After Armageddon
By Rhonda Pony
It was morning.
But it was not a morning that any mortal had dreamed, or dared to dream, that they would see. This time, the night would not slip away quietly, fading benevolently from black to violet to dark silken blue. This time, it was going to stay: squatting, clutching, clinging with its last frenzied dying grasp to the earth. And this time, the sun would not rise triumphant once more, golden and generous as it had done for millenia. This time, it would crawl up, stumble up the sky if it ever got up at all, sick and reeling like a man drunk or in delirium. And it would never be golden again.
A new light touched the surface of the earth. And it was green.
From the ragged crest of a hill, the victor surveyed the spoils.
She was beautiful. Stunning. Against the thick foul blackness of night, against the dull green glow that seeped along the horizon, against the choking smell of smoke and blood, she stood like a beacon. Her skin, unsullied, untainted, was the kind of pure white which this poor world would never see again, except on her. Large eyes framed with fine black eyelashes gazed with an imperious innocence, a kind of "don't-look-at-me-I-have-nothing-to-do-with-it" look. And her hair... her long, wild hair, scarlet as fire or blood or madness, lifted in the greasy wind and waved idly like some abandoned standard.
"Poor world," murmured Evil Dead Pony. "Poor world."
As a demon, she had no capacity for pity. Yet the moment seemed to ask for some show of mercy, so she said, "Poor world," for a third time and left it at that.
And it *was* a poor world. Broken, blackened and covered with such a foul stench that even EDP laid back her ears a little when it came to her on the breeze. Strange sights lay among the rubble: a hand with broken fingernails, a dog impailed by a drainpipe, electric wires spitting quietly over a small huddle of smashed concrete, a car headlight that had gone astray from its car. Oil, blood and water oozed into puddles, and in the distance, those who had survived began the first, frightened sounds of wailing.
The Battle Queen of Hell pulled her regalia a little tighter around herself and frowned. What do they weep for the dead for? she thought. Soon they will know that the dead are lucky. Soon they will know that is the living who need to be lamented.
Oh, it had been a hard fight. She had known of course that the servants of the Light would challenge her, that they would not concede the earth without a mighty battle. Still, they had been strong, perhaps a little stronger than the Battle Queen had thought they would be. Once or twice, EDP had almost despaired, had thought that even now, when it should have been *their* moment of triumph, the Light had won. But then she remembered the words of her Master: "This world is *our* promised inheritance. Fight for it! Win it for me!" And all their warriors had fallen.
Still she could see the faces of some of them. Majesty, still wearing those ridiculous golden horseshoes, still calling upon the Light to save them even as she died on the black toothed blade of a ghoul's sword. Rosedust, rallying the Flutters, her own wings shredded by goblin claws. Quarterback, yelling, "10-4, eveybody!" when a vampire caught him up and drained him hollow.
And then the nameless ones, the ones whom she had not known. That fine stallion, a bold, young pegasus with skin as green as a fresh spring day and the look of the Light in his eyes, whirling his sword ferociously at the advancing mob. The blind Twinkle-eye pony dressed in the tunic of a Bard, singing songs of the Light magic until someone saw fit to cut out her tongue. And the earth pony, EDP remembered with a start, the earth pony who had looked so much like me. White skin, wide eyes, with no battle dress and no weapon, scarlet hair blowing wildly in the wind. Scarlet hair, except for the single unicorn-stripe of bright orange. Like a signal, like a sign, "I will not be exactly like you." Like defiance.
Rage sprang up inside EDP. Oh, she hoped that earth pony had died a fine and painful death! Oh, she hoped that that trembling, innocent face had been stamped upon, stood upon, trodden down into the muck and soot like so much bad rubbish! What right did she have to be on that battlefield? With no armour and no weapon except those wide bright eyes and her swift hooves to keep her out of harm's reach. EDP willed that harm had been quicker.
She heard the slow, lazy clap of heavy wingbeats behind her, and her heart lifted. Her messenger had come back.
The great oil-black raven settled itself on her shoulder.
"Well, Maeve," the Battle Queen chuckled. "What news? What news of our world?" She savoured that strange, unfamiliar word: "our".
The raven humped conspiratorially next her ear. "It's all over!" it rasped. "Everywhere! Everywhere has fallen! The Light has fled. Our kind have triumphed."
"As we knew we would," said EDP dismissively. Are you proud of me, Master? Are you proud of what I have done? Here! Here is a world for you, a world for you to rule and us to torture. Together we'll make them regret they were ever created.
"Are all who defended the Light dead?"
"All! All gone!" The raven lept excitedly from one foot to the other. "All fled into the darkness!"
For the first time, EDP allowed herself a small, self-satisfied smile. "Thank you, Maeve," she told the raven courteously. "Now, how about we go and see how the celebrations are getting on, hmmmm? I'd like to wash off this battle-paint and change into something a little more appropriate for an Infernal Champion."
The raven shrieked with laughter like a rusted hinge as EDP rose and turned her back on the battle scene. The noise of it was so loud, and EDP so intent upon what she would choose out of her extensive partywear wardrobe, that she did not notice when the green on the horizon suddenly, for an instant, shimmered and turned brilliant white-gold.
For the raven was wrong.
For one was alive.
One was still alive.
And one was all that mattered.
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