called the existence of an alicorn: “Akin to winning the jackpot in the gene lottery pool.” And it is easy for one to see why: for an alicorn to be born, the biological mother and father needed to be a pegasus and unicorn respectively—and, even then, there was only a one out of one hundred thousand chance that the genes would combine in their optimal way. Having one or more parents already alicorns increased the chance; but, even if both were alicorns, there was only a one in four chance an alicorn would conceive. But, if it did, the benefits to the foal were enormous. 

If the genetic phenotype manifested itself in both unicorn and pegasus genes, the foal would inherit the superior genes of both their unicorn and pegasus ancestors and would discard all of the crippling ones. This blessed them with an exceptionally long lifespan, and it is for this reason that Princesses Celestia and Luna had been able to devote themselves entirely to the long, arduous process of rebuilding a country that had been torn apart by a civil war—and those one hundred and fifty years came to be known as the Reconstruction Era of Equestria.

It had begun with Princess Luna making her first public decree, in order to establish herself as the new leader. 

When Princess Luna had been standing in the antechamber immediately adjacent to the courtyard of the Hall of Congress, minutes before she had been scheduled to make her speech—her first appearance while wielding all the presidential authority—one of her servants had brought her aside and had informed her of the heartbreaking news: One of Enforcer’s neighbors, who had smelled something burning from the apartment over, had broken down the door after hearing no response and had come in to find thick black smoke clinging to the ceiling. He had put a rag over his mouth, calling out Enforcer’s name until he had tripped over a garbage can. The smoke had still been rising from it, even though no fire could be seen. The rest of the apartment had looked intact, and the neighbor had breathed a sigh of relief. Then, walking backwards in the direction he had thought the door was in, he had bumped into something cold. He had turned around; and when he had seen what it was, had let out a shriek that awoke every single tenant on the floor, striking fear into their hearts and ruining any chance of sleep they had in the foreseeable future—Enforcer hung from the ceiling, his face twisted into a horrible disfigurement. His body was stone cold, and his skin and eyes were a color of white unseen anywhere in the world. After recovering from his shock, the neighbor had grabbed Enforcer and had held him, still screaming for help. But it had been too late: he had expired hours earlier.

Princess Luna had fallen to her knees, weeping loudly and unrestrainedly. Her sister had first noticed all the eyes of their servants turning in her direction before she had noticed that the cause of their stares was Princess Luna, collapsed in a pathetic heap upon the ground.

Princess Celestia had walked quickly across the room toward her, avoiding the eye contact of those she had walked past. She had reached her sister, had grabbed her mane with her teeth, and had pulled her up to her hooves. She had glanced back at her servants, who had still been inundating her with their prying eyes, and she had waved her hoof angrily and dismissively at them. They had interpreted the gesture, and they had left the antechamber into the courtyard. Princess Celestia had repelled their fleeting glances with her own stare until they were completely out of sight.

Turning to her sister, in a firm whisper she had said: “How dare thou make a scene like that! What could have possibly happened which caused thee to lose thy royal composure?”

Princess Luna, not mitigating her voice or her tears despite the obvious wishes of her sister, had told her what had happened in rapid, shallow breaths. She had wiped away her own tears and had looked up at Princess Celestia, expecting at least an iota sympathy from her, but like always, all she had seen from her sister was complete indifference.

“Princess Luna, although thou may be immediately stricken by his death, it should not come as unexpected. As thou know, he had not seen the power of the Elements of Harmony; therefore, he was one of the last remnants of the fallen Union, and his death should serve as an indicator of what is to come. Thou have promised me to see this through, and a filial outbreak like this will not be tolerated by me or the citizens who thou will rule—nor will it stop thee from upholding thy promise,” her sister had said.

Princess Luna had whimpered something inaudible in protest, but that did not stop her sister from pushing her out of the door into the courtyard in front of a cheering crowd. Like magic, the instant she had left the threshold of the antechamber and was thrust into the spotlight, the sorrow on her face had disappeared and she had assumed the assuring smile that was expected of her.

Vice president Princess Luna, under the consultation of Princess Celestia, had decreed that the old remnants of the Union were to be dissolved, to pave way for the future. The Department of Magic and Defense had been first on the list, much to the anger of its director; however, as soon as he had been offered a position on the princesses’ private research team with more pay and more flexible hours, he had instantly ceased his complaining. 

After he had performed a multitude of valuable mystic services for the princesses—among which was designing the security system that protected the Elements of Harmony—the director had ended up marrying one of their cousins, much to the envy of his peers and much to the chagrin of Princess Luna: to say that it had been odd for her to see a short, skinny, bespectacled unicorn with a rented tuxedo and bow tie await a tall, elegant alicorn in the most decorative of wedding dresses, who turned the heads of every stallion she passed by, to come down the aisle would have been an understatement. 

The old director had fathered three children with her and had died thirty years later, abruptly, while sitting at his desk. His secretary had found his notes, which had eventually found their way to Princess Celestia, who had been overjoyed when she saw had seen that he had been on the precipice of finding a method to convert the life forces of the Elements of Harmony so that they could reside in advanced forms of carbon-based life.

In addition, the hundreds of thousands of rifles manufactured for the war had been ordered to be decommissioned, and they had been smelted down. The metal had been used to repair broken water pipes and rebuilding the infrastructure that had been destroyed by the war. 

Stallion’s Manufacturing Company had been nationalized and liquidated, in the name of “peace.” The soldiers had been reluctant to surrender their rifles at first, citing that they had been together through so much; and being ordered to turn them over, after they had spent days cleaning them, polishing them, lovingly clearing their barrels of any detritus, was akin to asking them to abandon a child or a loved one. However, all it had took was for one steely glance from their superior officers, and they had given them up without any further question.

These aforementioned orders had been made under the new policy, “Out of sight, out of mind”: a policy that had been exceptionally well-received by the public for its progressiveness and the policy that had justified the numerous renovations of the Presidential Mansion. This had involved removing all the furniture, the old desk in the Horseshoe Office, and putting the old portrait of one of the princesses’ ancestors into storage. It had took only twenty years; but, by that time, there was nothing in the building even reminiscent of its original design. The appearing architecture had been completely redone and constructed in a design that would have been fit for a king. Coincidentally, the princesses had taken up residence in it.

Part of the policy had been, after the decommission of the rifles and the nationalization of its manufacturer, the order to dissolve the Union military and, as a consequence, the disbandment of the Army of the Friendship. General Sherbert, former commander of the Union Army, who had deserted her post shortly before the Battle of Canterlot had begun, had been found in her house in Manehattan. She had been brought in to see Princess Celestia and had been there to sign the papers along with General Buckner, the commander of the Army of the Friendship. 

When Princess Luna had seen General Sherbert, the sight had been bone chilling: She had not worn her uniform; she was completely naked, and her mane was knotted in a thousand different places. Her face had shriveled when the light from the sun had landed on it, and her eyes had dark circles under them. It was as if some cruel demon had attached its pernicious strings to her lifeless corpse and had been pulling it around, so that he may have gotten a laugh out of fooling somepony. But Princess Luna had seen it for what it was, and when she had looked into General Sherbert’s vacant stare, and when she had seen the deathly pallor that had come over her face, she knew that the signing was unnecessary, for the embodiment of the Union Army was right there, and Princess Luna could see that it had already been dissolved.

When General Buckner had offered General Sherbert his hoof with a warm smile, she had brushed it aside, saying: “Let’s just get this over with.” 

After the signing, Princess Luna had offered General Sherbert an elite position in her “personal staff.” General Sherbert had declined without a second thought, had immediately dismissed herself from the scene, and disappeared forever. It had been suspected that she had fled to the Frozen North with her children, where she and they had lived the rest of their days.

“If this nation is established on the principles of harmony and friendship,” Princess Celestia had been quoted as saying, “then why is there the need for it to keep standing armies? The presence of such armies only keeps conflict on our minds and is in discordance with the ‘Out of sight, out of mind’ policy.” That word still struck fear in the minds of her subjects, and all it had took was for her to say it for her to get a unanimous nod of approval.

Despite this, a new group of soldiers had been seen patrolling the halls of the renovated building where Princesses Celestia and Luna lived, adorned in neither the gray and the red of the Army of the Friendship nor the royal blue of the Union Army, and the princesses walked around them comfortably while amiably receiving their salutes—the princesses’ “personal staff.” 

A few older ponies living in Canterlot had raised their eyebrows at this but had been immediately ridiculed by the younger ones and were told how important it was to support the new governmental policy—and they had had no choice but to be content with this. 

No reasons had been given in support of the policy; and, as the years went by, less and less reasons were asked until, finally, they ceased all together. As Princess Luna had watched the ever-changing faces go around her and praise her for the policy she had created, she could not have helped but be unsettled by it; until she was the only pony in Equestria with a qualm; though, of course, as the acting head of state, she would never have mentioned it to anypony else. No matter how much her sister had assured her that it had been the right thing to do, and no matter how much rhetoric she had given on its behalf to convince the public that it was maintaining peace, Princess Luna could not have helped losing sleep over the policy—to her, “Out of sight, out of mind” had been a decree to not think.

This had become glaringly obvious to her when, on the seventieth anniversary of the end of the war, she and Princess Celestia had met with the last known surviving war veteran: an old earth-pony from Los Pegasus, who had lied about her age to serve in the Third Los Pegasus Infantry Regiment of Friends. She had not been permitted to wear her old dress uniform as she had sat down with the princesses in front of a swarm of reporters. Polite nods and uneasy smiles had been given in her direction, as the veteran droned on about the most frivolous banalities, interspersed with the most baffling of non sequiturs. It had quickly become clear to all that the old mare had been suffering from advanced stages of dementia; and that perhaps taking her out of her nursing home, even for an hour, had been a mistake. 

This suspicion was confirmed when, halfway through some unintelligible muttering, Princess Luna’s heart jumped when she had heard: “And how fortunate I am to be under you, dear princess, noble queen—”

“Queen!” Princess Luna had interjected. “Well, I—”

“What our sister no doubt intends to say,” said Princess Celestia, cutting her off and coming to her rescue, “is that she is surprised at our guest’s archaic and inaccurate term. She would like to remind you that in a republic, the concept of a ‘queen’ does not exist.”

Princess Luna had stared at her sister, and Princess Celestia had returned a smile. 

Princess Luna had said nothing for the rest of the meeting; she had been too in awe about her sister’s prose, how she managed to gracefully and artfully refute the startlingly accurate remark, saying everything while simultaneously saying nothing: a republic that was not a republic, a queen that was not a queen, never admitting that they lived in the former, and never admitting that her sister was not the latter.

It really did feel to Princess Luna like the largest-scale balancing act of all time, like balancing two incredibly large boulders on a rickety wooden scale suspended miles above the ground. When there was even the slightest tremor in the plank, Princess Luna would find herself scrambling up the scale to balance it, and she would feel her sister pushing from behind. She would then find herself running back to the other side immediately when she felt the scale lurch in the other direction, but her sister always appeared to always be standing right on the lever’s fulcrum, throwing her back and forth between the balances, and when she was bruised and battered, she would only be thrown harder.

As for Disce, he had seen all of this occur, but his screams had never reached any ears, entombed as he was in his stone prison. When the sun had rose on the first day of his incarceration, through the rock which heavily obscured his vision like the bars over the tiny window of a dungeon, he had looked around the courtyard, his stone heart seeming to warm at the sight of any movement, at even the slightest possibility that there might be somepony to free him; but, as the sun set on that day, he felt his head begin to spin as insanity began to take its hold. 

It was at that moment that he had realized that he was unable to drink water and had sought relief in the fact that his death by dehydration would come quickly; but, after he had waited for a few more days, he had been forced to accept the despairing fact that stones did not need to drink water. 

Immobile, helpless, unable to dictate the terms of his own life and death, he could not have thought of a worse fate to befall an organism, and he could not have begun to comprehend the macabre magic of the machinations of the Elements of Harmony or understand what could have driven the type of mind to create something like that.

On the sixth day, as his mind had begun to leave his body, indicated by the blurring of his vision, he had seen a faint blue wave of light in his peripheral view. Using the last bit of control he had had left, he had focused his eyes on that spot, and when he had seen that the light was indeed Princess Luna approaching him, he had been immediately brought back to reality. He had felt a warm feeling within his stone body as she had come closer, and he had shouted instructions to her with all his might, but the waves of his voice had bounced back in on themselves inside the stone and had never reached her.

She had approached his pedestal—Disce’s mind had reeled in anticipation—and had looked up to him with a deep stare. But, when she had left, Disce’s heart sunk when he had realized she had either not received the instructions or had not understood them. 

Give it time, he had thought, and she’ll see soon enough. And even though the whole encounter had lasted only about half a minute, it had been sufficient to inspire Disce to hold onto dear sanity. 

He had maintained his tentative grasp on the world for another week, his sight constantly sweeping his limited field of view for the blue light that had illuminated his world for a brief moment in time. 

A week later, it had returned; and, this time, Princess Luna had decided to stay longer, choosing to sit down and look at him for a few minutes. Disce had yelled down at her, begging her to listen hard enough to hear his screams for help and pleading with her to understand—but, like last time, she had gotten up and had walked away without giving him a second glance. The only thing he could take comfort in was that she had given him the energy to make his silent screams again, and that he could look forward to her next visit, the next opportunity for a small amount of hope. 

When she had vanished from his sight, he had not moved his eyes from the entrance to the courtyard; and, a few days later, she had come back. This time, she had actually begun to speak to him; and even though Disce would have, under normal circumstances, been bored at her rantings, this time, he had never in his entire life been more intrigued by it. She had spoken about how hard running the country was and how abrasive her sister was, and Disce had eaten up every single word of it. 

She had eventually started to visit him every single day, and Disce had looked forward to those moments, thinking tirelessly about what she might say to him and how good he would feel when he would hear it.

But, after about a month of this, after a month of pleasant visits that had filled Disce with unspeakable amounts of joy and hope, Princess Luna’s visits had started to become less frequent and had been becoming shorter duration. She also had begun to not speak as much to him, and she had stopped complaining about the work she was doing. A disturbing thought had flashed in Disce’s mind—that she had actually started to believe the lies she was forcing upon the country and that she was coming to accept them. But he had forced it out of his consciousness for the time being, refusing to let her go. 

It was only when she had approached his statue for the first time in a month, had said nothing, and then had immediately turned around to leave, that he had to accept the she was gone; and that he would, more likely than not, never see her again. When the soothing blue light had stopped coming to him, there was nothing left to mollify the dark thoughts that could now only arise in the darkness of the stone and to which the blue light had served as a dam; with the dam gone, there was nothing left to stop it. 

For the next one hundred eighty years, Disce succumbed to pure delirium as he played out his execution scene over and over again, each time imagining how it could have been different, and each time imagining that he had killed Princess Celestia in more and more horrible ways, leaving him free to take unilateral control of Equestria—his despotic wrath becoming more potent and terrible with each iteration. 

His deep and dark meditation had involved honing his powers, letting their chaotic influence embrace him more fully, allowing them to guide his being and allowing them to enable himself to refine the perfect plan of vengeance. He told himself that he would, one day, in the most perfect and fitting way possible, exact his revenge upon Princess Celestia and the Elements of Harmony for condemning him to an eternity of torture and confinement, should he ever be allowed to escape. This is not evil, he had said aloud within his stone prison, compared to the rule of Princess Celestia and her arbitrary whim, which will no doubt fail and which will result in my freedom. 

This is not evil, he had thought, compared to what she has done to me.

But, as if to contradict him, Princess Celestia’s plan eventually began to show signs of its hold. Looking back, Equestrian lexicographers noticed a sudden, rapid—but admittedly, not surprising—decline in use of certain words: the last recorded use of the word “Union” when referring to Equestria was in 100 BC; the word “republicanism,” or any of its derivatives, in 38 BC; the words “constitution”—in the context of a governmental document—and “COMTOIS” around the same time, approximately during the years 6 and 5 BC; and the word “president,” in the context of a government official, by 5 BC.

And it was around now, one hundred eighty years later—despite the transition that seemed smooth and unnoticeable to everypony else—it began to take its toll on Princess Luna. 

The first warning sign that Princess Celestia had seen was when, just after she had performed the Summer Sun Celebration for the hundredth time—where she would flare her wings in front of a crowd of eager onlookers just before the sun rose, ponies who believed that the fact that she did so just before the sun rose meant that she caused it to rise—she had returned to the mansion and had come into her sister’s room to find her with her face buried in a pillow, mumbling to herself. Princess Celestia had strained her ears, and she had thought that she could hear her sister saying: “They’re wrong. They’re wrong. I know that they’re wrong. Why are they wrong? Because it’s a post hoc argument, nothing more; it’s a post hoc ergo propter hoc argument, and that’s wrong.”

She never saw it happen again; but the memory of which still, to this day, chilled her to the bone.

The only oddities that showed in her behavior was that she began to consistently appear late to events that she had promised to attend, if at all; and, when she did come, her mane was terribly matted and thrown carelessly around her neck and face, covering up the dark circles that lay under her eyes. This always drew some glances, before Princess Celestia would take her aside—an act that she had found herself doing too much, recently—and censure her privately. The strange conditions under which Princesses Celestia and Luna excused themselves from their gatherings were never mentioned for more than ten or twenty seconds after being observed, as they were quickly dismissed under the assumption that it was grueling work being the benevolent overseers of all things.

This was also the conclusion reached by Princess Luna’s personal guards, when they had noticed that Princess Celestia was visiting their mistress’s quarters more and more frequently and when they had heard arguments that were loud enough to be heard but were stifled enough by the paneling of the room for them not to be able to make out what was being said—which would end with Princess Celestia slamming open the doors and leaving the room with an angry look on her face. She would also turn that look upon the guards, who shook in their boots when she said, every time without fail: “You shall continue to keep her unwaveringly in your cognizance.” Every time this had happened, the guards would proceed to exchange worried glances with each other as Princess Celestia walked away and as they heard a muffled weeping coming from inside the room.


* * *


Princess Luna awoke with a horrible shriek, her pillow and her bedsheets completely drenched in sweat. 

The night watchponies stationed outside her door came in and inquired upon her; and, after she said it was nothing, they shrugged their shoulders and left her alone, dismissing it as a one-time occurrence. 

The very next night, the exact same scene happened a second time; and, on the third time, Princess Celestia insisted on calling a doctor, despite her sister’s protestations. 

In the afternoon, the doctor, a middle-aged dark blue unicorn, dressed in the conventional lab coat and carrying his black leather bag full of his supplies in his teeth, arrived to find her sprawled out on a sofa while staring blankly at a wall. The doctor saw that, aside from the obvious signs of fatigue, she looked fine; nevertheless, after giving the obligatory bow and introduction, he began with that intrusive line of questioning so loved by medical practitioners:

“Has Her Grace been taking any new medication?”

“Nay.”

“Has she undertaken a tremendous new project, no doubt for the good of her country and her citizens, that involves an increased workload? Something that would give cause to Her Grace for an increased amount of stress?”

“Nay.”

“Has she witnessed any disturbing events recently?”

“Nay.”

Visibly exasperated, the doctor said: “Has Her Grace experienced anything out of the ordinary, anything she thinks even may have possibly contributed to her recent events?”

“Nay.”

The doctor sighed and shook his head. Reaching into his bag, he added: “Has Her Grace’s interruptions of sleep been accompanied by any undesirable dreams?”

At this, Princess Luna’s eyes, which had remained lifeless for the previous questions, were suddenly filled with energy, darting around the room before finally settling on the doctor’s hooves—which were now ruffling through his bag. She tapped her left forehoof against her chin before finally saying: “Nay.”

The doctor gave her a quick physical examination. Finding nothing, his diagnosis was an increased amount of stress, and he prescribed more bed rest.

Princess Luna went to bed earlier that night, instead of going to bed as soon as the sun rose, as was her custom. Still, at the same time as the previous night, she awoke in her panic. She screamed louder and longer than before, even awaking her sister, whose bedroom was on the other end of the wing. 

Princess Celestia entered her room, not having bothered to knock and not having been stopped by the watch ponies, and went directly to her sister’s bedside. She asked her sister what was the problem, and when the only reply she got was meaningless whimpers interspersed by tears, she ordered that the top psychiatrist from the Canterlot Center for Mental Health be brought in immediately.

The psychiatrist, unhappy at being woken up in the middle of the night but not daring to refuse the order, came into Princess Luna’s room. After asking about her medical history and not noticing anything of importance, he said: “This will no doubt seem unorthodox, but I recommend that Her Grace spends a night or two under my supervision over at the Center, at least until we can get to the bottom of this.”

He looked at Princess Luna, waiting for a response; but, before he could get one, Princess Celestia, who had been watching the entire time, protested, saying that her sister would not be permitted to stay a night intermingled among the ponies that she guided. 

The psychiatrist opened his mouth to protest, but Princess Celestia raised her hoof to order him to stop speaking; and, at a nod from her to the night watchponies, he was quickly escorted out of the house.

Princess Luna watched her sister and the guards leave; and when the door closed behind them, she buried her face in her pillow, making a conscious effort to not fall asleep. Silently, she cursed the doctors’ prescription for more bed rest, for it was only while she was asleep that she was affected by the horrifying dream that never seemed to relent.

She would always find herself in the courtyard, looking up at Disce’s face, as she had done one hundred eighty years ago, moments before the light of the Elements of Harmony had obliterated him. She would look at him, as she had done, and he leaned his neck over so that he may whisper in her ear, as he had done. But, in her dream, when he whispered the words into her ear, those words that had imprinted themselves so clearly in her brain when she had heard it from him one hundred and eighty years ago, they were too quiet to be heard. She would always strain her ear, asking him to repeat it. Every night where the dream had repeated, Disce seemed to whisper his words quieter than he had done on the last night, and she had found herself straining even harder to hear them. 

But the dreams all ended the same way: shortly after asking Disce repeat himself, she would hear his laugh, that laugh which instilled pure fear in the souls of whomever heard it, would come back to her louder than ever. Then, in her mind, she would be able to see his words as clear as the sun but as dark as the night, their letters engulfed in blue flame and searing her consciousness with their red-hot fury while at the same time seeming to scream pure malice and terror in their meaning. The flames of the letters burning in her head was the most intense pain she had ever felt in her entire life—more intense than the spell that the enchantress had performed on her when she was a foal—and it was so powerful that she would feel her consciousness ejected from her body, soaring into the sky and looking down at herself standing in front of Disce, all the while the words cutting through her like a thousand knives. Then, she would fall toward the ground, accelerating faster than gravity would normally make her fall; and, upon hitting the ground, she would wake up screaming. And, like in all dreams, the things she saw so clearly and felt so painfully in them would be a haze as soon as her eyes opened, and the only thing left from them would be a bitter taste in her mouth and a horrible, unnameable notion in her mind. 

Princess Luna, despite herself, drifted off to sleep that night.

Around noon on the next day, Princess Celestia knocked on the door with a strong hoof, angry that her sister was succumbing to her lethargy and neglecting her duties. After four vicious knocks and no response, she ordered the sentries to break down the door; and, with a powerful kick of the guard’s hoof and after a shower of wood splinters from the door, she went in and immediately stormed toward the bed. 

She put her hooves down on the covers, intending to roll her sister off the bed, but her anger gave way to confusion when she felt only the mattress. Her eyes drifted around the room looking for her sister; and, when they finally made it to the window, and she saw that it was opened, she dashed out of the room, waking up her security staff.

“Our sister has been kidnapped as she slumbered last night!” she yelled, as she ran down the halls. “Find her!”

The guards immediately jumped from their posts, and a multitude of orders were barked from every direction. They flew out—figuratively, in the case of the unicorns and earth-ponies, and literally, in the case of the pegasi—from every opening in the mansion, looking for any clues to where Princess Luna might have been taken. Some of them stayed back to send telegrams detailing the incident to every single receiving station in Equestria. 

They filled the surrounding blocks, calling out in their loudest voices to the citizens, who began to walk out toward them and stick their heads out of the windows of overlooking buildings, informing them of the tragedy that had taken place. They urged them to do their part for Equestria and help bring their beloved princess home. 

Then they started to, methodically, enter the homes of the citizens and ransack them, arresting anypony who even so much as breathed even a hint of protest. The police in every single city instantly devoted nearly all of their resources to finding the princess. 

Princess Celestia’s guards in Canterlot increased their search radius every hour until, finally, night came, and every single building on every single block had been searched in a method as efficient and as rapid as any seen before. Exhausted, many of the police officers collapsed on the street when it was over, trying to catch their breath. 

The only thing out of the ordinary that had been found was that the Canterlot archives had been completely trashed, shelves knocked over and every book in disarray. The librarians had spent the entire night cleaning it up. 

When, at the break of dawn, everything had been put back into its rightful place, they had found that nothing was missing save for a few uncatalogued scrolls. 

They were asked by Princess Celestia herself to compile a list of the scrolls that were missing; but, being thousands of years old, and most being unnamed, the information concerning them that the librarians put on the list was very sparse and proved to be useless to the private investigators, who were looking for any connection between the scrolls which may give them a clue as to where the kidnapper had taken the princess.

Princess Celestia, saying that she was now the head of state in Princess Luna’s absence, ordered the writ of habeas corpus to be suspended and implemented a state of martial law in every single city, and because nopony could produce any evidence as to why she did not have the authority to do so, the order was carried out. Technically, unbeknownst to anypony, the order was unnecessary, as the writ of habeas corpus had never actually been reinstated, after the president had suspended it one hundred eighty years ago.

There were three days where Equestria chattered its teeth in anxiety, not so much from Princess Luna’s kidnapping, but from being constantly under the watchful eye of the police. In these three days, nopony dared to breathe a word to anypony else, in fear that the private bodyguards of Princess Celestia would burst into their homes and beat them to a pulp. 

Then, on the fourth day, a dark cloud began to gather across the skies of Equestria, drawing all eyes—including those of the police officers—to it, for the cloud was darker than any other they had seen in their entire lives and seemed to be suffocating the land that it crawled over in its malevolence. 

On the fifth day, it had completely collected over the land and was so thick that it had entirely blocked out the sun and engulfed Equestria in its darkness.

Princess Celestia, by the light of the numerous lamps in her room, was nervously rubbing her hoof against her desk, walking over to the window and staring nervously out at the clouds every minute or two when, without knocking, a porter burst into room. 

He was out of breath, but he managed to say that it was the last telegram that had made it out of Ponyville before the telegraph had been destroyed. In his mouth, he held the telegram, the red stamp blazoned across its front signaling that it was of the utmost importance. He quickly unfurled it in front of her and, in a shaky voice, read off of it.

A lighting bolt had rained from the clouds; and, on it, a mare of darkness, completely black and wearing light blue armor on her head, torso, and hooves, who called herself “Nightmare Moon,” started to lay waste to the buildings in Ponyville. 

After the city had been completely flattened, she spoke to its residents, to the ponies whose homes she had just destroyed, and she said this was made necessary by the tyrant Celestia, who had lied to all of them, telling them that she raised the sun. She had said that in order to make them listen, she had shown them what would happen if she had been allowed to continue her rule, and she had said that now that she was done in Ponyville, she was off to Canterlot to dispose of the despot.

Princess Celestia darted out of the room and told her guards to get the Elements of Harmony to her as fast as possible. Within minutes, they were brought in their diamond-plated case to her room and shown to her, the sight of them not calming the perturbed expression on her face. 

After closing the lid, she looked at the bodyguards around her, who looked back at her in their turn, their minds completely blank and not able to act until they had been given an order. 

In her most royal of voices, she said: “We are going to go into our room and lock the door. Regardless of what you hear, regardless of the screams of assistance I may shout, you are not to attempt to come in. Under no circumstances should I be disturbed.” She did not even make sure that they had understood her order, and she simply turned around to her room and shut the door behind her. The guards swallowed nervously as they heard the ominous sound of the bolts of the five locks of the door slamming into place, being operated from the inside.

For ten minutes, they held their breaths in the depth of the darkness, hearing nothing from the interior of the room. Suddenly, at the sound of a clap of thunder and the sound of glass breaking, they all recoiled in unison, the hearts of each one beating furiously. They heard the sound of the rain outside, pouring down with all its fury; and, though they could not hear what was being said, they heard the fierce voice of the princess speaking out against another voice which, strangely enough, had a hint of humor and condescension in it. 

They did not hear them for long, for the loud report of numerous destructive spells being cast from two expert horns, combined with the sound of wood splintering and glass shattering, drowned out the voices. It was then that they looked at the crack in the bottom of the door: the dim light of the lamps bled out through it, the only light in the blackest of nights, and they could see two shadows dancing a sort of waltz around each other, retreating and coming closer to the music of expensive objects being broken. 

They watched this light until, at the same time as the sound of another beam of magic and the breaking of glass, the light went out, leaving the guards in complete darkness.

The darkness did not last for long. A few seconds later, from under the crack in the door, an intense white light exploded into the hallway, blinding the guards, whose eyes were adjusted to the darkness. 

When the light died down, the guards opened their eyes to darkness yet again, their night-vision ruined for the time being. Only, this time, nothing could be heard aside from the rain, still pouring down upon the roof of the mansion.

The lieutenant struck a match to reveal the faces of a dozen armored ponies around him, each one of them paralyzed with fear. They looked at him as if expecting him to do something. Taking their cue, he approached the door to the room and quietly knocked on it with a tentative hoof. At nearly the same time, and nearly breaking the leg of the lieutenant, the door slammed open, and all the guards jumped back in reflex to a tall, dark figure. 

The lieutenant held his match up, and the light from its flame danced along the body of the figure, its skin a milky white—it was Princess Celestia.

“We have defeated Nightmare Moon. Equestria is safe,” was all she said.

In the morning, the princess rode to Ponyville to address its citizens directly. She said that she had, with the power of the sun and with the Elements of Harmony, exiled the demon that had laid waste to their city, and she praised the citizens’ perspicacity, for being able to see through Nightmare Moon’s lies. 

In addition, she said that, because her sister had taken an important leave of absence, she had taken it upon herself to move both the sun in the moon above their heads each day, and that a new calendar would be instantiated, using the exact moment when the light had been triumphant over the darkness as its pivot. The speech, like always, was riveting and emotional, and it ended with every single citizen of Ponyville cheering through their tears of joy—how fortunate they were to have such a kind leader as Princess Celestia, goddess of the sun, to lead them out of this dark day!

Not one of them had even suspected for a moment that Nightmare Moon had indeed been Princess Luna, who had fled from her room in the middle of the night. She had stolen the scrolls from the Canterlot Archives and had spent three days pouring over them in the most secluded region of the Everfree Forest. 

She had transformed herself into an unbelievable mare of darkness, destroyed Ponyville, and then attempted to destroy her sister, before being banished to her namesake by the Elements of Harmony—a cruel joke that only the twisted personalities of the Elements could think up. 

And Princess Celestia had never figured out the reason.

She had never figured out that, on the night of her sister’s disappearance, the words in Princess Luna’s dream had burned brighter than they had ever before; and she had woken up, not in sweat and tears, but in revelation. This time, she had understood the words better than she had understood anything before, and she knew that she needed to devote the rest of her life to spreading their meaning. 

But the words alone had not been enough. Thus, she went through every single inch of the Canterlot Archives, looking for the oldest documents she could find, documents that nopony was able to read due to their age and ancient script. She had found them and spent three straight days reading them, eventually understanding every single word that spread across their bodies. 

The words held the most powerful and dark magic she had ever seen, and she had used them to transform herself into Nightmare Moon, so that she could make them known, and so that she could take her revenge upon her sister—in her own name, and in Disce’s. 

Before the Elements of Harmony had engulfed her and she had screamed out the words in her dream as her last gesture of defiance, she had yelled what seemed to be her sister’s name, but since the pronunciation sounded mangled to Princess Celestia—because Nightmare Moon had pronounced it with a hard c and with only three syllables—it bounced off her in incomprehension, making her believe that her sister was truly dead.

For the words were in an ancient language, a dead language, that contained raw power, and it was not until Princess Luna, in a fever dream, had realized this that she had duly fled to the Canterlot Archives in order to educate herself further—as her friend had tried to tell her to, one hundred eighty years ago. 

Through rigorous study, in three days, she was able to learn the entire language, when it would have normally taken a lifetime’s worth of study for other ponies to learn even a few sentences. 

It did not take her too long to gain fluency—as her being, like Disce’s and her sister’s, flowed with the power of the language; and, despite never before using it in her life and despite a painful spell at foalhood, the language had only been suppressed; it had never been truly exorcised from her soul. Her rebellious nature had awoken it from a long dormancy imposed upon it by society; which her sister had never been able to break; and which Disce, with his sharp mind and wit, had destroyed the second he had realized himself and his potential.

Nightmare Moon had not mispronounced her sister’s name—she had said it in its original, its true, pronunciation.

She had been able to learn the language’s words and its syntax. Finally, when she had read everything, she allowed herself to be filled with its very meaning, its very essence, and its context was finally restored within her. It was within this context that brought power to the words in her dream; it was in this context that Disce had spoken them to her; and it was in this context which she, before destroying Ponyville, had carved them into the foot of Disce’s prison, their energy burning straight through the stone and reaching him. And they conveyed everything to him, invigorating him with their purity, amplifying his magical power by tenfold, and granting him a medium of escape should the opportunity show itself, enabling him to exact his perfect revenge when the time had come.

It was within these words of this language which Disce had lived by, these three seemingly simple words that held the entire meaning of every action he had ever taken, these words that he had whispered into Princess Luna’s ear and which she had only grasped one hundred and eighty years later—only then understanding their gravity, their truth, and only then understanding that there was nothing more important than for her to become their emissary, for the sake of the future, for the sake of herself, and for the sake of him:




Ordo ab Chao.

Ordo ab Chao.

Out of Chaos, Order.