I am broken.
I have watched too many die this day. Every life lost diminishes me: pony, griffin, zebra, rhino. I have fought such battles many times, but never has it been this pointless—never has it seemed this futile.
I don’t even know what drives them, but I know they are mere pawns. They are to be pitied, these beasts from beyond the realms. This is not their plan. This is not their fight. They know not what they are doing, and yet, they would wipe Equestria from every map if they are not stopped. So I fight.
I am no warrior, but to do less would be cowardice. I would ask no pony to fight an enemy I will not face myself. I am no warrior, yet I have slain minotaur and basilisk and naga—even a kitsune—and each of their deaths diminishes me as much as that of my kin.
I can only watch as one more life is taken from me—a life that should rip my heart in two. The blade, slick with blood, slides out from her chest and she falls. I was the first of us, and now I will be the last of us. Yet, that life does not move me. Among so many candles now smouldering in darkness, even this extinguished flame loses its meaning.
I am broken.
I watch as the last of the griffin honour-guard leaps in to slaughter her killer. He is furious, rending with claws and beak and granting the snake no opportunity for victory. There is no victory here. No-one will win here. There will only be survivors.
I hear and see all around me, yet my hooves are rooted to the spot. I am not a warrior, but she is. She is the gentlest of souls, and the will to harm others fills her with such rage that some mistake it for bloodlust. She… was the gentlest of souls, and she could not stand to watch others suffer. It made her the warrior that I could never be.
I stand in her shadow. Across countless wars it was she that plotted and schemed and led brave ponies from the front. She is a creature of passion that ignited in the heat of battle and laid waste to all who would threaten that which she held dear. She… was the best of us.
I stand in gleaming golden armour stained red with blood and viscera. It is the product of the greatest smiths and artisans of our time—a gift to protect the life of the one they believe protects them in turn. She wore no such suit of fear. Speed, ferocity, and certainty were her armour, and effective armour it… was. No armour is perfect.
I stand bleeding, but she had been slashed and gouged and clawed a hundred times already, never once succumbing to her wounds. She is not simply stronger than me in her magic: she is gifted. For all the stories I am but a pony—a unicorn with more practice and experience than any other. She… was magic. They were one, and they were the same.
I am broken.
I am eclipsed.
I look up. Hundreds of arrows fill the sky. The enemy is mad, firing on friend and foe alike—no, there are no friends here, only loss and death.
I was the first of us, and now I am the last of us. I must persevere. I must survive. I must protect. Many times have I incinerated these barrages before they can land among our ranks, but this time it is… harder.
I ignite them, and a second volley takes their place. I am too slow, too drained, to reach out and burn them all this time. It is remarkable that I can hear each and every thud among the screaming and dying and steel-on-steel.
I am rocked by a giant axe—cast to the ground like a sapling before the might of a pachyderm. My armour holds, but I should have seen it coming. A rhinoceros impales my attacker upon his already blood-drenched horn, hefting the minotaur into the air as if he were filled with only feathers.
I am hurt, and have not noticed yet another volley of arrows already past the crest of its flight and starting to descend on my allies.
I am eclipsed.
Perhaps this is my time, too.
I choke as a cloud of dust descends upon us all. All around me is coughing and gagging. The battle lulls for but a moment, its endless victims caught unawares.
I look up. Hundreds more arrows turn to dust in the sky above—arrows that will never find flesh, or take a life.
I look around.
I watch the last of the griffins get run through by a sword, and a lancer runs the naga through in return. This warrior, this armoured pony, stands above his princess while her horn glows.
I see her eyes. They pierce me with their stare. She fights, still, and once again I am in her shadow. She stains the ground with her blood, and yet she fights.
I am eclipsed.
I don’t know when I rose to my hooves, but another kitsune dives through a rank of ponies—a cold-blooded assassin intent on finding my throat. A blur, a blink, illusions ten at a time, yet for all her tricks she spasms one final time upon my horn as blood runs into my eyes.
I don’t know where this ends. I don’t even know who would want to survive this, but I’m standing over her now, howling in fury and crushing my enemies with magic and hoof alike.
I have enemies. I have not truly had enemies for a long time.
She always had enemies.
She would swear vengeance on any who would hurt her friends or allies.
She would wrap her rage around her like a shield, protecting her from despair and uncertainty alike.
She would rend, and pummel, and smash any who forfeited her offer of courtesy by visiting pain upon another.
She is my better.
She eclipses me.
She does not falter, and so I must fight. I can’t even hear myself screaming, and yet banners flock to my wrath like moths to a flame.
She gives me strength, even as she is weakened. I must use that strength to rend, and pummel, and smash in her stead. I must fight, though I cannot say what victory can possibly come today.
She is my madness. All else has fled me, but I can fight for her.
She is my sister, and I am whole.
I am eclipsed, and I like it that way.