We stood there, alone on the battlefield. We, compared to what we faced, were so small. We knew there were no reinforcements, no one coming to our aide. There was no miracle that came with the dawn, only the light that threw into sharp detail what exactly we faced.
What we faced was not taught mercy, nor love. It was born into a cold place, a place without warmth. It was taught that the whole world was merciless and hateful, cruel and dark and not worth kindness. And it was right to think so. What loomed in front of us then was not evil, it was not to blame. For how could Ipossibly have blamed something that was just like me? How could I have looked down upon that creature, a soul so pitiful and full of anger? That creature was a reflection of my own self, the part I that I wished for no one to ever see.
And as of then, they never would.
So, as we breathed in the dust and smoke of what was to be our last glimpse of life…we did not pretend to hope.
I did not pretend that it was some glorious end, an honorable end. That wouldn't have been fair or true. It never had been.
People would sing songs about it and tell the stories to their children by the fire, when words were necessary to keep the bleak winter at bay. Elders would tell of our bravery, painting a glorious picture of our last stand.
But none of them, not one, would ever know who we really were. They would never know how Farian loved sunrises or that Mell wanted to someday own a small pony and call him Phileep. Not one of those storytellers would ever know.
All they would know would be the stories and the characters, but they would never know the people we were. Those people, that last band of survivors, bloodstained and bruised-people who did not feel glorious or brave. It would never occur to them of how afraid we were, how afraid and how hopelessly hopeful- how much we wanted to live.
It would never occur to them that Farian would never see a sunrise again, and that little compassionate Mell would never have a pony called Philleep.
No one would ever know these things, no one would ever know us and our true story- and that was what crushed me in the end. Not the crashing reality that I was about to die, but the fact that when we died, we died-there would be no song that kept us, the real us, alive long after we had gone. The truth of it was that only the empty shells, only the husk of us would ever be known.
That was where we-no, I, would die. In those last minutes of my life I would be me, only me and no one else. I had given up all of myself for others my entire life, but all I asked then was that those last moments would be mine and mine alone. It was too small to consider a comfort, too insignificant a thing to want-but knowing that those were the last few moments I would ever have…well. It shed light on to the only thing I'd ever really wanted.
To be me.
A short drabble like one-shot with no particular purpose. I hope there's not any past/present tense confusion in this, because I sometimes have some trouble with that. iI you see any of that feel free to point it out in a review, I love helpful criticism. How else is one to better themselves without it?