.

Is always the first casualty of war. Truth is against you. Truth is against the enemy. Truth is not your friend. The moment war breaks out everything becomes questionable. Are your enemies lying? Are your supposed friends? Who benefits the most from perfectly timing when to say the absolute worst possible thing? The truth might get you killed, it might get them killed, or worse. Truth may be undeniable, but even that which is can be twisted askance in favor of a tempered version to suit the narrative of the day. Who is at fault? Was it the leaders of the time? Is it everyone else, or no such thing at all? In the blackened and still ruins of Equestria, truth is but a whisper.

A quiet murmur against the perpetrators of this heinous crime committed towards the living. What truth was there to be gained from this murderous and vile act? Perhaps there is no truth left to be had in the here and now. A casualty unto itself of the hatred and sheer ire swirling in maelstrom around the now fallen cities of old. Truth is perhaps as much a corpse of the past as the brittle bones laying in forced mute repose. The few remnants faltering in the fading light had precious little time or chance to reflect on what may have brought them to be toppled from on high. Certainly not on the truth of it all. Themselves or who they chose to follow, what did it matter then? Who to follow, who to blame?

What if everyone was lying, not a single actor spelling out even the simplest of truths? Mayhaps there is no truth to be known about the matter. Long lost to the mists of devoid time, maybe, just maybe this is simply all there is to it. The long growing shadows of war perhaps simply ground down all opposition to them, and then it was too late for truth. But wait, what of those lonely tiny sparks in the wilderness that dare grow wild and defiant of this fate? Their guiding lights may have been long extinguished, but even the smallest of sparks may start a roaring blaze of epic ferocity. Such fires oft burn themselves out very quickly, only to blink out of existence.

On the off chance one does not, it may engulf the whole of things. A roaring fire of such proportion may illuminate the darkness surrounding the real truth of things. The more pressing question then, who wants to hear it? In this dread darkness however, maybe it is all who still wander this blasted land devoid of most hope and life. Hope can hurt a great deal, especially if the fire grows too dim to sustain it. How many now would dare stand amidst the growing flames and endure the pain to know the truth of things? Surely, someone to throw fuel on the fire and keep the growing blaze alive. A grand mighty beacon to those who might still possess just enough strength with which to stand and fight for it.

Truth can never stand alone nor feed itself, it must be nurtured with great care and brought dutifully to the fore. Who has the will, the tenacity and endurance to force the issue upon the unwilling hosts of the dead wastes? Stamina is quite short a supply in an empty world near done. A short reckless action almost always enough to end a faint light. The pain ever rising to a more fevered pitch is continual, unending. The rote actions of drudgery and wearying days may be all that is left to be given. Did truth die on the same day it all collapsed? Can it even potentially be resurrected? Truth itself was in short supply in all the days of the raging war and unfurled banners claiming to represent that which is true.

The very heralds claiming it was their own, told little to none. The only question then, did it hurt them to do so? No such roaring fire has yet sprung to life and action in this darkness slowly enclosing on all sides. What little light is keeping the walls closing at bay dims further by the moment. The darker it becomes, all the brighter those few dying embers appear, some able only to offer false hope and more misery to follow. The pain of all that is, compounded further by such dying hopes. The truth shrouded in shadows depths held dearly away from the dim light of day is just short of a shadow itself. An unwanted shard that lays buried in the hearts and minds of the pained remainder.

Unwanted or not, the truth is there to be found, waiting for just a fraction of a second to pour forth from the boundaries and shed light where there is little to none. This wound tension grows ever tauter until the springs behind it must break free of their moorings. How much more will it take before this landslide falls on the unwitting and unwary? Certainly there is no force greater than the real truth, ready to burst the dam and explode in a feverish tumult as yet unheard of. The say the truth hurts. How much more does it hurt when it comes falling down from on high to bury everything beneath it in sorrowful mourning over the given truth? At least a grievous wound to be certain.

The powers which were at the time, are long fell and supposedly emptied of all power or agency. Like all which is great, the truth has no cares to what it lays low or topples. It is merely the truth, given as it is, and the most powerful weapon ever wielded by any. The trouble with this sort of sheer power is that it will never follow whoever aims it completely, and not without cost to the bearer of this truth. The truth, hurts. It wounds deeply and surely. Never to miss.

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Oh yes, truth is a mighty weapon indeed. You should take great care it does not turn on you. One particular pony is perhaps about to learn why.