Random fact: Royal Guard armor chafes. A lot. It might be because I’m wearing armor meant for a unicorn mare rather than a pegasus, thus pinning my wings beneath plate mail, or it might be that I’m just a bit fat, but I really do not like this armor. Sure, the helmet enchantment and false horn make me as anonymous as the next guard, and nopony can see my wings, but come on!

“It’s okay, you’re doing great,” Wind Whisper says, walking beside me in her own replaced armor. “I know it’s not the most comfortable armor, but it’s all I could scrounge up on short notice.”

Giving her a sidelong glance, I try my best not to break character and allow my emotions to show through. “Yeah, and I appreciate it,” I say anxiously. Taking note of the flurries falling from the sky and the wisps of steam as I speak, the armor doesn’t seem so bad. “I just wish it wasn’t necessary at all.”

What does necessitate sneaking out of a hospital dressed up as a guard anyway? Apparently, word of my ‘recovery’ somehow got out during the night, so a whole lot of ponies with signboards are outside the hospital right now. Some of them are cheerful, while others look anything but.

Worse is that there are multiple groups with different messages. One group is clearly made up of reporters, hoping to interview me or even just snag a photo, while others look to be of the noble sort. These ones all have picket signs with messages like ‘Go sow your dissent elsewhere’, or ‘Don’t disturb the natural order’. I don’t even know whether I should be offended by the sign with a blown-up photo of me accompanied by a blown up photo of Discord and an equal to sign. It’s not as though I did any of this purposely. If they wanna lynch somepony, go string up Blueblood.

On the flip side of the nobles and reporters, I’ve also got more normal looking citizenry here. Some have signs like ‘Power to the pony, not the noble’, or ‘Row, row, fight the power!’ I’ll neither confirm nor deny that there’s a Che Guevara-esque caricature of me on a banner behind a quartet of ponies who look frighteningly similar to John Lennon, Ringo Starr, Paul McCartney, and George Harrison, because I’m still struggling to figure out how to make sense of the fact that the Beatle ponies apparently see me as a Marxist revolutionary.

It’s still better than the ones who think I’m nothing but an alien monster who doesn’t belong. ‘E.E.—extra equestrian—go home’ and ‘Stop trying to steal our stallions, space freak’, aren’t exactly great for someone’s self esteem. Then again, they’re only being stupid because they’re ignorant, right? After all, if they’d bothered to do their research, they’d know their mares posed a bigger risk of being stolen by me, and even then it isn’t funny. I’ve no reason to say “Take me to your leader” or “I come in peace” because both already kinda happened, right?

Okay, yes, I know I’m distracting myself from the issue at hand, but it’s much more preferable to thinking about the oncoming train at the end of the tunnel. Passing through all these crowds of ponies, the only way I can retain my disguise is if I can remain stoic, and that means not thinking about the pink elephant in the room.

“So exactly how long was I out?” I ask as we pass out of sight of the hospital. “I mean, I know I’ve been cognizant of two weeks passing, but given my past near death experiences, I’m usually out of commission for a day or two. How much time passed between that night and me waking up in the new room?”

Wind Whisper glances away, eyeing some signpost seemingly at random. “Six days.” Wow, was I really dying or something? I mean, even with the lamia attack, I only set my record at something like two or three days... but six? Yikes. That makes it, what, about three weeks since I was put in the hospital?

“Six?” A dry lump forms in my throat as I speak the words aloud. “How? Why?”

Her head bobs so minutely that it takes me some time to realize it for what it is: an armored shrug. “Magically induced coma; field medics do it all the time in the Royal Guard.” She cocks her head aside as though remembering something. “It makes it easier for them to regulate your vitals until you’re stable enough that you won’t injure yourself.” Leading me down an alley, she says, “This way.”

That actually deserves a humorous snort. “Yet they still had me bound. Classy.”

“Well, when you come in violently, they probably expect you might come out of it swinging.” Her response is not intoned accusingly but rather as a simple observation of fact. “Traumatic incidents as they are, you woke up in a strange place after being imprisoned against your will and raped repeatedly. An expectation of disorientation and fear is not too absurd. Besides, you did thrash about an awful lot for a pony put into a coma to prevent you from doing exactly that.”

Damn you, logic. Why do you have to make so much sense? “Then I guess I’m still a fighter,” I say dryly. “Here’s hoping I don’t get into it with anybody at the funeral.”

When we arrive at the funeral home, the service is well underway. It’s about what I expected, given that it was Beat’s suggestion that I show up late and stay near the back until I pay my respects. Since appearing as a guard isn’t part of the plan, I of course lose time worming my way out of the armor in the coat-check. I get a few strange looks from some of the attendants as I strip myself from my borrowed armor, but such looks are... oddly normal for me by this point.

Once I free myself of the plate chestpiece and helmet, we slowly make our way to the parlor where Blossom’s service is being held. The first makings of a sermon, appropriately multicast in Neighponese and Mainland Equestrian, filter through the doors as we draw close. It hits me, hearing these mournful words, that this is the first funeral I’ve actually attended. My ears droop as I push the door open with my muzzle.

Seeing the crowd, or rather the lack thereof, gathered in remembrance of my beloved hurts almost as much as losing her. Rather than there being numerous ponies who know and love her, I’m appalled by how few are really here. Up in the front are six white ponies, Chill Beat included. Besides her, there’s a decrepit looking mare with an unmistakably matronly look about her, and four other ponies who, while older than Beat, are definitely related to her. The rest of the handful of people here are either classmates of hers, or her friends.

In the back of the room, I spot the GG’s—my friends—all congregated on one pew, clad in black cloaks. I immediately make my way to join them, noting that Wind Whisper doesn’t follow me beyond the end of the row. Gale peers out at me from beneath her hood, and nods shallowly as I take a seat beside her. “You got my note?”

She gives me a tired smile. “Yeah, your friend there found me okay.” Reaching beneath her cloak, she produces a small object swaddled in an olive cloth. “You sure you wanna do this? You had me go through a lot of trouble just to get it back from the Royal Guard after they tossed her place, just to see it burned when they cremate her body.”

I nod solemnly, taking the item and tucking it beneath one of my wings. “It’s a symbolic gesture,” I reply, my voice trembling. “You study folklore, so you know how the symbolism can be as important as the message.”

She only nods in acknowledgement. There’s nothing else to be said at this point, so the both of us return our attentions back to the service. Despite both priests speaking simultaneously, it never once feels as though one is talking over the other. It instead feels as though they are speaking in harmony with one another. The beauty of the service doesn’t escape me, nor does it prevent me from feeling any better about it all.

When the Equestrian priest instructs us to open our hymnals, I can barely choke back a sob. Written there on the leaflet for all to see are the words I brought to this world, with the lyrics accredited to Gearalt G. Gilios and a close friend. Before I have time to look accusingly at the griffon, I catch sight of Beat up front between the priests, facing the congregation with a hymnal floating before her. Was this her idea?

A few sad bars from the organ are all the indication Beat needs to begin. “There are loved ones, in the glory, whose dear forms you often miss...” She begins quietly at first, unsure of herself, but she grows more confident with each word, singing the lyrics with slow deliberation. “When you close your earthly story, will you join them in their bliss?”

“Will the circle be unbroken, by and by, by and by?” I surprise myself when my own voice answers back loudest, leading the group into the chorus. To her credit, Beat manages to smile and I feel somehow lighter for it. “Is a better home awaiting in the sky, in the sky?”

By the time the hymn comes to a close, my boldness is gone, crumbled beneath the onslaught of memories spurned on by the song. At every verse, a new image hits me. Blossom shouts at Beat as I’m suspended in her sister’s magical grip. I blink and then I’m introducing her to my other friends. In another verse, I’m sprawled out on the ground eating goodies in the park, while a merchant caravan is in town. A heartbeat later, I’m in a tree, looking down at her when she says yes to being my marefriend.

More and more the memories come, and with each wave, my strength dissolves. When I relive our first kiss in the afterglow of Twilight’s ascension, watching the way her eyes glimmer in the pink light cast in the sky, I can sing no more. I crumple against Gale’s side, sobbing. Thankfully, I’m not alone. Beat is up there, barely holding it together herself, and a loud keening can be heard from the front row. Even Gale has tears in her eyes as she pulls me into a tight bearhug.

Alas, when it comes to an end, the time comes for respects to be paid. Blossom’s mother and Beat both take up positions beside the casket, the other four arranged behind them protectively. After ponies filter up from the rows to say their goodbyes, they stop respectfully before the family to offer their condolences. Pony after pony steps up to the casket, leaving flowers or coins—an offering to the ferrymare on the River Styx, if you believe in that sort of thing—on it. Oddly enough, I can see ponies offering up envelopes of what I can only imagine to be high denomination coins to Blossom’s family. Even between worlds, some things never change.

I kinda just stare in silence for a while as other ponies waltz up to Blossom’s coffin before me, a worrisome unease spreading throughout my belly. Is it possible that I am so bothered because of my relationship? Blossom was my love, for crying out loud; why should I be one of the last to say my goodbyes?

No, I have no right to claim entitlement over anything. The things I’ve lost and the things I’ve been through do not make me a victim. If I let my hardships strengthen me, they cannot—will not—happen to me again. I won’t let myself become a slave to my emotions here. No anger, no regret; only remembrance.

As Gale helps me to my hooves, my eyes wander from the coffin to the snow white matron. Even though looking upon my beloved one last time is going to tear my heart asunder, facing her traditionalist mother is going to be one of the hardest things I’ll ever do. No hate; just be the better mare. Ice Blossom would want me to make peace with the mare, so I’ll need to keep my emotions in check. What kind of trouble can I even get into when I need to lean against a friend just to walk up the center aisle to my marefriend’s casket?

In spite of the violent, bloody nature of her death, it is an open casket funeral. Fear alone nearly sends me scrambling away from her pall, but I tamp down on my inner anguish and temper it into resolve. I push away from Gale, dragging myself to the open box, and steel myself for what is to come.

When I look down at her, my heart clenches painfully within my chest. None of that night’s torments are visible on her immaculately preserved remains. Looking at her, one could never even tell that she was... that she was decapitated. There’s a barely noticeable stitching at the base of her neck where it was reattached to her torso by a beautician, and even that is covered by her natural coat and carefully applied make-up. She looks every bit as beautiful as the day I met her. It’s almost like she’s just asleep—ready to wake at any moment. She’s just Sleeping Beauty, waiting for her prince.

Breathing a shaky breath, I dip my head beneath my wing and grab my memento. With all of the care I can muster, so not to disturb her body, I place the item on her chest, just above her the hooves crossed on her chest. I step back, sighing and sagging against my friend, and look down once more to my Blossom’s face.

“Blossom, you were the best thing that ever happened in my life,” I say, pitching my voice loud enough so that the family gathered to the side can hear. “In a time where I was unsure I could ever be normal again, you showed me who I really was, and gave me a more human—no, equine—reason to live than trying to fix the things beyond my control.

“Every day I spent with you is one I will cherish for the rest of my life.” Gale gives me a reassuring squeeze on my shoulder as I glance in Beat’s direction. “You made me a better mare than this world had any right to expect of me, and I would like to think that I helped you grow in turn. In just a matter of months, I watched you go from a timid girl, convinced by cultural differences that I would eat you, to a strong woman who stood up for those she cared about... even if it cost you your...”

A sniffle escapes me, and tears rim my eyes as I turn back to look at the memento I’ve placed with her: my compass. “I’m going to be lost without you, Blossom,” I say in a soft voice. When I lean down and nuzzle her cheek, a strangled growl stops me. I can see her mother glaring at me. “May you never lose your way as you go on into the afterlife. I love you Ice Blossom, now and always.”

I give Gale a warning glance before turning to face Beat and her mother. With a heavy breath, I gather all I remember of etiquette and bow deeply. I don’t adjust my head in order to observe, to even tell if the bow is being returned. Instead, I allow my nose to graze the carpeted flooring of the parlor. Depth and the length of bow are important, after all.

I hold this position for almost two minutes before raising my head. “It is heartbreaking that we must meet under these circumstances, okaa-sama,” I say as respectfully as I can manage for a mare who blames me for her daughter’s death. “I wish that we could have one day met on happy terms.”

The elder mare narrows her eyes and snorts in derision. “There are no terms I would willfully meet you on, bakemono,” she snarls. “You are an abomination even without your abhorrent ways. You come from another world and take on the shape of a pony, lying to all you meet. It did not satisfy your deceitful soul to charm the kami of these lands, nor did it satiate you to pervert my daughter—my Hyouka—from honored tradition.” She slams her hooves into the floor. “You stole her from me, and now you mock me at her funeral.”

My jaw clenches tightly at her words. Despite expecting to be wholly blamed for her death, it hurts nonetheless. “Please, don’t give me that shit,” I say, returning the matron’s frosty glare. “You call me a deceiver, a monster, and tell me that I perverted your daughter.” The corners of my mouth pull up in a toothy snarl. “Tell me, do you honestly believe that? If you do, you’re not only pissing on her grave, you are disrespecting everything she stands for.”

The mare’s nostrils flare angrily, and she lowers her head, taking an aggressive stance. “You dare—”

“You’re damn well right I dare, you narrow-minded old biddy!” I flare my wings threateningly. “She may have been naive, but she was never stupid. Ice Blossom was the brightest mare I ever knew, so to tell me that I am a deceiver, and that I corrupted her is to admit that she was stupid and easily misled. I loved your daughter and told her everything. There was no deception.”

Uncertainty bleeds into her eyes, and her stance sags. “Even if that is so, a mare cannot sire young,” she argues. “With you, she could not continue our legacy.”

Before I can speak, an answer comes from a surprising source. Beat, who had remained silent up until this point, interposes herself between us, gently pushing us both back with her magic. “She could have, mother,” Beat says. “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you all this time. Silver’s an alchemist; she can make a mare into a virile stallion. I know; I peeked in on her study.”

Her mother begins trembling, and her legs give way. “But... she took your sister from us.”

Beat shakes her head. “No, she didn’t,” she says, embracing her mother. “She gave her life to ensure the pony she loved could continue to use her alchemy for good.”

That is by far one of the stranger encounters I’ve had here in Equestria. Yes, the woman was blinded by grief and blamed me for the death of her daughter, but who is to say that in her position, I would not act the same? We are only ponies—creatures of emotion—and we only follow our design.

After some exchanged apologies and a promise to meet again in peace before she leaves, I’m back into the guard armor with the faux horn once again atop my head, Wind Whisper at my side. Despite the armor being no different the second time around, I still feel multitudes lighter, as though a great burden has been lifted from my shoulders.

“Why the compass?” the sergeant asks as we exit the coat-check. “Of all the things you could have left, why that beaten up old thing?”

I give her an appraising look before smiling. “It’s like I said in my little speech at her pall,” I reply. “I’m lost without her, hence giving her my compass.” Bobbing my head once, I look away. “Besides, if that thing really was cursed, it won’t harm anypony ever again.”

Much to my amazement, I actually get a reaction out of the off-hand comment. Wide-eyed, she asks, “A cursed compass? What?”

“Oh yeah, it will lead you to what you desire most, but apparently it brings its owner misfortune.” With a half-hearted laugh, I say, “It even has a backstory if the curio merchant was telling the—”

My words catch in my throat as we round a corner. Standing before us like some suave douchebag is Prince Blueblood. With my head pounding hotly, I stride confidently towards the damnable ignoble unicorn. That motherfucker—and that might actually be true if purity of bloodline is really that important to his clan—has the fucking gall to show up at the funeral of the mare his psychotic sister murdered?

“Prince Blueblood, sir,” I say, pitching my voice in a tone of faux authority. “We do not recommend that you enter there at the present time. It would be a grave mistake on your part.”

Glaring down at me, he snorts derisively. “What rot are you speaking?” he asks, trying to bump past me. “Lady Frostfall is mourning her daughter, and I come on behalf of House Blueblood to extend our condolences.”

I shake my head, and in spite of his larger bulk, I stand my ground. “There are many in the public who do not recognize the validity of the disownment of Aqua Regia, your highness.” There’s just enough acid in my tone that he chances a second glance. “Some might presume you come not to comfort, but to gloat. Given House Blueblood’s standing, as of late, can you really afford to cause an international incident?”

“Get out of my way, or I will have your commission, soldier,” he says coldly. “You may be a member of the guard now, but I can guarantee you will not have a position of power in this so-called new world order to come.”

Stepping out of his way, I smile. “If I have my way, neither will you.” The Garbage Prince shoves his way past, and my smile becomes a grin. Taking inspiration from Applejack herself, I sidestep in behind Blueblood and buck out with all the force I can muster.

A girlish shriek escapes the recipient of my attack, and when I turn to face him, he is curled into a tidy white ball, cradling and protecting his assailed testes with his hooves. “That is for contributing to the conditions that led her to become a murderess, Blueblood of No House Worth Mentioning.”

Author's Notes:

So yeah, a short transitory chapter. We're starting to tie things up—I could never forget about that bleeding compass—now that we're in the last story arc.

Editing thanks of course go to ReFro, E3gner, Fourpony, and NightmareKnight.