//------------------------------//
// Voice of Reason 
// Story: Blackacre 
// by Princess Woona 
//------------------------------//

9 April, Y.C. 970
Foal Mountain

“Sheesh. Gawker, you okay?”
“Yeah.” He scratched a bit of caked mud off the long knife and went back to shining it. One hour downtime a day, and they spent it cleaning their gear. Hell of a way to be.
“Well, you don’t look it,” said Airhole, sitting down on the bunk across from him. “Mind if I join?” he asked, waving a harness.
“Go for it. Need oil?”
“Sure, thanks,” he said, accepting a little tin of the oily rub that kept the leather straps supple. In theory, they only needed it once or twice a week. In practice, though — specifically the full-contact practice that seemed to be the only type the sargeant cared to have them go through — their gear got a whole lot more beat up than it should.
“You done yours yet?” asked Airhole.
Clove nodded. “Feels like I did it yesterday, too.”
“Ha,” he said pointedly. “Ha. You complainin’?”
“No sir,” he laughed.
“Good.” Airhole worked a strap, rubbing the oil deep into the grain of the material. “Because you know what Sarge says.”
“Oh boy.”
“Doesn’t matter!” he barked, in a passing approximation of the minotaur. “Out there, in the real world, the ponies on the other side’ll be tryin’ to kill ya! Cleaning your gear isn’t just a good idea; it’ll keep you alive!”
“Sounds about right.”
“Yeah.”
A pause. Clove finished off the knife, tossed it back on his bunk, and picked up a greave.
“’Course, it’s not the staying alive part I’m worried about.”
“You kiddin’?” Airhole snorted. “That’s the biggest part of it for me, say what.” He shook his head, an odd expression on his face. “I’d rather kill than be killed.”
“I’d rather neither.”
“Fair enough.”
They continued cleaning in silence, most of which consisted in getting caked mud and dirt off their gear. Spring was nice enough — especially the lack of snow; that was a winner in anypony’s book after six months of winter, and especially with a winter like that — but the thaws tended to muddy everything up for a month or so. April showers and all.
The barracks weren’t empty, but close to it; most of the ponies were cleaning their gear outside, taking advantage of the weather. It wasn’t fantastic, but even having the option to stay outside voluntarily was enough for most of them. The only other ponies in here were the ones tired (or lazy) enough to prefer leaving their gear where it was, rather than drag it out and drag it back in. They dragged enough things enough places during the day.
Eventually, though, they had to be done sometime. The handful of other ponies in the room had finished and stowed their gear, going outside to joint the others for a few last words before evening, a breath of fresh air, maybe a shot at seeing if they could raid the pantry. That never ended well, but at least they tried. After all, they were more than halfway through this damn process. Sooner or later somepony would have to start treating them like more than dirt.
Clove finished polishing his gear and tucked it away in the trunk at the foot of the bed.
“Turning in?” asked Airhole.
“Probably,” he said, stretching a bit. “Ropes course tomorrow, so I hear.”
“All right.”
A pause.
Airhole kept wiping down his harness, but Clove realized that by this point he was giving the damned thing a second coat. Not that that was a bad idea, per se, but it wouldn’t last five minutes in the muck on a full contact drill of the sort Sarge liked.
“What you said a while ago,” said Airhole in an altogether casual tone. “D’you mean it?”
“Said a lot of things,” said Clove, picking up a piece of segmented armor and making polishing-like motions on it. Something told him it was better to appear industrious, at least for the time being.
“You don’t want to kill people,” he said with an easy smile, the sort that didn’t tend to appear on its own in the wild. “And you’re here in boot.”
“Seemed like the right decision at the time,” he shrugged. “Family owns a shop in Neighagra, but there aren’t too many ponies visiting this time of year. It’s real pretty when frozen, but travel… not so much, this last year. Wonder why.”
“Still,” shrugged Airhole. “Lots of things you could have done, and you still signed up.”
“Family thought it would be a good idea. You know what it’s like out there, all the pressure to join up. M’sister’s apprenticed to a clothier, looks to be taking over in a few years. Older brother’s half-running the family shop already. That leaves me.”
“You had a choice.”
“Sure I did. I could choose to sit on my hooves and look down every time anypony mentioned another one of their family off to fight. Or I could nut up and sign up.” He shook his head. “Not like I was being much use at home anyway. And now, anytime anypony says anything, my old man can hold his head high.”
Airhole nodded slowly.
“Noble,” he said.
Clove shrugged. “Whatever ponies think it is.”
“Doesn’t sound like you much want to kill anyone.”
“I’d rather not.”
“Looks like you got in the wrong business for that, then,” said Airhole, wiping off a strap. Little flecks of oil hit the ground, seeping into the old oak to make patches of varnish. “The Royal Army operates primarily in the field of killing people.”
“If I’ve got a choice?” he volunteered, “I’d like to keep people from being killed.” He kicked at a small dust bunny. “That’s my preference.”
“What if I told you a lot of other ponies feel that way too?” offered Airhole with a raised eyebrow.
“About joining up just to make their family proud?”
“About not really wanting to have anyone die today. Or tomorrow.”
“Then I’d tell you I wouldn’t be surprised.”
“Fair enough,” he said with a sad smile. “But — tell you what. There are a few of us who’d rather just this whole thing end and be over with. No reason to kill ponies who don’t want to kill you, and I don’t think anypony really wants to kill anypony else at the end of the day.” He laughed. “I know, it sounds crazy.”
“Sounds reasonable enough.”
“Well, that’s the idea. Whole bunch of reasonable ponies sitting down to figure things out with words instead of pointy things.”
“Sounds like a good idea,” said Clove, with a faint touch of emphasis.
“Hey, I’m just glad I’m not the only one,” said Airhole with a friendly laugh. “Tell you what. Next time we get an afternoon off, there’s a mare I think you’d really like. She’s got some good ideas too.” He laughed. “They’re so reasonable, it hurts.”
“I’ll always listen,” he offered.
“That’s all I’m askin’,” said Airhole with that friendly expression. “Maybe, just maybe, we can think our way out of this one.”
He gave his harness a final rub-down, nodded at it, and stuck out a hoof, its keratin shiny and smooth from the oil. “All right, Gawker. Shake on it?”
“Sure thing, Airhole.”
They shook, and Airhole paused for a moment.
“Y’know this feels kind of silly.”
He stuck his hoof back out again.
“I’m Herminn.”
Clove’s mouth twitched up.
“Clove. Nice to meet you.”
“And you,” offered the other, shaking it heartily. “All right, got to get my gear back in my trunk before Sarge pops in for a surprise inspection. See you ‘round!”
“’Round,” echoed Clove with a nod, as Airhole — Herminn — hopped back over the bunk towards his own on the other side of the room. Even with the other pony gone, though, the threads of conversation still dangled in the forefront of his mind.
Reasonable discussion. Now that’s something he liked the idea of.
After all, talk never hurt anypony.