‘I pity the rain,’ Shining Armor thought to himself, his eyes cast over the stormy landscape. ‘It doesn’t know where it comes from or why it’s there. It exists only long enough to know that it’s falling.’ His second in command offered him his helmet, and he took it, donning it and returning his gaze to the fields.
The griffins would be coming soon. This he knew. The storm was both a threat and a tactic: the pegasi knew the ins and outs of the cloud network they’d created, while to the enemy, it was a simple statement: “The skies are ours.”
‘I pity the grass,’ he continued, taking slow, deliberate steps behind him. ‘Thousands upon thousands of individuals knowing only the inch of existence around them, with no control and no knowledge of the world just beyond them.’ A soldier offered him his weapon, and he took it, sheathing it within his armor, even as movement over the horizon drew his eye.
The first of the griffin armies walked commandingly over the crest of a hill, far away, but close enough that they could see him and he could see them. Their banners waved and their shouts could be heard. Behind him, the only sound was that of marching.
‘I pity the match’. With each step he took, a thousand echoed behind him. ‘A simple piece of destruction that exists only to destroy itself, never knowing the warmth, light, and utility it gives others before it dies.’ An earth pony soldier offered him his banner, and he took it, fixing it to his plate and returning his attention to his troops.
They stood with baited breath, as he began to speak, telling them of the sacrifice, the tribute, they make by being here today. The faith in their country that they must uphold. The importance of victory and the necessary casualties of war.
‘I pity the song,’ he thought, even as he spoke, commandingly, encouragingly, to his legions. ‘It exists only when we want it to. Only on the air. In our minds. In our voices. It cannot control itself, or its purpose, or intent. It exists to be remembered and heard, when there is so much more.’ The soldiers offered him their loyalty, and he took it, fanning the flames of war in their hearts as each readied their weapon, as each stood to attention.
The griffins were closer now. The gap between march and battle closes almost effortlessly as the two groups progressed toward each other like seas of color waiting to mix on the canvas. Only a few more moments.
‘I pity layman,’ his thoughts continued even as the words of the griffin commander reached him. ‘For he shall never know the true expanse of the world beneath his hooves, living only a life he knows instead of the life he deserves.’ The griffin commander offered him a challenge, and he took it, raising his sword in tandem with the legions behind him, his eyes forward and his heart fit to burst.
He still spoke to his troops, even now, yards away from his adversary. Part orders, part motivational speech, each and every word a hook to hang your hat on at the end of the day, a poultice to heal the wounds of fear and doubt as the enemy stared them down. They did not move.
‘I pity the enemy’ he thought with an inner, evil grin. ‘For they know not what demons they have awoken. What lengths we will go, and have gone to get as far as is needed. What we, I, my army, are more than willing to accomplish, what tasks we will perform in the name of the greater good. They do not know, and it will be their downfall.’ The storm itself offered him its ambiance, and he took it, standing against the backdrop of a thousand readied warriors, of thunder and lightning, of a darkened sky and muddied hills. Against the backdrop of this, his Equestria.
He took only a few more steps forward, muzzle to beak with the enemy commander. Hate spat from their eyes even as their mouths twisted into the sadistic grins of hardened soldiers facing their next meal. The griffin spoke, of retreat, of saving face, of turning around and going home. These were words that fell on deaf ears. Empty, hollow concepts that Shining Armor would not allow himself to understand. The griffin knew. He knew, and he understood. With a final grunt of acknowledgment, and naught a word from the Captain of the Guard, the two turned and walked back to their armies.
‘I pity the soldier,’ a wistful kind of happiness, tinged with an edge of regret, washed over him as he stared at his ever-loyal compatriots. ‘They stand here, blindly loyal, knowing their fate. Knowing the chances, the likelihood of victory over defeat. The sacrifices that will be made today. They know, yet they do not move. I pity them their baseless hope that when they return, if they return, that it will be to the same Equestria they knew.’ His soldiers offered him their strength, and he took it. Strength in numbers. Strength in body, and soul. Strength in determination. He took it, and gave them all he had to give.
His soldiers stared fiercely at him, and he at them. He turned, and stared down the griffin army waiting, weapons readied, cries of war fresh in their throats. Each and every one of them knew the rules. There was no mistake: you stay, you fight, you fall. No exceptions. No Hail Mary’s. Only strength, perseverance, and true, pure, unadulterated war. His body quivered with anticipation. He stood at the front, the first man in, as it always should be. He would never ask another pony to stand where he stood.
‘I pity the mare,’ he thought finally, his mind wandering to the castle, and its denizens. ‘Who thinks that they need only wait for their husband, their lover. Who wants only for the safe return of the stallion they love. For even if they were to return, even I know that which we send back to them would not be the same pony that left.’ His weapon offered him its service, and he took it. Each blow, each fatal strike, each fallen soldier waiting to happen. He took it, and he smiled.
And as he stood with his weapon at the ready, as his internal monologue finished, as it always did, as the armies cried for the start of something brutal, something fatal, something beautiful, he coveted one last thought. Only this time, he spoke. Truer words, final words, on the final hour before the battle.
He pointed his paintball gun at the opposing army, and with a deft cry, shouted, “But most of all, I PITY THE FOOL!” And fired.
Author's Note
This is a short one-shot challenge fic written for Emerald Flight from The Writer’s Group. The idea was to write a story based on a simple phrase: Pity the Rain.
This is what happens when you give me only three words to run with. I hope you enjoyed.
