I can only watch as he tries and tries his hardest to fix a part of me. And I don’t say that no matter how hard he tries, the area will just bleed again… and again… and again.
When Soarin finishes, I can tell he’s hurting. His ears are down, eyes very troubled. He gives me a wavering smile before turning away to set the rest of the bandaging down. A part of me looks down at him, with disgust. If he thinks this is bad, he should have seen the battlefields. Battlefields littered with the dead and dying, once-clean and sparkling snow soaked with blood, both fresh and old. Should have seen the paper-like wings of suffering ponies, some with clear gaps where the ammunition had struck them. The feathers blowing away from the dead, hurled far, far away by the icy arctic wind. But I think I understand. He wants to be alone. He wants to be without me.
That’s alright. I turn, start walking out of the room. I’m glad to be out of the sanitized room, with it’s lemon scents so powerful. I’m used to muddy trenches, and unfiltered water. So much… cleanness is overwhelming.
“Dash? Going for a fly?” Soarin calls after me. A fly. A fly?! Seriously?
“No.” I snap, tone cold. Of course I’m not going for a fly. Didn’t he just see my wings? And my heart? No, wait. I haven’t showed him my heart yet. But… he’s seen my wings. I… I can’t fly. Just can’t.
“Oh.” I can hear him whisper, realization probably dawning on him. “Dash, I’m sorry-”
“It’s fine.” I cut him off, sharply. It is, everything is. Perfectly, completely… fine.
I turn up the stairs, and start walking to my bedroom. I keep my eyes straight ahead – I don’t want to, or need to, see the pictures from a time when my biggest care was being the best.
When I enter and lock my room door, the first thing I see is light. So much light. It streams through the windows, highlighting little specks of floating dust. It’s too bright. Too much like the light right before a cannon, or a unicorn, fires up and out at you. With quick, shallow breaths, I rush to the curtain and draw it tight.
The room is dark now. Not exactly pitch black, not like the attacks we performed under the cover of night. I can still see faint shadows. I can see if there’s anypony there – or in this case, that there’s not anypony there. I’m alone.
I limp to the bed, and start to sit down… but it’s too soft. I sink into the cloud at least an inch. So I move to the floor. It’s better. I curl my tail to the side; don’t even both to wince when the scar knitting across my dock pulses with pain. My legs hurt so, as I let myself drop into a sitting position. Everything hurts. Joints, ligaments, tendons… everything.
I don’t feel like I’m home, in my own house. I don’t feel better, after coming back ‘home’ from years of war. If anything, I feel worse. There’s memories, emotions, ponies, blood… all etched into my very soul, seeping through the cracked remains of my heart.
Yes. Fine. My heart hurts. I’ll never admit it out loud, but I can admit it to myself. I can admit I’m weak. I can admit that war broke me. I can admit that what I heard, what I saw, what I went through out there, got to me. And… I can admit I didn’t react like the tough mare everypony remembers. I didn’t react like I knew it all, could get over it all… no. I reacted like a mare I didn’t even know. I turned into a scared, weak filly, knowing her fate lay in the hooves of the big, black, mean monster called War.
I’m barely aware of the tears falling from my eyes. Or maybe, I’m all too aware. They stream down my face, and as much as I’m ashamed, I just can’t seem stop them. Don’t want to stop them, maybe. Or maybe, I just don’t care anymore. I’m just too tired to think, to do. There’s a weariness weighing me down, a certain weariness that doesn’t pass by every day. Maybe the tears are an attempt, an illusion, by my heart… to lift some. To filter out the worst parts of, well, grief.
I don’t know. I really don’t know.
I think of Death, now. It’s not unfamiliar. Blossomforth, a mare I had grown up with, died in our very first battle. I should know; I was right next to her. So many others did as well, dying during the fight for life. There were some that had to be left to die alone – because the rest of us had to move on, move to the next battle, to the next fight. And by the time we came back, all that was left was an unmoving body, some with splintered horns, others with dispersing wings. What never changed was the crimson-stained snow, the smell of Death and sickness, and the icy hail that beat down on us, replicating the tears we refused to shed. Death was in every one of those drops, in the growling thunder that made for the worst conditions, in every feather that drifted by, no doubt from some pegasus that had lost life, and in each of us. In each of the ponies that had fought through the war for Equestria – both in those that came out alive, and those that didn’t.
I wonder if the survivors had really survived. I certainly don’t feel alive. I feel just as dead as the ponies scattered all over snow once beautiful.
Is that appropriate? Do I get to feel like this? Should I be glad and appreciative of that I had come out in one piece? Should I be happy, that Soarin and I got to meet again? That Pinkie Pie cares enough to throw a Welcome Home party?
I don’t know, I don’t know.
I don’t know if I’m glad I came out ‘in one piece.’ I might still have my wings, and my legs, and my head, but my heart and soul? I don’t think they’re as put-together anymore. I don’t know if I’m happy about Soarin. It would make it so much easier, for both of us, if he wasn’t there anymore. Or maybe… if I wasn’t there anymore. And I most certainly don’t know if I’m happy about a stupid, stupid party.
Actually, I do know one thing. I’m not happy. Happiness is flying high in the sky, joined only by wind. Happiness is performing in front of thousands and thousands of ponies, all watching to see your next move. Happiness is being with a full heart. Just plain… being, with a heart that is forgiving, and kind, and loyal.
I can’t stay still anymore. I get up, and start to pace around the outer edge.
It feels like I’m trapped, trapped in a small, small cage. A cage that wraps around my legs, my wings, and pulls me back when I try to step forward. A cage that keeps me shut in tight, without any holes to breathe through. It keeps me inside, restless, and with all hope of freedom long gone.
My inhales are coming rapidly, now. Suddenly, the room is too dark. I move to the window, and part the curtain. It’s dark out. Have I been here for so long? Really? Ah well. Not like it actually matters.
I watch the night sky, for a little bit. It’s a navy blue, the kind of blue that represents both warmth and chill, hope and heaviness. The stars, dotted in a pattern only Luna knows, wink brightly, perhaps to remind of light in the dark? Perhaps to remind of a light that won’t come.
A brilliant flash streaks past the corner of my eye. A shooting star. This one is beautiful; so fragile, yet strong. It’s breathtaking – a moment of sheer nature.
And as silly as I know it is, I make a wish.
I wish I can be happy again.