Legio Patria Nostra- The Legion is our homeland
7th of January 1882

“Princess?” The voice is soft and gentle, but also muffled as if by a great distance. It also sounds rather worried. Twilight groans softly, opening her eyes. Her whole body aches, a slow, gentle pulsing pain that Twilight has become used to over time. Her mouth feels like something has crawled in there and died. However the rich smells of parchment and ink fill her nostrils like a soothing balm, the reassuring odours dispelling the vague sense of unease. She groans as a hand lands upon her shoulder and shakes her very gently.

“I'm up!” Twilight mumbles groggily as she slowly sits up. Whilst the room she’s sitting in is still plunged into darkness, Twilight doesn’t need any lights to recognize the familiar bookshelves that tower to the ceiling all around her and the plush purple carpet that scrunches between her toes. Even when she was a girl, this place was a place of magic and wonder, and even now, it still holds secrets beyond counting. Twilight fluffs her wings slowly, sitting up in her chair and clicking her fingers to ignite the candles that have burnt themselves down to stumps whilst she slept, dribbling wax upon the desktop.

Books are strewn about Twilight, neatly marked with a page corner politely folded over, or just turned over with their spines upwards, resembling dead birds. Twilight winces whenever she sees this, knowing the damage that storing your books like that can inflict upon their spines. However, she knows where she is, knows that everything is all right, and whatever the voice behind her is worried about is something that she can sort out because everything is as it should be apart from one small thing: She's fallen asleep in the library again. Twilight rubs her eyes once more, trying to dispel the last remnants of sleep as the voice behind her clears its throat politely. Twilight turns, expecting to see Brother Tome or Brother Leaf, the two keepers of the Royal library, though; that is not whom she finds when she turns around.

The figure standing behind her is a short, portly man of advanced years with a rapidly receding hairline and bright sparkling blue eyes behind half moon spectacles. His face is ruddy, and his suit is straining slightly around the middle thanks to the substantial bulk of a man who has spent quite a lot of time behind a desk. He has a thick walrus mustache and the soft manicured features of a man that spends a lot of time in Canterlot and has obviously become fond of his creature comforts. Despite his seeming sloth, the man’s shovel-like hands are callused and worn, like those of a man who has spent a lot of time outdoors. His knuckles are worn and bruised. His suit is immaculate; his crimson bow tie is perfectly centered, and he carries a cane under one arm, although he seems to be able to walk perfectly well without it. He is never seen without a smile on his face, or at least a twinkle in his eye. Jokes gleam in the crinkles around his eyes and his deep booming laugh frequently rings like a bell through the corridors of Canterlot Castle.

Twilight knows who he is of course. He's Diplomatic Incident, one of the people that Princess Celestia hired to teach Twilight Sparkle how to be a good princess. Apparently, he used to work for the Treasury and the Foreign office, although he doesn't say what he did for either of those organizations. He is, however, one of the only people who categorically refuses to genuflect or bow to Twilight, instead calling her 'ma'am' and greeting her with a cheery wave, and a smile or a firm handshake, which earns him Twilight's admiration. All that bowing and scraping becomes rather tedious after a while, and it is nice to have someone who can be refreshingly direct.

“So sorry to bother you ma'am,” he says. “Princesses Celestia and Luna have requested your presence forthwith in Princess Celestia's study. It is my understanding that Princess Luna is back from the Khanate with some rather worrying news.”
Twilight climbs to her feet, fluffing her wings as she slides her feet into her slippers.
“Do you know what's happened?” She asks, but Diplomatic Incident shakes his head.

“Unfortunately, everyone seems to be rather buggeringly tight lipped about this whole business, though a few chaps I went to school with have some thoughts on the subject at hand, none of them all that pleasant.”

At Twilight's inquisitive glance, he clears his throat and tosses her a meaningful glance.
“Dear girl, I am hardly about to repeat the drunken ramblings of a couple of sailors when we are but two shakes away from hearing the truth of the matter direct from the horse's mouth as it were.” Diplomatic Incident says, the words rolling off his tongue in his urbane Canterlot drawl as he casts a reproachful glance at Twilight.

As the two wander through Canterlot castle, towards the inner sanctum of the Princesses' chambers, Twilight realizes how much of a kicked anthill the place resembles. Soldiers are moving through the corridors, marching purposefully this way and that or carrying attache cases or holdalls. A churning riot of uniforms fills the corridors of the castle as officers move to and from various meetings, whilst government ministers scurry for cover. Many of them are so busy that they even forget to salute her, although that could be due to Twilight's rather eccentric dress choice. She still hasn't had time to get changed out of her bedclothes, and she can't help but feel embarrassed as soldiers duck their heads politely as their gaze flicks discreetly away from the pyjama clad princess with the purple dressing-robe and rabbit slippers. It wasn't her fault that she'd gotten too carried away in her studying... okay, maybe it was her fault but still.

She follows Diplomatic Incident deeper into the bowels of the castle, the crowds of soldiers getting thinner as they do. Here is the domain of the government ministers, men in suits and top hats clustered in tight knots. Progressives and Hard-liners, Solarians and Lunites identifiable by the color of their tie or boutonniere all mingling in violation of one of the most sacrosanct tenets of Equestrian politics.

“Looks like someone's set the cat among the pigeons.” Diplomatic Incident says, sounding rather smug. Twilight cannot quite bring herself to reproach him as they are now approaching Princess Celestia's study, with its imposing gold-plated double doors and the two statuesque guardsmen standing outside, one in the golden plating of the Solar guard and the other in the jet black plate armor of the Lunar guard.

The two guardsmen clank to attention as Twilight draws closer, her gaze fixed upon the two colossal guardsmen. Even after spending most of her life in the palace, the two guardsmen outside the Princesses' chambers are still very intimidating. Twilight gathers herself and strides up to the door, knocking twice. Even if the guards cannot deny her entry, Twilight learned very early on during her tenure as a princess that it was polite to knock in case Celestia was in the midst of a private audience with someone important, someone who might wish the audience to be kept private.
A moment later, Celestia's voice drifts from within, soft and gentle as ever.
“Come in Twilight, bring Mr. Incident with you.”
The heavy dark wooden doors open and Diplomatic Incident glances at Twilight, looking impressed, almost reverent.

“Oh my, this is most peculiar, would appear that this is the first time I've been in here” he says softly, awestruck. For Twilight, however, Princess Celestia's study feels like home away from home. She's been brought in here so many times for her lessons that the room has a warm, comforting familiarity.

Celestia’s study is brightly lit, many stained glass windows cast patterns of dancing colored light across the floor, and a chandelier hangs from the ceiling; all the while a roaring fireplace is burning happily away in one corner of the plush study. Twilight smiles as Celestia's fat-ass white Persian cat trundles over and rubs itself up against her pyjama clad leg to be petted.

The study has undergone many changes since the last time she saw it. A map table now sits obnoxiously in the centre of Celestia's study. Wooden blocks are strewn across it, steadily moving back and forth in a carefully orchestrated battle, each one being gently manipulated by Luna as she is rehearsing the latest choreographed routine in the timeless dance of war. Meanwhile, Celestia is quietly observing Luna from the couch whilst casting an occasional glance at a quill pen that is traipsing through a stack of court documents, her hair billowing lazily like it is caught in a soft current. Luna's head turns and Twilight finds herself gazing into the steel mask of the Lunar Princess. It's a rather disconcerting experience, staring into the flat, expressionless piece of steel that shields the outside world from the Lunar Princess, or the Princess from the outside world; Twilight's not sure which.

Both of the diarchs are dressed in uniform. Luna is wearing a royal blue dress tunic with silver trim, and deep blue trousers with a broad silver stripe down the seams. A scattering of silver braid hangs across her chest, and a series of silver ribbons decorate her breast. A short sword hangs from her hip which Twilight assumes is ceremonial. In this age of the bolt action rifle and the water cooled belt-fed machine gun, swords are something of an anachronism. Celestia is dressed in a bright, snowy white tunic with gleaming, glittering golden trim, along with white trousers with a broad gold stripe down the seam. Celestia is wearing no decorations at all, and her gloves lie abandoned upon the chair next to her.

Celestia chuckles, stretching her wings out idly as she plucks a grape from a fruit basket, looking as though she is at peace with the world around her. Only the tightness of the skin around her eyes lets Twilight know that all is not well with the Princess of the Sun.

“Our first crisis management conference and Princess Sparkle appears in her night attire.” she says, her mouth quirking upward in a slight smile. Twilight blushes furiously before her mentor and longtime confidant.

“I can get changed?” Twilight offers. “I don't wear a uniform like you two, but I'm sure I have something better than this,” she gestures down at herself and Celestia shakes her head slightly.

“There is no need Twilight, you don't have a regiment, so you don't need a uniform,” Celestia replies gently. “And in a way it's nice that you're appearing dressed like that, it adds a little lightness to the decision making process, which is sorely needed in such circumstances as this.”

Twilight tilts her head, knowing that whatever the two Diarchs are leading up to cannot be anything good.

“So, Princess Twilight,” Princess Luna asks after a couple of moments. “How much do you know about the Khanate?”
“They're currently a highly militant theocracy, which is mostly populated by the Khans although there’s a human minority of about ten percent. They've had various successive governments that rarely last for longer than ten years before toppling, either due to corruption or a coup-de-tat from somewhere or other, or a good old fashioned revolution, which is how the current leadership structure came to power. We had a little bit of a to-do with them just after the current government came to power and there’s been resentment between them and us ever since. All in all, it's a rather beastly place to be caught with your trousers down.” Diplomatic Incident explains, unconcerned about the fact that he's speaking out of turn before not one, but three Princesses of Equestria.

Luna’s mask turns and her head tilts quizzically as she looks at Diplomatic Incident. “And you are Mister Diplomatic Incident I presume?” The Princess of the Night asks suspiciously.

“The very same ma'am, late of the Foreign Office and the Treasury,” Diplomatic Incident steps forth and bows low. “I am very pleased to make your acquaintance.” Diplomatic Incident replies brightly.

“The pleasure is all yours,” Luna says, turning to Celestia.
“Why exactly do we have a bean-counter here with us?” The Night Princess tilts her head slightly, her steely grey mask hiding her confused expression. In response, Princess Celestia’s smile broadens as she taps her nose softly with two fingers.
“I brought a bean counter here in case we have beans which need counting sister,” she says cryptically. “Diplomatic Incident will be accompanying Twilight on this mission as her assistant.”

“Ma'am, you flatter me,” Diplomatic Incident replies, looking a little flustered. “I'm a little long in the tooth for field work, particularly for a dashed hostile place like the cat's nest.”

“I have every confidence in your skills, Diplomatic Incident, you have some-” Celestia hesitates for a moment, tapping her finger against her jaw for a second. “Unique qualifications for the job at hand.” Celestia's smile is warm and comforting for a moment, before fading slightly as she turns to her former student.

“I have a job for you,” Celestia’s eyes narrow very faintly as she glances over Twilight’s shoulder, at the window of the city outside. “It's going to be rather taxing, however, I have full confidence in your abilities.” Celestia says, before turning to Luna.

“Care to tell her what happened yesterday?” Celestia asks and Luna nods shortly, beckoning for Twilight to come over to the map on the wall above the fireplace.

“Right,” Luna says quietly, seeming to shrink very slightly under Twilight’s gaze. “Yesterday, there was a riot at the Equestrian Embassy in the Khanate, an angry mob-” Luna hesitates for a moment before clearing her throat and continuing “They broke the gates down and managed to force their way in, we had to evacuate the embassy.”
As she speaks, the memories wash over the Lunar Princess like a tide of bile.
________
The heat is brutal, even in the garden that is walled in on all four sides, despite the enchantment that keeps the grass and trees green, it doesn't extend to keeping those in the garden cool. It is worse for me in my steel mask and heavy woollen uniform. Celestia might wear her flowing dresses and jewelry, but I will keep myself dressed as befits a woman of my station. I am a soldier, so I shall wear my uniform, and I shall like it. However, there is no reason my guardsmen should have to suffer, and thus they are wearing lightweight working dress with webbing and valise rather than the full plate armour which would surely render all four of them insensible from heat exhaustion.

Right now I am sitting out upon the veranda of my own personal garden, enjoying a moment of peace and quiet. It is coming around to evening, the sun is setting, and the birds are casting melodies through the trees. One of the nicest things about Tarhen is the lack of cloud cover, allowing me to gaze unimpeded upon the majesty of my night. If only the beauty of the heavens were reflected in the beauty of the city below. Today has been another colossal waste of time. More meetings with inconsequential nobodies with plenty of excuses, stalling and accusations, but no results. It boils my blood at times to know that the Equestrian tax-payer is paying my guards to sit around here and return an investment of precisely zero bits. They would be paying me too, but I don't draw a wage.

I am distracted from my musings by the sight of a tanned woman swaggering into the garden from the barrack block where the guard force is billeted. She is not dressed according to the uniform regulations of the Equestrian Military, wearing cotton khaki trousers, puttees and a white sweat-stained singlet with an unfamiliar unit badge upon it. Her equipment, however, is spotless, her webbing fits perfectly and her rifle appears to be immaculate, though I notice a crudely made canvas cover over the telescopic sight. Her rifle is slung over her shoulder like someone who knows what they are doing, and I notice her scan the rooftops slowly. She reaches into her pocket and pulls out a cigarette, and my steadily boiling anger grows. She is a representative of the Equestrian armed forces and should be conducting herself in a manner that befits her stature, not like a slovenly layabout.

I resolve to remember this woman's unit for later, so I can pull her up on a charge, the catalog of offences growing in my head. Her short hair is multi-hued in all the colors of the rainbow, and her eyes are vivid scarlet. The eyes she can get away with, but the hair is obviously a chargeable offence. The woman slips the cigarette between her teeth and lights it, wandering into the garden to sit down upon the cool grass beneath the broad boughs of a shade tree. I watch her wings unfold and observe her starting her preening ritual, tweaking at electric blue feathers here and plucking there. I vaguely remember having seen someone who looked a lot like her back in the day, back before Princess Sparkle's coronation. That particular someone was a close friend of the Princess, even to the extent of getting her face onto a stained glass window in the palace. I dismiss the notion that they might be the same person, knowing that Twilight would pick better companions for herself than this layabout, though a niggling doubt takes seed in my mind.
I decide this farce has gone on for long enough and clear my throat loudly.

The soldier glances around, looking for the source of the noise, before spotting me and scrambling to attention, her wings snapping away and the cigarette disappearing in a flash of movement. I rise to my feet and slowly make my way over to her. Up close the woman is even more striking. Thin and supple, with the obvious build of an athlete. Her muscles are perfectly toned, and she has curves in all the right places. She's not exactly tall, standing at only five foot two, however, I'm not much taller.
I look her up and down, slowly circling her like an RSM on inspection.

“Name?”

“Bolt Ma'am, Arc Bolt, Caporal of the Legion d'etrangers.” She replies. I've never heard of a Caporal before, although I'm fairly sure I know what the two stripes embroidered upon the front of her singlet mean.

“Funny name, I knew a woman who looked a lot like you.”

“Yes ma'am.” Her voice is the sharp bark of a noncom, and she shows no sign of fear even though she knows exactly who I am.

“Show me your weapon, Caporal.”

She slings the rifle forward, jacking the bolt back and a round pings out of the chamber.

“You had a round up the spout?” I ask, my voice pleasant, soft and absolutely deadly.

Carrying a weapon loaded with a round in the chamber and non regulation uniform, today just keeps getting better and better for this woman. I shake my head grimly, pursing my lips beneath my mask.

“Yes Ma'am!” the woman replies, sounding absolutely unconcerned about the fact that she's in breach of a hundred regulations whilst talking to the head of the entire Equestrian armed forces.

“May I ask why?” I ask, keeping my tone pleasant and neutral.

“Legion standing orders.” the response comes back and my eyes widen. I've never heard of any Legions, or at least any recent Legions. We have battalions, regiments, and squadrons, but no Legions. Maybe it's something my sister came up with in my absence, or else maybe they're a bunch of locals that the embassy has hired. She's certainly not part of the well-disciplined, well-drilled Equestrian military that I'm familiar with.

“Right,” I say, drawing my breath to deliver the tongue lashing of a lifetime, the kind that will get this... creature booted out of whatever Legion she purports to belong to. However, a loud bang splits the calm of the Embassy garden and shouting suddenly fills the air. Arc Bolt stiffens and jacks the cocking handle on her rifle, chambering another round.

“Let's go!” she snaps, grabbing me and starting to drag me towards the barracks, even as I hear the roar of gunfire rippling across the embassy grounds, the pop pop of Equestrian bolt action rifles followed by the higher pitched crackle of local weaponry. I shrug her off even as the familiar adrenal surge courses through me at the prospect of a fight.

“I can move myself, thank you!” I push my way past her. “Get up there and fight!” I snap sharply, she tosses me an evil look before turning, unfolding her wings and launching herself into the sky seconds before my Lunar guards dash over to me, one of them clutching the transponder radio set that allows them to communicate with the Destroyer that brought us in.

A door from the embassy building opens and the Ambassador, a corpulent man with a severe tonsure and the most annoying accent I have ever heard in my life, sprints up to me.

“We need to evacuate the Embassy!” He shrieks, terrified. “There are hundreds of them!”

I slap him hard, having no time for panicked officials or time wasters, and he straightens slightly, the fear leaving his eyes.

“Hundreds of whom?” I ask sharply, my voice seeming to break something in him.

“Enraged locals your highness! An armed mob is at the gates of the compound as we speak; we need to get to safety right now!” His voice is on the verge of hysteria, and I wonder just how bad this attack can be.

I nod quickly, gesturing for Sargeant Chapman, who is carrying a radio set, to start calling the destroyer in to start evacuating personnel. It has not yet occurred to me to ask for the destroyer to start taking lumps out of the buildings.

“Right, we'll get out by means of the airship. We need to get everyone formed up on the landing pad to leave, and we'll get this Legion to cover us, whoever they are.”
With that, the chaotic evacuation of the Embassy begins, under the guns and sticks of the angry mob. I unfold my wings and fly up to the roof to coordinate the defense, and it's there that I find this Bolt character laying down fire from the rooftop, roof tiles exploding all around her. I land upon the roof next to her, my guards following me.

“Good evening, Princess!” Bolt's voice is bright as she engages another target, lying comfortably upon the upward slope of the roof, shooting over the mantle at the mud brown buildings outside the Embassy.

“Are you enjoying sampling the night air round these parts?” She asks, working the bolt of her rifle back and forth once more.
“It is most invigorating,” I reply as I stick my head up over the mantle of the roof and down into the churning sea of people below. The huge wrought iron gates of the Embassy have been blown off, and a sea of people are churning and writhing against a line of these so-called 'Legionnaires', who have been brought in to plug the gap in the perimeter wall, using a combination of rifle stocks and bayonets against the crowd. As far as I can see, a large percentage of the crowd are unarmed, or else armed with rocks, sticks or whatever else they can get their hands on.

As I watch, more Legionnaires are moving up, getting into position at the windows. The gate and the entry courtyard are overlooked by the front of the embassy, which has been designed in a U shape, the gap in the U being the main gate. I realize with horror that a 'kill zone' is being set up. The moment the civilians break into the Embassy, they will be cut down in an action that could make a very effective casus-belli for anyone with a grudge to go to war against us.

“Be this jest?” I whisper and Bolt glances at me, and for the first time I notice she doesn't look too happy about this.
“It works, however that doesn't mean I'm going to be singing songs about it later on tonight,” She mutters darkly. “Sooner or later, they'll either run out of kinetic energy or break through. My job is to keep an eye out for anyone with a gun on the other side of that wall.” The Legionnaire punctuates the end of her sentence with a sharp crack as she fires once more, jacking the bolt of her rifle in a quick and easy movement to send another empty cartridge flying out of her weapon.

More roof tiles explode into crimson dust around us as my guardsmen take up positions along the wall and open fire with their own carbines. Rounds sing over our heads, the thick stench of cordite fills the air as the blocking detachment lays into the rioting cats with the vigor of desperate men. They know as well as we do that they are the only thing between Equestria and a major diplomatic incident, if not a war.
We all watch with bated breath, hoping and praying that the blocking detachment can hold. I don't want to see a massacre, not today, not on Equestrian soil, not by people who purport to be Equestrian troops.

Suddenly the inevitable happens.

One of the blocking detachment suddenly twists and collapses to the ground, pink mist blossoming from his chest as an enemy sniper finds his mark.

The mob surges forward, overwhelming the blocking detachment before they can plug the gap.
“LEGIONNAIRES, TAKE AIM!” A voice roars from within the embassy.

Ninety rifles are brought up to the shoulder.
“LEGIONNAIRES, MAKE READY!”

My guardsmen stare at me, their eyes obviously begging me to do something, anything to stop this. Revulsion fills my throat and my hands start to shake as ninety safety catches are switched off.
“LEGIONNAIRES WATCH AND SHOOT, WATCH AND-”

“HOLD FIRE!” My Canterlot voice thunders across the courtyard, and I hear confusion from the Legionnaires around me and throughout the building. The crowd pauses, seeing rifles aimed at them from every window and a heavy, pregnant silence hangs upon the scene. I can feel eyes upon me as I rise to my feet, standing upon the mantle of the roof and looking down upon the swelling mass that is slowly forcing its way through the gates; however the ones in front are struck motionless, staring up at me.
Behind me, I can hear the growl of the destroyer's engines as it draws closer, the drone of those huge engines filling the air. The crowd below are muttering nervously, and I can see the Legionnaires are still holding their positions, weapons raised and in the aim. However, no one's shooting at anyone yet. Maybe we might be able to make this work.

I watch the crowd for a moment, who are staring up at me expectantly, and I feel my mouth become dry beneath my mask. Celestia is the one who does public oratory, not me. I've never been one for public speaking, especially not after my exile. I like to be appreciated, don't get me wrong, I just hate public speaking. I open my mouth to speak, but then one of the cats below opens his mouth first, his ears back, and his bright yellow eyes narrowed in hate.
“There's the Arch-Demon's sister, KILL HER!” he bellows, reaching into his jacket, only to dissolve into pink mist, the crack of rifle fire filling the square as my guards shoot him down.

The burst of rifle fire, however, sets the crowd off, and several more start hurling rocks, followed by fireballs and petrol bombs. I am dragged down below the parapet as the thunder of rifle fire fills the square whilst the Legionnaires open fire, their fire control orders forgotten as they fight for their lives, trying to shoot as many of the rioters as possible, before the rioters breach the heavy wooden doors into the Embassy. But the sheer weight of numbers work against the Legionnaires. They cannot maintain the withering rate of fire, particularly as those on the lower levels of the Embassy start to get swarmed under by the mob. The crowd tries to turn to flee as the Legionnaires cut them down, but their avenue of escape is cut off by a group of cats positioned at the ruined gates, battering anyone who turns to escape, and they then turn and head forward, into the Embassy, driven forward by the weight of the crowd and the blows and kicks of that mysterious group.

Adrenaline pulses through me even as gunshots fill the air around me, the whizzing sound of bullets ripping past me like the buzzing of thousands of angry bees.
“Legionnaires, clear out the Embassy and regroup on the landing pad!” I hear orders being bellowed, followed by another one that sinks dread into my very soul.
“FIX BAYONETS!”
Bolt leaps into the sky, and I watch the woman drop down into the garden even as Legionnaires are hustling diplomats out, fighting back the angry cats that are even now storming the Embassy. I leap skywards, my bodyguard following me.

I feel wretched to my very core even as gunshots echo around me as the Legionnaires fight for their lives. Screams ring out around me as we fly back to the Embassy's rear garden to the raised dais at the very back of the garden. The platform, that is usually used for giving speeches, is now playing unwilling host to a pair of skiffs, the destroyer watching from overhead, its guns still silent. The scene is total utter chaos as diplomats and hired help struggle to get onto the small launches, the sounds of fighting drawing closer...
Luna's voice trails off and Twilight tilts her head quizzically.
"Forgive me sister, what happened next, I do not wish to speak of it," she says. Twilight realizes the Lunar Princess's voice is rather thick beneath that steel mask.

"We managed to extract most of the Embassy diplomats, a large portion of the domestic help, and most of the Legionnaires, but we had to leave quite a few behind, we just couldn't carry them all."

A bitter taste fills Twilight's mouth and her hands start to shake. She clears her throat as fear starts to tighten its icy grip around her guts.
"And what of the Legionnaire with the multi-coloured hair?" Her voice is nervous and tentative, almost begging Luna to allay her fears. Luna's head drops slightly, and she shakes her head, bringing a hobnailed jackboot sharply down upon Twilight's hopes.

"I, I don't know Twilight, I'm sorry."