In Victory, We Are the Losers

by daOtterGuy

Worth

Rockhoof was in a small lodge in the center of the village. A fire crackled in the most central point of the house, the light casting the shadows into sharp relief. Worn furniture, the kind many others would have seen as cozy, carried an aura of intimidation in this darkly lit place.

Those others would never feel as unwelcome as Rockhoof did in his own father’s home.

Vigour towered over him, the sharp angles of his mountainous body highlighted by the glow of the flames. A heavyset stallion with stone-like features and a stoic disposition. He was considered the strongest warrior in the village, yet one of the unluckiest for the misfortunes of Rockhoof’s continued existence.

“Tell me, Rockhoof,” Vigour started, emphasizing, as always, the absence of the word son. He paced back and forth, each heavy hooffall a hard thump that echoed inside of Vigour’s home. “What is strength?”

“The power to protect those you care about,” Rockhoof muttered.

Considered a runt by his peers, his small stature emphasized by how he scrunched in on himself under the withering gaze of Vigour’s contempt, it was a difficult task for Rockhoof to keep his eyes affixed upon his father. His only motivation to do so was the knowledge that things would be so much worse if he failed to keep it up.

Vigour nodded. Momentary satisfaction at Rockhoof’s answer. “The warriors of the village,” he continued. “What do they need to be to do that?”

Rockhoof gulped. “The strongest of the strong.”

“Good.” Vigour stopped his pacing. “Now. What are you?”

“I-I’ll try harder!” Rockhoof scrambled. “I’ll—!”

His father whirled on him, a mighty stomp of his hoof stopping Rockhoof’s babbling. Cold fury was etched into his face. The craggy detachment of a mountain. He intruded into Rockhoof’s face, the latter powerless to enforce his boundaries.

“I didn’t ask for your excuses,” Vigour said. A quiet, forceful sound. “I asked about what. You. Are.”

“W-weak, sir,” Rockhoof replied, his voice a meek whisper.

“What is the role of every able-bodied pony in the village?”

“To be a warrior.”

“Yes. Warriors who are strong. Warriors who can defend themselves and others. Warriors who are capable of carrying something heavier than a single bale of hay!” Vigour screamed the last word into Rockhoof’s face.

Rockhoof flinched.

“...What did I do to deserve to be burdened with a foal as pathetic as you,” Vigour muttered darkly, pulling back to his full height.

Rockhoof stayed quiet. He hung his head, curling further into himself from the shame that burned within.

“You have proven incapable of even the most basic tasks required of you,” Vigour said, disappointment clear in his voice. “... You will join the Trench tomorrow.”

Fear stabbed into Rockhoof’s heart. The Trench was the most dangerous job in the village. Those ponies took upon the arduous task of redirecting the lava that spewed from the volcano to keep the village safe. It was a task reserved for criminals.

“N-no, please!” Rockhoof pleaded, a desperate quiver to his voice. “Don’t send me to the Trench! I’ll do better, just—”

Vigour rounded on him. “You will do as you’re told!” he shouted. “You have shown no worth to the village as a proper member of its community, so you will do so as one of its disgraced!”

“Please, any other task, just not that one. What if I can’t escape from the lava?”

“Then we will have not lost anything of importance,” Vigour replied.

His piece said, Vigour turned away from his son and laid down on his bed. Rockhoof remained where he was. His body shook as silent tears fell from his eyes. Terror gripped his body as he dreaded the possibilities of tomorrow and all the tomorrows afterward.

He didn’t feel that he had many more tomorrows left.