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أفضل الجود العطاء قبل الموعد أفضل الجود أن تبذل من غير مسألة
It wasn’t going to be beautiful.
But it was going to work. It was going to work because it had to work. It had to work because every stitch sewn into it was a voice that would never be heard. Every stitch was a face and every time Rarity’s needle pierced that mud stained cloth she winced in disgust with herself. But she carried on, and she carried on because eventually these scraps of unwanted, hand-me-down fabric would tell a wordless story. A wordless story that says more than she had in her entire life. A story she hoped would one day make up for a fact that she had so senselessly overlooked: Rarity didn’t have the capacity to kill.
Yet she held her unfired musket close to her, close like she would hold her mother’s foreleg as a child during a thunderstorm. She cleaned it regularly, more so than even herself. She took pride in her rifle as if it was the only thing she still had control over. Maybe it was and maybe it wasn’t. Maybe it was both, but this was no thunder; for there was no storm here that could ever be half-defined as natural. There were storms every night. But they weren’t natural.
Rarity grasped the neck of her gun tightly as she felt a strong force push against her. Dots of mud shot onto her face as scorching wind ripped through the open air. She shut her eyes and began counting.
One... two... three... four.
Rarity clamped her hooves to her ears in pain as the world shook, wet dirt dislodging from the top of the trench and falling on her unfinished flag. Four seconds. It wasn’t even a mile away that time. Rarity sighed, her horn flaring up as she cleansed the soiled flag. Her tattered brown cloak settled as the winds died down, draping over her unkempt coat as if to hide the reality of what she was. It was a nice sentiment, but a failed attempt, because that cloak was in even worse shape than her. Arguably.
Orange fireflies danced about in the sky. Rarity looked up from the trench, her eyes glazing over as the kindlings flew about, making like little stars. But just as they began, they were gone, burning out and dying just as their beauty became noticeable. Paper scraps, fabric, and wood burned about in air as smoke clouded the dark of the night, leaving nothing but the moon to be visible. Rarity had grown fond of the moon. Even in times of great sorrow it was ever watchful, never to lose faith in them. Never to second guess them or give up on them. It was a spectator, a symbol of purity and beauty in a place that was corrupt and hideous at best. She was grateful to the moon. But she could already tell that it was going to be a long night.
“Still working on that foal’s quilt, Ikram?”
Rarity looked up to see a brown earth pony stallion with a jet black mane and a gun slung around his back. He wore a similar brown cloak to Rarity’s which draped over his thin, worn body. Under his left eye there was a burn mark that took up most of his cheek, the greatest damage being directly under his eye and slowly moving outward. His cutie mark was an eagle that had a black wing on the left side and a green wing on the right. In the center of it was a white strip with three red stars. He smiled a smug smile, a smile you smile when you’re expecting an angered retaliation.
And an angered retaliation he would get.
“Really, Rakeef, must you interrupt my work?” Rarity asked, shooting him an unamused glare. “I understand how much you want to see this flag, but I’m never going to finish if I have to keep explaining it to you every five minutes.”
“Oh, calm yourself, Ikram,” he said, sitting down next to Rarity. The trench was barely wide enough to fit both of them side-by-side. “I was simply checking up on you. You look hungry, would you like something to eat?”
Rarity let herself smile at that. “Well a little bit of food won’t do any more harm to my figure now, will it?” she asked. They shared a laugh.
Rakeef pulled out a silver thermos from his cloak, cracking open the lid with his teeth before giving it over to Rarity. Rarity took the thermos in with her magic, bringing it up to her face as she breathed in, smelling the contents. Her face screwed up in one part hesitance and two parts pure curiosity.
“It sure smells... nutritional,” she said, holding the thermos up to her eye as she tried to peer inside.
“Radish onion stew,” Rakeef said, answering the unspoken question. “Not very tasty, but will keep you going. Is better than raw carrots, yes?”
Rarity took a large, extremely unladylike swig of the lukewarm liquid. “Salty,” she concluded, cleaning off her lips with her tongue. “Much better than the carrots.”
For a while they sat together in what they considered silence as Rarity ate the rest of her stew. In the background, Rarity heard exactly sixteen gunshots. Exactly three explosions. But this time she was in luck, because there was one thing she didn’t hear: this time there were no screams.
“Not like it was back home, is it?” Rakeef asked, staring down at the ground.
“Equestria is its own world, Rakeef,” Rarity said, sighing as she put the thermos down. “In Equestria, there are festivals and celebrations just because the season changes. In Equestria, we have national news stories when one of the royals gets married or has a foal. In Equestria, we are told that war does not exist, and if it does, it is not of our concern.”
“I was talking about the food, Ikram,” Rakeef replied, grinning.
Rarity grumbled something under her breath. “So was I,” she retorted.
“I have to admit, when you first got here, I never thought you would make it,” Rakeef began, leaning back against a wooden pallet at the back of the trench. “You walked in with pretty pink bags, looked straight at Ra’id, and asked him where to sign up. I believe he near passed out in sheer disbelief.”
“I was never one for getting my hooves dirty back at home,” Rarity explained, looking down at her now scraped, stained, and torn body. “But I guess ponies change for the circumstance. Ra’id has no problem with me now, I’m sure.”
“Never did he,” Rakeef explained. “He always admired your bravery, Ikram. To leave your home for those you don’t know. Why did you?”
Rarity sat for a moment. “I still don’t know,” she finally replied. “I guess somepony had to.”
Rakeef simply looked on at her. “Do you hold contempt for your own back home?”
Rarity thought long and hard about that one. She imagined all of her friends and her family. She remembered the time she shared with them and the adventures they went on. She remembered Applejack’s rugged lifestyle, of if only Applejack could see her now. She remembered all her friends, but she remembered Twilight Sparkle most of all. Twilight Sparkle, princess of Equestria. Twilight Sparkle, the mare who... no. She had her answer.
“Not contempt,” Rarity said. “Just disappointment.”
Then she heard a scream.
