Hang
I am not good with words. But they gave me the burin when I asked, so I should try.
Tomorrow, I am to die. They say it is for treason. They say it is for slaying a soldier-brother. He was no brother of mine.
But still they say I am to die.
I have seen many drumheads. No-one is ever innocent if one is called. We make the great circle of the sky, and stamp our hooves and beat our wings, and thunder follows. The accused faces the winds of his fellows. The major-legate sits in centre, weighs and judges. Their eyes always seem tired. Mine was no different.
I have seen many hangings. The gallows have not come down in months. They say it nicely: 'until the wingbeats cool with the heart's'. It is not so nice. I have seen many hangings. They cut the wing-cords so you cannot fly, just flap. I am never sure if they want that, to have us see sad pigeons flapping against the rope where Pegasi once soared. It is the same in the end. They wait until the tongue hangs out, and wings break for trying, and the shit streams down the leg, until
I must stop this.
I must gather myself. I do not want them to think I am afraid. I do not want them to think I have repented. Even if
No. I will write. I will try.
There have been many drumheads. Soldier-siblings steal food. They lose hooves or teeth. Some among the young desert, try to go home to their brood. They hang. Some among the old lay down spear and shield and wing-blade and refuse to fight any more. They hang too, where once they were given a warrior's death. And so many, so so many fight amongst themselves as bellies ache and wounds fester and the war goes sour. When somepony dies, somepony hangs. It is weekly. It is commonplace.
It is strange that I feel special.
She was small. So small. Barely past her first rutting. Foal enough to remind me of mine, mare enough to remind me of Procella. Horse this child may have been. Horn, even. It did not matter. I could not leave her.
I was tending fire with Tacitus, my second, when we heard the screams. Every soldier-sibling jumped at it. We thought it an attack.
We flew to the site. She was there. Belua and a dozen other brutes ringed her -- unsheathed, stinking. Some said later it was cloudwine; others the feral-blood. It did not matter then. It does not matter now.
Everything is clear as it was then.
She is mine, says Belua. She is of the Horse. She bears shields for their warriors. I slew her master, and she is mine.
Cries of admiration. He killed a Horse. He won a fine trophy. Keep her.
Cries of anger. He killed an ally. The Horse would revenge. Return her.
I am not young. Young enough to slice the skies, old enough to command respect. I am heard when I speak. I speak, and the cries are silent.
Belua, I call him. This cannot stand. You must return her to the Horse.
Away, mare, says Belua. Away, cunt. She is not yours to win. Not yours to choose.
Belua, I say. She is of the Horse. She is kin. You have slain kin.
Cunt, screams Belua. The Horse are not kin. The Horn are not kin. She is not Pegasi. She is mine by blood.
You know that is not true, I say. The Diarchs threaten all. They have made all of us kin.
The Diarchs will be slain, screams Belua again, and other voices rise with his. Their heads mounted on the Sungard Wall. They are not Pegasi. They are not kin. Horse and Horn are not kin. There is sky and sun only for Pegasi.
Tacitus, beside me, hisses. We knew there was dissent. Many believe in the god-princesses. I never bothered to learn much of them. They sought to break the tribes. They were the enemy.
So too were those like Belua, who thought he alone could march to victory. It is a foolishness many have died for already.
So I bare my blades.
Belua, I said, and many listened. I name you traitor. The Horse are kin while the Diarchs live. You have killed and stolen from kin. I will return her to the Horse.
I do not remember what he said next, only that my wing was at his throat before he finished.
The ring was quiet when he fell, and I took to the skies to take the foal back to the Horse. Tacitus joined me. The foal was quiet the whole way to their camp. She might have thanked me when I returned her to their war-leader. I do not remember.
I only remember her big eyes staring up at me as I cradled her in flight. I was too angry to notice, but Tacitus says I carried her as I used to my own.
This is nothing I did not say to the major-legate. It did not matter. Belua was dead. I killed him, and not the drumhead. It was the same.
It is nothing that Tacitus did not say to the camp of the Horse. It did not matter. It was a Pegasi matter. The foal was returned. It was the same.
And tomorrow I will hang.
---
Half the night is left. The moon is high. The major-legate came by, and asked me to name my replacement. As lieutenant, I have that right. Tacitus was my answer, though there were many who might do as well.
But Tacitus is a good boy. A good friend. I will miss him. He understands. He understands that no matter what the Diarchs might visit on us, whatever their desires, we must not let them make us break our vows to each other. We are sworn to help the other tribes, not turn against them.
It is strange. I remember a Horn I duelled at Montmouth. His colours were of the Night’s Autarch. He was a fine duellist, and his sword was well-tended. He asked me why we fought. I told him I fought for the tribes. All the tribes? he asked. Not just the Pegasi? I think he thought to catch me in some trick. But I was honest, and told him so. He had a brilliant laugh, and loosed it then.
Do you not know, then? he asked. Do you not know why mares and stallions like me fight for the Sisters?
They would see the yoke on us, I said.
No, he replied. They want to set you free.
He was a fine duellist. I am sorry he had to die.
---
I am reading back again, and I mentioned Procella-my-wife, and our foals. If there is any honour left here, they will not be harmed. The old ways were kept a week ago. With luck they still are.
---
Dawn. I hear the drums. It will be soon.
Let the jailer keep this record. I will have no other.
I am Lexima, Third Lieutenant of the Tenth Legion. I serve the Pegasi Ascendency, and the three tribes to which I have sworn fealty.
And today I am to die.
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A very interesting little story you have here. Nice job.
Oi, thatsa morbid one, it is. Good on them royal hornwingheadbarrels for ending such nonsense!
I like it, it's... my kind of story. Good job, author, good job.
So. Much. World-Building! Sure, this story is sad in a fatalistic, macabre sense. Yet, I love how this fleshed out pre-Unity Equestria,if only a little bit. Excellent job!
Really enjoyed this. A nice cultural exploration. I'd actually quite like to read more of this setting, either as records like this, or fully translated story.
So much world-building with so little words. Good job! o_o
This was so sad and good... I really enjoyed it.
This was very nice, and I immensely enjoyed the style. I'm still a little confused at how one is both for all the tribes and against the Diarches.
I reviewed this story as part of Read It Now Reviews #103.
My review can be found here.
8017381 Well, now that's the question, isn't it?
8016476 Thank you! I'm glad you liked it.
I think there's a lot to be explored in this period, though most of what else I've got typed up in my overflowing fic folder isn't nearly this transcendental. There's one longer-form one, Sundog, that has some promise, but that may take awhile to pull together exactly how I want it.
8020125 I see what you're trying to say, but my point is that the MC knows that they're the same--he explicitly states it.
Unless that flashback was from a really long time ago, and he's changed his unchanging beliefs in the intermitum?
8020229
The who, now? The protagonist is female.
That is stated nowhere in the text.
The duel took place perhaps a month before the execution, and nothing has changed for Lexima in the interim save for the number of fine duellists she's slaughtered.
8020251 Ah, I see the hint now with the discussion with the one she killed. I had assumed she was male at first due to
I don't know why you quoted that "MC" part, though. I don't know why you assume that a main character has to be male.
I also realize now that I misread
to mean "the Diarches have united the tribes". My apologies.
8020271 I assumed only that you meant 'main character'. You used male pronouns throughout your post; I simply highlighted the noun in my quote instead. Mostly because it's just gone 6.20 in the AM here, and I'm feeling laconic.
And no worries. Glad we could clear up the misconception.
8020276 Ah, sorry about that. my English teachers always taught that in formal writing you should just use "he" when you don't know the gender of a character.
The chains of tradition choke just as easily as they bind this army. Even if the rebels' fate were uncertain, it would be sealed if they keep blindly and inflexibly culling their own. But that foolishness is precisely what they're fighting for, isn't it?
An excellent tragedy that says so much with so little. Thank you for it.
8024631 You're most welcome.
I expect there'll be more in this vein at some point.
And yes. Some combination of bullheadedness, terror of the unknown, and sheer screaming frustration as their world falls apart around them. Sound familiar?
History is certainly written by the victors, but the stories and history of the defeated can be just as invaluable. Were the Alicorns enlightened peace keepers, or ruthless autocrats with delusions of godhood determined to rule the world? I suppose it depends on your point of view. Great job.
This is an interesting story.
I love stories like this, great job
Hanging Danny Deever By Rudyard Kipling
8056221 Never read it.
Thought this was a Skyrim Crossover but I guess not...
I have reviewed this HERE.
Oh Jesus, that sound awful.
Good read.
I see why this got so much attention. :D
Love the mix of dark and light, and sense of decline in adversity going on here. Bleak might be the word.
Certainly whets the appetite for more information about just what's happening at a larger scale, and why the people involved believe what they do.
This is good... some very well crafted world building here, I like it. Equestria was made when the Royal Sisters unified the tribes, but how exactly that happened and what preceded it is shrouded in myth and festive legend. I like this very much.
This was quite interesting, but I found it very confusing. Even after reading it through three times, I can't nail down the main character's gender. Word of Author in the comments declares that Lexima is female, but nothing in the text supports that besides the way Belua addresses her - and he could have just as easily called a stallion "mare" and "cunt" as they were clearly terms of disrespect.
As much as I'd like to say that Lexima's gender doesn't matter, there are clearly defined gender roles in the world painted by this story - even if we as readers don't know exactly what they are. The motivation behind killing Belua and rescuing the foal would be very different for Lexima as a mare or stallion. I've read the story both ways. It's very different.
Furthermore, I really don't know where Lexima stands with regard to the diarchs. I don't know what she fights for, what she believes in, beyond protecting a foal from a brutal crime.
This was a beautiful and terrifying look at the last moments of someone who knows what is coming, but I feel it could have been more impactful if we had a clearer picture of who Lexima was and what her motivations were.
I enjoyed the theme of change. Lexima's entire world was in the middle of being turned upside down, and there she was in the middle of all that, not worrying or wondering, just doing. Some of the ponies couldn't handle the change, but although she can handle one pony, her tribe isn't ready to change.
This was a thoughtful, dramatic piece, but I think it fell a bit short of what it could have been. Still, it is one of those stories that will stick with the reader, something that will stay on your mind long after it's finished.
8741263
No. Flatly.
The point of a story like this is not to disambiguate. It is not to tell. It is not to give away. It is to leave you with exactly that sick feeling of confusion and uncertainty, and to leave you to draw your own conclusions. Anything more I added to it would be taking away from the basic premise of the ever-murky interpretation of historical accounts.
'Cos, let's face it -- this is a translation (1) of a middingly-preserved (2) personal accounting (3) of events for which there is no definitive historical record (4). That's four points of ambiguity just within the structure of the story itself. Even if there were more concrete detail, how would you ever be able to trust it?
8742423
Fair enough. Ambiguity leaves something for the reader to think about afterwards. Confusion can be disconcerting, and leave a reader off-balance so you can hit them with a plot point that knocks them over. I just don't feel like the confusion and ambiguity worked out that way in this story. Not for me, at least, not entirely. It's clear that there were some readers for whom it did work out that way, I'm just not one of them.
You can has review!
I still mean to review this. In case I never get around to it, let me just say I think this is a great story.