Letters to Ponyville

by StapleCactus

Big Mac - 3rd letter

Dear Applejack,

We got news from the front this morning, in the form of soldiers returning sooner than expected. Change-outs aren’t supposed to be due for another month at least, so we were surprised to see the train pull in from the northern line, up in the Crystal Empire.

It was about 9:00 AM and training was well on its way. But when the train ground to a halt right nearby the courtyard, most of the ponies in the camp, including a few of the lower-ranked officers, gathered around the platform in a tight clump, all eyes focused on the train doors.

The doors slid open and three ponies limped out, hauling a small wooden cart behind them. The first pony, a golden stallion with a blue mane and a shield cutie mark, I recognized from the time he visited Ponyville a few years back: Flash Sentry. He was favoring his front left hoof, as if it had been injured just recently. Likely, it had.

I didn’t recognize the other two ponies, but they looked like pretty much any other royal guard. Not all that interesting or important as they helped guide the wagon down the short ramp to the cobbled path leading through camp.

What was important, though, were the contents of the wagon. A tarp covered the wagon, obscuring what it held from prying eyes, but the lumps in the fabric and the lone hoof that jutted out from one side and hung limply as it clattered against the wagon’s side with each bump in the path told enough.

The wagon was loaded with the dead, casualties from the war.

Uneasy whispers rumbled through the crowd. From where I stood, fairly close to the platform... Celestia, the smell was strong. You remember that time a few years back when Applebloom stumbled across the dead fruit bats down in the south field after the surprise coldsnap? The weather flip-flopped so badly that it went from below freezing, cold enough to kill the bats dead, up to hot enough to draw a good sweat just from sitting outside for too long. The heat got to them, made them rot. Death shouldn’t smell that sweet. And yet, I couldn’t help but be reminded of that this morning.

Sergeant Gunsmoke met the three guardsponies (pallbearers, kid) at the southern gate that lead out to the fields surrounding the camp. They exchanged words. Here’s the best that I can remember:

Gunsmoke: “Your orders, soldiers? My ponies here deserve an explanation.”

Flash: “En route to Canterlot HQ in order to reroute casualties to their families, sir.”

Gunsmoke: “According to our records, you are one of the personal guards of the Crystal Princess, Sentry. Any particular reason why you’ve been assigned to this sort of mission?”

Flash (his ears drooped a bit, here): “One of the dead was… a friend of mine. Just keeping a promise, that’s all.”

Gunsmoke: “I see. Very well, then. Carry on, and my condolences, soldier.”

A salute, a sigh, and a curt nod. Short and to the point. Gunsmoke stepped to the side and watched them pass. His gaze lingered on the wagon for a moment before he turned away pointedly.

Training resumed, but I didn’t pay very much attention. I was too busy seeing the lumps beneath the tarp. The sickly-sweet smell… it’s still there, AJ. It’s like they’re next to me right now, here in the barracks. Like one of them’s lying in the bunk above me…. Why won’t it go away? Smells ain’t supposed to linger like that, not through sweat and distance. It just ain’t natural.

I… I shouldn’t be telling you this. It’s not something you need to be worrying yourself about. It’s just… I’m unsettled, that’s all. Seeing that today made me think about things, about the future. About what’s coming. We head out to the front ourselves in a month, and I don’t think I’m ready. When I came out here, I said an oath: “To serve is to protect, to protect is to love, to love is to live.” I meant it, AJ, don’t get me wrong, but it’s still….

What if next time a wagon comes back through this camp, it’s me under there?

I’m not afraid to face tomorrow or next week or next month. I’m not afraid to do what needs to be done. I’m not even afraid to die.

I’m afraid of not seeing my family again.

I love you, AJ. And you too, Granny and Applebloom and whoever else is reading this. I’m doing this for you.

Big Macintosh

Author's Note:

I blame any issues in writing quality on Big Mac not being used to writing letters.

Malus Scriptor

Now, I don't know why he thinks there's writing issues. Letters are supposed to be personal, after all. Anyway, here's the third in his series. It's ramping up to be a tale to remember.