"I have trouble sleeping, OK?!" Zephyr yelled as he was dragged out of the sleeping hall in Mazory Base. Two burly officers hauled him away, but not before placing duct tape on his mouth, rendering mute the whining pony.
Inside the sleeping hall were sleeping ponies, most of them slumbering silently and soundly with not a snore in the slightest—well, for most of them. Less than ten rocked the hall in a mini-symphony of snores and wheezes. In spite of that, a lot of them continued their sleep, the snores, perhaps, a recurring comfort.
There was one stallion who was awake, though.
On his bed was his name carved out on the wooden frame: "Cucumber Cool".
By the candlelight, he wrote a letter on his bed, sitting on the floor.
Everyone.
I know this will be hard for you to swallow, but I don't think I'll make it tomorrow. This is the closest we've gotten to the Crystal Empire since Day One, but everything's iffy. The general's crazy, his officers don't care much about big losses, Captain Shining Armor and the rest will realize it too late, and a host of other issues. We're tired, our food's inadequate for the offensive, our weapons are dented and rusty—everything points to total failure.
Before you think otherwise, I'm not considering desertion, nor will I pretend to be mentally unstable and get out the easy way—it's impossible, anyhow, ever since Bean Hill disallowed insane soldiers to get out. Not to mention the stain it will put on me and on all of you for "rearing a traitor".
Yes, I truly believe I'll die in about six hours, right when the sun rises. I've stayed up long enough to overhear reports of mysterious movements past the mountains. The Crystals have spotted us, and every minute they stay their hoof, the more I wonder since we're very vulnerable. Is it a cruel mercy, to let us have a good night's sleep only to wake up to death moments later?
It's hard. I joined up, thinking that these guys were easy to beat. The Guard hasn't done much fighting over the past hundred years or so, but they knew what they were doing—so I thought. Maybe it might last a month or two; worst case, end of fall. Everypony in my battalion talked about it like it was a little trip, a short journey. How wrong we were.
I don't need to retrace what happened after that. I've already written half of my military life in these letters, so, if you want to read something, there's my letters. But, I'm tempted to repeat a lot, to retell everything, because, any second now, they might crash through the windows and seize us. They're not here yet, though, so I'm making up the best of my last waking moments.
I've seen so many things. Then, I've seen those same things again and again, only the little details were different—the ponies, the places, the times, the numbers. For every victory we make, there would be another defeat, another town in exile, another group of ponies in desperate need of help—if they don't get raided midway.
I've seen ponies starving. I've seen conflicts rise between the refugees and the natives because no one could agree on what to do—schedule? rations? living spaces? It's all a mess.
I feel alone. I'm writing this surrounded by many of my sleeping comrades, but I feel alone. There's no one to help us—all the other kingdoms and empires either refuse our plea for help or have already been conquered by Sombra himself. The griffons got it better—they'll be wiped out in four months and they have no future to worry about. Us? I know what Sombra does to his captives.
I can't reminisce without thinking of death. So much death. Death everywhere you go. If not death, then pain. To see these soldiers who traveled far and wide, to distance themselves from their loved ones, only to die; it distresses me. We're sending good young stallions and mares to death, and our officers treat it like it's no big deal. I wish the Princesses would teach them a lesson or two about life.
But, what can I do? I can't complain. They'll accuse me of treason if I tell them that a Crystal attack is incoming. Everyone's disciplined to follow the leader, and if the leader kicks me out, then they'll kick me out, too. I'll only be believed when the Crystals invade our base in the morning.
Cucumber Cool blinked. Tilted his head. Continued writing.
I forgot something. Since you'll probably see this letter by noon, I'll be dead by the time you read this.
He stared at it.
Kept writing.
You can mourn for me. I think it is good to mourn for those who die for their homeland, for their loved ones, for harmony and friendship. I will be gone, but don't be dismayed. I've done my part in bringing the end of the war closer. You'll be the ones to see its end, to live when they raise a white flag over the Crystal Empire. And, even if you lose and go into hiding from Crystal authorities, keep fighting. Do everything you can to keep Equestria alive. Evil may reign for a time, but good shall triumph.
I miss all of you. Mom, Dad, Running Days, Murgese, North Folk, Muster Roundup, and many others back in Leftlead.
Signing off for the very last time,
Cucumber Cool
He sighed.
Looked at the letter.
Turned the paper over.
Saw that blank side.
Wrote.
It's good that we remain
To tell you of our train.
Though harsh and dark the path may be,
The backward we disdain.
Raise our spears, raise our bows,
To lower them in death's throws.
Though gone our pulse and life shall be,
Our part, someday, all shall know.
Corpses carried over fields
Innocent of fights' appeal.
Showered in flowers, of roses and blues,
We thrive beyond our shields.
And if good wins, be glad.
If good falls, then look up.
The sun does shine, the sky is bright,
Night ends, for shall the day be had.
"Wake up!" a shrill voice roared. "They're coming through the—"
Stopped short.
Cucumber Cool woke up, straight up on his bed.
Clings of swords, whizzes of bows, crashes of cannons.
Heard bitter shouts, bitter wails.
Glass shattering.
Ponies fighting everywhere in the hall, with more Crystals swarming in through the broken windows.
He turned around, seeing everything descend—weapons falling, corpses falling, Crystals falling into the hall and ready to take over.
A Crystal landed in front of him, wearing his black armor and having those glowing green eyes.
Charged at him.
Raised him high into the air.
Smacked him to the ground.
He groaned, and moaned.
Was kicked down.
Pain surging through his bones, his veins.
Winced, braved his teeth.
Felt as if he was slipping.
Vision darker.
Dimmer.
Breathing slower.
Kicked.
Throbbing pain everywhere.
Breathing faster.
Kicked.
The Crystal kicked him one last time.
Cucumber let out a gasp.
Raised his head, stretching to the air.
Hoof slapped, and was kicked down.
Everything became darker, distant.
Gasped one more breath.
His head fell.
His whole body felt limp.
Surrounded by a group of soldiers retreating from the Crystals.
Outside, past the windows—gray in the horizon, gray above. No birds chirping, no birds flapping their wings, only the canopy of clouds above the vast stretches of snowy jagged, ragged mountains, covering miles and miles of ground, their landscape—the landscape which those inside could not see—had not changed for two years.
It was cold outside.
The noise of battle continued.