//------------------------------//
// 5 - Behind Your Scars 
// Story: Scars in the Sky 
// by Toriandthehorse 
//------------------------------//

Before I have the chance to say anything, a very soft knocking sounds from the door. 





“I’ll get it.” Soarin says, already getting up. I stay where I am; track him with my eyes. I watch as he quickly reaches a hoof up to smooth down his mane. He clicks open the door, a practiced smile – Everything’s great here! How are you? – plastered on a weary face. 

“I’m so, so, so, so, so, so, so, so, so, so, so SOR- Soarin?” The voice at the door starts out wailing, then switches to confused. Pinkie Pie. Of course. One disrespect after another, these days. How lovely. Her voice reminds me of an injured pony, left to die out on the battlefields. I’ve heard such ponies so often… when they’re so injured they don’t think straight… and switch tones within less than a beat. I’m vaguely aware of my ears flicking back and pinning down. 

“Um… hey… Pinkie.” Soarin glances toward me, nervously. Like the glances soldiers exchanged as a possible last goodbye. 

“Is Rainbow Dash home?” Now Pinkie’s switching to polite. I remember, she never approved of Soarin. He was always ‘too serious.’ The heat seeping through the edges of the mug is suddenly too hot, scalding my hooves. I push it farther away, and fold my hooves tight against my stomach. The small amount I ate suddenly doesn’t feel settled quite right. 

“Um…” Soarin mutters. I notice he keeps his eyes trained forward, on Pinkie, instead of directly at me. My mind instinctively remembers training, where we were taught to stay on guard in the midst of such gazes. I have to force myself to remember Soarin having the same basic training, in HQ. He’s not a threat. He’s not a threat. He’s not a threat. 

“Rainbow Dash! There you are!” Pinkie shoves Soarin aside, making a beeline for the table with large, springing jumps. She’s holding something in her hoof, something covered. Something unknown. Instantly, I stiffen. “O-Oh… right.” She straightens an imaginary tie, clearing her throat and then squaring her jaw. “Rainbow Dash, I’m-“ She sucks in air. “-I’m so, so, so, so, so, so, so, so, so, so, so SORRY!” Tears stream down her face as she finishes with a sob. Fake. So, so fake. 

“Are you finished?” I ask, tone low. I keep my gaze straight in front of me, so only the corner of my eye can watch her motions. I won’t give her the prize of eye contact. 

“Nope! I made you… this!” She exclaims, whipping the cover off the tin tray resting on her hoof. In the middle, there sits… something that slightly resembles a pie. My stomach turns over, from both the sight alone and the sickly sweet scent steaming off the… thing. “It’s a sweet potato pie, a rhubarb pie, a cream pie, a cheesecake, a Baumkuchen, a croquembouche, some punschkrapfen, a banoffee pie, a chiffon cake, some cremeschnitte, a prinzregententorte, a kransekake, an esterházy torte, and a spice cake all rolled and rolled up into one! Oh! And I topped it with a de-licious blend of lemon meringue buttercream frosting, ganache frosting, caramel, marzipan, strawberry cream cheese, Crème fraîche, powdered citrus glaze, and OF COURSE the best of all…  Chantilly Cream!” She gives me a wide grin, eyes shining and proud. “So whaddaya think?” 

I need her gone. I need her out of my house, and I don’t want to see her again. 

“I think you should leave.” I mutter through clenched teeth. 

“But, Rainbow Dash! I made you an Apology Pie!” She cries, shoving the pie even closer. 

“Please. Leave.” I’m fighting to keep myself under control. I want to grab her by the mane and throw her as far as Tartarus. I want her out, out and far, far away. I can’t smell the… pie anymore, or hear that overly cheerful voice, or see so many colors anymore. It’s too much. 

“You have to try my Apology Pie!” Determination creeps into her tone. She lifts her chin, narrowing her eyes down to slits. She lifts the tray and slides the pie right under my nose. I almost choke on the smell radiating out of it. 

“You have to leave.” I can hear it; my own tone is full of a hard warning. A veteran’s hard warning. She doesn’t budge, glaring innocent eyes at me. 

She asked for it. I push my cloud seat back, easily slipping to my feet. Even with war injuries, under pressure… I’m practiced enough that I can trust myself. The first gimmer of fear and uncertainty trickles into Pinkie’s eyes. I give her full eye contact now. Not the warm kind, that makes you feel loved and welcome. No, not the reward. I give her the icy kind, the kind that you gain naturally after years of war straighten you out. 

“I asked you to leave.” I breathe, moving in so we’re chest-to-chest. All pain vanishes, clearing the way for the drive to win.

“D-Dash?” She whimpers. Her tone is high with fear, eyes wide and darting around. She’s looking for a possible exit, I’m sure. Not likely she’ll find one. I might not be trained as highly in hoof to hoof combat as in, say, knife fighting, but I do know how to fight. The distressed sheen in her eyes shows she knows it. Once upon a time, I might have backed off here and now, just to spare one of my friends the fear. Not anymore. Now, I just want her out. 

An odd feeling washes over me. It’s a mix of the thrill of fighting, and the fear of fighting. Sounds, all the sounds… like the burning blasts fired into our direction. The groans of dying ponies, and grunts of the fighting. The freedom of being in control of your and only your body, and the restraint of what you’re about to do. The jittery feeling, rushing through my legs, at what might happen… I might die, I might die, I might die… 

It’s pounding into my head, stamping everything. I might die, I might die, I might die, Sweet Celestia, I’m going to die. 

Can’t think. Have to think. There’s three ponies swarming in on me, in total black. Enemy ponies, Dash… come on now… come on, Dash… think! Where’s the rest of the team? Why is there always so much snow, and so much ice? No… have to focus on here and now. Ponies… all around me. How do three ponies seem like so many? No. No time to think. Have to move, have to move, move, move. 

I sweep the knife out from its sheath around my waist. I practiced so long, so hard. So different now. It’s not like practice at all. The first two start in. I can barely hold them off, I can’t hold them off longer. They have such complicated, quick moves… intent on killing me. There, cut one of them, right in the neck. He’s down for good. But there are more, always more. There’s a slice to my back, hitting a nerve, and barely staying away from my wing. The area goes numb, but I can tell I’m bleeding. Have to win soon or never. I won’t last much longer. 

My knife locks against another. The other pony is strong – he reminds me a bit of Soarin. Not going to think of Soarin. Just win the fight. I throw my weight into the hoof, coming down and around with a number five strike, following it with a number three to the wing. The pegasus falters before plunging onto the snow in a spray of red. 

The only one left is their partner. I can see the edges of a pitch black eye peeking out from his armor – I’m pretty sure it’s a He. Focus, Dash, have to focus. He lunges, coming in so fast, with quick slices I can’t possibly return. He slits open my left hoof. Thankfully it’s not my right. I can still fight. But then… there’s a cut to my stomach, long and gaping. Immediately, I feel sick. The cut is too big… my head feels awful. Can’t keep myself up anymore. My wings falter… no, no! Have to stay up… have to stay up… can’t stay up… I fall. I think I land on my side, or maybe it’s my head. I don’t know. I don’t know anything anymore. I can’t feel anything. I can feel everything. 

I’m going to die, I’m going to die, I’m going to die, I’m going to die…