Luna was aware, dreadfully aware, that she wouldn't get more than one shot at doing what she planned to. She was also aware of what would come after, regardless of her success or lack thereof. Or aware of what wouldn't come, maybe. She wouldn't get to see any of it, unless some miracle happened. She'd learnt, in fairness, to not discount the possibility of miracles, but she did not count on one.
There was something funny about the mental image of dying, she thought. She wouldn't have said so on the topic of someone else's death, but she did find it there in her own, precisely because it was her own. She would not really get to see it clearly, or perceive it properly. Others would, but her? Would the shock make her numb? Would her brain even know, would her body realise it was dying? What did it feel like? She'd probably find out. Maybe funny wasn't the right word. Hysterical, maybe. A kind of emotion she couldn't really place, like her mind rejected it, turning to laughter to drown out the grief. Maybe it was bittersweet. Maybe it was just sad. Maybe it was all of that and more, something bigger than her, something too big for a mind to contemplate properly. Maybe that was why ponies rarely truly thought about their own.
She had the luxury, or maybe the curse, of knowing hers was coming. Those condemned to pay for a crime with their lives also did, she supposed, and they had usually a longer time to contemplate the fact. Not that there ever had been many of those. Not under her at least, and as far as she knew her sister had not changed things during her absence. Other cultures, in other places and times, may well have adopted the practice though. And deathly ill creatures were in a similar situation, though they did not know the moment as clearly as she did then.
She wanted to say she was somehow different from the examples she'd brought to mind. That she was special. She was, after all, a special creature, and that she could admit without being driven by pride. But the truth was, she wished to say herself different because she knew she was not. She was, as all those who had been in a situation like hers, afraid. Afraid to the point she refused to acknowledge her fear, to even look at it, because she knew she would be lost in its sheer size if she did. Perhaps she was even below the standing of others, who may have been faced with a situation like hers and embraced it with more courage than she was about to.
But regardless, she would proceed. She did not have a choice, that was true, but neither did she wish to plead for one, be it with Harmony or with her enemy. She accepted things. Not bravely, not without fear and uncertainty and regret, but she chose to follow through on them. And whatever would happen, whether she succeeded or not, whether it mattered or not, she hoped she would at least let go with the knowledge that she'd tried her best. In the end, maybe that was the most anyone could do.