Why am I here? What reason do I have to be here? The ground is littered with blood and corpses, broken and dirty weapons covering what little grass that has yet to be coloured red by the blood of the fallen.
Over there, beside the single tree on these plains, I can see my friend. His name was Willow. I grew up with him. We played with sticks, pretending they were swords. We had so much fun fighting each other like that. Heh, oh how Ol’ Ma would scold us for getting bruised up every single day.
The sun is setting. I like orange, it reminds me of my wife, and the auburn-red visage accompanying it; my daughter. Her beautiful auburn-red mane and creamy coat, The cutest, small wings; I remember how we always played together. I did this for her, did I not?
My wife, my dear, dear wife. Your beautiful brown eyes, the likes of which I had never seen before or since. I remember them, I remember you. I did this for you, did I not?
I can feel something warm on my cheek, what is it? I’m... crying? Why am I crying? I shouldn’t be crying, I should be happy. I did the right thing; I protected my family, my home, my country. Why am I crying? Why do I doubt myself?
Five months ago, we started fighting. Five months ago, they called for me. A white stallion with a two-toned blue mane came and asked me personally to join the other recruits. What was his cutie mark again? A shield with... a star, was it? I think it was a star. He was a nice stallion, I could see it in his eyes. I like him, even if he’s the reason that I am here now, among ponies and gryphons. He trained me, he taught me how to fight and how to survive.
It hurts. My chest is hurting. I can see the arrow sticking out of it. I guess my armour didn’t help me. It hurts, but I don’t scream, I don’t shout. I’m just sitting here, at the foot of this hill. My back is pressed against a large gryphon. He hasn’t moved for a long time. I think he’s dead. Willow hasn’t moved in a while either, is he dead too?
My wings are bloody, I can’t move them. I can’t move anything. Everything feels so heavy; my legs, my wings, my head. It doesn’t matter. I’m fine with sitting here, thinking.
I have killed so many… so many gryphons. They wanted to take our homes, we didn’t want to move. We fought back, I fought back. We protected ourselves.
My daughter didn’t want me to go. “It isn’t right,” she said. I tried to explain to her that I had to go, that it was the right thing to do. I told her that I would always keep her safe, but she would be safe with her mommy for now. She cried, but I didn’t want her to. She kept crying and her mommy tried to calm her, but she would not keep her tears to herself. I didn’t like that. I don’t like when my daughter is sad, it makes me sad.
I’m starting to feel cold. But the sun’s down, so that explains it. There aren’t any clouds in the sky. There hasn’t been any throughout the entire day. It has been a long day, I’m getting tired too. I want to sleep.
The stars are coming out. They’re pretty, very pretty. They’re like a lot of small drops of white paint that the artist accidentally dripped onto the black canvas. The moon is where he dropped the brush and left a large splotch of paint.
The painting was a mistake, but he didn’t throw it out, it was pretty. He didn't throw it out because it was pretty. I’m glad he didn’t throw the painting of the sky away. If he had, I wouldn’t be able to sit here and look at it.
Ponies are moving around now. The ones that make sounds and still move a little are being carried away. The ones that don’t move and don’t make sounds, they are left alone. They don’t look at them, they don’t carry them. They’re just left to lie on the ground. I’m one of those, I wonder why. I’m moving, am I not? Am I not making sounds? I think I am, I’m trying to at least. Maybe they don’t see me? They’re not carrying me away. I think everything would be better if they picked me up. Then I could see my daughter and my wife again. Then I could tell them that I did what was right.
It’s getting darker. I can still see the stars and the moon, the black canvas that was begun a very long time ago. It’s still pretty, but I don’t understand why it’s getting darker. It shouldn’t be getting darker, it doesn’t get darker than night. Does it?
The stars are dancing, or it looks like it. I can see two ponies chasing each other. It looks like my wife and daughter last spring. I remember that day. It was a fun day, very fun. We had come to a large flowerbed. Flowers as far as the eye could see, and we chased each other. I did this to protect them, to protect days like that. My daughter told me that it didn’t matter, told me that she just wanted me home. I told her I was doing the right thing.
I’m sitting here. I have an arrow in my chest. I can’t move. My wings and legs are heavy, and I want to sleep. It’s getting darker and darker and I can feel my eyes closing on their own. I want to stay awake, I want to come home to my daughter and my wife. I miss them; I want to see them again. Do they miss me?
I wonder how they’re doing. They’re probably playing right now. My little filly chasing her mother through the hills just outside of town. I’m not coming back, I know that now. Why did I think I would have a chance of coming back?
I killed so many. Twenty? Thirty? A hundred? Two hundred? I lost count long ago. I’ve fought more battles now than I care to remember. The gryphons killed us as well. I lost many of my friends I’d got to know through the training camps.
I remember now; I wasn’t recruited, I volunteered. I wasn’t collected by that white stallion, I went to him and asked to join. That was why my daughter fought so to keep me home, that was why I saw her crying so much. Now, I’m sitting here, and I’m just wondering...
Did I do the right thing?