The Blazing Death

by Amaranthine Thought

Chapter 2

“We shalt have to face them when they come. Go, and speak to Zehara, and learn what the zebra have learned and planned; cooperate with them, captain.”

“Yes, my Princess.”

Dark headed back down towards the oasis, given a mission. Princess Luna had not found any sign of the blazing death nearby, which did put some doubt that she would come.

He hadn’t even landed again when he heard shouted, angry voices. He startled, looking that way just as two zebra began fighting, the zebra nearby yelling abuse.

“Hey!” he started, before a far shaper “Cease!” sliced through the brawl and made it freeze.

The two zebra threw each other away as Zehara stomped over, the crowd going suddenly quiet. “Is the fear of the burning lioness not enough to put aside this hate?” she asked the pair. “Or has seeing the goddess’ light addled your minds into thinking that the rains are here to stay, and you can begin to worry about your neighbor’s tail?”

“…The short stripe,”

“I do not care!” she snapped. “Stand as one and survive, or fight and die in the jaws of the blazing death! You shame yourselves before the goddess, and your arrogance in thinking yourselves saved is sure to have her take back the grace we already do not deserve! Am I understood!”

“Yes, water-speaker.” The two said, unnerved.

“Both of you go, and cool your heads in the water.” She told them. “It may be the last drink you’ll have.”

They nodded and headed off, the other zebra starting to disperse. Dark continued to watch for a few moments before heading to Zehara.

“Why are your warriors fighting?” Dark asked, though he had a nagging feeling he already knew. Zehara looked at him, still frowning for a few moments before she spoke.

“A pony would not understand.”

“I think I would.” Dark said, frowning a little.

Zehara kept watching him for a few moments before she sighed.

“The short stripe and long stripe hate each other.” She told him. “They both feel the other inferior, and themselves superior. Both feel the other should respect them, and when they do not, fights break out.”

“…Short strip, long stripe…” Dark murmured, thinking. “…Do they think they are better because of their stripes, Zehara?”

Zehara blinked, a touch surprised. “Yes.” She told him, confirming Dark’s theory. “In every way a zebra might have different stripes, there is a tribe, and each tribe feels that their pattern is the best pattern, and that the others are less so. The hate between long and short is the lessor of many others in the savanna.”

“That’s… stupid.” Dark said, and Zehara shook her head, seeing Dark’s look of mild disgust and anger, and finding it normal; of course he didn’t understand.

“That is zebra.” She told him, and Dark frowned at her mild look of superiority. “It is our way to be this way. As I told you, a pony would not understand.”

“The problem is that I do.” Dark muttered.

“Impossible.” Zehara huffed, shaking her head.

“…Look at my wings, Zehara, and tell me what I am.”

Zehara wondered, and looked at his wings as they stretched out. The bat wings were leathery, sinewy, curved and shaped. She had not seen them on a pony before, but she knew them from bats, and she knew what he was. Her hesitation was her pondering what his meaning was.

“…You are a pegasus.” She told him, unable to guess his meaning.

“Just like the short and long stripe are zebra.” He said, and Zehara hesitated.

“…I do not understand what you mean.” She said, wondering.

“A ‘proper’ pegasus has bird wings.” Dark told her. “They have feathers. I do not. They call my kind ‘batpony’, and most ponies don’t like batponies. They see our wings and our fangs and they think of monsters and dark things and imagine us all villains.”

“It isn’t limited to just us though.” Dark sighed. “Unicorns tend to be arrogant because they can cast spells while nopony else can. Pegasi take pride in their ability to move clouds around and fly, and like looking down on those that can’t. Earth ponies call them both arrogant and take pride in their own ‘humility’.”

“But they all hate batponies.” He finished, huffing. “Ponies have their own ‘stripes’, Zehara, and I am all too familiar with what being different means.”

“So when I call the fight between stripes stupid, I mean it.” He said, glaring a little at her, Zehara with slightly wide eyes. “I think I know exactly what is going through a zebra’s head when they see a zebra with different stripes:”

“Look at that.” he said, his tone accusatory, and angry. “Somepony different than myself. I am better, because I am normal, and they are worse because they are different.”

Zehara felt speechless as Dark finished, the stallion stomping in mild frustration. She never knew much about ponies, but Dark not only surprised her with himself, he was now surprising her with how much he knew.

She never imagined that a pony would understand a zebra’s hate.

“…I am sorry.” She said, lowering her head. “I should not have judged so quickly.”

“It’s fine.” Dark sighed. “I’m used to it.”

The two were silent a moment after, Dark a little unhappy and Zehara feeling a touch guilty. Then she slowly spoke, “I… have a small home here, by the lake.”

Dark looked at her, and saw her paw at the earth, a touch nervous, her head still lowered. “If you… would accept, I have some fruit there; rare, from the jungle. Would you like some?”

Dark hesitated, growing a touch nervous himself. Zehara was still a little sad, and nervous, peering up at him almost worriedly, one hoof idly pawing at the earth. Her eyes were striking, and he almost felt she was…

He stopped that line of thought. He was on duty.

However, there was no harm in eating a treat while asking her questions about defense and lions, was there?

“I would enjoy that.” he said. Zehara smiled a small smile, and began walking away, gesturing for him to follow.

Dark snapped out of it and did so.

---

Casca’s tale

My birth was nothing special. I was the second daughter of a low male, with only one mate to his name. No lion special in any way, save for that he was my father. Soon after I was born, I had a younger brother, his first son.

The den I was born into was hungry, often. It was rare that we had food; sometimes, a week or more would pass before we had a meal again. It was no different than the rest of my den. Little different than any other.

I can still recall the best day of my early life. I was seven summers old when my sister had the great luck to find and catch a young zebra. Because it was small, and that my sister had caught it herself, we were allowed to have it.

It was barely a colt, its muscles not yet grown. I was allowed an entire leg, and my hunger was almost gone when I finished it, gnawing on the bone to get every last scrap of it. It was the largest meal I had ever had.

It was early the next day when the watcher cried out; an odd cry that we had not heard before. We went out to see, but we did not see rival lions, nor another threat we had known before.

Instead, there were zebra, but not zebra as I or the den had ever known them. They came in numbers, staying close together, wielding spears, stabbing at any lion who came close, each zebra protecting the one next to it.

The males fought them with ferocity, but none of them made it past the spears. One by one, they died, impaled upon them, the zebra acting together to ensure that no lion could reach them.

I feared, watching, but not as I should have. I thought the zebra were trying to take the den as their own, to claim us as theirs, as another den might take another. I was upset, watching my father die, but not as upset as I should have been.

I thought they were acting as lions.

The males dead, they split into groups, several moving to guard any escape. The rest went towards the females, who watched, confused and worried.

When the first was run through, the rest growled, mothers readying themselves as the attackers came.

My mother threw me and my brother back into our home, and told my sister to hide us, and keep us safe. She stood at the entrance, growling, and my sister watched her before turning to us, fearful.

My brother and I clung to each other, fearful and upset, and my sister pushed us into the very back of our home. She quickly dug a small pit and pushed us within it before lightly covering us in dirt.

Then, her voice trembling, she told us, “Stay still and silent.”

“What’s happening?” I asked her, seeing my mother taking slow steps back, growling at something.

“Mother and I will keep you safe.” My sister told us. “Just don’t move, and don’t make a sound.”

She smiled, and told us, “I love you both.”, before she turned to help mother.

Four zebra came, and my mother swiped at the nearest to have her paw impaled. My sister ran to help, but they stabbed her throat before she could arrive.

She leapt at them.

And one zebra held up his spear and impaled her along its length. I could hear her gurgling in agony, and I saw her twitching on it. I closed my eyes, no longer willing to watch, wishing that I couldn’t hear my sister’s weakening sounds. I tried to stop myself from crying, my brother still and silent next to me.

I heard the zebra come in, and heard one them make a sick sound. “…Guess we found him.”

“At least there’s something to bury. But there are cubs here; look at the tiny prints.”

“Then look for them if you want to. I don’t want to spend another moment in this blood-soaked pit.”

My heart thundered in my chest in fear as I heard them moving in the den. Hearing them searching for us, to kill us.

Just when I thought they might just have missed us and were leaving, I felt my brother shift.

I opened my eyes, and saw one zebra staring at us, peering in slight confusion.

I was never so scared. I froze, and it felt like my heart had stopped. He had found us.

That was when my brother darted forwards.

He was only four summers. He was only just getting his teeth in. He was a tiny cub.

And he was braver than I. I watched what happened, my paws set over my mouth to stop me from making a sound, crying in silence.

I watched him attack the one who had found us, the one who had impaled my sister, tearing and ripping at his leg. The zebra screamed, but managed to kick my brother off him, his wounded leg wobbling.

The other zebras hurried to help him. My brother managed to dodge the first spear.

He did not dodge the second.

He screamed as it stabbed him, pinning his tiny form to the floor. His tiny face contorted in agony is still so fresh in my mind. I can still hear his dying scream.

I closed my eyes, shaking, my paws tightly over my head, trying to not make a sound.

“We have you.”

“That looks pretty bad.”

“If we are swift, perhaps the leg can be saved. Quickly now!”

I heard them leave, but it was a long time until I dared to look again.

They were gone. I was safe.

I got out of my hiding spot, and peered past my dead mother outside, just to be certain. I did not see any zebra. Only the dead lions of my den.

I sat down and wailed.

In a single day, I had lost everything. Not one lion had been spared the zebra’s wrath.

My mother had died, trying to protect us. My sister had died, trying to avenge her. My brother, my tiny brother the cub, died to save my life.

And I had watched them die. I saw their blood spill, heard their final cries, saw their agony as they perished.

I cried every tear I had that night. I cried until the sun finally came up again, and its light fell upon the dead lions and blood all around me.

My tears dried then. I could cry no more.

I was alone. I was just a cub, barely starting to turn into a lioness. I had my teeth and my claws and nothing else.

I had not yet learned how to hunt. I had never been outside my den.

I didn’t know how I was going to survive without the den’s protection, without my mother to teach me.

But as the sun rose, I stood up.

I promised myself that I was going to survive. I wasn't going to die.

I was going to survive on my own, with no lion there to help me. I would survive, and if I could, thrive.

Not because of anything good. Not because of anything I learned.

Because I was going to kill the zebra who had killed my brother. And the one who had killed my sister, and the one who had killed my mother. I would kill them all for what they did to me.

I would survive, and grow, and one day, I would look into the dying eyes of the killers of my family. But I would not stop with just them.

They would all pay for the death of my den. They were all going to die at my claws. As they had killed my den, I would kill theirs. From their males, to their females, to their children, I would kill every last one of them, and leave their corpses to rot in the sun like they had done to my den.

I would kill every last zebra I could find.