//------------------------------//
// Chapter 1 
// Story: A Pony Born to Fight 
// by WyvernQueen 
//------------------------------//

 The train rocks slightly as I stare out of the window. Trees, brush, and other objects that go by too fast to identify appear and disappear from my view. The green color comforts me, as it has done for a long time, but it does nothing to dispel the ugly thoughts swimming in my head. 

All my memories are of war. When I was a child there were times of peace and friendship, but those have faded to inconsequential gray blurs in my head. When I try to focus on them, they seem foreign, as if they were somepony else's. I can't connect the laughing faces in a few of my memories with names, or even reasons why they would be laughing. 
Other memories plague me relentlessly. Crystal clear images of bloody swords, gaping wounds, dull eyes and still bodies cause me to wake up in a cold sweat, gasping for air that I'm lucky to still be breathing. They never used to bother me before the incident that took part of my forelock and left me with shrapnel embedded in my flesh.  I live alone, so there’s nopony to look at me with concern when these nightmares come around. Sometimes that’s lucky, other times not.

I don't have any family. No wife, no foals, no brothers or sisters. My parents left me at the doorstep of the Celestial Orphanage when I was a newborn, my dark blue hair tangled and dirty, my light gray fur almost black from filth. All that I had with me was a note, smudged but legible, that read, ‘His name is Ghost Anlace.’ Personally, I couldn’t care less who my birth parents are. But I have wondered why they left me; was it because they were poor and didn’t have the money to raise me? Or because I’m an Earth Pony and have no magic or wings? I don’t think either of those is right. Somehow, I think my parents knew what I would become—a cold-hearted warrior who is regaled for bringing along the untimely demise of intelligent creatures whose country offended ours in some way. This theory upholds with the examination of my last name; anlace is another word for dagger. I have two of them forever branded on my flank, a constant reminder of my purpose in life: to bring pain and death with me wherever I am commanded to go. My parents were right to distance themselves from me, if that was their reason. 

Suddenly, a hoof rests on my shoulder, snapping me out of my musings. I stiffen, all my training coming back in a rush. The owner of the hoof hastily removes it, apologizing. “I’m sorry, sir. I’m just here to tell you that the train will be arriving in Canterlot in ten minutes.”
The mare smiles nervously, fidgeting ever so slightly in her uniform. She must be new—she certainly looks young. Not wanting to scare her any more than I already did, I nod once. “Thank you, miss.”
She moves along, her hoofsteps masked by the noise of the train. I exhale slowly, trying to relax in my seat. This trip to Canterlot is (hopefully) the last of seven trips in four months. The first one was for my injury, to take out the remaining shrapnel, stitch up the wound, and try to reduce the damage to my foreleg. The second and third were for physical rehabilitation. The rest have been psychic evaluations, ponies asking me how I feel and how I’m holding up. Today’s is a ceremony to proclaim my bravery in service to my country in a time of war. 
The war. It’s been my life for ten years. Actually, for longer than that; I remember learning about it in school. A flashback hits me unexpectedly, making me gasp.

I was fourteen and in History class, my least favorite class of the day. Normally I would have fallen asleep by now, but today Mrs. Mareian, our teacher, was discussing the ongoing war. A stick rapped the large map Mrs. Mareian was standing in front of, emphasizing the border between Equestria and its southern neighbor.

“The Zebrae, or as you ponies may know them, the Zebras, live to the south of Equestria in Africaanas, which is ninety percent savannah. The savannah has few tall plants, like the trees we have. Instead, it has tall, yellow grass and is relatively flat. The Zebrae are less advanced than ponies are in science and some forms of magic, but their potion making and hand to hand combat skills are widely proclaimed. The current Zebrae war started when a visiting pony advisor insulted the Zebrae king, but over the last few years it has changed into a war for land.” She turned towards the class. “Are there any questions so far?”

I raised my hoof. “Mrs. Mareian, how old do you have to be to enlist for the war?”

Mrs. Mareian’s pointer wobbled unsteadily as she focused on me. After a minute she said, “You have to be eighteen, Ghost. Are you thinking of enlisting?”

Her voice was calm, but half of the class sat up straighter in their seats anyway. An argument between Mrs. Mareian and any member of the student body was rare, and this one was bound to be good. 
“Yes ma’am, as soon as I turn eighteen. Assuming that the war is still going on in four years.”
My tone must have sounded hopeful to Mrs. Mareian, because she frowned. “Princess Celestia forbid that the war continues for four more years! Even though your Cutie Mark is crossed swords does not mean that your talent in life is fighting, Ghost!”

I snap out of it, breathing shakily. The other occupants of the car, a mix of tourists and commuters, turn to stare at me with looks of concern. To avoid their questions, I smile slightly. “Sorry, everypony. It’s just a stressful time. Didn’t mean to cause concern.”
Most look away, restarting their conversations, but one curious young colt stares at me with a furrowed brow. The stare makes me fidget a little, so I address the source of my discomfort. Turning to face the colt, I murmur, “Is something the matter, son?”

He flushes, dropping his gaze to the floor of the train. “No, sir. It’s just that… well… um…”

His eyes flick up to the chunk missing out of my forelock. Just as quickly they move back to the floor, but he isn’t quick enough. My stomach clenches. I should be used to the looks by now, some of fascination, some of repulsion, and some of pity. Pity is the worst; I don’t want ponies to see me as some cripple, but to some that’s all I am. Stupid of me to think that a young, healthy foal like this wouldn't be curious upon seeing me, a scarred and battered colt in this land of peace.

“Are—are you a soldier?” The hesitant voice cuts through my internal grousing. The colt’s eyes are wide, not in repulsion but in awe. “My mother says that soldiers are really brave! Is that how you got hurt?”
His mother, sitting next to him, hisses, “Colton! Stop pestering the pony. It’s his business, not yours. Now apologize!”
Colton hangs his head and mutters, “I’m sorry, mister.”
I smile, and this time it isn't forced. Well, mostly. “It’s okay, Colton. Yes, I’m a soldier, and yes, that is how I got my injury. Your mother is right, you know; soldiers are really brave. But I wouldn't advise becoming one. You seem like too good a colt to live a life of war.”

He nods furiously, obviously relieved to have escaped a scolding from his mollified mother. The same uniformed mare walks down the aisle a second later, announcing that the train has stopped and that we have reached Canterlot. I don’t have any bags, so I just walk off, leaving Colton and his mother behind. As I exit the train station and begin to make my way to the Palace, where the ceremony will be held, I hope that the colt remembers my words, because I meant every one. War has no place for those with good hearts or conscience, and luckily for me, I don’t have either.
Or so I’ve been told.