Under the Crystal Moon

Acknowledgements:

TornadoanTwilight - For lending me part of your wonderful universe, I hope I've put it to good use.

Richard Adams - For inspiring me with your beautiful lines, may the Black Rabbit watch over you.

Proud B'zekre, the Horsemaster, casted away,

All sons that were not of her own,

And banished them from the light of day,

So that they'd remain in the shadow known.

Since the dawn of time they've waited,

Alone in their caverns of old,

Meanwhile the sun lovers created,

A world of light which sparkled bold.

But unknown to the lovers of light,

Have the darkness being watching,

And meanwhile voices casted a plight,

Great old fires were burning.

So it came to pass, that pushed by hunger,

The sons of Naqesis set for disaster,

And they torn the land asunder,

With the red blood of the Horsemaster.

Kingdoms were shattered and empires fell,

All hope was broken as slaves reveled,

Which side lost more is still hard to tell,

But both lost their sons as their very fates dueled.

And so it came the day when great spells were casted,

And the old wrath of the night were fully unleashed,

That there was no kind that could've yet lasted,

And they all were gone when the storm was finished.

And so it is now in tales only spoken,

About great and old demons with fright,

May they never again be fully awoken,

So they stay dormant the ire of night.

His body hit the ground with tremendous strength, feeling how the impact took his breath away. Beneath the weight of gravity, he extended his wings to take flight, but couldn't seem to move any further. His entire nerve frame was paralyzed by the thick pain that was flourishing in it. His mind wandered for a moment. The light in the darkness that was the smoke around him seemed to shine brighter. It would take much experience to have dodged a blow like that, but even him knew he had being struck hard, and that if he wouldn't stand up now, then perhaps he wouldn't stand up again.

     Around him, the sounds of the skirmish combined with the screams, both of the battle an of the wounded, were mixing with the bright orange of the flames that were eating the tents one by one throughout the camp until they formed a homogeneous mass of pure background hell. His hell.

     And there was, of course, him. Standing before his and Bow String's broken figures, with his membrane wings extended, and the edge of his blade brighting in red, as the blood of the only thing that he ever cared about and that now was irremediably out of existence.

     It seemed unreal. That in comparison to all of his life now lived that moment seemed to be bigger and more decisive than all the other decisions he had made put together. After all, what could an infant wish for before facing that moment? To bath or not to bath? To eat hay or bread…? To leave with his mother or remain with his father, taking care of the farm?

     What? Did somepony had died? Was her somepony he knew? Was he really lying there, beside her, completely undone and powerless? Did he even care?

     Now there it was, a demon, came from the deepest of his nightmares, and the form of the mare that had brought him to life bleeding the lasts drops of a life that had already gone away as time seemed to carelessly throw all of her person behind, tossed as if it were nothing in an instant. How picky yet swiftly death worked.

     Yes, he snapped, she was somepony he knew. She was somepony he cared for. Even more, she was somepony he loved! She was the sun and stars of his world before a simple, unfortunated swing put her away. And he was pissed about it.

     His brow turned into a frown, his teeth gritted, and a force he didn't knew he had started to fill his otherwise numbed muscles, granting him the power to stand up again. There was no kindness in his look anymore, or innocence, or anything that he could've had before. Now the only sentiment that shone in his eyelids was the desire, the need to terminate his opponent, the murderer of parents and brothers, the enemy of all ponykind: the Noctees.

      The yellow eyes of the Night Guard followed him as he rose from the ashes that used to be his own body. Inside them was a mix between surprise and regret but he wasn't looking. There wasn't any rationality inside him, just a handful of wrath and pain. The Noctees looked like saying something, but he didn't listened, with a swift hoof he picked up the sword of Bow String and caught it between his teeth.

     The blade was heavier than he expected, but he managed to compensate in time and outlined the best guard a filly could mount in such a desperate situation. The noctees tried to say something, but his words got lost in the heated air of the battle, unable to reach already deafened ears. In the end, seeing he wouldn't yield, he stood again in guard, showing his own curved sword ready for tasting living flesh again. No more words were spoken, and not another second were lost to mourning or feelings. The only thing that mattered now was the outcome. The only possible result to that grim anthological situation.

     His muscles tensed once again, this time with the thrill of a fight, and his vision narrowed so that his objective was the only thing that occupied it. The Night Guard stood ready as well, his blue armor shining with the dancing flames around his obscured figure, and his wings still extended to emphasize the clear difference between their heights. His eyes were still doubtful, but in the light of the fire he could see them as they glow with the determination to remain victorious. Foal against Night Guard, never have being seen such a glorious scene with such wrong elements in display… But, then again, life is not always about proper accommodation, and what was was the only thing that could be, no more no less. But lets forget about this and focus in the matter at hand.

     The battle decreased its sound, and both opponents leaned forward, preparing to charge. Fire was still burning around them, torching the air as if they were already living in hell, but he didn't mattered, the fire inside his chest was ten times more bright, and was burning in the very core of his soul.

     And so, feeling the wrath of a deceived adventurer, a newborn warrior, and an orphaned son, Silver Sharper pressed his lungs like he never had done before to release his first true battle cry and charged towards his foe, determined to rise up victorious or never see the light of day again.

     If he only knew that both thoughts would someday come to pass…

Inspiration:

Thorns - Demon Hunter

Not without a fight - Pillar