Liberté

War does not determine who is right, only who is left- Bertrand Russell.

Rain. Rain and more rain. The first thing that Lieutenant d'Albert had learnt after arriving at his posting is that, on the Equestrian-Gryphon frontier, all it ever did was rain.

It didn't help also that, thanks to the battalion rota, he'd been selected to assume joint command of a Prench army and Equestrian royal guard patrol. Which is why, when any sensible pony would be sipping tea in front of a nice, warm fire in their cosy barracks, he was leading a group of thirty miserable stallions and mares through a particularly Celestia forsaken forest.

The saturated ground squelched audibly beneath their hooves, and the relentless downpour not only soaked them to the skin, but also greatly damaged visibility. Seeing as they were battling Gryphons; an adversary who they only had an advantage over with regards to ranged weaponry, being robbed of their ability to see the enemy from further than twenty feet away had them all on edge. Suddenly, a snap. The whole patrol group freezes. It's members disperse in a looser formation, crouching behind any nearby cover, and readying their weapons; an ecstasy of frantic fumbling breaks out among the Equestrian elements of the group, whereas the Prench troopers, every single one of them a veteran, loads their rifles with calm, methodical precision.

"Do you see anything, Jean?" his counterpart, Lieutenant Armoured Charge, whispered in accented Prench.

"No, not yet. I'll send forward a picket to check it out; waste of time using a spyglass in this weather" Jean replied. The Equestrian officer relaxed, visibly relieved that his more experienced counterpart knew what to do. Just a child Jean thought to himself. Barely out of the academy. Trembling like a frightened rabbit. Truth be told, Jean hadn't been much better at the start of his career, but by this point he'd already been blooded; he'd fought in what must have been five skirmishes, albeit minor ones. By general standards, he too was considered inexperienced, but good enough to show the Equestrian army how it was done.

"Pass a message down the line, I want Porthos, Dantes, Sword Pyre and Zealous Strike up here now." he whispered to Sargent Chifre, who crouched behind a felled tree to his left.

"Aye aye, sir." Came the reply, as the Sargent ran from one patch of cover to the next; heading for the bushes where most of his men were crouched.Strange he thought to himself,how Equestrian names differed from anything I've come across previously back home. Cultural differences, most likely. I mean, who's ever heard of a nation where it's citizens ostracise those of them who don't have cutie marks? It's utterly absu... Suddenly, faster than the minds eye could blink, all hell broke loose.

Chifre was just moving forward with the troopers Jean had requested, when all of a sudden a gunshot sounded. At first, Jean thought it had come from their side of the woods; some jumpy recruit had fired at a shadow. Until he realised, with mounting surprise, that Chifre had fallen. After half a second, another series of shots sounded, and the rest of the group was felled. Unfortunately, for them as well as for those who looked on, not all of them died instantly. Sword Pyre, a hot headed unicorn mare from Canterlot, cried out in agony as a heavy ball of lead hammered into her mid section, rending her innards and shattering her spine; her legs, suddenly useless and without feeling, crumpled under her weight. She tried desperately to crawl back to cover, but was promptly finished off. Dantes would have cried out also, had a round not struck him in the jaw, shattering it to a pulp.

"Company! Return Fire!" Jean yelled. His troops obeyed, and began to fire into the trees ahead of them. A scream sounded out of the gloom as a round hit it's mark and the yelling of an enemy officer, from what could only be a few hundred yards ahead, almost rising above the sounds of battle around them. Gods Below! Jean thought with a start. How close were they?!Without warning, Jean felt something warm splash across the left side of his face. He touched a hoof to his cheek, and his eyes widened. Blood. A weak, gurgling sound came from his left.  He turned, and his stomach tightened.

Lieutenant Armoured Charge had been hit. A round had ploughed through the metal of his neck guard and torn his throat open. Jean gagged, and had to try hard not to be physically sick at the sight. Anypony who says fighting gets any easier is a damn liar.He thought bitterly. In desperation, he planted both his front hooves firmly on the young officer's throat, applying pressure in an effort to stem the tide of dark, arterial blood that pumped from the wound. "You'll be fine." Jean told him without conviction. "You'll be ok." They had no medic, no apothecary, and camp was almost two hours march from here. The Lieutenant was done for. This is all my fault Jean thought, tears beginning to roll down his cheeks. If I'd have used my spyglass I would have seen them. Then Chifre, Charge and the others...They would still be...The Lieutenant went still, his last breath escaping from his body, and around Jean d'Albert the sounds of battle faded, replaced by the jangling of bones...Wait...Bones...?

Jean awoke with a start to the sound of a set of keys jangling together. Every night. Every night that dream. No, not a dream, a memory. On the plus side, that's all it was. A memory. Jean's mind replayed the patrol in his head every night when he slept. Sometimes he would awake as the fighting began, sometimes he would stay asleep long enough for him to lead a charge against the enemy's right flank. Sometimes his mind would warp the events into some gruesome manifestation of the guilt he felt; that the bodies of his comrades would rise up and attack him, either dragging themselves along on rotted limbs, or advancing swiftly in the guises of those not long dead.

After shaking those grim thoughts from his mind, the first thing Jean became aware of was the terrible, splitting headache that he felt and a heavy, aching feeling in his joints. Secondly, he noted with rising panic that this was not the room he had rented at the inn (to be fair, this place was an improvement, though it couldn't possibly have been worse.) After a moment or two of staring dumbly about his surroundings, Jean realised that this was a cell. The weak light of Celestia's dawning sun shined through the cell's only window, illuminating It's whitewashed walls, that were heavily marked with age. The cell's only contents, bar himself, were the straw sack that he was lying on, a bench on the wall opposite, and a bucket. A drunk tankhe thought to himself, by the gods below I had a lot to drink. This assumption was confirmed as his migraine flared up again, causing him to bring his forelegs up to massage the sides of his head, jamming his eyes shut in the process. As he did so, his nose caught the aroma of a familiar, sickly, metallic smell. He stopped. His eyes opened, then widened. His breath caught in his throat, as he brought his hooves in front of his eyes. Blood. They were covered in dried blood. His heart raced, his breath became ragged and tears threatened to spill from his wide, terrified eyes as he remembered the Lieutenant lying on the ground beside him, chocking and drowning in his own blood.  Pull yourself together you fool! It was a dream! Nothing more! The Lieutenant and the others are dead and buried! There must be another reason for this. After a moment or two of uncertainty, he pulled himself unsteadily to his hoofs, stumbling slightly as he did so. Across from him was the cell door. Odd he thought, I don't remember the cell doors at the guard station being this sturdy. He said, as he pushed against it. That's where the drunks end up, unless they've changed things since I went away. "Maybe my magic will do the trick." He said to himself, and tried to focus his power on the door. Nothing happened. "What?" He tried again, and the result was the same. Strange. He reached up to touch his horn, and was greeted not by bone, but metal. Instantly, he knew what it was. An inhibitor? Why? What the buck is going on here? What happened last night? Some memories gradually came back to him, but they were distorted and uncertain. A toast...Matthieu hitting on a waitress...Roland and a planned town development in Equestria...what was it? Ponyville or something...an alley way... and...and... That was as far as he got before a small hatch in the cell door opened, startling him from his thoughts.

"Awake now are we?" the jailor addressed aggressively. "What do you want, scum?"

"Where am I? What's happened?" Jean asked shakily, feeling as though his skull were about to burst. The Jailor laughed: "You dense or something, boy? Where on Celestia's green earth do you think?" He spat sarcastically.

Jean felt his cheeks burn at the Jailor's impertinance; "I'm at the Mareseilles guard station, you've put me here because I was drunk."

The Jailor laughed louder this time. "No such luck I'm afraid. This is the Chateau de Saint Thomas, and you're not here for being drunk, you piece of shit. Your're here 'cos you killed somepony."