“You can’t bury anything:
Men or nations
Old memories
Old vibrations
The pain doesn’t stop
Just because the killing’s ceased.”

-Lyrics from Homeland, by John Hiatt

A long time ago, Celestia read that every pony dreamed of Tartarus at least once in their lives. She couldn’t say whether this was true, but she did dream of it herself one night.

Her vision was a classic one. She stood on an obsidian plateau, overlooking a wasteland of capering demons, flaming rivers, and cages filled with the damned. Screams and the cracks of whips could be heard, but only distantly so. This plateau was high above all that, and was the last hope of those who came. For here the great demon judge held his court, deciding who truly deserved the torment that waited below.

The judge was huge. Even in her observer’s booth some distance away, Celestia had to look up to see his face. He was bipedal, with an engulfing black cloak that left only his face and hands visible. Both were blue-furred, and a heavy black hammer was clutched in his left claw. Two curling white horns came from his forehead, and white whiskers formed a small beard on his chin.

Paradoxically, though lesser imps jeered around him, the judge’s face was devoid of joy. If he took any pleasure in his condemnations, he gave no sign.

Caught by the judge’s massive form, it was only slowly that Celestia noticed the defendant before him. It was a unicorn – middle-aged and strong, though withered from ill-treatment. Black, shoulder-length hair hung in a mess behind him. His coloration was grey, his eyes red, and his demeanor one of stern defiance.

Celestia leaned forward, eyes widening.

Sombra. It was Sombra. Not the monster she and Luna killed in the far North, but the old Sombra. Sombra with the cynical wit and rare smile. Sombra who never seemed to get nervous, but who scratched at his nose when he was. Just like now.

Sombra who she loved. And maybe, he had loved her back.

“King Sombra,” the judge boomed lowly, scattering Celestia’s thoughts. The voice itself had power, a constant reminder that it held the keys of damnation.

“Do you have any final words, before your Judgment?”

“Yes,” the dead king said, fully possessing his careful wit of old. “You have presented my sins, but you have also presented the sins of another. The atrocities committed in my last years were done in my name, yet not done by me. I was possessed by dark magic and not in control of my actions.”

“Noted,” the great fiend rumbled, giving no sign of agreement or dissent. “Are you prepared for Judgment?”

Sombra squared his shoulders, standing as regally as he could. He nodded.

Celestia held her breath. The judge raised his black gavel, intoning lowly:

“I condemn thee,
Sinner,
To the Flames Unending.”

The gavel came down, hitting its block with a thum every bit as loud and final as the judge’s words.

Celestia watched, dumbstruck. Sombra’s head tilted downwards, a sigh escaping his body.

Then the head came up again, higher than ever – regal, arrogant, defiant to the end.

“So this is Justice,” he sneered. And he spat at the imps as they threw chains around him.

Sombra sat down, spitefully forcing them to drag his weight. As they neared the lip of the plateau, he stood and turned, briefly resisting the pull of the chains.

It was impossible to tell the distance, but his eyes met with Celestia’s. No words, nor any real sign of recognition. He just shrugged, giving a sardonic smile. The action unbalanced him against the chains, and he was swiftly yanked out of sight.

Celestia gasped and awoke. It was 4:28 in the morning. Coincidentally, two minutes before her alarm would ring.

Reaching over a shaking hoof, she clicked off the device. She was sweating, trembling, and panting with a parched throat.

It took a conscious effort, but Celestia closed her mouth. She worked up a little saliva and swallowed, easing the prickly thirst.

She scrunched her eyes closed, trying to force her hammering heart back to its normal rhythm. The maids had standing orders to wake her at 5 o’clock if she wasn’t roused. She had to be in control by then. The Princess of Equestria did not get shaken by bad dreams, and that’s all this was.

A bad dream. Nothing more.

She shakily sat up, magically seizing the water glass on her nightstand. Several sips, and she felt better.

Just a dream.

It was a guilty thought, but in a way the dream was comforting. It was good to think that the old Sombra was innocent. She had never learned the truth: if he willfully betrayed her, or was manipulated by a darker power.

“Heh. Just like Luna.” Celestia smiled weakly and took another sip. “I seem to have that effect on ponies.”

She shrugged, blinking the bleariness from her eyes. 4:34. The dream’s shock was fading, and it was time to get up. Celestia hoisted herself from the bed and stretched. Her wings were sore this morning – small wonder, as it had been months since she’d flown.

The balcony lay outside, tantalizingly visible through a glass door. She smiled at it, but shook her head. First, a few hours of work. Then to the Dawn Tower to raise the sun. Then… well, whatever came next. She could always fly another day.

Tuteur was a guard – very white, very blonde, and as his co-workers would note, “very Prench.” A unicorn fond of reminding others that Prance was the greatest province in Equestria. For its culture, its chivalrous traditions, and certainly for its homogenous population of unicorns. If they didn’t like hearing it, that was too bad.

The attitude left him with few friends, so his assignment with O’Whammy was accepted with more cheer than he’d ever admit. The big, chatty girl with the Baltimare accent had a bit of arrogance herself: For her rough-and-tumble city, and the strength of earth ponies. Their initial rivalry had turned to a querulous friendship.

And like many friendships, the relationship was marked by copious amounts of gossip.

“What did you call it? A… ‘Prime Minister?’” Tuteur sniffed, glancing aside as they patrolled the halls. “You’re making that up.”

O’Whammy huffed, stomping one of her wide, yellow hooves to the ground. “It’s true! Canterlot use’ta have this job where an elected noble did lot’sa smart-pony jobs. Helped run the country, an’ deal with foreigners an’ stuff.”

Tuteur’s face remained doubtful. “Ridiculous. Princess Celestia does all that. Why pay somepony to do the same?”

“I Dunno,” O’Whammy shrugged. “It’s the Sun’s Truth, though. Maybe the Princess use’ta be a lot busier, so she needed somepony ta help out. T’ain’t like she–”

The pair rounded a corner quickly, eliciting a gasp from a pony coming in the opposite direction. Tall, clumsy O’Whammy almost skidded on the carpet, narrowly evading a collision with the white alicorn before them.

Princess Celestia. And they were very much within her personal space.

The guards wasted no time, backing off and bowing low with apologies bubbling from their lips.

“Just an accident, dear guards.” Celestia gave them a distracted smile and moved on quickly, not even acknowledging their pleas. “Think nothing of it.”

They kept their heads low, not even peeking upwards until certain she had moved on. Finally they did look, and, seeing no princess, shakily rose to their hooves.

“Well,” Tuteur managed, accepting a balancing hoof from his friend. “That scared a year out of me, I think.”

“A year outta you?!” O’Whammy looked to where Celestia had receded, fear in her eyes. “I almost crashed right in’ta her! If I did, it woulda been ‘bam!’ Right ta the moon with me.”

Tuteur blinked, smiling weakly at her. “Right to the what? Now you’re really making things up.”

O’Whammy shook her head, utterly convinced. “No I’m not! Sergeant Stabs heard it from Stern Glare before the old man passed. That’s why we’ve been at peace for so long. The griffons an’ such know that if they make trouble with her, they get ta see what the Mare in the Moon looks like up close. Same goes fer any ponies that cross her line.”

“Stabs was a mad old coot,” Tuteur huffed. But he shivered, looking off. They did almost ram Princess Celestia. He doubted O’Whammy was right, but… he didn’t really know that she was wrong, either.

“Let’s just be more careful in the future,” he said.

“Should watch the gossip, too.” O’Whammy nodded in assent. “She probably don’t cotton to guards flapping their gums about her. Who knows what she might take offense at, or when she’s listening?”

Celestia, in fact, was listening – standing just around the corner, arrested by vague uncertainty over how she treated them. She had been a little brusque, but she was in a hurry, and told them not to mind. Wasn’t that enough?

Apparently not. She frowned pensively, biting her hoof and glaring at the crème-colored wall. Do they really think I send ponies to the moon?

…Do they think that’s where Luna is?

That, at least, was a nicer thought. Maybe the Elements just imprisoned Luna, keeping her safe until the time was right. Like that “thousand year” prophecy from Nostradamare. Celestia put little stock in such ramblings, but maybe it was better to believe the old prophet’s words than that Luna was… gone…

Her frown deepened. I didn’t have a choice.

I think.

She sighed and shook her head, forcing her mind back to the now. She really should talk with those guards. Let them know she wasn’t much for over-the-top punishments.

Another time, though. There was time later. Now, there was a stranger in the throne room who shouldn’t be kept waiting.

The stranger, as it happened, may have been happier to avoid an audience. It was a griffon noble, but a mere courier. He had planned to simply make his delivery and leave, unaware that Celestia handled all foreign visitors personally.

He acted well, bowing with grace and greeting her in perfect Equish. He had come merely in his role as messenger, to present a package for Princess Celestia. That her precious time had been taken to greet him was clearly a mistake, and he apologized for it. Several times.

The acting was good, but there were tells. The feathers along his neck and shoulders were rising with his fear. His voice stuttered, imperceptibly at first. But as Celestia made friendly talk with him, he began stumbling over words. The stutters made him even more self-conscious, which worsened them until he could barely produce a sentence. Celestia tried to gently coax him out of it, but every word she uttered only seemed to push the poor griffon further over the edge.

“Good sir,” she finally asked, an edge of pleading in her voice. “What can I do to make you more comfortable?”

The courier’s beak caught on his tongue as he stuttered, eliciting a squawk. “M-m-m-me! Leave! P-p-plth-please!”

She nodded and gestured to the entrance, anxious for the unlucky griffon’s well-being. He bowed gratefully and retreated, beak clamped shut and face red.

Celestia leaned back into her throne, eyes skyward.

He was just embarrassed by his stutter, the poor boy. That’s all. He had no reason to be scared of me personally.

Right?

She sighed, and shook her head. The awkward encounter had left her with his delivery, resting where he had stood. One of the guards moved to pick it up, but her magic beat him there. A yellow aura encased the gift, and she brought it closer for inspection.

Inside the bulky, humble satchel was a box, and the box was certainly the more valuable. It was round and flat, the likes of which might come from a hat store.

Celestia turned it around with her magic, deciding that it would have to be one opulent hat store for a box like this. Gold – real gold – was stylized into it, creating vistas of mountains and clouds. A purple silk ribbon bound the lid to the base, with a sealed letter slid beneath its bow.

For all her growing social naiveté, Celestia retained a total knowledge of the noble houses. Pulling out the envelope, she recognized the seal immediately: a feather-and-shield insignia of the Greyfeather griffon clan. They tended to be short and open-minded, so much so that several had wooed and married ponies.

The last thought made her smile, and brought a little heat to her cheeks. A Greyfeather noble had clearly spent good coin on this gift, and must have done so for a reason. If this was an aspiring suitor… well, Celestia was no blushing filly. But her last lover was Sombra, centuries ago. It had been too long.

Her smile grew as she admired the gold designs, letting her mind drift into fantasy.

A young, daredevil griffon, scoffing at those who said Celestia was out of his league. Rather than old, the grey feathers of his namesake just made him look dignified. He acted dignified, too… until the time was right. Then the prank would spring, or he’d steal a kiss. She never quite knew how serious he was, and she loved it. Even unto old age, he was a bolt of joyful uncertainty in her all-too predictable life. And when he finally passed, he would remain in her memories. A beautiful reminder that there was more to life than governance and paperwork…

Her smile turned wry. Of course it wouldn’t be so perfect. He wouldn’t be a fairy tale prince, just as she was doubtless less interesting than he may believe. He might be ugly, temperamental, or worst of all, subservient.

For the first time in many years, Celestia gave a girlish giggle as she broke the letter’s seal. Let him be ugly! Let him be foolish! All ponies had flaws, and she would love him all the more for them.

She opened the letter, eyes scanning the spidery claw-writing within. Her anticipating smile… slowly fell.

“To the Illustrious Princess Celestia,
Monarch of all Equestria,
Liberator of the North,
Hammer of Discord,
Bringer of Day,
With whose Hoof the Oppressed are Raised,
The Needy are Fed,
And the Welfare of all Generations Secured:

I, Hetman Julius Greyfeather, your humble servant, deliver to you my respectful greetings and admiration. I say to you that your new welfare law is an inspiration to all griffons who look kindly upon their neighbors. And yet, it marks only the latest in the list of great deeds you have done.

Unfortunately, it has reached my attention that some griffons do not share this sentiment. I am told that in many common pubs and noble courts (not MY court, I assure you) you are the subject of jest and ridicule for your so-called “soft” rule.

Thus, I have considered you may have heard – or will soon hear – of their disrespect. Allow my letter to stay your wrath against my small-minded kin, and serve as symbol of the affection we griffons feel for you. Please know that such spiteful maligning of your character is unlawful in my holdings, and I shall encourage my peers to follow suit.

Sadly, the words of mortals are cheap, and a being such as yourself must doubtless endure idle flattery. My gift is given freely, to lend conviction to my words. May you look on it and think of us griffons kindly, and ignore the antics of my wayward kin.

Yours, Body and Soul,

Hetman Julius Greyfeather”

Celestia blinked. She reread the letter slowly, chewing on her tongue.

It was an expression of devotion, certainly, but hardly an amorous one. She frowned, letting the fantasies vanish from her mind.

This Greyfeather had so many things wrong! “Wrath?” She couldn’t care less what the griffons said of her, so long as things remained peaceful. She certainly didn’t want their talk to be unlawful. After so many headaches making sure her own ponies could speak without fear, would she have to start all over with the griffons?

No.

She closed her eyes, drawing back from the thought. Celestia resolved long ago to not coerce other nations, whatever the intention. Terrible things lay down that road. The griffons would have to figure this out themselves, for better or worse.

Celestia opened her eyes, and the still-wrapped gift remained before her. She was more than half-tempted to let it be… but no, that would be rude. She would at least have to look, in case the Hetman inquired about it later.

A gentle tug of magic, and the ribbon came off. Celestia lifted up the lid and saw the interior to be packed with feathers. She cocked her head, unsure for a moment before recalling the griffons used them to pad fragile goods.

Celestia replaced the lid and set the box aside. No point making a mess in the throne room. She turned to the minister by her throne – a weathered old matriarch she never caught the name of.

“The education committee is next, correct? Please send them in.”

“As you wish, Princess,” the mare replied dutifully, and moved to comply.

That evening, alone in her room, Celestia returned her attention to the box. Whatever it contained, she resolved to write to the Hetman and make clear her thoughts of his oppression. That was the only word she had for it – a lord telling his people what they could and could not say.

She meant to do it today, but there had been too much to do. Wrapping things up with the sea ponies went faster than expected, but that just meant an hour was spared to review cases for the weekend courts. Perhaps she’d write him tomorrow, instead.

At any rate, the box. Celestia pulled off the lid once more and began gently removing feathers, placing each clump into her waste basket. Soon, the topmost part became visible: a rod of some sort, protruding up at an angle. When enough was uncovered she simply picked up the object and lifted it from the remaining feathers.

It was a foot-tall statue, not including the raised spear. It took Celestia a bare glance too decide she liked it even less than the letter.

The statue was plaster, with abundant gold inlays providing details and highlights. Celestia looked upon a miniature version of herself, made with nigh-perfect craftsmanship. She was rearing back with wings spread, and gold halo surrounding her mane. The “rod” was a golden spear worked cunningly into the statue, guided by its right hoof downwards.

At the base of the statue, the spear was plunging into her defeated foe: a bleeding, snarling Nightmare Moon.

Celestia’s curious frown turned to a glower. Hetman Greyfeather obviously didn’t know about Luna, but to say this was in “poor taste” would be a tremendous understatement.

“Damn, Tia!” Something laughed.

She startled at the familiar voice. Eyes wide, Celestia snapped her head up. In the dresser mirror she saw herself, sitting on her bed with the statue between her hooves.

She was alone… yet in the mirror, grinning, Nightmare Moon sat by her side.

“Do you think he knows we’re sisters?” Nightmare Moon laughed again. “I don’t think he knows. That’d just be rude.”

“What are you doing here?!” Celestia snapped. She glanced to her side – nothing, of course. She looked back to the mirror and… also nothing. Just her and her room, and nopony else.

Her eyes went back and forth a few times, blinking hard. She got up, strode to the vanity, and peered closer.

Just a mirror, doing everything a mirror should do. No Nightmare Moon. No voice.

“I’m tired,” Celestia announced, more to give explanation than anything else. She shook her head, looked once more to be sure, and turned away. She placed the statue on one of her shelves, not even watching as she did so.

When she did look, she saw that it was set at an odd angle, half-turned towards the wall.

Celestia eyed it for a moment longer. She gave her hoof a few nibbles, taking in the details a second time.

Then, with her other hoof, she reached up and turned the statue, rotating it to completely face the wall.

Satisfied, Celestia gave a deft nod and climbed into bed.

When Celestia next dreamed of Tartarus, some years had passed. Maybe decades, maybe centuries.

It was funny: her daily schedule was planned to the minute, but she was having a harder and harder time keeping track of the years. They were much the same. A parade of faces, bringing papers to sign, laws to reform, and one crisis after another to manage. She had no idea how long it had been since she stood here, watching the great demon judge on his high plateau.

For a moment, it was a good dream. She came at the end of long-dead Silk Pants’ trial, and things went well. Ignoring the booing of lesser demons, the judge ruled the good he had done outweighed his greed and gluttony. The stallion vanished from sight, and the next defendant was called for.

Celestia gasped, almost shocked awake as she saw it. The blue alicorn was being made to walk forward, led from a chain around her neck.

Luna. Just like Sombra, it was Luna as she should be. With blue coat and kind eyes, now looking around as though lost.

Celestia tried to call out to her, but no sound came. She tried to leap from her booth, but some force held her in place.

Luna!

Luna!

LUNA!

She could only think it, and desperately reached out her hoof as Luna’s sins were tallied. The judge began reading the names of every pony that died in their short civil war…

No, you monster! Nightmare Moon! It was all Nightmare Moon, not Luna! Why do you keep listing things done by Nightmare Moon?

I’m as responsible as she is! Judge me! Look at me!

Finally, As Celestia stopped trying to speak and began to scream, her voice was heard. All that emerged was a mad, panicked neighing, like the prehistoric almost-ponies who once walked the land.

“Princess Luna,” the judge boomed, just as he did with Sombra. “Do you have any final words, before your Judgment?”

Luna’s mouth was gaping, and she gazed around her with wild eyes. “I don’t understand,” she said breathlessly. “I don’t remember dying, and I don’t remember all these things you say I did. What’s going on? Where am I? Where’s Tia?”

Here! I’m here, Luna! But Celestia could only give her wordless neighs.

“Noted,” the judge said, ignoring their desperation. “Are you prepared for Judgment?”

“What?” Luna reared back, as far as her chain would allow. “No!”

It didn’t matter. The demon raised his black hammer high, intoning stoically.

“I condemn thee…”

No, no, no! Luna! Don’t do this to her!

“Sinner…”

Don’t you dare. Don’t you dare!

“To the Flames Unending.”

The hammer came down. Celestia reared back and neighed shrilly, beyond all thought. The mad cries mingled with her sister’s screams as they dragged her to the Hellfire below.

A dream.

Just a dream.

Celestia lay shivering in bed, eyes wide, mouth chewing hard on her foreleg.

Her eyes darted to the clock. 4:52. The maids would come in eight minutes. She had until then to be in control.

But could she, this time? Her shivering only increased as she considered the dream.

Luna, I’m so sorry.

It wasn’t Luna. It was just a dream. Just a dream…

Celestia pulled her head back and eyed the leg, noting the tooth marks on it. That was a bad habit. A weakness. She needed to control it. But she couldn’t. She opened her mouth again…

A queer thought hit her mind, and she gave a grim laugh. At least it made her stop chewing. The shaking was slowing, too. She rolled hard onto her back and thrust the hoof upwards.

The new thought took root, and she smiled without humor. It wasn’t a pleasant notion, certainly, but it helped her reclaim control. She’d be ready when the maids came.

I’ve killed – murdered – thousands. More than Sombra, and certainly more than Luna. I betrayed Luna, condemning her to a fate I might never know.

She slowly settled the hoof down, still gazing upwards.

I’d best hope there’s no “final judgment.” It wouldn’t end any better for me.

Author's Notes:

Tuteur = "Guardian" in French.

Hetman = political title, mostly used in 15th-18th century Eastern Europe.

Thank you for reading.

Also, here's the statue, courtesy of Mech.