Not Sure What To Do With This... · 11:26pm Nov 28th, 2014
I was watching The Dark Knight Returns Parts 1&2 the other day and came up with a similar sort of story for FiM, moreover for something like a Battle Ready sequel. Somehow I managed to come up with this:
The clink of his shackles was the only sound as he walked out of his cell. Only his wrists were manacled. He refused to allow his guards to shackle his ankles. He would maintain his dignity. He would not be forced to shuffle before the onlookers outside. For five years he had wasted in that cold room, forced to live on scraps in the dark. They had hoped to have broken him, but they did not succeed. He maintained his identity, his dignity.
They might remember this differently of course. They would say he had fallen before insurmountable odds. But he knew the people here gathered today knew different.
This was his path. This was his choice.
The road was nearly at an end. All that was needed was a few more minutes.
He passed a bucket as they walked down the cold stone passageways. He glanced into the water’s surface and saw a face he barely recognised. The cheeks were sallow and gaunt, the eyes sunken into dark black holes. The coat had lost it’s sheen and the mane was a ragged rat’s nest. The eyes however… they burned with that same fire they had held for so long.
He looked back to the three guards that walked a good five feet behind him, and at the guns they held. He smirked. They weren’t taking any chances. They needn’t worry. They didn’t have to worry about him running away. He had nowhere to go anymore. What would he do anyway? His purpose was gone. They had taken everything from him now.
They would not get the satisfaction of seeing him run. He would face this day with the same pride that had seen him through the five years in that cold darkness.
He was suddenly thrust into blinding whiteness. He blinked and raised his hands to block the daylight he had been forsaken for so long. When he finally could see he saw a crowd of people from every nationality. When he looked into the crowd he didn’t see a single face that has a trace of hate or of distrust. No, the crowd was in mourning.
He smiled. At least he had the people on his side.
He began to walk to the wooden platform at the other end of the courtyard. There was a old stallion there, wearing a black hood over his head and a shapeless black robe. He was sat down, a heavy axe lying across his lap. Beside the crate which he sat on, was a wicker basket and another, solid looking wooden block. There was blood on the face he could see.
Beyond the platform he saw another raised podium. This one lined with thrones and other chairs. In the centre were the two largest. One was occupied by a pegasus stallion. The other by an alicorn mare. Both looked on with apathetic anticipation. Appearances had to be maintained, but he could feel their anxiety to be done with this whole affair.
President Chill Weather of Stalliongrad was of a slate rey coat, with a receding white mane. His eyes were beedy and pig like. He leaned sideways to speak into the ear of his honoured guest and Princess Celestia nodded in understanding.
He had no idea how he’d reached the platform so quickly. His mind must have been on other things. He climbed the steps at the same pace as he had been walking. The guards ahead of him stood on one side of the block and behind it, leaving a good space for axe wielder and his client to maneuver. The guards behind him quickly filled in the gap that they had left and pushed him to the block. He looked back at them suddenly, fury in his eyes and they tightened their grip on their guns, some even taking a hurried step back.
He smiled at their reaction, and winked at them, before he stepped in front of the block. He knelt slowly, before resting his torso across it. He looked down into the wicker basket. The blood that was at the bottom had not been cleaned off from the last time it had been used. It was dry and still stank a tiny bit. At least there was no remains of its previous occupants.
The executioner stepped up beside him and gently arranged him into a better position. He leaned in close to his ear and whispered: “You deserve better than this.”
His voice was thick with a Stalliongrad accent, but the emotion in it was genuine. He smiled as he relaxed on the wooden block and simply looked up at him: “Don’t I know it?”
The executioner nodded sagely, before picking up his axe. He turned to the podium behind him. He couldn’t see but he could guess what was happening. The gathered dignitaries were standing up.
“Does the condemned have any last words?” President Chill Weather called.
Battle Ready chuckled mirthlessly to himself, before closing his eyes. “Victorium, Omnibus, Modius.”
The words rippled across the crowd. Someone sobbed. Someone, possibly Chill, grunted dismissively. The executioner moved. There was a scraping sound as the axe blade was dragged across the wood of the platform. He grunted with exertion before there was a hiss of metal cutting air...
