Chapter Forty Three: Gathering The Army.

***

Plymouth base, May 2030.

The following month was insane: soldiers from across the country were brought. Experimental weapons were signed off on, manufactured and sent into action. Guns were built and commissioned and re commissioned from museums. Tanks were oiled and fueled and set into position. Helicopters were landed in place, ready to transport cargo or weapons.

The army was being gathered for this, the most important battle in the history of the human race.

***

May 10th.

There was a bustle of activity in the camp. Soldiers ran hither and thither, Sergeants yelling orders, officers conducting inspections and making certain that everything was where it should be.

To Prince Blueblood, this sort of ordered chaos was a kind of anathema. He still marvelled that it had ever become part of his life: it really belonged more to the life his father had been part of. General Steelblood had been a stern, unrelenting member of the Royal Guard, one of the highest regarded members of the Guard of his time, and beloved by all his soldiers.

It had been one of Steelblood's greatest disappointments when Blueblood, his only son, had failed to be anything remotely impressive as a soldier. Steelblood had always been hard on his son, always pushed him to try and be just like his father. Blueblood had tried to make his father proud, honestly he had, but… but he had never, ever succeeded. He had joined the army but failed the officer course. He had tried again... nothing. He had pushed himself harder than he thought ponies could, and managed to make officer rank after four tries - but by then his father was already disappointed.

After that, nothing he did was ever good enough for his father's insanely exacting standards. Being an officer - nothing. Top of his class - nothing. Eventually, Blueblood had just given up, leaving the military. His father, in return, stopped speaking to him. His mother, a kind and understanding mare named Blue Star, had refused to allow Steelblood to cut Blueblood off, but the older stallion had never deigned to speak to his son again. That had been what had prompted Blueblood's socialising: he had decided that since he wasn't going to please his father anyway, there was no point even trying. The old stallion had died thinking of his son as a disgrace to the family name.

"What would you think of me now, father?" Blueblood wondered aloud as he watched soldiers and support staff wander the field, preparing the various tanks and planes as they were being fueled, assembled into formations and crewed.

"Sir?" a small voice said. He turned to find himself facing Dinky Doo, who was watching him with a curious expression.

"Just a random thought, Dinky," Blueblood sighed. "It isn't really important."

Dinky nodded slowly, before coming up to stand next to Blueblood, watching as ponies and humans marched by in formation. in the distance, she could see knights of Albion dueling in preparation for the invasion of Equestria.

"Sir," Dinky asked after a moment, "I have a favour to ask."

Blueblood sighed resignedly. "Let me guess, Miss Doo. You want to join the battle."

Dinky looked at him, her eyes filled with a kind of fervour Blueblood had seen many times, but also with tears. "Sir, it isn't that… that other Ditzy's place to represent my mother in this battle. It's mine. I'm all that's left."

"Indeed?" Blueblood asked, raising an eyebrow.

"I need to be out there," she said earnestly. "I need to be in this fight. I'm begging you sir…"

He held up a hoof, forestalling her continued pleading. He looked back at the soldiers preparing for the coming battle, and he sighed quietly.

"My father was never proud of me," he said slowly, not looking at the young Unicorn. "I tried my best. I did everything that stubborn old stallion demanded from me. Nothing worked. I was never good enough." He looked at Dinky, a soft smile on his face. "You have a chance to fight for something your mother fought for. To try and do something that you feel would make her proud. I couldn't possibly take that from you."

"You mean…?" she asked, her eyes wide with shock.

"I mean, Miss Doo, that you will be accompanying me on the battlefield," Blueblood said, frowning slightly. "I think the time's come for both of us to stand on the field of battle."

Dinky had nothing to say, and so she stood next to Blueblood, her eyes wide in surprise and shock. The two of them stood in silence as the preparations passed them by.

It would soon be time.

***

May 14th.

"Alright, you buckers!" the stern voice of Iron Gait called out. The old drill sergeant had been called out to help with the organisation of the Equestrian forces, and had been (temporarily he hoped) brevet promoted to Sergeant Major in order to facilitate the role. It was an especially vexing task, since most of the ponies he seemed to be working with were a bunch of bucking idiots.

"Careful with that bucking crate!" he yelled at a couple of Unicorns who were moving a large, heavy box. "That's filled with P220's - they'll be a fine mess if you jostle 'em too much!"

Everything was being dragged out for this battle, and Iron Gait grinned slightly at the thought of the destructive miniguns being rolled out by the batch, ready to use against the Equestrian armies. Still, if they never got there they wouldn't be much use, now would they?

"And you!" he yelled at a group of Resistance moped unicorns who were talking near him. "What the buck are you standing around for?! There's a war on!"

"Yes sir! Sorry sir!" they yelled, immediately heading off to do... something.

"Bucking morons..." Gait muttered. He didn't know why he'd ever accepted this transfer. He had been relatively happy training ponies up North. This business was far removed from that. Having said that, if this all worked out like some of the rumours flying suggested, pretty soon there would be no need for him to train ponies. The war would be over.

"Sergeant Major!" a new voice called out. Gait turned, to find himself facing Colonel Grid Lock.

"Sir!" he said sharply, saluting.

"Want to tell me what's going on here? These crates should have been moving an hour ago!" the Colonel said sharply.

Gait grimaced slightly. "These buckers are slow, sir, but don't worry, I'll get them moving in no time."

"Be sure you do," Grid Lock said, inspecting the troops as they moved the guns. "We need a lot of advantages if we're gonna fight the Guard on their home turf, and those guns might be the best one we get."

"Yessir, I understand," Gait nodded. He turned back to the crates, still being lugged by the Unicorns. "Alright, now get your bucking acts together! Move it, you plotwipes! We've a war to win!"

A jeep drove up to the Sergeant Major, and the Unicorns immediately moved the crates onto the jeep.

"Excuse me sir?!" the pony driving the jeep called out to Iron Gait. "Where do you want…?"

There was a pause as the pony registered who he was talking to. Iron Gait, meanwhile, grinned as he recognised the jeep driver.

"Well if it isn't Private Dipstick," he said with a grin. "Heck, boy, I knew we'd make something useful out of you!"

Private Chick Pea, Resistance Jeep driver, groaned inwardly. "Hello, sir."

"Well don't just sit there, boy!" Iron Gait said, slapping the other pony on the shoulder in what was probably a friendly gesture. "Start driving! We've got weapons to move!"

***

May 20th.

"In death, our spirits are freed from our mortal shells," the grim voice of the Undead spoke to his followers. He was dressed in his almost-ornate trenchcoat, a black helmet upon his head. "That our bodies remain awake is a mistake, some might say. An error on the part of the universe. We are a cosmic accident, and our continued awareness on this plane is a gift, one we must not squander."

Twenty five Undead warriors, ponies and humans alike, knelt before him - more were in the camp, but these were the ones who weren't busy preparing for battle. They, and their brethren, were dressed in gas masks with painted skulls, long black trenchcoats and steel helmets, looking for all the world like a small army of Grim Reapers. Every one of them carried the same model of automatic rifle, each weapon bearing personalised messages carved into the stock that spoke of their own deaths and duties.

"The world is threatened," the Undead continued, looking out at his force. "Our Mother Earth has all but fallen to the darkness, save this one isle. It is the dead who will claim that world again. It is the dead who will restore the world and protect the living! The Dead Walk!"

"And we have purpose!" came the shout from the assembled Dead Men.

"Our engineers are hard at work," the Undead continued, raising an arm to point behind the praying group. "They are building the Avatar of the Dead, as the man Elliot is the Avatar of the living! This will be our voice, the voice of the Dead that will silence forever the crimes of the living. This is the justice of the dead, come for Equestria, come for the Tyrant Sun. The Dead Walk!"

"And we have purpose!" the Dead Men shouted again.

There were a number of Dead Men engineers working on a large transport helicopter, modifying it to have weapons and other accruements, and painting it black. Already the machine possessed an intimidating presence as it was slowly transformed into an avatar of everything the Dead Men believed and fought for. Upon the sides of the great machine was a litany written in white paint, repeated across the entirety of the chassis. The litany read:

Our lives have ended,
Our time has come.
Our souls have departed,
But our bodies live on.
We walk the land as mistakes of fate,
But we shall stand before it's too late.
In life, we were free.
In death, we have duty.
The Dead Walk.
And we have purpose.

This litany spread across the surface of the great machine like a spiderweb, covering every nook, every cranny. The only space free from the litany was the side of the great machine, where there was a name written in a huge, almost calligraphic font.

ABSOLUTION.

"We do not fear the death of the body," the Undead continued, looking out among his troops and giving the Absolution a glance, feeling an altogether warm feeling of rightness about the whole thing - possibly the only warm feelings he ever really had, apart from Life Day. "The soul is already free. We cannot fear death, for to fear death is to fear that which has already come to pass for us. We only fear failure! We only fear the thought of not making good on the gift we have been given!" He paused, before smiling, an almost insane rictus. "We walk! We walk to save mankind, to destroy its enemies, to save our world! We walk!"

"And we have purpose!" the Dead shouted one last time.

***

May 22nd.

"Knights of Avalon! Warriors of Albion! This is our time!"

Sir Eric, the head of the Holy Order of Albion, stood before an assemblage of his warriors. Over four hundred of them had come from across the country, warriors who had seen the most trying of battles, fought the most deadly of foes and seen the worst that the Solaminan Empire had to offer. He could see Sir Elise, the woman who had fought on the ground at the last battle of Hull not three weeks ago. There were Sir Gregor of Pembrokeshire and Sir Thomas of Reading, men who had fought by Albion's side at the battle of London itself. Beside them was Sir Nathaniel of Rochester, Sir Isaac, the hero of Edinburgh, and Sir Eleanor of York, who had single-handedly shattered a Crystal Golem that had been rampaging through her hometown and slain its handler. Sir Quincy the Fell-handed was there, and Sir Meredith the True, and Sir Jason sans le Argonauts (his own preferred title, after his many valiant actions none dared question it), who stood with a group of warriors who had fought with him during the evacuation of the Lake District.

They were heroes all, these men and women: each of them was a warrior who he would have trusted with his life a thousand times over. He could not think of a better band of battle-brethren to take with him into this, the final battle of this long and bloody war.

"I see before me the finest warriors in all of Albion," Sir Eric continued, locking eyes with warrior after warrior and swelling with pride at the grim determination he saw in each face. "There are warriors here who have stood tall and proud before the darkest foes our people have faced. I could not bring a finer fellowship to this final battle." He paused. "We face the most crucial battle yet. The battle that will decide the final fate of our great land and humankind itself! Either we walk into that hell and take the head of the demon Solamina, slay her and bring her Empire to ruin, or else she will cast down Britain and all her knights and finally lay low the banner of humanity!"

There was a dark murmuring from the assembled knights.

"I have called this convocation for one purpose," Sir Eric said slowly. "This battle will claim many lives - possibly the lives of every warrior who fights it. Though you are all of valorous heart and stout spirit, I do not intend to ask you to walk into certain death unless you truly desire to do so. Every man, every woman, must find their own duty in their hearts. You may feel your duty calls you to defend these shores to the last rather than risk all on what may be a fool's errand." He looked across the group. "If you choose to step aside from this battle, feel no shame. Each of you here has proven yourself a thousand times. You need not prove your valour again."

There was a long pause as the assembled knights considered the choice posed before them. Finally, Sir Eleanor of York stepped forward. There was a moment's muttering as she did so.

"I would speak!" she said simply.

"I will hear it," Sir Eric replied, focusing on the young woman.

"This war has claimed all that I loved," she said, her voice strong and clear as her gaze swept the convocation. "My parents. My siblings. I would not stand aside from the last battle now. I will see this through to the end. And I think I speak for all here when I say that."

"Faithless is the warrior who forsakes his duty at the last hurdle," Sir Jason agreed grimly. "I stand to the end."

"I will not abandon my oaths, nor will I watch my friends march into battle without my blade to hand!" called Sir Isaac. "I will go!"

"As will I!" Sir Nathaniel yelled.

"And I!" called another voice.

"And I!" more called, in ones and twos. Blades were drawn and held up to the sky in gestures of solidarity.

Sir Eric looked, and saw not a single warrior stepped away from the throng. His heart swelled with pride - though the road was dark, and though his heart foreboded that he would never return from it, he knew he would stand beside his brothers and sisters in battle one last time.

"Brothers, sisters," he said, his voice cracking with emotion as he drew his sword and knelt before them. "Let us pray."

***

May 24th.

"And all our channels have been buzzing with the news of a big military buildup," the mare on the radio said, her upper class Trottingham voice filling the small tent. "While we at Resistance FM are not prone to guessing, we'd like to hope that this buildup means something good is on the horizon…”

"You're Pony-Goddamn right," somepony said, and a cheer went up in the room.

“… and we urge our domestic listeners to keep the faith,” the mare continued. “To the Resistance: all of our hopes and prayers are with you. May the white horse watch your steps.”

Rarity closed her eyes, trying to will away the feeling of foreboding. Next to her, Applejack was smiling softly.

"I reckon this'll all be over soon, Rare," she said quietly. "D'you reckon we'll be able to do it?"

"We'll have to," Rarity said quietly. "If we don't… that's it."

***

May 27th.

The former ERAS Interdiction - the prefix unceremoniously scraped off of the great golden frame - was being refitted for the coming battle. Soldiers were fitting machine guns and cannons to the frame, and a giant symbol of the Union Jack had been painted onto the balloon, along with a half dozen other flags, and several personalised messages - the best of them being a message that read "Buck Solamina up the Plot!" in big red letters. Underneath this was a smaller message: "Who'd go near that?" Underneath that was an even smaller message. "Let me do it - I have gonorrhea."

Several Resistance Unicorns were hard at work enchanting the gas for the main gasbag of the airship. Already they were straining from the effort of imbuing such large quantities but it was all needed, with the new additions to the gondala the Interdiction was even heavier than it had been before they captured it.

Errant had been temporarily assigned to oversee the refit of the Interdiction: in theory, the machine would fly in as fire support for Grey Squadron and the other resistance flyers, as well as acting as a mobile base for them. Errant, as the senior Resistance Air Force flyer on the base, would be in command of the flight squadrons as a whole, with High Tide taking command on the Interdiction.

"Be sure to bolt that gun down good and proper," Errant Flight said to one of the Earth Pony engineers helping to modify the vessel.

"Yes sir," the pony he was talking to replied, sounding irritated. "We know."

Flight was nervous, truth be told. For years, he had been anticipating the battle to retake Equestria, to finally oust Solamina from her position and take the country back from tyranny and insanity. Now that it was finally about to happen... he was afraid. What would become of Equestria after the war? How could it ever go back to the way it was after everything that had happened?

The answer, of course, being that it couldn't. They were going home to a corpse, or at best a dying body that could maybe be brought back, but would only ever be a shadow of it's former self.

"Grey Leader, sir?" a voice asked, and Errant turned, finding himself facing Grey Fox. "Are you alright?"

"Fine, Fox," Errant replied quietly. "Just wondering..."

"Wondering, sir?" Fox asked after a moment.

"What are we going home to, Grey Fox?" Errant asked. "What's left?"

"Now that's a question." Fox pondered for a moment before taking a deep breath. Not a good sign for Errant, who frowned.

"Grey Fox?" he asked.

"At the end of the day," the other Squadron Leader said, "we're going back to what was our home. Is it anymore? No, you and I both know that it isn't. After all this is over..."

He trailed off. Both Grey Fox and Errant Flight looked around at the souls that were all working for the end of such a hell.

Fox nodded to himself, grinning. "We'll make a new home. It won't be what it was, but with any luck it will be better."

"I hope you're right, Upsilon Lead," Errant said quietly. "I hope this has all been worth it."

***

May 30th.

"And... again!"

Lyra Heartstrings' horn lit up, a pale turquoise light shining in the dark of a late May evening. She was concentrating as hard as she could on her goal.

"Portus… Maxima… Liberatus!" she called out, her voice ringing in the night.

Slowly, a portal emerged from the darkness, lighting up the sky, at first a small thing that could barely be seen, but then soon growing until it filled the night.

"Everypony!" Twilight yelled to the half dozen ponies standing nearby, each of them concentrating on their destination, in this case the town of Ponyville. "Keep concentrating!"

A moment later, the portal solidified into the solid, glass-like construction that would lead the army through to Equestria. Through the shimmering portal, the assembled ponies could see...

"Ponyville!" Lyra breathed, looking at the battered, changed town beyond the portal. Tears stung at her eyes at the sight of her former home so changed.

A moment later, the portal disappeared, fading away into nothing. Twilight trotted up to Lyra, a bittersweet smile on her face.

"You're doing well," the purple Unicorn said quietly.

"Yeah," Lyra said quietly, her thoughts still resting on the place she had seen. "I guess I am."

"Keep up that level of concentration and you'll be able to hold the portal open while everyone goes through," Twilight continued quietly. "We'll be going home soon."

"Yeah," Lyra said again, thinking about the place she had seen and comparing it to the small town that was her home. Her heart went out to the ponies of this world, knowing the kind of Equestria they would be returning to. "At least we'll have one."

Her mind was wandering, returning to scribbled words on old pages.

More and more I feel like I’m not going to see the end of this. But I watch him, as he pushes himself further and further… and I believe I can. I believe in him. With him by my side

The other her. The words were more frenzied, more hurried. Less thought out. Less observations about humans as time went on, and more focusing on war. The horrors. Sometimes there were gaps of days, weeks, months between entries. And more and more…

… more and more those words seemed to hint at something else.

“Are you alright?” Twilight asked her.

Lyra shook her head. “I just… I haven’t finished the diary yet.”

“The other you’s diary?” Twilight asked, frowning. “Why is that important?”

Lyra shrugged. “I… I guess I feel like I owe her that much, at least. I mean… she… she deserved to be here.”

“Here at the final battle?” Twilight asked her.

“Just here,” she replied, her voice soft. “She… she lost so much…”

I’ve been betrayed. Bon Bon lied. She lied to me all of the time I knew her, and I never realised - not until she threw it in my face.

“... and she isn’t even here to see it made worth something,” Lyra finished, shaking her head. “Where did we even bury her, Twilight? Where did we even -”

Her voice broke. She swallowed.

“We’ll make it right,” Twilight said quietly. “That’s why we came here.”

“Yeah,” Lyra said, thinking back to the diary. “Yeah, we will.”

***

June 1st.

Fluttershy parried another blow with her wrist-Bokken, grunting slightly from exertion. Rainbow Dash, grinning, lashed out again and again, but her yellow friend kept blocking the blows. Suddenly, Fluttershy lashed out, and Dash had to dodge quickly to her right to avoid being whacked in the face. Not letting up, Fluttershy span herself around and whacked Rainbow in the side. Staggering slightly, Rainbow stepped back, bringing her blades up to block the next blow. She lashed out, but Fluttershy blocked again.

"Stop!" called out a familiar voice.

Rainbow and Fluttershy both stopped at once, grinning at each other. They were both panting slightly from exertion and they were both sweating. Applejack trotted up to them with a grin.

She had been timing the two of them: Fluttershy had insisted on training extra hard for this month until she was able to keep up with Rainbow and the others - "I don't want to go to Canterlot and just be in the way. This is too important." Rainbow had agreed to help her and had rigourously pushed her to be as good as she could be. It seemed as though her efforts had paid off.

"Ya'll both fought each other to a standstill," she said, grinning. She held up the little stopwatch she yes using. "I reckon you're both ready."

"Rainbow was... already ready," Fluttershy said, still panting. "I needed... to be... better.

"Well, ya managed that," Applejack grinned. "Reckon the Guards won't know what hit 'em."

Rainbow grinned at Fluttershy, who smiled weakly back. Now there was just the waiting.

***

June 3rd.

An older man in comparatively ornate robes wandered through a crowd of men and women, blessing each of them in turn as he walked. Behind him walked a handful of other men and women, also in such robes. He had tanned skin, and had grown a short white beard that matched his white hair. He walked with a somewhat ornate staff, but was surprisingly fit and hale.

This man was Pope Honorius V, the official head of the Catholic Church. His name prior to accepting this rather monumentus (not to say downright terrifying and unexpected) honour was Alejandro Castell, and he had been a Guatemalan priest who had been one of many refugees coming into Britain at the time of the Barrier's expansion. At first, there had been very little special about him - he was just another refugee, albeit a particularly pious one. However, when Italy - and as a result, the Vatican, the Pope and most of the Catholic Church's Hierarchy - had been disintegrated by the Barrier, every surviving Catholic priest in Britain had come forward to decide on who the new pope would be. It didn't help that there were no Bishops left - any who had not died in their countries or been killed in the ensuing mess, or worse ponified by the PER, had died in the subsequent struggle to survive the overcrowded land of Britain, many of them choosing to go without food or shelter so as not to take up room better left to others.

Alejandro had been a simple Reverend, nothing special at all, but when the call to submit one's candidacy for the papacy had come, he had been struck with the urge to step up to the challenge. He didn't know why - the more lyrically minded of his flock might have said it was because God Himself had told him to, but Alejandro had just felt that it was right to step forward and offer himself for the mantle. He had spoken to his fellow priests of how in these times, the Pope should not be an island unto himself, sequestered in some shelter like the Vatican, but should be an active presence among the people, spreading hope and the Word of God to others in times that could not have been darker.

To his surprise, his simple, honest faith had earned him the respect of the entire remaining Catholic Church, and they had elected him into the position of Pope. Since then he had made it his business to live up to what he had said: it was his place to step up and take the Word of God to the people of Britain, in a time when His will must have seem further away than it ever had.

Right now, he was administering blessings to the assembled individual soldiers. It was his place to step forward and offer comfort to these men and women, for it was their place to go into battle and, with God's blessing, hopefully bring the Tyrant Solamina to justice.

The thought of Solamina almost brought a frown to Pope Honorius' otherwise calm face. The Tyrant had… well. There were rumours about the Converted Evangelist Sol Invictus, the pony who had coined the name 'Solamina', and frankly the name already suggested the stallion had been well versed in some form of Latin. It was likely that he had been Catholic. That made it equally likely that the Solaminan cult he had founded had it's roots in a perverted version of Catholicism, with Solamina herself replacing God, Mary and Jesus. It made Honorius sick to his stomach that a faith of love and tolerance had been twisted into a tool of genocide.

Still… he was here now, surrounded by the faithful. The Lord is my Shepherd, I shall not want. For though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I shall fear no evil. Renewed, he marched with purpose to the head of the assemblage. He stepped upon a simple crate that had been prepared for this purpose, and he looked out at his flock with a small smile.

"Let us pray," he said simply. As one, the assembled soldiers lowered their heads and listened as the Pope began reciting a prayer.

"In rising, I wish my first thought to be of Thee.
I thank Thee for guarding me during the night.
During this day, please keep my body from accident, and my soul from sin.
I am far from my family, surrounded by new temptations;
please lead and protect me.
Bless, please, my commander and my comrades,
and above all, bless our country.
May I serve today as a good soldier. Amen."

"Amen," the congregation repeated quietly. Honorius smiled. Yes, times were hard and the world had never seen a darker moment than the one it was living through right now - but faith… yes, faith… that was always going to be found in humanity. Even in the darkest of times, there would be a light...

***

June 4th.

David Elliot coughed into a towel. He had been trying, since that morning, to push past whatever barrier he had left in his power. He had gone over the words again and again: The final hurdle is you. Once you break that, you can do anything. But try as he might, he couldn't do it. He couldn't push further. He had gone as far as he could do: there was no reserve, there was no secret.

He pulled the towel away and frowned. It was covered in flecks of coughed-up blood. He sighed. This was it then: he really was dying. He could only hope he had strength enough to stand and face off against Solamina when the time came...

***

Words had been scratched out of the final page of the diary. Too many, too scribbled over to read. Only one sentence was left legible for Lyra Heartstrings to read, but it was the only one that would have mattered.

January 20th, 2030.

I'm in love with David Elliot. I will never tell him. It's better that way. It has to be.

Her eyes couldn’t leave that one sentence, her mind reeling from the implication.

I'm in love with David Elliot.

She tried thinking over what she had read previously. So much…

… so much made sense, now. Words that seemed increasingly to have come of their own volition, scratched out as though this other Lyra was lying to herself, trying to hide from the truth. Trying to hide -

I'm in love with David Elliot.

- trying to hide from how she felt.

Lyra found herself thinking about David Elliot, the man - the human man - that her counterpart supposedly loved.

‘Could I feel that for him?’ she found herself thinking. ‘Could I? Do I? Would I want to?’

It was so confusing. Reading words, reading emotions, that her other self had written.

‘She’s not me.’ She shook her head. ‘She’s not me. I don’t have to feel what she feels. What she felt. I’m me. Not her.

“Me, not her,” she said aloud, as though it could make it any different.

Still it begged a different question. Her other self had decided not to tell him. But that decision… was it spur of the moment? Was it certain? Was it uncertain? Was she unsure? Judging by the number of scratched out lines in the diary, it didn’t look as though Lyra had been the least bit certain about what she had written.

I'm in love with David Elliot.

Well. That bit had been certain. But…

… should she, Lyra Heartstrings, denizen of a free Equestria… should she tell David Elliot what she had read? Would it make a difference?

***

Canterlot, June 4th, Year 6 of the New Solaminan Calendar (2030).

She stood, staring at the still forms that surrounded her. Her eyes moved from body to body, studying them, a soft smile gracing her features as she stood before those who would soon be her army.

"My lady," a voice said from behind her. "I didn't expect to find you back here."

Solamina turned her head slightly, glancing at Commander Sparkle, the purple mare looking at her with an expression of worry.

"I thought I would inspect the troops," Solamina replied simply. "There is still much to be done."

"There is," Sparkle agreed. "I am having the Archmagi work as fast as they can, but…"

"It was not a criticism, dear Twilight, merely a comment," Solamina said quietly, looking back to the still figures, her smile not wavering. "Do not concern yourself overmuch with time - time… is no object at all."

Author's Notes:

This chapter was edited 2nd August 2015.