Dissonance

by The Plebeian

Back in the Saddle

We never did see those flowers bloom. I would miss those colors, that little hope for a single clean breath. Time goes on, however, and our foe does not wait for flowers to bloom.

The stinger blades dangled loosely from my forehooves, and light contrails followed my wings. That hazy blot slowly melded into the night’s dark blanket behind us. A happy riddance, I thought.

I made an effort to adjust the metal plates over my back by shifting my shoulders, but the armor did not budge. I sighed in mild frustration – the plating would pinch my neck if I raised it, but my neck was slowly getting sore from keeping it pointed straight ahead. Although I did like the idea of armor, especially after going once into battle without it, the heavy, shifting plates were a tool of torment outside the battlefield.

I began to ponder just what the armor would do to help me. It would only cook me more evenly if I were drenched in fire. It might save me from a little claw-scrape, but not from a solid strike. Even steel cannot stop the vindictive force of a dragon’s swipe. That just left me protection from friendly fire. It happens fairly quick. You go around to try and flank a dragon, and your squad-mate gets the guts to take a shot. Soon enough, you have a barb in your chest, or your face is half-melted by a blast bolt. As much as we would all have loved to worry about just the dragons, we had to watch our mates just as carefully. That is particularly where the 19th squadron excelled. No friendly fire. No casualties. Just a set of singed hairs.

And so, when Manehattan sent word of a battle going sour, the best squadrons were re-deployed. Gleaming new armor and some polish on our weapons, and we were in the sky. They even told us that we could leave our tents, that there would be tents already set up and waiting for our arrival. We just had to get there in a hurry. Even Bastion was redeployed, leaving the rest of his men under the generals’ command.

Red Wake, just ahead, allowed a short gust to push her back, and I pushed forward to take our squadron’s lead position. Ten gleaming ‘V’s there were, glinting in the moonlight. The wind was not in our favor, and it was evident from Red Wake’s rhythmic panting that I would not be envied for the next thirty minutes of flight.

It might have been a beautiful night. Below were flowing, lazy hills, and to our right was the Silver Sea, over which hung dreary clouds that would block soft moonbeams from catching on our armor. The wind might have felt refreshing from the ground. Not a sound disturbed the night besides the clinking of our mail and plates, the buffeting of wind against our wings.

A quiet “What was that?” found its way to my ears in the soft timbre of Sweetsprout’s voice. I turned my eyes away from the scenery to look straight ahead, but I only saw the dark sheets of a thin night’s fog. I squinted a bit, but nothing offered itself up to my eyes. Blank. I called back, “What?”

“Nothing!” Sweetsprout shouted against the wind, though I do not think he believed it himself.

I kept my vigil of the sky ahead, but it remained blank. There were several things I could wish he had seen out there. I had almost begun to count them when the disturbance made itself known. For hardly a second, a dull orange leaked through the fog, and then disappeared. Some short murmurs sounded from the other squadrons. I set the locks into position on my stingers. Behind me, I heard a few soft clicks of barbs set snug in their launchers, and clips loaded into rifles.

The rest of the flight was a crucible of anxiety. The flares of orange became more frequent; those we had seen before were merely the brightest. Harsh shouts were exchanged between squadrons. A few made short jokes, but whether they were lost in the wind or in the ears of the soldiers, nopony laughed. Slowly, the silhouettes of Manehattan’s iconic skyscrapers came into view, a few of them grimly backlit.

Bastion, who had taken the foremost position, craned his head to shout back.

“Soldiers, Manehattan is in the eye of a storm. You’re with me right now because you are storm breakers! You are the soldiers chosen by Celestia herself to save our brothers and sisters. We will shatter that storm until it rains naught but dragons’ blood! We will put an end to the fire and smoke. Tonight men, we raise the sun on our backs!”

For a moment, the moon’s pure shine found its way through the seaward clouds, and shone off of his ghastly helmet, even giving a faint glow from behind the dark eye slits. He was fearsome. He was inspiring. He was a soldier.

By then, we had passed the last hill, and the landscape opened into wide and sparse plains. The battle quickly came into full detail. There were only ten or eleven dragons left, but I saw very few pegasus soldiers in the swarm. On the ground, only a handful of heavy batteries were still firing, and the few bursts of magic that arced up from the ground seemed futile against the dragons’ onslaught. Many dragons had broken out of the swarm and begun to attack the city.

Guns were double-checked, barbs adjusted, stingers poised. The final stretch could never have passed us by slowly enough. I fantasized in those few last seconds that Bastion would call us back, let us live a while longer. Let our duty fade; the city was doomed anyway. Such a call never came, though.

Once more into the fray.

We broke formation, the front squadrons engaging the first dragons they could catch. The others followed behind me in a streamlike pattern, and I heard Tinker shout, “Pick us a good one!”

Like thread through the eye of a needle, and a needle through cloth, I weaved in and out of the swarm, looking for a suitable foe to mark, stingers forward. Dragon after dragon we passed in the writhing mass, only occasionally glimpsing a fellow soldier. Inbetween gusts from wingbeats and wanton claw swipes we flitted. Soon enough, the foe came. A brilliant purple-scaled dragon soared upward into my path, and I kept my course true.

I had held my breath, but it escaped me through sheer inertia. My legs came next, swinging forward into the spray of blood and striking the iridescent scales, even knocking a few loose. With the kick, I dislodged my blades, and gave a vicious wingbeat back, catching a few droplets of red in my feathers, and throwing me away from the fresh wound. It was a solid hit, straight in the belly, but not a single cry did the dragon utter. I gasped as I finally registered the shock that had travelled up my legs. So passed the first half-second of battle.

A vibrant red hue across my wings, bright like the orange curls I once knew. Once more into the fray, once more for her, once more for him, and once more again to avenge myself. White ribbons like the glow of the moon, up and down they bobbed, and once more into the purge. Attack and retreat, if only we could be destroyed.

What little my strikes did went unnoticed by the beast. There was a fury in its eyes, and our attack only gave it the appearance of righteousness in its rage. Bolts stung its scales, barbs stuck between the gaps, and yet the dragon showed no hint of pain; rather, a pure and bitter hatred flowed out amongst the brimstone of its maw. A deft swipe nearly destroyed the blood-red, snow-white blur, but she darted between its claws, and another yellow arc leapt into its belly, but not a flinch. Only a hot cleansing erupted from its jaws, and threatened to swallow Red Wake whole. It was my turn.

I swept in from the blind spot near its underbelly, and launched myself upward into the origin of the great blaze. My haste left me out of breath as I struck the pit of its lower jaw, and as I brought my back legs forward – or upward – to dislodge myself, I felt the awful fatigue ache over my body. I was still attached to the dragon. A searing pain shot up from the stinger spikes.

An impossible light, brighter than Celestia’s own sun. Flames all across my vision, eyes open or shut, smoke made them bloodshot. The poor village below, doomed, with my precious Melody within. I am nothing. I am ash. Green eyes met fire, and turned a sickly, cracked black. Fire in my feathers, I am light. I am the sun. I am ash over ash over ash.

The metal on my hooves held a horrible orange glow, and finally burned away at enough of the glittering armor to finally loosen. I fell limply, looking back at my work to see two eyes of flame dripping deep red through the bottom of the dragon’s jaws. The monstrous flame ended, and the eyes went dark, though a feral roar continued to stream out of the monster’s mouth. I began to scream with it, for on my hooves hung two pieces of near-molten steel. I flew faster, hoping to cool them off, but I could only wait in anguish for the orange gleam to fade. A dragon has many ways to burn.

My eyes were wide in horror. I wished to release the mechanisms, but that would mean biting hot metal. I looked doubtfully at the stingers even as the fire took to my nerves and set my brain alight. A cry sounded from a teal-blue blur behind. Once more. Blood was colder than fire. Adrenaline and anguish powered the heavy strokes of my wings, and nought but the single thought resounded on the inside of my skull. Blood is colder than fire. The stingers found the front of the beast’s shoulder, and alongside the anguish of crushing hot metal against my hooves came a hateful hiss and a reddish vapor. Even the blood of a dragon may boil. I kicked myself out, and was delighted to find that the glow was dying down. More bright streaks of yellow and green flew across my vision.

Rent from bliss. Rent from hope. So I will rend. Through my agony I avenge my agony, and through my hatred I cleanse. I am the dagger, send me true to the cold heart, and let the fire burst out over me. Let me burn, so I may burn. Better me than him. Better me than her. Better that I rend, and better that I hate, for I am the dagger, forged to kill.

Once more, and a strike to the spine, but only a chip of bone. I let out a scream. The metal was cool now, colder like the night. My roar was childish against the storm, and the blood streaked across my face. I bucked and flew out, but the dragon had hardly noticed my passion. Crimson streamed from the grim marks I had placed on him, and marring his opalescent purple scales were scores of black charred spots. The dragon continued its storm unabated, and fire still streamed from its jaws, pursuing a tan blur.

I shortly gasped for breath, but I had to keep up the assault. Otherwise, I was on the defensive, and the defensive was for all intents and purposes a sentence to unwillingly scattered ashes. “Once more,” I urged my failing frame. A weak burst and hardly an inch into its side. Once more, and a glancing blow off its neck as it turned to see me. Once more and I missed entirely, swept aside by unforgiving thermals. The flames tailed me, now, and as I darted side to side, I realized that my body had lost the will to protest. I was numb, and more worrying than the ache of my joints and the burning of my forehooves was the absence thereof. My storm was abating, yet the dragon’s was still in full swell. The deep flame held highlights of blue and green, and threatened to begin its poisonous bite on my tail. I felt my armor begin to heat up through the soft padding under the plates, and although I no longer had pain to gauge my limits, I kept on my serpentine course, and pushed on, awaiting the assistance of my squad mates.

The help came, in the form of a fleeting metallic glint and a teal-blue blur. The barb flew just over my shoulders from ahead of me, and I dove down to avoid whatever aftermath could follow. A roar shattered my focus and warred against my mind, and I felt like at any moment, my mind would lose hope, and break free of the doomed confines of my head. I felt the ache again, deep within my skull an unstable, unforgiving pain screamed with the serpent, and as I dumbly turned to face the beast, to see what could possibly have prompted its awful chorus, I felt like my wings could betray me, my eyes might close shut for my own good. If I could simply close my ears. At first, I saw no new mark, no special gleam besides the dragon’s own scales. The fires stopped now, and the great winged serpent was in a morbid fury. It began to swing wildly its claws and massive tail, and the blurs of my mates above were having no easy time avoiding the onslaught. As the beast turned its own hurricane, I began to understand. A small red dot was forming in the center of one of its eyes, and the pair seemed no longer to work in tandem. Without a sense of depth, the only option left was its wild frenzy, in hope of gaining just a bit of momentum in the battle.

I doubted I could help at all against the frenzied movements that the dragon had adopted. It was likely I would miss, glance off, or get caught in its desperate strikes. Still, I had to try, if only to ease the pressure off the others. Once more into the fray, but the fray threatened to unwind me. I could just resist the treacherous eddies of wind that carried on behind the flailing limbs, and I found myself hopelessly joining the dragon’s dance of death, endlessly waiting for my opportunity to strike. I felt profoundly alone in that storm. There was only one blur left: the hulking purple mass that threatened to break my bones in unison.

Guide blade, then strike. A dagger without momentum is merely sharp. There must be force behind to be deadly. A winding path it takes to make its new wound, through many hands shared blood. The moon’s soft light is icy and sinister on the polished steel, and come what may, what man would blame the dagger for the crime? Come death, place thy warrant.

Muffled shouts, and the beast paused. I took my short chance and swept forward, the bolt of my own storm. I shot straight for the back of its neck, hoping that my efforts would not be repaid in a poor strike, not considering the lull. I connected, and with a vicious scream I trumpeted victory. My strike used up the entire length of my stinger blades, and I felt the wonderful ache of momentum leaving my bones upon a successful strike. I paused. Over the neck I could see the dragon give out one more savage strike, aimed for a familiar teal-blue. I noticed there were two deep red dots now, one in either eye. The massive claws made a bright moonlit streak through the air. A soft green streak swept down from above and gave a valiant push against my beloved teal blue, and the streaks connected.

Silver and green make red. Red deeper than the harvest moon and the rings of an eclipse, a red more bitter than a thorned rose. This was red’s essence. This was not the red-and-orange of fire or the red-and-yellow-and-green of a field of wildflowers. This was life’s red gleam, lit by the selfsame moonlight of the silver, and delivered in gaps behind. This was death’s red ransom, carrying eulogy and legacy. The green-red comet arced down from its place among the silvery stars to meet the half-verdant plains below, and a blur of tan streaked after in pursuit.

Once more into the fray, against these obscene scales. I kicked off, and darted back in, and once more, as the dragon flailed miserably, blinded and lost. Once more, and once more, and once more, avenging blades for all, and no mercy for the murderer. The serpent was helpless now. It was mine to send to Tartarus. I screamed a shriek of victory and victory again, until I could feel the weight of its blood on my wings. It raised its head to give its last mournful keen, but I would give this beast no such honor. A sweep behind, and into the base of its skull I stabbed, accompanied by a barbaric howl. The bones snapped under the sting, and the embers of the roar flickered out. I kicked myself out, and the dragon began to fall lusterless to the Earth. The last of its violet stars twinkled out, and the air was freed of its storm.

I took five deep breaths, and blinked twice. The others began to soar down, towards a small tan, green, red dot down on the ground. I followed, and the ache began to register in full.

Ash, all ash, all charred and hopeless.

Tinker held and leaned over a poor mangled mess. Sweetsprout’s body was contorted, its spine bent awry, and its back split open by massive trenches. The wings were cut off halfway, and their remnants shattered and frayed. A tan hoof reached out, and slowly closed the eyes, which had been open in utter terror, and the mouth, formerly agape in a silent shout. Tinker’s coat and the grass around had been dyed red, though the bleeding, now, had stopped. The dented, rent-open set of armor rested uselessly on the ground beside.

“He was killed instantly,” he said.

There was a chilling silence among us, and only the storm above – beginning to dwindle, now – leaked through. I could only stare at the young body, the kind eyes drawn shut. Dewdrop, meanwhile, became fixated on the ground just before the body. Tinker slowly placed Sweetsprout down. The green met the Earth, and I thought I would be lost.

No tears came. I had lost a friend, and yet I no longer felt my heart skip when I looked upon the awful mess. he was absolutely gone, and yet my eyes ran dry. I could only stare at it. I wanted to cry, if only to prove that I could, but I simply had no tears left.

“He told me before we left,” Tinker almost whispered, “that he wanted to be buried with a seed near Fillydelphia, should this happen.”

There was an awful pause, as we looked at our stricken friend. I felt a somber lament form in my heart before I could shape the words, “I will carry him.”

Tinker nodded. “I too. Red, Dew, go on to camp.”

Though they were reluctant to leave, the two seemed too defeated to protest, and – after we gave them our armor plates – left in silence. Tinker and I carefully wrapped the fallen Sweetsprout in his blankets, and began our trek back to his home. Though I might have liked to walk, to be more gentle, a soldier has not the time to waste. So, Tinker and I traded off flying with the shell of the young caregiver. It was no simple load, and I counted the simple blessing that I was not carrying my armor along with him.

As we travelled, a bitter sunrise came from the east. We remained in silence, a reverent flight that we simply could not put words to. When we reached the plains, and could see Fillydelphia’s smoggy skyline in the distance, we landed. Our destination was met.

So he had anticipated it. I frowned bitterly, and began clawing at the ground with the stingers, leaving more streaks of blood in the soil. Tinker joined me, using his hooves to kick and push the dirt out of the pit I had started. Four hooves we dug, scoop by scoop, until there was enough room. Then, we gently lowered him in, pushed a bit of dirt over to cover him, placed an acorn in the center, and then filled the pit the rest of the way.

After we returned to camp, it occurred to me that Tinker seemed to be the only one who could find tears that night. Red Wake was distraught, but she shed no tears. Dewdrop seemed to be in shock, and I was found absolutely numb. The battle was over, and the 19th squadron had a casualty.

In burying Sweetsprout, we had ripped up the grass all around us, and red still stained that which remained.

The ribbons were lost now, caked in ash. Where once the sunny curls had bounced were scars and gashes, and so much ash. Ash like a light snow that was not cold. There was a notch, now, in the blade, where it had lost its gleam and edge, and was rendered less.

Though no tears came, mistake me not. It took everything I had to turn away from the mound that dreadful morn. Clouds of smoke billowed up from the sundered city of Manehattan, but it would survive. We were such victors, carrying stolid expressions in our city of ash. I had gathered his belongings, and carried his bags to camp. When we returned, Tinker and Red Wake engaged in their own quiet conversation. I turned to Dewdrop in our tent, who still kept his eyes on the ground.

“Do you want to talk, Dew?”

“I don’t think I can right now.”

“I’m ready when you think you can, all right?”

He nodded, “Thanks, Mellow. I. . .” he paused, “I just need to think for a long while. I can’t feel anything right now. I know it’ll come later.”

“Just when you’re ready. Don’t rush anything.”

And then we were both silent. The fires of morning slowly dissipated into a clear blue, though the clouds added their greys.

I could only imagine what had taken Dewdrop’s mind. Sweetsprout paid a life for his, with only a few days’ acquaintance. I wondered where the caring heart rested now, if it truly rested just below a seed, or if it had taken root itself, and made a greater tree.

I finally understood the heart of dawn. Dawn was for those who knew the night; the night is always blackest before dawn, just as the moon forsakes its land. I hoped they had dawn where Sweetsprout had gone. I hated this dawn.

Perhaps the most awful part of this world is that it goes on. We do not have time to take in our successes or losses, for a new day follows, and there is more to be done. The sun rises without regard for us, and the moon shines on whatever it will, with no conception of what is sacred. Time gives no solace to those truly in need. Time may heal, but it is a slow heal that stems merely from a grim acceptance, not a greater hope, or satisfying closure. Time heals our wounds by ignoring them. - Mighty Quill

When we reached camp, there were plenty of free tents ready for us.

Comments

[Willsons]

Writing like this always confuses me but I think it's a good sort of confusion as I enjoyed this.

[SilentBelle]

Finally got around to reading this chapter, and wow! That's some very poetic prose you have here. I really enjoyed this chapter. Makes me think that I should write a blog post on poetry...