Lamentation

by The philosopher

Rating: mature
Tags: Sex, Gore, My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic, Berry Punch, Dark, Alternate Universe, Sad, Romance, Carrot Top, Original Character
Length: 3812

Manehatton, Golden Harvest—both are gone. And I wonder, when this battle in the bones of the very city I once loved ends. Will I join them?

Manehatton looked beautiful in the Summer, its summer sun would illuminate the colors of red, blue and green, magnificent colors painting the city. How the sun would shine perfectly on Golden Harvest's amber mane...

Manehatton. Golden Harvest. Both are gone.

And I wonder, when this battle in the bones of the very city I once loved ends. Will I join them?

Part of the 30 Minutes to Write Challenges, although I sadly exceeded 30 minutes writing this...by a lot. Like, a lot a lot. Over the course of three days, spending altogether at least four hours to write this a lot. Still, it was a blast to write!

Published 2013-06-09 23:10:03 UTC
Last updated 2013-06-09 23:10:03 UTC

Manehatton

Manehatton looked beautiful in the summer. The sun would be unbearably hot, but it would paint the city in brilliant colors. The blue of the ocean and lush green of Central Park blanketed the streets so that only the bright red of bricks emerged like shining rubies in the sunlight. The colors were beautiful, and so bright they drowned the ugly grey and brown of sinister buildings. One would forget such ugliness existed in Manehatton, only red, green and blue would be remembered. I could never forget those colors; that would mean forgetting the beautiful days I would walk through Manehatton with Golden Harvest, exploring Central Park with her and traversing the coast of Long Island.

I remember the salty scent of the ocean flowing through my lungs as I would walk with her through the park––impossible, and yet the scent seemed so real that it convinced me so. The scent of the ocean was a rare fragrance, but just as amnesiac as the colors. In Manehatton I had probably inhaled coal, cigarette, and other sickening unknowns, somepony––maybe a doctor––could tell me that. I remember none of it. But that salty fragrance, that oceanic perfume caressing Golden Harvest and I as we walked down the beach, I remember breathing in Central Park and Broadway––it was the only scent I can remember of Manehatton.

The beauty of Manehatton is a blur, I suppose thats what made it beautiful. Nopony could remember the ugliness, the beauty would smear itself over it in their memories. Some colors, however, shine vividly in my heart. The way the sun would shimmer against Harvest's pristine amber hair, the faint red in her blush when she laughed and how well they complimented her breathtaking bright green eyes and white smile. I remember the ring in her crying laughter as I knelt down and presented her a flawless diamond ring one day as we enjoyed the Manehatton summer in Central Park.

That memory of Manehatton, that single, precious memory. Somewhere in my head the sunlight had spilled over the grey sidewalk and streets, the green and brown of trees was starting to mix, and the blueness in the sky was dripping like paint onto the earth. Manehatton was becoming a blur, distorting to the point where somehow the bright colors of white and oak. I was in a church, smiling next to Golden Harvest, white silk wrapped around her golden body in a gorgeous wedding gown, before sharing with her a deep kiss. Again the world seemed to change and bend itself, whiteness darkening and all other colors vanishing. A deep blue ink was spilled across the temple's ceiling, painting a fresco of Luna's night above our heads. I felt the white silk wrap around both of us while lavender pressed against gold, mixing the two colors into a single body. We fell asleep in each others arms, letting the lullabies of our heartbeats carry us to sleep.

Then there was ringing.

My eyes opened to a twisted world, incomprehensible and terrifying. There had been an explosion, a sickening, green explosion. I hadn't seen it, nor had I felt it, I only knew I had awaken from it. There were colors around me, ugly and wretched, and I wished they could blur and be forgotten like Manehatton. No such mercy, I could see every light and illumination, the shadow of the demonic silhouette in its center like glass as a massive green ball of fire collided into the ground. I could see every pebble on the street, every speck of dirt tossed over the underworld now blemishing the grass, even every tongue of fire erupting from the rooftops of houses. Every image was painted vividly in my head, so very horrifyingly vivid!

The marble castle clutching to the purple mountains looked as detailed as it would be if I were right at its gate. I was in Canterlot.

I was in the center of an invasion.

Hundreds of green trails of starlight plagued the sky before crashing to the earth, releasing sick hell spawns unto the land. They looked like ponies, but I could never call them that. A pony doesn't have gnarled legs, nor midnight-black armor for skin, predatory fangs or soulless eyes. I could only call them nightmares, before I knew to call them changelings.

I was walking, or maybe passing through like a ghost. Everything around me moved as if time had sped down, capturing every detail in this horrifying work of art. Voices were amplified, I could hear ponies screaming for their loved ones, running through this hell in search for them. Screams of terror when they couldn't find their paramours. Cries of joy as they reunited with them, tears streaming down their beloved's shoulders as they wrapped each other in the safety of their hooves.

Then their was a second scream.

A terrified, impulsive screech, one primitive and filled despair––perhaps to the point of lunacy––as a pony watched helplessly as their lover's skin peeled away, lifeless, uncloaking the charred black skeleton beneath, smiling murderously at the broken pony it had embraced seconds ago. Then there would be another scream. Fading, broken by sobs.

That first scream was the most frightening, it wast the beginning of demise, and it resembled mine for Golden Harvest far too closely.

But I continued to scream, as if I didn't know how to do anything but scream. The words in each desperate cry remained unchanged; "Golden Harvest". I could remember only those words in Canterlot, only that one name alone. I screamed, cried, defeated, fallen, convinced that she was dead, then would scream her name again. It wasn't when my throat became parch that I stopped screaming her name, nor when sputtering tears made pronunciation impossible. I heard my name, I heard a fragile, scared voice shout, "Berry Punch!"

Golden Harvest's voice.

I thought I felt peace, some relieving goodness would wash away the terror pungent in this canvas. I felt a lie, and that comforting illusion––peace––shattered as I saw her run to a lavender earth pony, sporting my tangled purple mane, graped cutie mark, sapphire eyes. She ran to Berry Punch, but not me. wrapped her arms around her, whispered in her ear words meant for me, but delivered to a lie.

There was a second scream. A primitive, horrified scream from a madpony, from me.

There was no noise as Golden Harvest's ears perked up, as she turned towards me. The world was devoid of sound as her eyes met mine, irises shrinking in realization. Her scream was muted when she saw the lavender pony in crumble apart like an empty shell, as the twisted demon underneath smiled while its chewed horn began to glow.

I screamed. My beloved was struck in the shoulder by a menacing green bolt, blood pouring from the dark crimson wound. Her body began to collapse and her murderer fled to hunt another victim, and all I could do was scream. I ran to her still body, looked into her open eyes, saw how they were filled with terror. I could hear her whisper my name as her breathing softened and her eyes began to close. I shut my own at some point, when I prayed that she might not leave me here in Canterlot, that I might be dreaming and I would wake up to find those terrified eyes looking softly at me in the morning sunlight.

When I opened my eyes, I at the edge of Manehatton.

Not a memory, a shadow. The invasion of Canterlot had been seven months ago, the invasion of Manehatton had been three. The counter-attack has been waging for nearly a week now.

The salty air fragrance of the city was replaced by dusty air that burnt my lungs and parched my throat. Colors of green, blue and red had long ago faded away, the ugly shades of grey polluting the city were no longer hidden. Buildings were twisted into awkard positions, sides ripped open with steel bones protruding. Others had fallen, like the soldiers had yesterday, bricks scattered like blood across the street. A corpse. That's all Manehattan was now.

A cold, lifeless corpse.

"Sad, isn't it, Eh Punch?" A voice called from behind me.

A grey unicorn emerged from a tunnel, strands of his black disheveled mane pasted to his glasses. He smiled as he walked into the dirty trench where I stood with a machine gun on his back––big, belt fed, and with a long barrel and bipod .

"Oh, hey Snapshot." I tried to smile.

He nodded hello before looking into the city, as if trying to find its soul somewhere beneath the rubble. "They say if you can make it here, you can make it anywhere. Think the same applies for surviving?"

"Sure as hell hope so."

"Yeah..." he chuckled, then let out a sigh, "Yeah, me too."

I was getting sick of the grey colors. Reaching into my saddlebags, I retrieved a dusty, faded photo of a golden mare, smiling under the shade of a tree, the Manehatton summer sun cutting through the canopy and pouring itself on her coat like bright raindrops. I was beginning to remember the colors of Manehatton again, that beautiful scent of the ocean.

Again I reached back, pushing the machine gun dangling at my side away to retrieve an olive canteen. I was quick to pry open the lid and imbibe the aging whine I hid within it. The colors of Manehatton, Celestia damn, they're such a blur. Looking at the photograph, staring at Golden Harvest, remembering how alive she was, it all made me want to do the same to the colors of Canterlot.

Let the colors blur, distort. Paint over the ugliness.

The colors were still clear when I ran out of wine.

Snapshot was unfolding the bipod of his machine gun, "I smell alcohol," he said before turning to me. He realized what was the source of the stench instantly. "Dammit! Are you shitting me? You stashed wine in your canteen again, didn't you? Dont tell me you're drunk––"

"I'm not drunk. There wasn't enough in the canteen anyways," I quickly added beneath my breath. Not that it would make a difference if there was enough. I was desperate to forget Canterlot, numb the pain. And so there have been nights I would find myself with the bottle swung over my head, its amnesiac contents pouring down my muzzle. And yet, the memories of Manehatton, walking on the coastline with Golden Harvest, our night under Luna's sky together the day we were married. The thought of discarding such priceless treasures terrified me, to such extent I would stop swallowing.

Snapshot looked away, eager to change the subject. Maybe he remembered the photo of Golden Harvest I was holding as he loaded the belt into the weapon. "Did I ever tell you how some of the pictures of Manehatton I shot were used in postcards?"

"Hmm? Oh, no. I don't think so. I remember you saying you used to take pictures of the scenery of Manehatton, but I don't think you ever mentioned the postcards before."

"Well, now I have." He smiled proudly. I didn't doubt his story, he seemed to live up to the old-fashion camera that adorned his flank.

"I used to live in Manehatton. It's where I met Golden Harvest, in fact. After we married we moved to Ponyville, that's where I live now. We went to Canterlot to help with the food for the wedding..." I didn't finish my story. Snapshot knew how it ended.

Everypony in the army knew how a Celestia-damn story of Canterlot ended.

Fate had cheated. Canterlot was taken back by some miracle, some arcane magic banishing the beasts back to whatever hole they had crawled from. Harvest had been one of the last victims of the invasion, maybe if she would have held on a bit longer, I would be in Ponyville, holding her in my hooves. As the guards stormed the streets, the wounded were tended, reunited with families, given the chance to move on with life. Fate cheated me, ended my life with Harvest's. As soon as the invasion had ended, I did what every cheated pony had done that day: join the fray. Fight back. Such is the story of Canterlot for every soldier.

"What's it like in Ponyville?" Asked Snapshot.

I smiled, grateful that he was eager to carry me as far from Canterlot as he could, "Ponyville? It's nice, peaceful, last time I checked. Hot damn, I've been away from it for a while now?"

"What about Manehatton? What do you remember of that?"

"Manehatton? Celestia, Manehatton is such a blur. I....

"I remember the rich grass and strong, proud trees in Central Park. And the stone-paved streets, the bright red bricks in the city and how the skyscrapers shown like copper. Hell, I forgot these ugly buildings squeezed in between even existed!

"I remember Long Island, the coastline, the smell of the sea and how it was an exclusive fragrance there, but you carried it with you, across Manehatton, if you needed to, because it seemed to nullify the smoke of cigarettes and smokestacks." I smiled, "I guess I remember all of this because I was with Harvest the whole time."

Then there was a whistle. Unsettling, terrifying, like a growling animal hiding in the brush.

The roar came right after of course. An explosion, so close I felt like I could almost touch it if I extended my arm far enough, kicked at the dirt like a wild horse. More roars, more predators, tearing the earth with invisible claws, ripping portions of the ground apart in arbitrary decision.

Snapshot recognized the monsters first, screaming their name, "Mortars!" He cried, "Shit! Get to cover."

The trench flooded with soldiers, the experienced veterans determined to reach its sanctuary as much as the cowards and rookies were desperate to hide in it. Whatever space between and around Snapshot and I was quickly seized by other soldiers, lifting their rifles and spewing fire. Had they even seen the enemy?

They had. I realized when I saw the shadowy silhouettes through the dust and the fearsome flashes of green illuminating the smokescreen. The demons of Canterlot. I fumbled for my machine gun, cradled the magazine as if I was afraid it might slip and fall. Lifting it above the barrier of the trench, I pulled back the bolt, aimed through the sights, and squeezed the trigger.

I couldn't see my rounds hit the target, I saw no changeling get shot while my eyes focused rested between the sights of my rifle. I only saw a changeling, maybe running, maybe standing. Then I would see flashing lights, hear the roar of a rabid animal, feel the rifle rattle in my arms. After the blinding light, the foggy smoke, I would see a charred black skeleton, sprawled on the ground like a tossed ragdoll, motionless.

Green and white were exchanged on the battlefield, crimson saturated at its edges. The aggressive beams surrounded me in a tunnel, and they were close enough to feel their heat. They clawed at all they touched, ripped it open and drank blood. I was terrified, but frozen in place, ducking only when the flashes at the end of my rifle ceased. Hiding only to tear the magazine from my rifle away from the gun, and slam a new one in. I lifted my head again, set my rifle over the ground, ready to pull the trigger again.

I felt blood.

Hot, excited blood splashed onto my face, dripped from my forehead and cheeks. I opened my mouth for a split-second, and a scream and cry erupted all at once. I fell to the floor, flailing my arms like a child before touching my face. Blood. Just blood.

The wound belonged to the forhead of the pegasus lying on the floor to my right, gazing at the sky. Her empty, open eyes had been filled with terror.

When my frantic breathing finally subsided, I retrieved my rifle and returned to the edge of the trench. Aiming down the sights, I held my breath, squeezed the trigger, and let light blind me again. I forgot the terror I had experienced moments ago, continued to fire, reload, and fire again. Maybe for a minute, or maybe for an hour, the Manehatton summer sun seemed to stand in place, interested in the bloodbath beneath it. Soldiers bathed in sweat and blood as gunfire and magic were continuously exchanged. The mortars became savage, no longer caring whether it was a changeling or pony it tore apart. I was growing weary, tired, and I began to remember the ugliness of the Manehatton sun that had been covered by the illusions of green, blue and red. I needed water. Celestia, damn me for storing wine, for not bothering to refill my own damn canteen!

More changelings approached, ready to slaughter the tiring soldiers. I reloaded my weapon, took aim once more, let the machine gun rattle in my hooves again. Three changelings fell limp when the flashes subsided. We kept firing, kept killing, and we didn't expect nor intend to stop anytime soon. I was beginning to run out of ammo, was this my last magazine? Sometime before the heavy machine gun had stopped firing. Why wasn't Snapshot firing?

I backed away from the wall of the trench, abandoned my rifle. I fumbled in my saddlebags until I found a small, heavy ball with a metal handled tied together by a single pin—a hand grenade.

I felt naked as I climbed over the trench wall, the small explosive cradled in my hoof. There was no fear, only instinct as I bit down on the pin and tore it away from the grenade, and threw the fragile conduit of destruction onto the field. I didn't wait for the explosion as I scavenged a second from my bag, pulled its pin, and released it as well.

Suddenly, just like that, everything stopped.

"Gah!" I cried. I felt pain suddenly, like a nail had been driven through my left shoulder. It had torn threw the flesh like hot metal, digging through until it protruded from my back.

I couldn't even breathe a second time before another nail impaled my side. I felt my legs grow limp, and watched helplessly as I staggered back, slipping back into the trench, falling.

....what....what is happening?

I feel the earth. The cold, hard earth. I'm tired; sweat is spilling from my mane onto my face.

No....sweat isn't red.

There's something warm running down my chest, spilling all over my stomach onto the floor. So...why do I feel so cold?

There are screams and explosions surrounding me, I'm sure there are, but I can't hear any of it. Snapshot is laying on the ground, basking in a puddle of crimson. I...I don't think he's breathing.

Damnation, I feel so cold...

Colors around me were fading, blurring, but I knew this was not a memory. Red surrounded my vision, voices were beginning to slur. What the hell was happening?

I was afraid, like a child, confused. I didn't know what was happening, nor how to stop it, and that was terrifying. Tears began to stream down my cheeks, mixing with the drying blood. The I couldn't banish the despairing thought that I was going to die in this trench.

"Berry Punch!"

The voice was angelic, clear like ringing bells. It's tone was soft, wiping away my tears like a mother would. I knew that voice.

"Berry, sweetheart, it's okay. Don't cry, everything is going to be fine."

Tears began to collect on my eyes again, but I didn't cry, only smiled with the little strength I had left. "Golden Harvest..." I croaked.

I felt as if my limbs has dissolved, disappeared. The pain in my shoulder and side was disappearing. I gazed into the sky, straight into the Manehatton summer sun, and I let the light embrace me, cover over all the ugliness in my vision.....

....light. It was....bright, painfully so.
It was neither warm nor comforting. In fact, the more I stared at it the more I hated it.

I was resting on a hospital bed in a beneath the canopy of a large white tent, wrapped in bandages decorated with red blotches . I was tired, just....unbelievably tired. I felt like all my limbs were on fire, and they protested and ached whenever I attempted to move them.

"Ah! Your awake!" Some alien voice spoke to me from across the room.

A unicorn with brown mane and white lab coat covering his amber skin approached me. He was a doctor, as made clear by the x-ray cutie mark he bore. The clipboard he levitated and the stethoscope he wore were equally obvious indications.

" How are you feeling, miss?" He asked as he placed the cold stethoscope on my chest.

I muttered, "Like hammered shit."

He chuckled—though I failed to see the humor in my answer—and replied, "Well, that's expected, you took quite a beating out there." He was speaking to me as if I was some kid who's injuries were from something like a fight at school.

Clearing his voice, the Doctor (much to my relief) spoke more seriously as he began reading from his clipboard. "You were shot in the left shoulder and on the right side of your" He pointed to the two dark red splotches on my bandages. "You lost a great deal of blood. Frankly, it's a miracle that you're still alive."

"So how is it that I am?"

"You underestimate unicorn magic." He pompously grinned.

He scribbled down something on his clipboard, then left. I was alone again, which I didn't mind. I was exhausted anyways, could use some peace and quiet.

Except there was that Celestia-damn light above me, preventing me from sleeping.

"Do you need help?" Asked a soft, fragile voice.

I could hear the gentle tapping of one of the nurse's hoofsteps as she gingerly trotted to my bed.

"Here, let me get that," she smiled sweetly before turning off the light.

"Thanks," I whispered.

"Anytime, sweetheart." She whispered back. As she sang those final words she lowered her muzzle to my forehead and gently kissed it.

I only stared at her, dumbfounded, as her lips parted from lavender, almost asking her why she had done that. Instead warm tears began to trickle my cheeks again, swerving around my quivering lips. I sprung from my bed, wrapped my hooves around her, oblivious to the aches. We were laughing and crying and hurting as we both felt healed.

I had recognized her immediately. Her pristine amber hair, the faint red in her blush as she laughed in my arms and how well they complimented her crying bright green eyes and white smile.