The Lucky Ones

by Educated Guess

Rating: teen
Tags: Original Character, My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic, Other, Slice of Life
Length: 3776

Some soldiers don't want to be soldiers. Some soldiers would rather be artists, or farmers, or athletes. Some soldiers would love to see that happen.

Some soldiers don't want to be soldiers. Some soldiers would rather be painters, or take over the family business, or go to culinary school.

Some soldiers would love to see that happen.

Written for the September Writing Contest of the World-Building-Alliance. Prompt: "Brotherhood"

Published 2013-10-01 05:20:03 UTC
Last updated 2013-10-01 05:20:03 UTC

The Lucky Ones

Boom.

A deep rumble echoed through the walls of the tunnel, shaking yet another layer of dirt loose from the ceiling. Famas watched the specks drift down to join their comrades on the floor, and felt a pang of sadness that he could not do the same.

“That one was a lot closer,” Franz said, to no one in particular, as he wiped the dust off of his notebook.

Gilliam paused in the middle of sharpening his wing-blades, and glanced up.

“Eh,” he grunted before resuming - which, in commanding-officer-ese, meant ‘I’m not worried about it, and you shouldn’t be, either’. “They’re just walking their shots, hoping to bust a tunnel open somewhere. They won’t use the big guns until they know where we are for sure.”

“Walking their shots?” Famas asked. “Won’t they run out of shells?”

Both Franz and Gilliam turned to stare incredulously at him. In the brief silence, another boom rattled around them, slightly farther away.

“Kid, do you even realize where we are?” Gilliam asked.

“We’re on the northern coast of Pelleponyse,” answered Famas readily.

“What’s the name and distance of the fort bombarding us?” queried Franz.

“Fort Stonehall is just over ten miles south of us.”

“And how many separate rail lines is Fort Stonehall supplied by?”

Famas hesitated for a moment as he realized the point that they were trying to get across.

Boom.

“...Five.”

“Five,” Gilliam spat. “And last I heard, we’ve only managed to cut off two of them. One of those was only because it went over a bridge, and a detachment of the 5th Order was able to sneak up the river and blow the supports. So, to answer your question - no, they aren’t running out of anything anytime soon.”

Famas hung his head, and silently resumed polishing his helmet.

Boom.

He was relieved when a bout of cursing erupted in the corner of the dugout, drawing the two griffons’ piercing gazes away from him.

“Orders?” Gilliam asked casually.

Shortwave poked her head out from the communications station and shook it vigorously.

“No such luck,” the unicorn growled. “Tech-comms are down - I think the Nautilus has been hit. I’m trying to reconnect via magic now, but I’m not the only one. The stream’s too crowded to get anything useful through. We’ll be on our own for awhile.” With that, she disappeared back behind the curtains.

Gilliam shrugged. “Fine by me.”

Famas seemed to take offense to this. “What do you mean, ‘fine by you’? Shouldn’t we be out there fighting? Scouting? Doing something? Isn’t that what we’re here for?”

Boom.

“Cute,” growled Gilliam.

Franz flipped to the next page in his notebook, and continued scribbling. “Do you know what they say about war, rookie?”

Famas searched through his head for the few scraps of knowledge he had regarding griffon culture. “...‘The navy gets the gravy, but the army gets the beans’?”

“‘Long periods of boredom punctuated by moments of sheer terror,’” Franz corrected, dipping his quill down into the inkwell next to him. “Sometimes, there’s nothing we can do. We don’t know the situation well enough to act on our own. We have no means of getting orders. We don’t even know if the chain of command is intact.”

Boom.

“But on the other claw,” Gilliam added, “the fact that they’re still shelling us means that they probably haven’t sent in ground troops of their own to flush us out, yet. Time spent hiding in a dugout is time spent with little danger of dying. There’s no need to act, and no reason to. If you’re gonna be a soldier, kid, you’ve gotta learn to work both ways.”

Boom.

During their speeches, neither of the griffons had even bothered to look at him - they had simply continued scribbling and grinding. Silently, Famas plopped down from the crate he had been curled up on, and dragged his tail, limping, towards the corner.

“Have you heard?”

Trebicca landed on the sponge with enough force to launch a boulder, but Famas merely bobbed up and down and continued polishing his helmet. He had been bunkmates with the mare for far too long to be caught unawares anymore.

“Heard what?” he asked, more out of reaction than curiosity.

She flicked herself upright like a seahorse, muzzle quivering haughtily. “Before I tell you, let me take this opportunity to remind you that you would already know, had you bothered to come to today’s meeting.”

Famas sighed. “You know even better than I do that more than half of the time, when Whacas calls a meeting, the purpose is only to play some elaborate joke on us.”

“Yes, yes - but this time, it wasn’t.” A gleam came into her eye the likes of which Famas had never seen before - and he had seen her eyes gleam, in excitement or mischief, more times than he could remember. “We’re being deployed.”

Famas’ head jerked up at the same time as his heart jumped into his throat. “What? Are you serious?”

“Yes!” She wriggled with pent-up glee. “We thought that the day would never come, but Equestria and Griffrance have voted to involve themselves in the Pelleponyse conflict, on the side of the rebels. They formally invited the Dominion to join them due to the terrain conditions, and the advantage we would provide. And the Parliament actually accepted!”

“...Are you sure Whacas wasn’t playing a trick on you all?”

“Yes, I’m sure!” she said indignantly. “The way he told it to us, they only decided after a bit of… empassioned lecturing from the General on how the Billyans are being subjugated just as we were, but do not have the strength to free themselves from it. He said that it is our duty to bring them the freedom that we now enjoy.”

“Ah, I see,” Famas nodded. “So, when you say the Parliament accepted, you mean that Suos accepted.”

“Aren’t those the same thing, really?”

Famas rolled his eyes exasperatedly. “Honestly, I don’t see why the General still bothers pretending that the Dominion isn’t his to rule. Those ninnies couldn’t decide on what to eat for dinner without his counsel.”

“Far be it from us to question the choices of the Demon-Slayer, young Acolyte!” Trebicca chided with mock sternness.

Famas sighed. “So, we really are going to war?”

“Yes,” Trebbica mused. “At long last, the vessels of the Demon Queen shall leave their docks, and take their maiden voyages. But they will not be the harbingers of doom and despair that they were made to be.” She raised a hoof triumphantly and gazed off into the distance, the very likeness of statuesque patriotism. “They will carry the light of the Pearl Towers to the darkest corners of the ocean, and all that dwell in land and sea shall bear witness to the glorious fury of the waves!”

Famas stared at her for a moment, blinking.

“That was a bit too melodramatic for my tastes,” he said.

She punched him roughly in the shoulder. “I thought it sounded good.”

And now, here he was - the last remaining Acolyte of the 9th Order, as far as he knew - trapped in a magic-dug cave with only a few feet of dirt keeping him from being blown to bits by cannon-fire from a castle several miles away, only a hoofful of griffons and ponies he had never met before for company, and only half of his body free from stabbing pain or bandages. All because the Parliament had reluctantly decided that helping the Billyan rebels gain independence from Minosia was an honorable-enough cause for the Dominion to support as its first military conflict since the defeat of Tedaris.

Having perspective was better than being dead, he supposed.

A napping pegasus was already filling the corner proper, so Famas settled down next to him. He looked around the dugout at the faces of the other soldiers, observing every murmur and shout as though he were studying an alien species. There were a griffon and an earth pony playing what appeared to be some variant of chess, arguing over whether they were playing by the Griffrancian or Equestrian rules (he made a note to research the differences later). There was a unicorn with the red-cross armband of a medic, tending to the gaping, dripping hole in another griffon’s wing. There were a griffon and a pegasus discussing formations, tactics, and evasive maneuvers.

Griffon, pony, griffon, pony, griffon, pony. There wasn’t a single other like him - and none of them showed any sign of feeling the way he did.

“How do they do it?” he asked quietly.

Cirrus, the wide wings and strong hooves that had scooped him out of the blood-drenched foam and flown him to safety only a few hours earlier, cracked open one sky-blue eye to look at him. “Do what?”

Famas shifted, laying his head down on his tail like a pouting dog. “...The waiting.”

“Aaaah.” Cirrus sat up a bit, stretching his wings. “You’re afraid.”

The sea-pony’s only answer was to curl himself up tighter.

Cirrus nodded like a pony far beyond his years. “We all are.”

“Then why don’t you show it?” Famas whimpered. “Why are you all so calm?”

“Because fear isn’t something you’ll feel once, or twice, or even a dozen times. When you’re a soldier, fear is your life.” He sighed. “The worst part is that rookies like you and me get into it for the glory and heroism, and no one ever tells us what the reality is until its too late.”

Famas’ ears perked up curiously. “You’re not a rookie.”

Cirrus chuckled. “No, but I used to be. Everyone is, at some point. My first tour was in Zebrabwe. I met Franz and Gilliam there, actually.”

“Really?” They both turned to look at the pair of griffons, who were still completely absorbed in their activities.

“Yup. They’ve been at this for a while. They gave me the same speech that I’m giving you, in fact. But, well - in their way. You know.”

Famas nodded. The pair certainly had a callous and straightforward way with words.

“But you know what else they taught me?” Cirrus said. “They taught me that there’s one thing we can do to best our fear.”

“And what’s that?”

“We can dream.”

Famas blinked a few times, then tilted his head quizzically. “...What?”

“Take Franz, for instance,” Cirrus continued. “Master Sergeant Hoffmann. A Griffrancian war hero. Has as many medals as he has feathers on his head. But have you seen that notebook of his that he’s always scratching in, every chance he gets? Do you know what he puts in there?”

“I… never really thought about it,” admitted Famas.

“He writes poems,” Cirrus grinned. “Pretty good ones, in my opinion - not that I’m an expert or anything. When the force finally lets him go, he wants to retire to his hometown and be a novelist.”

Famas glanced at Franz skeptically. His face was so grim and serious that it was hard to believe that he was writing anything other than battle plans, or official communiqués.

“And over there -” Cirrus pointed at the griffon whose wing was being bandaged in the opposite corner. “- we have Lukas Fiedler. He’s still a private, but only because he wants to be. He was studying to be a cellist at the Birdlin Academy before he was drafted. Now, his goal is to be the first griffon ever accepted into the Canterlot Fillyharmonic Orchestra.”

“I didn’t think they had any non-Equestrian members,” said Famas. He had seen the Fillyharmonic perform once in Ventice, during the city’s first Summer Sun Celebration.

“They don’t - not yet,” grinned Cirrus. “The unicorn treating him is Funny Bone. His parents made him go to med school, but he really wants to be a stand-up comedian.”

“Really? Is he any good?”

“He’s… getting better.” Cirrus coughed and continued on, pointing out nearly every occupant of the cave. “The comms officer, Shortwave Static? She wants to run a radio station. Deidre Bachmeier wants to buy a bit of land and run her own farm. Hailstorm still wants to join the Wonderbolts, the cocky little foal - he’s probably even younger than you are, now that I think about it.”

“And what about you, Cirrus?” Famas asked.

“Me? Eh, I’m not after anything special. I’ve just got a mare waiting for me back home.” The pegasus’ eyes took on a dreamy, faraway look, and he sighed happily. “Her name is Red Velvet, and she is the most beautiful baker in all of Equestria.”

"I'm sure." Famas rolled his eyes, and gazed about once more. “So, does everyone here have a dream?”

“Yeah. It’s… sort of a thing we do, I guess.”

“...What about him?” he asked, pointing at one griffon who hadn’t been named.

“...Gilliam?” Cirrus paused to think. “I… don’t know, actually. I’ve always been a bit nervous to ask.”

“Well, what do you think -”

But Famas never got to finish asking. At that moment, a faint horn call sounded from the tunnel that lead out of the dugout, and every pair of eyes turned to see what would come next.

“Equestrian?” Franz asked of the sudden silence.

“No,” said Gilliam. “Alanian.”

The horn sounded again - louder this time, and somehow tinged with the sound of waves - and sure enough, a sea-pony with amber scales and jet-black hair came charging around the corner down the tunnel. Her tail was strapped into some kind of large, rusty, questionably-safe wheeled contraption, making her cart and horse all in one. As she neared, she slammed her tail on what seemed to be a brake pedal, and skidded to a halt, saluting.

“Wasthas, Waves-Are-Swifter-Than-Sight, Legionnaire of the 3rd Order!” she barked.

Gilliam hopped leisurely down from his crate, and saluted back. “Lieutenant Gilliam Eisenberg, UF-STF Alpha-Six. It’s an honor, Legionnaire. What can I do for you?”

“I’m looking for any surviving sea-ponies from the beach landing.” Her eyes flitted briefly to Famas, but she continued on. “A large number of them went missing in the chaos, but we’re hoping that some of them were rescued by UF squads like yours.”

“Yeah, we’ve got one.” Without even turning to look at him, Gilliam yelled, “Call out, rookie!”

Famas smacked his hoof into his forehead. “Famas, Family-Armors-the-Soul, Acolyte of the 9th Order, sir!”

Famas grimaced as the inevitable snickers echoed around the room - even Cirrus fought to hold back a snort. His name was his least favorite part of himself. Wasthas approached him slowly, wheels squeaking behind her.

“You are of the 9th Order?” she asked, in the bubbling gurgles of their native tongue. “Under whose command were you placed?”

“My brethren and I were led by Templar Whacas and Knight-Templar Trebbica.”

“I see.”

Shoobedoo was a deep and nuanced language - a single shift in tone could sometimes give more meaning than a dozen words. But no subtle implication was required for Famas to understand the look that crossed Wasthas’ face.

“As such, I must inform you that Whacas and Trebbica fell in the battle.”

Famas’ ears, and the rest of his posture, fell as well.

Knock, knock.

“Come in.”

Famas nudged the door open with his muzzle, and swam in hesitantly. He had never been in Whacas’ office before - though whether that was because he was afraid of Whacas himself, or because he was afraid of a bucket of rocks propped above the door landing on his head, he wasn’t sure. But to his surprise, there were no tricks or traps waiting for him just behind the door. There was only the Templar, sitting at a desk, scribbling away on a kelp scroll. The walls could barely be seen for all of the awards, medals, and pieces of memorabilia that they held. Famas could have spent an entire day taking it all in - but at the moment, he didn’t have the time.

Whacas looked up, and smiled.

“Ah, Acolyte Famas, isn’t it?”

“Uh, yes, sir,” Famas said, sidling into the room.

“Well, Famas.” Whacas set down his pen and arched his hooves. “What can I do for you?”

“Actually, sir, I just had a question that I wanted to ask, before we left for Seacily.”

“Oh?” Whacas raised one eyebrow. “And what would that be?”

Famas hesitated - it was such an odd question to ask, after all - but he had already come this far.

“How long have you been a Templar, sir?”

Whacas blinked at him a few times.

“What?”

“I mean… how many times have you turned down a promotion? I just…” The Acolyte lowered his eyes. “I just want to know if the rumors are true. Sir.”

For a few moments, there was silence. Famas looked up in surprise when Whacas burst out in laughter.

“Well, I haven’t answered this question in a long while. Yes, the stories you’ve heard are true. I’ve been a Templar ever since the Demon Queen was banished from Alanis.”

“But why? Surely, with as much experience as you must have, you could serve the Dominion better from a seat closer to the General.”

“You know, he told me the same thing, at the time.”

“He…?”

“The General.” Whacas flicked himself up from his desk, and floated over to one of his walls of medals. “I served as one of his highest officers during the civil war. Many have even called me his best friend, but I tend to think that they’ve forgotten the ones we lost. When everything was over, he asked me to take command of one of the re-formed Orders, but I told him no. I said that I wanted to be a mid-ranked officer of the lowest Order, and stay there. He asked me the same question that you did: ‘Why? Why?’ Do you want to know what I told him?”

Famas nodded.

“I told him this: that someday, he might forget what it is to be merely a soldier. Someday, he might forget that every single life he commands has friends, and family, and dreams just as strong and important as his own. And if that day ever came, I would be here to remind him.”

Famas pondered this for a moment, then glanced up furtively. “...Do you think we should be going to war, sir?”

Whacas gave him a much weaker version of his first smile. “That's the point. If he believes in any war enough that he will send me onto the front lines, I will believe in it as well.”

Famas shook his head, muttering softly. “I hope it was worth it…”

Wasthas didn’t appear to hear him, or at least, paid the comment no heed. “The remainder of your detachment is being transferred to the command of Praetor Alrime of the 8th Order.”

“‘The remainder?’” Famas repeated, worry creasing his face. ‘Remainders’ were generally the smallest part of a thing. “How many of us are left?”

“You are the fifth that I know of,” she said. “Other searchers may have found more.”

Famas was speechless as he let the implications sink in. Whacas and Trebbica - Sobos, Cloboia, Manasto - all the colts and mares who had become his friends, his allies, his brothers and sisters - all gone. Only he and a hoofful of others remained.

A hoofful of others... His eyes darted furtively to Cirrus, then to Gilliam, as a thought crossed his mind.

“If that’s the case…” he said slowly, setting the words straight, “…then… then I would like to remain here, if I could.”

“Here? Why?”

“Because…” he searched desperately for a rationalization. “Because if I am to be ripped away from everything I know, then I would prefer to learn something new, rather than running back to what is familiar.”

Wasthas stared at him for a few moments, then shrugged.

“I can’t say that I understand, but you are safe here for now. I’ll pass the request on to your commanders.” She straightened once more, and saluted. “Farewell, Famas.”

“Swim well, sir,” Famas saluted back. “May the vent-fires lift you, and the currents move in your favor.”

She wheeled herself around, made a brief bow to Gilliam, then was charging down the tunnel, around the corner, and gone. All eyes in the dugout turned to look at the one seapony left.

“...She left you here?” Cirrus asked quizzically.

“I asked her to,” Famas said.

“Why, exactly?”

“Because there’s something I need to do.”

Slowly, Famas dragged himself back towards the front of the cave. With his injuries, it took long enough that most of the occupants lost interest, turning back to their duties and distractions. Franz and Gilliam, however, watched his slow approach like hawks. When he finally reached them, his legs were aching, but he still saluted weakly.

“I have a question for you, sir. If I may.”

Gilliam’s face betrayed nothing. “Ask.”

Famas glanced back to Cirrus for reassurance, but Cirrus merely shrugged, confused as to what he was doing. “What’s your dream?”

Almost immediately, Gilliam’s face had planted itself in his claw. “Cirrus has been spouting his nonsense again, hasn't he?”

“I don’t think it’s nonsense,” Famas said defensively. “I think its rather beautiful.”

“Clearly. But no one here has dreams - they have jobs.”

Famas felt an inexplicable anger rising up inside him as Gilliam carelessly tore apart his newfound inspiration. “And what are their 'jobs'?”

“I can tell you what mine is! To be a soldier!” The griffon drew himself up intimidatingly. “To lead soldiers! To be a ruthless, cold-hearted killer, and make sure that as many of you as possible get out of here alive!”

“Then what…” Famas paused, not sure he had heard correctly. “Wait, what?”

“Yeah,” Gilliam laughed sadly. “I’m one of the lucky ones. I want to be here. My dream is in the trenches, right next to the bombs and the bloodshed. My job is to stay here so that someday, the rest of you can do yours. Without real warriors around, dreamers and ditzes like Cirrus and Deidre wouldn’t make it through their first day in the field. So let me ask you, rookie - what’s your job?”

For the millionth time that day, Famas looked around the dugout at the dozens of strange and unfamiliar faces, bickering with and caring for each other like the world’s most dysfunctional family - but for the first time that day, he was no longer afraid of them.

“I’m not sure,” he said, turning back to his new commanding officer. “But yours sounds pretty nice.”