Broken Dawn

**Dragons* are magnificent creatures.*

It's a simple statement, but one of undeniable truth. You can call the sky blue or water wet and always be just as right. Some ponies will spend the day arguing as to why these certainties are as they are, but only a foal will deny the statement itself.

To many ponies, dragons are the wonders that they are for their perfect design as unstoppable killing machines. They developed as the hunters of mighty beasts, foes against which semi-metallic and incisors capable to cleaving boulders are a necessity. Various breath attacks are effective in different environments; whereas a hydra may wilt before the fires its kind never encounters in the wild, a phoenix will simply absorb them and be all the stronger for the experience. Dragons are swift as well; almost too quick for creatures their monstrous size, but a luxury afforded by their unique metabolisms nonetheless.

What few of these ponies realize is that these "rampaging monsters" are every bit their match for intellect and social structure. They are beings of few words only because few are needed; never achieving civilization has left them with little to say that their pack instincts do not already dictate. Ponies have names; dragons have scents. Ponies rely on agriculture, culinary ability, textiles and shelter; dragons reap what they need from the latent magics present in gem stones and the flesh they consume, and their nigh invulnerable bodies provide all the protection they'll ever need. Ponies raise and train armies; dragons are born into a society where every moment from their first centers around the pursuit of feeding, where there are no great orators or philosophers because they've already reached the pinnacle of evolution and such quandaries are simply unnecessary.

It is only the rarest of ponies that know their motivation. Dragon "culture" (for want of a better term) is little more than their collective knowledge that when the sun rises for the last time, only dragons will know its warmth. Other sentient beings are nothing more than vermin to them, squandering their resources and generally disheveling their perfect order- migrate, delve, hunt, exhaust, migrate. It is a simple idea, and terrifying in its inevitable conclusion. Some scholars and diplomats come to this realization...

...whereas it is the soldiers that learn of it first hand.

Pegasi are the only consistent defense against a dragon invasion.

Unicorns find their marks periodically, but it is by luck and numbers that they are able to do so. Any being of magic has its vulnerabilities, but it is through their massive size and natural bond with the elements that they are able to resist most spells.  "The strongest bridge will crumble under enough carts," of course- a rule that applies when there are enough talented and trained mages working in coordination to topple a single target. These are joyous occasions for the populace, as these are the battles with the fewest casualties.

Although dragon scales are extremely tough, resisting heat and cold, claw and fang, they are still able to be damaged by well forged arms. A hide nearly as hard as iron can be pierced by a halberd of the true material, and great enough impacts can penetrate their armor to injure muscle, bone and organs within. This is where the rank and file find their place. A dragon found grounded will fall to a sufficient force, and a powerful (and extremely fortunate) soldier can deal a single deadly blow when one has been snared or incapacitated by poison or disease.

The world would be a much safer place if only the damn things couldn't fly.

* * *

**The* stallion somehow feels incredibly silly.*

With Dew Drop MIA and no other suitable diverters immediately available, he has broken formation to aim a single, swift kick into the Amethysts' eye and now stands reared on two legs with wings spread to their full span, directly in front of the enraged beast.

The tremble of combat grinds his jaw, his heart races, and instead of feeling exposed or vulnerable, his mind has settled on "ridiculous." He knows that his stance is designed to mirror and mock the dragon's own, and that the blood red eyes emblazoned on the underside of his secondaries are intended to fill it with a sense of individual challenge to divert it from the squad's lance bearers, but from his current perspective, they are simply comical. Like the paint on a jester's face, it's just an illusion that nopony would fall for, but merely laugh at. They're.. jokes. He's standing here on quivering hing legs, trying to amuse this massive beast that's now dropped and is charging. He's dropping to all fours, his wings cramp from the uncontrollable surge of panic causing them to flare, and it's not working. It's not working- fighting back against this impossible force is a madpony's illusion and he shouldn't be here in the first place!

He bolts. There's nothing in the world to the stallion besides the tremor of thundering claws behind him. The hot splash of urine against his hooves goes unnoticed; the splayed corpse and smoldering wings of Lightning Twist fail to register; screams, battle cries and the death promised by a booming voice fall on deaf ears. It is only when he slams full bore into a structure that he turns and looks back at the Amethyst, now almost directly above him. His teeth stop slamming against each other as his jaw falls slack, his pupils constrict wildly and he barely notices the orange blur that blasts by before sharply ascending at the roaring monstrosity. The aerial charge hits home, the lance buried to saddle in vulnerable chin. Eventide struggles to free herself from her weapon's rigging as the beast's slack body falls towards the stallion, who lets out a quick bark of laughter as he sees the lance's tip protruding from its skull like a unicorn's

horn was glowing softly, the pink light reflected in the beautiful liquid pools of the mare's eyes.

The stallion struggled to slow his breathing, though the look of compassion and interest on the visitor's face was clear. She was new, a light purple unicorn with a lavender mane that contained a single stripe the same shade as her magic. The loose midnight blue robe that adorned her was decorated with stars, and stood out in sharp contrast to the simple pleated skirts the other ponies always wore.

The mare cooed and spoke softly, reassuringly, the look of sympathy spilling out of her Amethyst eyes in a single drop that slid  down her cheek. Her smile was sad and genuine, yet could do nothing to quiet there's no escape the pounding of his heart in his ears. It slipped into the pout of an accepting smirk as she stopped speaking, and the magical field of her horn peaked. Slowly she lowered it towards his forehead. As it made contact, he cried out and felt the sickening crunch

of bone over the deafening crash of the building crumbling, and the world goes silent.

The stallion's head is killing him. He opens his eyes, blinking twice to bring them to focus, and finds himself staring at a symbol of the sun settling behind still waters gracing a dusty, orange flank. Pulling himself forward, he instinctively puts fore-hoof on the mare, checking her injuries. She's breathing regularly on her side, and has no bleeding other than the shallow lacerations where her harness has torn from her barrel. Fresh blood is encrusted on her rear hoof-

"My baby!"

His head snaps around in alarm; behind him are a pair of ponies, coats of the milk chocolate common to the region- presumably the owners of the structure they are in. One, a stallion, stands perfectly still and stares straight through him, an expression in his eyes that reminds him of the vacant stare sometimes worn by Dragon Mare (that can't be her real name).

"My BABY!"

His gaze moves to the mare rocking back and forth on the floor next to her mate, staring at the swaddled bundle in her hooves and yelling

"MY BABY!"

The cry is uttered repeatedly as the stallion looks upon her. A sense of fogginess settles over his mind and becomes denser as (my baby) the terrible truth (my BABY!) in her words (MY BABY!) becomes clear. (my baby, my baby) Her cheek has been torn open, the clean tear of an impact from a weapon, possible a horseshoe (my baby) but she seems unaware. (my baby) The foal in her hooves (my baby!) is still and quiet; an obvious deformity of the skull above its left eye the consistency of crushed eggshells in jelly (my baaabyyyy). He's not aware that instinct has again taken over, driving him to examine (my baaaaby!!) the tiny colt as he unwraps the dirty white blanket that holds (my baby! my baby!) him; prolapsed bowels extend a hoof's width past (MY BABY MY BABY MY) his (BAAAABYYYY!) buttocks, and the stallion must leave. There's nothing he can do here and the need to (be anywhere, go anywhere, don't be here) rejoin his squad (this isn't real) finds him bucking hard against the wooden wall of the (crypt) house, slamming horseshoes again and again (this can't be real) in trained rhythm into the structure as time seems to stop. A splintered plank tears through (my baby) his right fetlock; embers hang still in (my baby) the air; (my baby) nopony breaths, air doesn't move as he rears back for (my baby) another powerful strike that caused a section of the wall to tear away.

His eyes darted around the room. Sheets of paper and splinters of wood hung motionless in the air. The purple unicorn's face was frozen in an expression of shock, and surprise and excitement were etched onto those of a familiar orange and pink pair he couldn't recognize standing by the stairs.

Surprise struck as he realized that he was seeing a part of the (it must be a) home he had never seen before... and that he had just moved for the first time in as long as he could remember.

The headache struck like a hammer as he started feeling the effects of gravity, the tearing pain in his fetlock, and an awareness of the mares in the room starting to move in slow motion through his rapidly blurring vision.

The bookcase struck him like only a falling bookcase could, and he was out again.

* * *

The stallion awoke in his bed from a hoof gently shaking his shoulder.

The room was dim, and the fresh scent of a garden wafted on a fresh breeze. Standing in front of him with wings partially aloft was his reclusive yellow visitor, her mane disheveled and a wide smile on her tear streaked face.

"Poiwb," she stated simply, her teal eyes locked with his own.

He looked back her dumbly, and she said it again with more emphasis, prodding his barrel with her hoof. Obviously not getting the desired response, she wrapped her pastern around his and guided him towards her, encouraging him to unsteadily take to his hooves next to the new window he had created.

A veritable sea of grass extended from the flower garden several hoof's widths beneath him, across a wide pasture and to the edge of a (here there be monsters) dark forest. Rising above it in the distance were majestic peaks, between which the sun had just started to rise.

The mare's left hoof ran up his foreleg and settled on his withers, and her shoulder pressed against his as she used her right to point towards the beautiful hues of the sunrise; the pale golds and bright orange of the heavenly body impressed this morning over the white that faded to the sky's blue further up the horizon. She then dropped back to all fours and pressed a hoof to his barrel again, bringing his eyes back to hers, and this time her message was clear.

"Dawn."