Merry ran towards the pegasus, dropping her weapon and grabbing a first aid kit from a nearby rock. As she got close, however, a griffon yelled out. “Shrapnel bomb! Get ba—”
The tipped arrow exploded, sending shrapnel into the group. Merry was thrown back, a piece of shrapnel pinning her to the ground. She let out a scream of agony, trying to yank herself free. But it was too late. Mixed in with her screams of pain were also roars of battle as the Royal Guards charged at them, bayonets fixed on their crossbows. Merry watched as they practically broke through the line, slaughtering most of the Marching Colors at the line. Merry panicked, noticing a discarded crossbow near her.
Then, one guard noticed her, and charged. Merry felt the shrapnel ripping through her hoof, but she was determined to grab the crossbow.
But she didn’t even feel the wooden grip of the weapon before she heard the tearing of fabric and the sickening, squishy noises of flesh. The sharp pain in her chest sealed her fate. She was able to get a look at the guard, who seemed more fearful of her, despite the fierce look in his eyes, and he seemed to be muttering something. He then ripped the bayonet out and stepped past her, firing at the other creatures.
Merry felt her vision fade, her body feeling less connected to her conscience. Finally, she let the darkness consume her, the sounds of battle, the pain of war, and the feeling of oppression drifting away.
Perhaps, it’s for the better. Maybe, death is better than suffering the horrific memories of war. I haven’t much time. The guards will be here soon. You, reader, must understand that, in the darkest of hours, it doesn’t matter who you fight for. Only, that you know what you’re fighting for. Maybe your country? A loved one, perhaps? Maybe, you’ll die trying to legalize something bigger than you. Maybe you’ll die to save your race from being massacred. Maybe you’ll die legalizing our rights. Maybe, you’ll die a hero.
—Unknown Creature of the Marching Colors