Fallout Equestria: Victor Cordis Mei

Chapters

Ortus
Vita
Occasus
Memoriam
Memoriam II
Memoriam III

Ortus

We are all born slaves, although few dare admit it, furthering their weakness as they wallow in the wretchedness of denial. Foremost are the fetters of ageing, inescapably fixed to everypony’s hooves as a dead weight. At first we may pay them no heed, having the strength to overcome their limiting grasp, but gradually they grow heavier and drag us downward. Try as we might we will all be forced to bow down to time.

Further chains are of our own choosing, being offered to us adorned with innumerable intoxicating treats. In sampling of these poisoned fruit we bite down on the barbs which lie beneath their inviting skins, driving them deep into every inch of our flesh. In this way we become mere marionettes, to be manipulated on the whims of our addictions.

On top of these well embedded hooks we also choose to fit ourselves with steel nooses, fatally unaware of each knot we tie in their lengths. The gallows is formed of our dependencies, be they on magic, technology or others, lazily taken up to ease our existence. With each new reliance we add fresh strands to thicken the rope, making it ever greater until one day a gun will jam, a machine will fail or we will find ourselves alone and then we are left powerless as we are hoisted into throttled oblivion.

Our last bindings are far more subtle, added by our own volition to strengthen our other shackles and construct a life out of them (hollow and worthless as it may be). This is a nose ring whose pulling chord leads us along a desolate path. Many pave their walkway with the promises of twinkling caps, leading them further into a web of chains as nought else exists in this void. For others the purpose they step towards is settlement and old age in comfort, but this is nothing more than a tepid and cooling sewer in which to decay. In any case our guiding leash is a terminal distraction.

Atop all this there is the servitude imposed upon us by others. They set us in a cage of honeyed words, forming locks from insubstantial principles such as mercy, liberty and morality. Primarily these create boundary limits to our potential, whilst at the same time they fasten us with the leaden weights of the weak and service unto the corrupt vices of the privileged at the top. This is a false hierarchy, serving a select few and maintained through a façade of hopeful possibility. Should anypony somehow breach the bars into these lofty spires they remain trapped, for beyond lies nothingness.

What manner of life may be led when we exist so tightly bound, forced to stoop low by the sheer number of our restraints? I would deny all this and take a different path.

I lift the tent flap, opening into the fading dusk of a dying day. I breathe deeply, letting the cool breeze fill my lungs, whilst the same chilled air plays across my bare form, stripped of all adornment. A red sea parts before me to guide me forward. I step between the rows of armoured ponies and griffins, uniform in their purpose, walking the few strides towards my place of execution. A great fire burns in a pit, the instruments of my death lying in the flames and my killers waiting upon only my arrival. The blaze is all-consuming, devouring the whole world before it in its jaws.

To call the place I come from a tribe is a grave insult to the dissolute, nevertheless it will be remembered as the 90th tribe granted salvation. Equally to recount its true name would mar the present, made brighter by its loss, so it shall remain lost to history. A more accurate term would be to call us a gang, a far more fitting descriptor for those weakly crushed by the profligate hoard and left as scattered pieces. My origins lie in one of these infinitesimal specks, spawned from a creature vile even before its downfall.

Culture is another title which should be abandoned, the word carrying with it connotations of civilisation which we entirely lacked. The features we collectively bore to group us together were nothing more than the scars of desperate survival, entirely devoid of higher meaning. Foremost of these were (and still are for us happy few) our fangs: serrations cut into our teeth as soon as they matured.1 Although effectively intimidating and even aggressive as weapons, these were merely the necessities of a degenerate diet. We were cannibals through our ineptitude to furnish ourselves either by means of production or acquisition. Similarly we wore the hair of our manes and tails in vicious spikes, masquerading it as tradition when in fact the style stemmed from inadequate hygiene. No culture, just a unity in our wretchedness.

We were a small band, the matching stripes I wear and many of my kin wore being testament to the stagnant nature of our gene pool. Home was a cluster of decrepit shacks, unfit for habitation and abandoned by all but our despondent selves. Life was scavenging, sifting the refuse of others or foraging tainted growth for sustenance like rodents, punctuated by raiding. For all our violent reputation and cultivated image our attacks were infrequent, either spurned on by the needs of starvation or the false courage of intoxicants and even then only moving against the helpless without the threat of reprisal. All of our sorrows and the limited prizes of our few successes were drowned in the pursuit of escape through drink and chems, although these were available to only the "best" among us, which excluded myself.

At our head was our chieftain, our solitary unicorn, granted command through his uncontested (if unimpressive) grasp of magic and ownership of our only properly functioning gun. In a way this was a blessing (even if it was not a redeeming one), forcing us to rely on our martial abilities with either our hooves or other brutally basic tools. In spite of this, although we would see ourselves as predators, we were not even threatening enough to be called parasites.

It was from this living (if that can really be used to describe my meagre existence) Tartarus that I was saved.

They came in the day, surprising our limited sentries who could not comprehend anypony brave enough to act without the cover of darkness. We happy few of us fought, acting instinctively, but nonetheless expecting only death. Of course our defeat was swift, particularly with most choosing to cower in abject surrender with the one who had led us, but in those briefest of moments everything fell into focus. The bitter reality of what little would end or disappear in my death was chilling, bringing pains far greater than all the lacerations, punctures and blows I received combined. I had done nothing, I had achieved nothing, I was nothing.

In the aftermath I would remain alive, much to my own surprise. Only later did I learn that they came seeking captures and that our insignificant battle was part of a larger campaign against our entire "tribe". Our chieftain and our other "best" who had grovelled in the dirt seeking mercy received what was deserved, being nailed screaming to crossed planks. These were set on a nearby hill, as those they bore slowly bled out, and stood as beacons to the surrounding wastes. Meanwhile below, the hovels we had called home were stripped and set alight, whilst all of us who remained were set in shackles. In time all that would remain of the damned place would be blackened earth, watched over by festering corpses. There could not have been a more fitting tombstone.

As we were marched away, laden with our few worthwhile possessions, some cried and others just stared in a stunned silence. My eyes spilled no tears; they had never been more open.

I slip from the fires of cadaverous memory. The past is dead and deserves no exhumation.

In the old world they had six elements to bind them. We require only two, raised anew in a refined form. We are honest, but not through the vapid sincerity of words, rather our honesty is in our actions and outlook. Our victories are seized through sweat and blood, not purchased by lies, whilst we do not flinch at the corpse-littered truth of what our world now is. We are loyal, not to a land or a ruler, but an ideal and those we share it with.

We strive to go beyond what we are, pledging our minds and bodies to this project of absolute self-improvement. As individuals we stand together in this quest, leadership a mark of merit as opposed to unimpeachable false hierarchy. All are slaves tethered to the weighty tyranny of this ideal, but made more in our choice to pull it with us. Nothing is given, everything must be earned. We are all born slaves, but we few dare face it and take up pure chains which cleanse all others.

The tools of my destruction are brought from the fire, tightly gripped by the jaws of my two saviours, ends aglow. My previous self lies afraid at the back of my mind. Most of him just quakes in terror, whilst a small part is relieved that we are not a unicorn, which would have called for a third sharper implement as well. I slash my machete across his stomach, explosively spilling his guts so that I may bask in the warmth of his entrails. Darkening sets of eyes meet and my blade goes to work putting his out, sending jets of white and crimson fluid spraying across my face. He had no need of them, he was already blind. He coughs, covering me in yet more blood, as his body sags, too weak to even support itself. I do not feel pity for the creature, but rather disgust, as I bath myself clean.

The two cross-shaped brands, pure white from their heat, progress towards me, their wielders’ movements perfectly mirrored as they approach my flanks. Fire has a special form of magic all its own, clean and unsullied. It consumes and it destroys, but in so doing is wipes any slate clean, creating the possibility for new growth, unmarred by what came before. Put simply: it is beautiful. My marks were formed in a debased existence. I do not sacrifice them, but rather discard them willingly, as I would my horn if I had one and far more if required. My fangs I shall keep as indispensable, but they shall also serve as a constant reminder of what I was, acting as a focus for my hate.

The crosses press into me. There is only pain, drowning out all the world in purifying white. I am born roaring my loathing against the Wasteland.

I will not fear pain or strife for they only make me stronger. I will not fear war for through conflict I am tested, whilst I will shun stagnation through settled comfort. I will not fear death for it is inevitable, but instead I embrace my glorious immolation rather than slow extinguishment. I am Legion.

Author's Note

Title: sunrise, rising, rise, birth, origin, east (Latin)

Reference:
1) Henry V by William Shakespeare (Act 4, Scene 3, Line 62)

Vita

The eternal question: what do you get somepony who has everything? Such a quandary has been the bane of so many, but how can it be answered if the pony in question really does have everything, or else wants for nothing which force cannot provide? Even if somehow this impregnable problem is breached, how can a trinket express true feelings? How can it declare an unwavering loyalty to another, unending gratitude to a saviour or the closeness of two spirits? How can it in any way come close to thanking somepony with whom have been shared innumerable magical moments, who has accepted us bare and bared themselves in return? How can a mere present attempt to convey something so precious that words themselves fail in their attempts to do so?

Malignus Extinctor: Veteran Decanus Frumentarius, favoured of the Legion, expert sharpshooter, scourge of the Steel Rangers, the pony who had bested a trio of hellhounds in gladiatorial combat with only his machete, now immobilised by a single question. The statue of what had been a proud zebra was left motionless on a small dusty rise in the centre of the marching camp, his grey and black fur cast stone-like in stillness. Behind him a sea of red tents extended in rows, whilst down below lay a small cluster of traders’ stalls, the habitual rodents trailing in the predators’ wake in hopes of profit, all surrounded by a barbed palisade. Beneath the spiked shell of his armour he could feel his flesh slowly baking in the late afternoon sun, a sheen of sweat soaking his under-barding, made worse with every moment he remained stood there, but impossible to escape from. It was not the heat alone which ailed him, but rather also the simple fact that he was running out of time.

Note to self: never leave something this important to the last minute ever again.

Pausing briefly to wipe a hoof across his brow (careful to avoid the vicious blades riveted to its shoe) Malignus set off, walking the heavy steps into the bustle of the market. "Market" was probably an overestimation of the ragged row of shops on the edge of camp, but there was nowhere else and he was entirely out of options. Most prominent amongst the various salesponies were the arms merchants, flaunting tables covered in all manner of deadly instruments. Blades, battle saddles and bullets, barding and bandoliers: everything that could be desired by your average legionary seeking to prove themselves stood on display.

But you’re shopping for no mere legionnaire.

He stopped at a rug laid out with piled guns, the trader behind it in deep conversation with a praetorian guard about the possibility of attaching shotguns to a gauntlet.

Nope.

He moved on to the next stall, a similar display this time made up of melee implements. The owner looked despondent, there being little call for his stock from customers who mass produced their own machetes and spears. Some of his pieces were interesting, a central bludgeon sporting an added spark battery to electrify its business end for example, but none called out for purchase.

Nope. One boring and two the Blade of the East puts them all to shame.

Internally he could not help but giggle, there being way too much room for innuendo when considering his partner’s favoured weapon to be ignored.

Seriously? Grow up!

Malignus moved on, neither arms nor armour feeling really appropriate or personal enough. This wiped out the potential of the vast majority of the shops, leaving only a few general merchants on the market’s edge left to check out. He was not hopeful as he reached the first vendor, a turquoise unicorn stallion with a group of cross-eyed wolves for a mark on his flank, proudly displaying a collection of random junk.

‘So what y’ looking for?’ the trader asked.

‘Something for…’ Malignus found himself forced into an unsure pause. ‘Something for a special somepony’ he muttered in a near whisper.

‘Pardon?’

‘Something for a special somepony’ he repeated, an embarrassed burn flaring across his cheeks.

‘Sorry, I still didn’t catch that.’

‘Something for a special somepony’ he said for a third time, just exiting his muted tone.

‘What!?’ the trader exclaimed, thankfully not yet drawing any real attention in the busyness of the market.

‘You heard me’ Malignus responded, hot embarrassment giving way to a harder annoyance.

‘Really?’ the seller continued, his face attempting and failing to hold back a grin. ‘I didn’t think you lot were into any of that stuff.’

What the buck!

The frumentarius found himself caught between the fear of discovery and something akin to shock. He was taken aback both by the defiance and its obvious idiocy bearing in mind they stood in the middle of a Legion camp, not to mention his own personal reputation. Neither feeling was particularly pleasant, stoking his anger further. ‘Are you going to help or not?’

‘I mean, you’re all usually playing at being the tough guys.’

The unicorn was actually starting to laugh now and Malignus could feel glances begin to be drawn in their direction, sending his ears flat and back into a curled hunch. ‘Seriously, enough now!’

Seemingly deaf to the protests the salespony’s giggles merely increased. ‘Well, actually I really should have figured, bearing in mind you all parade around in skirts and…’

‘Enough!’

Cleaning the crimson ichor from his hooves as he strode away from the stall, pausing only briefly to dislodge a piece of turquoise mane caught on a hoof-spike, Malignus moved to the next shop in the row. His bloody gaze bore into the fresh vender he now faced, a pale indigo earth mare, simultaneously daring and attacking the possibility of a similar response to the former.

‘H-how can I help you?’ the mare stuttered, trepidation making her stumble over her question.

‘I’m looking for something for my special somepony’ he hissed. ‘It is our one year anniversary. Is there anything amusing about this?’

‘N-no.’

‘Good. It also goes without saying that if you speak of this transaction to anypony I will personally nail you to a cross.’

‘O-okay, well what’s she…’

‘He.’

‘Sorry. What’s he like?’

Malignus froze, the question within the eternal question biting icily in spite of the surrounding desert. What was worse was that he knew the answer, ‘he’s everything’ coming instinctively without a hint of thought, although in reality that was no useful answer at all.

Come on think for buck’s sake!

Then inspiration finally struck him.

It felt as if an immense weight had been lifted from Malignus’ shoulders as his steps brought him between the well marshalled rows of tents, so much so that it took real effort to stop himself from skipping and to instead maintain an imperious gait. The pressure he had been feeling had fallen away, leaving only the excitement of anticipation, looking forward to the evening ahead. The sun was now falling on the horizon, leaving the world still alight but thankfully no longer aflame. Everything was right with the world and he found himself smiling, happily returning each ‘ave’ of those he passed, whilst he ascended the rough steps to the camp’s pinnacle. Soon he stood before his target: the central structure atop a small rough cliff, no mere tent but rather a veritable house of crimson fabric, although lacking the gaudy embellishment which had once adorned its exterior. He halted before the flap and the pair of praetorians, both well known to him, guarding the entrance.

‘Ave Malignus’ the first greeted him, an older greying stallion by the name of Lucius who had been the first Caesar’s head praetorian, the fact he now retained the position under the second being testament to his martial prowess. ‘Lord Caesar is expecting you.’

‘Saluto amicis’ Malignus replied, entering as the cloth was held open for him to pass. His being ‘expected’ sounded official, which was an initial surprise, but for now he retained his quiet inner eagerness as he entered his lord’s pavilion, treading a path flanked on each side by yet more praetorians. Although most of them were friends in some degree, he increasingly found their constant presence more and more of an annoyance. For one thing they seemed entirely unnecessary (particularly bearing in mind the sheer strength of their new charge), but more importantly their ever-presence destroyed any possibility of privacy, which particularly today was an extreme aggravation. The past year of their relationship had been studded by stolen moments, slipping away to give the guards the run-around or holding secret "briefings". He understood the need for secrecy in the necessary brutality of Legion politics and at the same time he would not have exchanged these shared times for anything, but still he almost greedily wanted more.

‘Salve Malignus’ the deep voice he was longing to hear thundered from the map room, summoning him forward.

‘Saluto Lu… Lord Caesar.’

Oh well done!

Malignus mentally face-hoofed at his slipup, feeling doubly stupid for having been caught up in thoughts of secrecy at the time of the informal blunder. Lanius was better at hiding it than he was, the façade of officialdom never once slipping out of place, although the Legate turned Caesar had the aid of being constantly hidden behind a physical shell. The armoured form in question, clad in a suit of steely carapace sculpted to have the look of toned musculature (in poor imitation of the body which lay beneath), stood behind a table spread with maps, surrounded by decani of various rank and evidently was in the closing stages of a protracted briefing.

This isn’t good.

A wave of ‘salutos’ and salutes ran around the assembled ranks and then all bar a couple filed out. Once all had left Lanius finally turned to face him, or rather his masked helmet did, its horned crown and metallic beard bearing no resemblance to the visage beneath. At first he had seen the mask as a wall between them, but now it simply made the image of his love’s face that much more precious, one of the many almost magical things he foalishly treasured.

‘Malignus I sent for you some time ago’ Lanius began, ‘but from your look I’ll assume that my messenger failed to find you.’

This definitely isn’t good.

‘Greatest apologies Lord Caesar’ he managed, mind beginning to reach several depressing conclusions.

‘There has been a change in the campaign which requires our immediate attention…’

No, no, no, no, not today! Why today of all days!?

‘…and as such there has been a change of plans and all other present goals must be regrettably delayed.’

One day, I just wanted one bloody day! Not even that, Mars as my witness, I wanted only an evening! Is that too much to ask!?

Mind in furious turmoil Malignus barely produced his response: ‘Y-yes my lord, what needs to be done?’

‘You will keep your unit in reserve and accompany me…

Alone?

‘…with a small force to an overwatch position.’

Of course!

‘Yes sir!’ Malignus just managed, suppressing a disappointed sigh under a heavy determined tone. In spite of this his hopes still flared somewhat, desperate though it was to think that anything could be salvaged of the evening.

A now sullen Malignus marched at the rear of the small cohort, venting his sad frustration against the ground’s stones. As their trek had dragged on the hopeful possibility of any infinitesimal shred of time being left for them had ebbed from his mind, drunk up by the infinity of his surroundings, leaving only the hatred of everything which stood in the way. He was well aware that it was silly; it was not as if the event was particularly special, but the overall sense of disappointment was hard to ignore. In an attempt to be constructive he tried to focus his feelings into fury, ready to loose upon the profligates they were set to attack. It was a poor consolation however.

Malignus looked to the front of the column, eyes preferring to gaze fondly at its head, gloriously resplendent in the dying light of the day, rather than hatefully downward at absent enemies. To blame his love was impossible, even if a tiny wretched part of him wanted to. ‘Lanius has his duty to think of first, not to mention the weight of the whole Legion on his back, whereas I’m just being selfish’ he thought to himself.

He may have forgotten.

‘How could he have? Besides, he as much as said he was sorry.’

You’re reading quite a lot into ‘goals’ and ‘regrettably delayed’ don’t you think?

Those thoughts hurt, penetrating through every segment of his copiously layered armour to strike directly against his heart. ‘No, you’re overthinking things and becoming paranoid.’ Despite this protest the doubts were now entrenched, leaving him becalmed in dejected doubts. Wrapped up as he was in his own personal concerns Malignus failed to notice that the pony before him had halted, causing him to crash straight into the stallion. Luckily it was Lucius, who accepted his apologies with an amicable look. The cause of the stoppage was not immediately clear, as the praetorians gathered about their leader, leaving only a pair hefting a large ammunition box at his side. Almost as quickly as they had formed together the cluster broke, although a few confused looks were exchanged as they did so, immediately separating into combat units. ‘You may leave the equipment and follow your commanders’ came Lanius’ order, addressing the box-laden couple who stepped into joining the departing force. All the praetorians moved away into the rapidly encroaching darkness of early evening, leaving Malignus and Lanius alone. ‘Shall we continue?’ questioned the Caesar, gesturing up a steep incline towards the peak they had been making for.

Malignus nodded, unsure of these latest developments and therefore still caught in the mode of mere dutiful legionary serving his lord. He took a step towards the abandoned crate, obviously now his burden to bear.

‘No it’s okay, I’ve got it.’

Malignus was left a tad more bemused as Lanius deftly lifted the large box onto his back with ease. ‘Are you sure? It kinda should be my job you know, what if somepony sees?’

‘It’s all fine’ his Caesar reassured him, ‘there’s not much further to go anyway.’

They resumed their progress, this time being able to walk side by side as they made their way to the highest point of the peak. ‘Lord Caesar, to where did you dispatch your bodyguard?’

‘For the last time you don’t have to obey those norms when nopony’s around. You make me feel so guilty every time you call me “lord”’ Lanius scolded, throwing his listener off still further. ‘In answer to your question though: half are setting up a picket line around the cliff, whilst the others are going to cut off any profligates who should choose to retreat this way.’

They continued silently the rest of the way, Malignus caught between roles and feelings, meanwhile being totally unsure of which ones to assume. Part of him happily walked beside his love, appreciating the barest hint of closeness, but at the same time the oppressive official-ness of why they were here still bore down on him. This just left a silence: a hateful quiet which he was desperate to fill with so much and yet it felt entirely inappropriate to do so. Finally they crested the hill, reaching a flat space at its rocky summit. Malignus flipped out the retractable scope from his battle saddle in order to scan the horizon, thankful for something to do, hearing Lanius deposit the crate on the ground as he did so. The sun slipped under the horizon, shade bathing the darkened world as he traced the long winding path of the river far below the cliff face, cutting a rough gouge across the earth. The desert all around had a sharp form of splendour, found in the reddish hues of its terrain and the jaggedness of its stone structures, but a splendour nonetheless, which he allowed himself to appreciate through his sights. He heard the click of the box being opened and further noises as stuff was set on the ground behind him, meanwhile he continued to absently indulge in the view.

‘Happy anniversario Spikey.’

What?

Shocked, Malignus instantly turned sharply around and collided with Lanius’ unmasked lips, which had crept up on him and now pounced. His eyes went wider, surprise totally ruining the kiss, but in drawing away he found a victorious grin on the scar-crossed light brown face of his attacker, brilliant green eyes shining obviously pleased with themselves. His Caesar’s horned helm lay discarded on the corner of a deep red rug, laid impossibly quickly across the small plateau. Beside it the ammunition crate sat open, revealing not an interior crammed with bullets or equipment but with edible delicacies. Pre-war snack cakes, bite-sized fritters formed of maize and instamash and much more filled the container, along with an ice bucket of chilled Sparkle Colas, all looking more like a feast than the picnic it was meant to be. His gaze returned confused to his love, marred visage still glowing triumphantly and now enjoying his continued reactions. ‘You asshole!’ Malignus cried, smile breaking across his own face in realisation as he leapt forward, tackling his much adored deceiver to the ground. They rolled across the floor, both laughing as they mock wrestled for control until inevitably the larger Lanius pinned him down beneath his hooves. Malignus playfully thumped his victor’s chest plate. ‘You’re still an asshole’ he giggled, before reaching up and pulling Lanius into a second far more successful and impassioned kiss.

Malignus was totally content as he lounged on the rug’s soft surface, leaned up against the solid shape of Lanius at his back, both having thrown off their armour. He shuffled in place, nestling deeper into the embrace of his love’s hooves, listening to the sound of his breathing, magnified in the cooled night air. They both had barely dented the picnic, the vast majority of it still filling its disguised box, but they were both comfortably full as they lay silently, simply enjoying being together. For how long they had remained cuddling like this had been quickly lost, marked only as darkness had truly fallen and a fire had been lit, in whose warmth they now sprawled.

‘Sorry’ Lanius broke in, apologising as he ended the settled quiet, ‘but what time is it?’

‘Does it matter?’ Malignus yawned.

‘Yeah, kinda. Again I’m sorry.’

Malignus sighed, not really annoyed by the question, but rather unwilling to make the necessary movements to answer it. Despite his reluctance he sat up, reaching into his cast-off battle saddle’s pouches to withdraw an aged timepiece from within. ‘Five to ten’ he answered after quickly surveying its battered face.

‘Good’ Lanius nodded, sitting up onto his haunches.

‘Why?’

‘You’ll see’ his Caesar winked, giving a knowing smile before turning towards the horizon.

Malignus followed his gaze, returning to sitting at his side, but found nothing as he stared out into the shadows of the evening which had swallowed up every feature of the desert’s landscape. Moments passed and the nothingness persisted, leaving him at a loss for what he was trying to see. Then all at once the view exploded into brightness, the orange fire trails of rockets tearing across it and bursting into further white hot light as they hit unseen targets. Flames spread outward from these impact points climbing upwards in enormous plumes to paint the inky sky and equally dark earth below. Signal flares rose vertically to splatter a rainbow of further colours, whilst almost at the same time the sharp flashes of gunfire opened up on all sides. It was a beautifully intricate painting, formed of an ever-changing flux of chaotic brush strokes, leaving Malignus in a stupefied awe at the scene’s sheer artistry.

‘I couldn’t think what to get you’ Lanius admitted, ‘so I pushed forward our upcoming offensive so I could at the very least give you something beautiful. I’d burn the whole world just to see you smile.’

Smile Malignus did (in spite of the cringeworthy cliché), beaming broadly in the warmth of the fiery glow as his head fell to rest against his love’s shoulder, meanwhile the immense show continued to blaze before them. Having hit a particularly violent crescendo it died down into a crackle of star-like muzzle flashes, punctuating the suns of settled infernos.

‘Happy anniversario’ Lanius whispered, nuzzling against his partner.

Malignus nuzzled back and then reached back into his battle saddle, pulling out a small parcel which he proceeded to pass over.

Opening the neatly wrapped package Lanius drew out a gold pendant hung on an equally golden chain, intricate and yet at the same time robust in its construction. The charm it bore was a circular medallion in the style of a phalera honour badge, etched on the front with the words ‘Victor Cordis Mei’ and on the back with ‘Lux Mea’, both bordered by a wreath of laurels.

‘You once called me that’ Malignus explained, Lanius letting him fasten the jewellery about his neck, ‘but you’re far more deserving of the title. It’s only a small thing but I hope you like it.’

‘Thanks Spikey’ Lanius smiled, the pendant hanging at his chest where it would remain concealed against his heart beneath his armour.

They fell back into each other’s’ embrace, curling around one another as they returned to lying across the crimson rug. ‘I love you’ the pair murmured, eyes closing contentedly as their lips met, silencing the both of them once more. Nothing else mattered as they lay in the fire’s glow, alone in the desert, happily together.

Author's Note

Title: life, living, existence, way of life (Latin)

Occasus

I am a failure. This failure is absolute, crushingly obvious as I lay here, collapsed behind the front desk of what long ago was some sort of bank. The world swims through the tunnels of my helmet’s eye slits, the helm and the rest of my armour feeling strangely heavy as it ways down on me. I splutter beneath my mask, a warm dampness running down my chin to soak into the neck of my under-barding. A burst of flame flares violently beyond my shell, burning stars deep into my eyes, followed split seconds later by the winds of a dusty blast. Blinking away the lights I find myself no longer alone as a black-striped face, as grey as the smoke it emerges through, leaps into view carrying the armoured form of its owner behind it, whilst a hail of bullets fly by, ripping at the scenery all around. He lands at my side, breaths coming in ragged pants, pausing only briefly to wipe away the crimson spatters coating his visage (equally caked throughout the pointed strands of his mane), before I see his forehooves come down either side of my head. With a soft click my helmet is lifted away, fresh air rushing in to meet me and I greedily fill my exhumed lungs, although the aggressive scent of iron continues to assault my nostrils, just as it did when I was buried in my steely coffin.

‘It’s okay Lux Mea, I’m here.’

At any other time his words would have been a comfort, but now they affect me in the exact opposite. I wish he was not here, that it was I alone and that he did not follow at my side. I look at him, watching as he frantically works to apply bandages and healing powder to my flowing wounds, left exposed by tears rent in my carapace. I trace the far more imperative punctures which dot his chest plate, oozing the said same red ichor as mine, and feel helpless as I cannot tend to him. I am responsible for each of my nurse’s many injuries, which bite at me much more than my own, but am I also responsible for far more heinous crimes against him?

‘Spikey, I…’

‘Shush. Save yourself and let the powder do its work.’ He scolds me, attempting to sound jokey, but I know him well enough to hear the hint of desperation slip into his tone.

As we converse a further blast of shrapnel flies over our makeshift barricade from behind me followed by another volley of gunfire, both peppering the room’s walls beyond our position. He rears up in reply, each side of his battle saddle roaring into life: the muzzle of his cut down anti-machine rifle flashing, whilst gouts of blue fire jet from his flamethrower in a wall against the unseen enemy, its effects confirmed by an orchestra of screams. Their repost is as quick as his however and I am forced to watch as a fresh high calibre round punches through one of his spiked pauldrons, spraying out a red mist across my vision, both within and without. He collapses back down next to me, yelling against the pain and clutching his shoulder. Blood flows out from around his hoof in spite of his efforts to hold it back, pooling to mix with mine in a puddle beneath us as we sit side by side.

I am no fool; it is obvious that this is the end, a thought which inevitably brings to mind what is to be left behind. Our mantra has been to embrace a glorious death rather than fear the inevitable, but this along with everything else has been plunged into doubt. It has been a brutal existence, ever since I took up my mask and even long before that. I have survived, I have flourished and a great many have followed in my hoofsteps.

But he is one such follower.

I have stood in a world consumed by a profligate tide and I have played some small part in turning back its waves, channelling them through the Legion’s purpose into the great lakes of our centuries where each degenerate drop has been uplifted and given the chance at greatness. Have I not succeeded? As I hear his laboured breathing next to me I cannot answer that question.

‘A wise one once said: “Questions have a habit of making others”.’

The bodies of how many are on my hooves? How many settlements have I put to the sword? How much earth have I left scorched or decorated by the monuments of crucified corpses? In all cases there is too much to count. I do not feel guilt or pity in these considerations but rather wonder if it has all been worthwhile. A mark I have made for certain, but has it been a life well lived? I am respected by a chosen few, loathed by many, feared by a great many more…

My thoughts are broken as an earthen bottle is pressed to my lips, its liquid being poured down my throat. The drink is bitter causing me to cough against its passage, but I know its taste and function and he holds my head, gently rubbing my windpipe as he feeds it to me, making it go down. He is before me again and our gazes meet, the bloody gleam of his irises in beautiful antithesis to his monochrome fur, holding me reassuringly tight. I am loved by him. That is more than enough. We have smiled, we have laughed, we have fought, we have dreamt. That is what matters, all else is void. But still I am guilty for in knowing him I have lead him here.

‘I can’t stop the bleeding.’ His voice is broken as it comes to me, whilst a trickle of tears begins to run down his face.

I refuse to be motionless any longer, forcing my forehoof to rise and hold his cheek. ‘I’m sorry Spikey.’

I feel his hoof mirror mine, bringing us together until our lips then tongues collide, touch sweetening away the acrid tastes of blood and medicine. Our eyes close in our embrace, as I listen to the world around splinter further under their continued assault. All too soon he draws away, sorrow muted, becoming hardened determination. ‘Don’t you ever apologise to me again’ he says, too good at reading me, as if he sees the inner guilty conflict being waged and wishes to silence it. ‘Do not say sorry for everything I have to thank you for and all that you have given me.’ He rises again out of our shelter, shouting his battle cry as he returns fire. This time however a terrible click and an empty sputter silence his guns after a single shot from each, forcing him immediately back to the safety of the deck. Impossibly he manages a flippant shrug, carefree as he drops his empty battle saddle, seemingly only freed from its added weight. He crawls away, searching on the floor for something unknown.

Some have called me a psychopath, making those with me all sufferers of a similar madness, relegating us with the likes of raider depravity. This is false. We are the rational response to the madness of this world, sunk as it is in its dilapidation and degradation.

“’The old world died long ago.”’

By the values of the old world we are damned, but faced with the realities of this present cesspool we have snatched our own victory, creating unity and direction where there was only ash. It no longer matters if our enemies are right and we are wrong. If a new old world does really stand a chance we could have no place in such a return.

He turns back to me, returning with the Blade of the East clutched in his smiling maw. As he passes me my sword our lips meet once more and then he places a final kiss on my forehead, untroubled by the scars which mar its surface. ‘I love you Lux Mea.’ He pulls me to my hooves and then unsheathes his machete (the Liberator) from its scabbard on his discarded saddle. His cures and words have saved me, allowing me now to stand at his side. Together we leap the barrier, each with shining weapons drawn, as one as we charge defiantly from our tomb headlong into the all-consuming light of day beyond.

Author's Note

Title: sunset, setting, ruin, end, death, west (Latin)

Memoriam

A lone frumentarius slipped between sparse patches of cover, creeping from shadow to shadow unseen. Not even a crack of the night’s starry ether shone through the ever constant cloud cover of the sky, making the time perfect for his mission. His markings added further to his stealth, the black and grey stripes of his bared fur breaking up his form, left light on his hooves in the absence of his armour. Without his spiked shell though he was left exposed, the chill of the desert’s evening air running its tendrils through the pointed barbs of his mane to send shivers coursing down his spine. The cold bit deeply into the scars on his flanks, burnt tissue healed yet still tender, but these sores were secondary, relegated by the necessities of his task. In spite of all that aided him his objective was still not easy, far from it, his adversaries being numerous and vigilant in their duties. Nonetheless he pushed on, he needed to succeed.

The encampment was at rest but a long way from being asleep, with patrols regularly meandering between the uniform rows of tents and sentries to be found huddled next to every other fire. Additionally the camp was ablaze with lights, a further hindrance to his progress, crackling from piles of burning timbers or else flickering from strings of unreliable pre-war bulbs hooked up to spark batteries. From above meanwhile, in a trio of hastily constructed watchtowers, the beams of searchlights alternated between scanning their eyes over the interior and the exterior of the palisaded compound. Soft oranges and softer yellows clashed with sharp white, creating the layers of a tumultuous inferno in the streets of the canvas town.

Beautiful.

Was the task at hoof not weighing heavy upon him he may have stopped to enjoy the scene, fire having always been a source of fascination for him, which had lately developed into a deep infatuation. The way it moved as if alive, flowing like a serpent one minute and then pouncing balletic the next, ever hungry, always devouring its quarry absolutely, it was all utterly enthralling. However like any good predator in a food chain it gave back as much as it took, allowing fresh stronger growth. He pushed back these intoxicating thoughts, pressing onwards towards the centre and his far superior goal than such trifling fancies.

His consciously muted hoofsteps carried him onward, treading a carefully chosen path to his destination. He had prepared his route well, picking the choicest way through the opposition who he had studied long enough to predict, pre-emptively dodging and skirting around all he passed. Finally he stood (or rather crouched in hiding) before his target: the largest of the encampment’s tents and a ring of guards encircling its fabric walls, his greatest remaining obstacle.

Wait for it.

Trying to remain as still as possible he let the seconds drag by like days, waiting for the perfect moment to strike out. Only one miniscule gap existed in the copious security: the changing of the guard, when he would be gifted his window.

Wait for it.

The tramp of rhythmic hoof-falls, carried better in the night’s cooled air, set his body further on edge in anticipation, his muscles coiling tighter behind his fur as the front tent flap was pulled aside and the inner guard exited.

Go!

Everything was in motion, the world dissolving into a blur as he broke into a sprint, racing across the small void whilst those that opposed him exchanged command of the posting. All at once he was inside but he did not stop, fully aware that fresh bodyguards would soon enter after him. He therefore continued his silent charge, passing map and planning rooms in turn, making for the pavilion’s inner most sanctum. Even as he passed the final portal, pulling closed its flap as he went, he heard his unaware pursuers make their entrance. He allowed himself a tiny satisfied exhale. He had made it.

The room was extremely dark, especially compared to the artificially bright evening beyond it, no lights being within, but he could just make out the form of his target. The sprawled shape, lying beneath layers of blanket and furs on a wide mattress, gently rose and fell to the sound of heavy breathing. Moving by memory he stalked forward, prowling towards the sleeping figure and feeling each closed step as he dispatched it.

*Clang*

Buck!

His hoof caught against something unseen in the darkness, breaking the stillness in an instant as he heard it topple.

*Crash!*

‘My Lord?!’

Lanius raised himself to sit against the cushions of his bed and fixed the four praetorians who had hurriedly burst into his chamber with a stare. ‘Apologies amicis I must have caught it in my sleep.’ He answered their concerned looks with a gesture towards the collapsed pile of his armour rack.

His bodyguards all sighed with audible relief, making nods as they moved to clear the fallen mess.

‘No, leave it, it can wait till tomorrow.’ He waved them away towards the door again, adding: ‘right now I’m rather tired.’

‘Apologies Lord Caesar’ the group echoed as one, backing out.

It was Lanius’ turn to make a relieved sigh as he turned to the extra lump hidden rather poorly beside him in the bed. Turning onto his side he pulled back the covers and a pair of sorry blood red irises looked back at him from a grey and black striped face, an embarrassed tone playing across its cheeks. ‘Ave Spikey.’

‘Sorry’ was all Malignus could manage as he looked up into his lord’s kind emerald eyes.

‘It’s okay, this is a nice surprise’ his Caesar reassured him, extending his forehooves and pulling him up into a hug.

The smaller zebra immediately settled into the cuddle, nuzzling into the warmth of his love’s chest, enjoying the all-encompassing feeling of their embrace.

‘Or at least it’s a nicer surprise than a profligate assassin, although they tend to be quieter.’

Malignus felt himself blushing again, causing him to bury himself further into the soft field of light brown fur, hiding his humiliation, whilst hearing a low giggle rumble from his mocking pillow. He burrowed deeper, curling his hooves up between them, listening to the heart beat beneath his muzzle, letting its rhythm calm him. Now cocooned, he felt Lanius shift, then a set of lips lightly brushed against his forehead and a hoof came up to slowly caress the strands of his mane. This was his sanctuary, his Elysium, and he would have gladly remained in it forever had the same gentle hoof not moved to his chin, drawing him upward to meet his love’s brilliant green eyes once more. ‘Lux Mea’ he whispered as their lips came together in a passionately prolonged kiss.

The pair shifted position, making themselves more comfortable, Malignus rolling over on to his other side whilst Lanius pulled the covers back up around them and settled behind his partner. The zebra again felt a pair of large hooves snake around him, holding him reassuringly tight. One moved down his side from his shoulders to his barrel, stroking him in all the right ways, massaging away all his cares, tension and worries. Although all he then desired to do was to remain still he found himself wincing, a jolt of pain arcing through him as the gentle caresses caught the crossed scarring on his flank.

‘I’m so sorry’ Lanius whispered, immediately recognising his error.

Malignus shook his head not wanting his own weakness to spoil the moment, but to his dismay he felt the earth stallion at his back move, drawing back. Before he could protest however, a set of lips came to touch the tender point their owner’s hoof had grazed, kissing away the sore sting. They then moved upward in a flurry the length of his back, each one sending an electric crackle through his senses, to come to rest at his neck, which Lanius proceeded to nuzzle back into.

Sleep gradually crept up on the two stallions, Malignus completely enveloped by his Caesar’s hooves, Lanius snuggling into his frumentarius' back, but with all the ranks and trappings of the world beyond lost to each other, both content in the security of their own embrace.

Author's Note

Title: a memory (Latin)

Memoriam II

Blue plumes sliced through the air in streams, white hot at their centres, rolling and billowing in the unseen currents. Only when these rivers struck their targets did they reveal their true natures, until then merely evident in their searing heat, flaring orange against timbers which blistered and cracked as they were ignited. Napalm: the terrible raw energy of fire elevated in being made to stick fast to whatever it pounces upon so that it might dig its claws in deep, whilst also burning hotter, brighter and longer when it does so. The inferno of this superheated liquid is not a choosy eater, consuming all it bites into with neither scruples nor concerns. It does not discriminate; all is potential prey without exception in its merciless gaze. More than any mere weapon or chemical concoction it is a pure unsullied form of power, captured, contained and then released to fulfil its nature.

Similarly the cruel substance’s source, one side of a dual battle saddle, defied the title of simple weapon. From the high pressure nozzles of its triple maw with their protruding under-bite of an ignition coil, to the threatening hissing it made to sound its attack, all its elements spoke of the barely repressed creature within it. The flamethrower’s partner on the harness, a cut down anti-machine rifle, was also a fun instrument, but not quite as special. This extremely high calibre gun was a hunter’s tool, rewarding those who stalked their enemies and struck at them surgically with a bone-shattering kick of recoil and an almost certain kill. Satisfying yes, both in use and in function, the flames however held a far greater allure, radiating out from their feral strength and cleansing touch.

On any usual day this would certainly have been the case, but today Malignus felt his actions lacking, there being an emptiness in each squeeze of the mouthpiece trigger, spilling over into what would normally be the enthralling results of his efforts. The granite grey zebra stood at the centre of an inferno of his own making, showering further jets of liquid fire over the cluster of shacks which had made up a small trading township, now rapidly being unmade into a mere dark stain on the scorched earth. It of course helped little that exactly zero effort at resistance had been put up against them, making the “victory” (if it deserved that term) a rout more than a conquest. All that had been required was for them to overcome the scant circle of sentries set around the settlement, each one a mercenary whose will to fight was quickly broken with a blade placed against his throat. Such hirelings littered the wastes in droves, it being a shame that very few of them lived up to the martial and honourable standards of those like the Talons, who were worthy of respect and a joy to face on the field. Following this they had simply strode into town, receiving plea after plea for quarter to be given after but a single burst of rounds was sent skyward.

Bucking profligates!

Not only had they been lazy (leaving their entire defence to hired guns), not only had they been weak (falling to their knees unbloodied), but atop of this they had been fools, there being no better word to describe those who threw themselves to the hooves of their aggressors begging for their lives. No matter how many places were put to the sword they never seemed to get the message, there always being at least one who would try to hide himself behind a pile of caps. This could often be mildly entertaining or at the barest minimum could serve as a learning lesson to other captures when the offender was left in a bloody pulp for his transgression. They had to realise that mercy would teach them nothing, but here they had all been cut from the same frayed cloth of cowardice.

Bucking cowards!

A whole town begging, offering up the spoils of their defeat which were no longer theirs to give, there were few more pitiable sites. No “victory” here just a mercy killing, inglorious necessity, like putting down a disease-ridden animal. Still he should have felt something in his task, maybe not the rush of true battle which he relished, but at the very least a sense of some accomplishment. He enjoyed his work, took pride in it, today however these feelings were absent, leaving Malignus’ actions almost mechanical.

Bucking degenerates!

Even his loathing remained muted when it should have been aflame, there in spirit only, faced as he was with the disappointing heights of degeneracy. Part of him very much wanted to give the mercs back their weapons, allowing them the chance to fight and himself some sport, but to do so was too risky. In indulging himself he could potentially jeopardise the raid’s purpose (being one of opportunity aiming to take captures), whilst at the same time he was well aware of the source of his general melancholy and knew that breaking a few skulls would do little to lift it.

‘Beautiful work as always Decanus.’

Malignus doused the last of the buildings in sanitising flames, letting the streams of napalm come to a halt as he turned. ‘Gratias Melissa.’

The first female frumentarius, and first female legionnaire for that matter, gave a nod, the reflected gleam of dancing light playing in her brown irises, a fiery match to the dual mohicans of her mane dyed Legion red. The dark mare’s face was etched with the marks of her past successes: the scars from initiation into what was now the 89th saved tribe, those earned as a gladiator post-assimilation and a great many more running away from her visage, down her throat and beneath the plates of her armour. More so than these minor scratches however, her severed horn, willingly sacrificed, stood out between the crimson fins of her hair. She as much as any, if not more so, had earned her position, yet still it had required Malignus’ own insistence for her to be given the chance at rank, an act which had cemented their friendship. Even now she aimed higher in search of an honour name to add to her triumphs. ‘The captures are loaded up and we await only your order to move out’ she reported, gesturing back from whence she came.

‘Good, lead the way.’ He came into line beside her, retracing her previous approach through a fog of smoke.

‘Pardon me Decanus’ Melissa began whilst they walked, ‘but you don’t seem yourself.’

Crap! Is it that obvious?

‘Thank you, but I’m fine’ he managed, attempting to reset and disguise the features of his mood as he spoke. ‘What do you make of our prizes?’ he continued, deflecting.

‘A couple look like they could provide some... entertainment’ she grinned, revealing the sharpened points of her maw, ‘but the rest are pretty disappointing, probably not even fit enough to deserve collars.’ All six of Malignus’ warband had chosen to emulate his fangs by sharpening their own teeth to match them. Initially this had been against his wishes but by now he had come to accept the compliment, whilst also appreciating the brutal function and easy recognition the serrations brought them, adding to their collective fear factor. It was for this reason that he continued the cannibalism of his diet and permitted his cohort to similarly indulge themselves, for being recognised through such vices had its uses. Their purpose after all was to be a scourge, to strike terror into every profligate before the Legion proper came to a region, whilst he had realised with much relief that the old tribal identity which he bore shamefully with him in his jaws was thankfully absent in theirs.

The pair now stopped in unison, having exited the ashen shroud and ended up before a sorry gathering of shackled ponies, all chained together in rows by metal rings locked about their necks. Surrounding each of the dishevelled forms innumerable sacks sat awaiting departure, crammed with everything of value or use which could be found in the settlement, nothing being spoilt which might serve a higher purpose. Beyond the prisoners and their burdens a pair of guards stood in a cordon, an insane minority set against the crowd over which they stood sentry. It was clear for anypony to see that their attack had been more than a success, yet still Malignus felt nothing.

Isn’t absence supposed to make the heart grow fonder?

The absence had become a protracted one, with the weeks spent on campaign far in advance of the centuries feeling more akin to years. Correction: not nothing, rather what dwelt within him was an emptiness, whose source he was forced to admit to himself. It was simple: he felt alone, he missed his Lux. This overall sense of hollowness was made worse by an undercurrent of guilt, for his departure had been a marred one, leaving him both desperate for and dreading their reunion. What was depressingly stupid was that no matter how hard he tried he could not remember the source of their argument, merely that it stung, and therefore he had only himself to reproach for it. Any anger or vindication there had been had died in the distance in between them, disappearing steadily in each extinguished day and in absence there was fondness yes, but this could only be a starved longing. ‘Mars I’m so pathetic!’ he yelled silently to himself.

Malignus’ thoughts were broken at once by the burst of a signal flare shooting up into the sky from a hillside overlooking their position, a tail of yellow tinged smoke trailing in its wake.

‘Fire!’

A rank of howitzers bellowed in unison to fulfil his order, angry white plumes being flung out with their missiles. Shells screamed through the air in their arcing trajectories, detonating as they struck the far distance and created fireballs where once fortified positions had been. Gun crews immediately leapt to feed their hungry war beasts, preparing a second salvo for their invisible enemies.

‘Forward!’ he continued, adding: ‘only one shot further to support the advance.’

‘For Caesar!’ The roar went around the entire force, merging into battle cries as a red tide charged forth and the heavy guns opened fire once more.

Lanius felt the raw power of the shockwave from the shots slam into him, the cannons he stood beside on the peak being flung violently backward by the blasts. Far below the assault began in earnest, the defenders’ weapons only now finding the courage to raise their voices, as pointless as their token opposition was. This said however a greater pre-emptive bombardment would have been favourable; though as things stood this would be a good test of the centuries’ strength.

Or so you keep telling yourself.

Doubt was not something that he was used to feeling, but it had crept into his thoughts as he had continued to relentlessly drive his force onward over the past week. Although it was his Legion’s purpose to test the mettle of its members, to harden them through strife, he had to admit that the reasons for the present frantic brutality of their advance were entirely selfish as oppose to being driven by any higher principle or objective. This gave him some pause, when for example considering the forced marches required to maintain momentum, another sensation he was not at ease with. ‘Mars damn it Spikey!’ he sighed under his breath.

It’s not his fault you were an ass!

His inner voice strengthened the hammer of its self-reproach by replaying the scene of his love’s departure, now seemingly a millennia ago, the frumentarii being stood at the head of his warband as it filed through the camp’s gates. Malignus was pretty good at hiding his emotions beneath his features, but in turn Lanius had learned to read past this mask in the same way as the zebra was more than capable of looking beyond his Caesar’s own. Even in his mind’s eye he could see the hurt hidden behind those crimson irises and the fact that he himself was the cause, achieving the impossible in piercing their owner’s copiously armoured shell, stirred no small amount of regret. His forehoof came up to his chest plate behind which a small gold pendant hung against his heart.

‘My lord, a speculator with a report.’

The Caesar turned, nodding to allow the scout’s approach through his shield wall of praetorians.

‘Lord Caesar’ the Legionaire began, pulling back the dust hood of his light barding in the process, ‘we’ve located the frumentarii unit as you ordered. They’re in the midst of sacking a township about a mile further west.’

‘You’ve done well, thank you. Lucius’ Lanius continued, turning to his greying praetorian chief, ‘inform Aurelius that he has command and that I have high expectations. We will away to this settlement to establish a marching camp there.’

‘At once my lord’ the older earth stallion replied, taking his leave.

‘Should I go on ahead and inform the unit of your coming my lord?’ the speculator questioned, still in attendance.

Lanius shook his head. ‘No need, we shall surprise them. They have done well in punching so deep behind the enemy’s line and should be rewarded. You may however lead the way’ he concluded definitively, gesturing for all to set off. His brain in contrast was far less clear. Conflictingly he missed Malignus deeply, foalish though that sounded bearing in mind it had only been a few weeks, and at the same time, even more foalishly, he was at a loss as to what to say when they were reunited.

‘Don’t any of you dare move a muscle!’ Melissa yelled, bearing her fangs as she audibly cycled the ammunition in her battle saddle. 'Unless of course you’ve developed a sudden predilection for having your insides shredded by hollow points!’ She grinned, levelling her machineguns at the nearest of the crowded prisoners made hopeful by the sudden flare, her fellow guards following suit.

‘Scrambler, report’ Malignus bluntly ordered, addressing the fast approaching frumentarius who had been acting as message runner to their picket line.

‘Chill out Malignus, it’s all cool’ the dark blue ex-ganger replied flippantly with a wave of his blade-laden hoof.

‘And the flare’ the decanus continued through gritted teeth. The other frumentarius was a psychotic fighter in spite of having lost an eye (revelling in artfully vicious melee so much so as to deny firearms in favour of barbs and spikes covering his armour and a belt of assorted sadistic implements bound around his barrel). This explained his survival to flourish in the Legion when the rest of his kin faced a fate on crosses for their degeneracy, but on occasion his slipping into informality was a considerable annoyance to say the least.

‘Don’t worry, it’s not a counter attack if that’s what you’re thinking’ Scrambler persisted coolly, gaze turning absently towards the cowering shapes of the captives to gleam as he fondled one of the wicked knives on his well-stocked bandolier with a forehoof. ‘There’s a column coming up the road, so it looks like the centuries have caught up with us.’

Malignus paused a moment in consideration before he spoke again. ‘Okay go tell the others to come and assemble here. We’ll turn over this lot and any of the loot we can’t make use of to the main force, make camp here, restock from the supply train and probably head out again tomorrow if our orders are unchanged. Also everypony smarten yourselves up, let's show the legionnaires what the elite look like’ he added with a smile, receiving affirmative nods.

Having set his warband to their purposes Malignus occupied himself with the task of straightening his own appearance, keeping one eye expectantly on the road. Ultimately in doing so he aimed to distract himself from a fresh wave of apprehension working its way through him, after all wherever the frontline had moved Lanius was bound to be not too far behind.

‘Saluto Caesar!’

Lanius stood tall before a row of frumentarii, receiving their salute with left forehooves raised. His gaze however (hidden beneath the metallic face of his horned helm) only had eyes for the unit’s decanus, whose crimson irises similarly remained locked with his. There were few things he hated more than this: having to play the part of lord and master to Malignus’ dutiful servant, both roles seeming as simply wrong as they were synthetic. Necessity be damned, he loathed having to bend to the expectations of others, whilst at the same time forcing his love to bow. Right now this dislike was raised to new heights by the unspoken tension which he could sense hung between them, creating a great want to cast aside the barrier of rank and to throw of his reinforced steel disguise. The fact that their separation felt so prolonged made the fact that they remained held apart in such close proximity almost unbearable, it taking an extreme level of effort to maintain his act. ‘You have all done well’ Lanius began in his imperious tone, addressing the assembled multitude. ‘Your achievements speak for themselves’ he continued, passing a hoof over the piled takings of the surrounding conquest and many previous, ‘and should be more than enough to silence those few tongues which once foalishly cast doubt on some of your unit’s number. Tonight we shall celebrate both our victories won today in the field and yours.’

‘Gratias Lord Caesar!’ the frumentarii chorused together.

‘Later we shall feast and you shall be guests of honour, but for now you are dismissed. Lucius, you shall attend to preparations’ the Caesar concluded to his chief praetorian as all others went to work preparing the camp and the evening’s celebration.

Now, that should create at least a modicum of space.

‘Malignus!’ Lanius called out, having to draw the façade of command back into his voice on realising that the dark zebra was departing with all the rest. ‘I would like to hear your report in full. I’ve always appreciated your preferred medium, so let’s take a walk through your latest masterpiece.’

Malignus fell into step beside his Caesar as the taller earth stallion set off at a stride into the remnants of the carnage wrought earlier that day. The fires still engulfed much of the town (having been left to their own purposes) and burned brightly all around, creating a darkened cloud hanging like fog in the air. His heart meanwhile kicked up its tempo as if in preparation for battle, his mind reverting to autopilot, unsure of how to proceed. He walked a respectful half step behind the one he followed, keeping his gaze mostly downward and ahead, snatching only glances at the steely carapaced form which concealed his love within. So focused was he on everything else that it took him several moments to notice that his partner had in fact stopped and turned to face him. This mild surprise then became full blown shock as Lanius’ forehoof came up to lift off his helmet. ‘What are you doing?’ Malignus questioned in an alarmed tone, immediately leaping forward to prevent the action. The two of them became frozen, one with helm part way off revealing only the bottom half of his face, whilst the other clutched the cheek of this headgear.

‘It’s okay’ the set of lips now set beneath the fringe of a metal beard reassured him, ‘there’s nopony around.’

The frumentarius’ gaze went to his surroundings and realised they were now stood within the burnt out husk of a building, what remained of its walls lightly smouldering on all sides, and beyond this there was only a swirling blanket of a thick smoky haze. Lanius finished removing his helmet, the forehoof which had prevented it ceasing its resistance but not letting him go, instead falling to rest against his shoulder. Malignus’ eyes now returned, passing upward over the scar-crossed visage of light brown fur, tracing each long healed mark with comforting familiarity. Further reassured when he counted no new war wounds amongst them, he came to rest on the green fields of two emerald irises which came up to meet him. He was not greeted with the face that he longed to see, but rather its caricature, drawn darkened with an insecurity just visible beneath the surface, which he knew was likely a mirror image of his own.

Silence extended between them, each aware of and desperate to overcome the hurdle of an angered past for which both felt the guilt of responsibility. ‘I’m sorry’ they each said in unison, ears falling flat and eyes hitting the charred floor, whilst a pink tinge flared across their cheeks as they heard their partner speak. ‘No, I’m sorry.’ Again they spoke in mimicry and burned with embarrassment for it, then quiet once more.

It was in the midst of this fresh absence that Malignus remembered his forehoof, still laid on Lanius’ shoulder, his gaze finding the courage to excavate itself and look back on his saddened opposite. The sight hurt, converting all thoughts to simply a desire to fix it, to make everything better. He closed the distance, rising to his hind hooves as he wrapped both forelimbs tight around the taller stallion’s neck, feeling Lanius respond in kind. They each now stood upright, supporting one another in their shared embrace, both holding and being held.

‘About what I said…’ Lanius began in a whisper as he nuzzled lightly into Malignus’ neck.

‘Forget it’ the zebra responded, drawing back to counter the words, before returning to steal a kiss from the lips that spoke them. This first tender touch begot others, making their voices void, unnecessary as each feathery caress conveyed far better their apologies, acceptance and affections.

‘Lord Caesar?’

They both flinched at the questioning speech, the syllables intruding on them through the mist. In spite of this they resisted the tacit call for them to part, hanging on to one another and their stolen moment.

‘Lord Caesar?!’

The words sounded closer now, forcing them reluctantly to acquiesce to their demand, Malignus laying a final kiss on his Caesar’s cheek as he helped the taller stallion back on with his helmet.

‘Thanks Spikey.’ Lanius’ voice came low, slightly muffled by the return of his helm, but nonetheless it was warm and honest, so unlike that of his public self. By now the smoke had begun to thin somewhat in places, a light evening breeze beginning to break cracks in its curtain. They remained alone unfound but this could only remain so for so much longer. ‘I’ve given instructions for my tent to be placed up there’ he continued, pointing towards a ridge set in the hills above the town, a smile detectable in his tone even though it was hidden. ‘I’ll be expecting you.’

Malignus followed the path of the directing hoof to a solitary peak bounded on most sides by steep slopes of baked orange dirt. ‘You never make it easy do you!’ he responded in mock exasperation at the challenge that had been set.

The two of them fell to sitting side by side, the embers of the surrounding ruin dancing around them, glowing bright against the burnt haze which still lingered thickly. Lanius shuffled closer, running undaunted the risk of discovery as he wrapped a forehoof around his much missed frumentarius' shoulders, Malignus snuggling into it, letting his head come to rest against his Lux. They looked outward, happily indulging for a few moments more as they watched the sun slip away over the western horizon, heralding the coming of the night.

Memoriam III

Deep breath in, slow breath out.

A dark black cross cut through the world, quartering its image. These severed pieces were all dirt and dust, reddish clouds swirling up from the burnt earth, what scant punctuating vegetation there was providing no protection against the heat. Charred, picked clean and empty, it was well befitting of the title of ‘wasteland’.

Breath in, breath out, and repeat.

His movements were slow, considered, creeping infinitesimally forward, so as not to draw any passing eye. He therefore crawled, baking beneath a dense net of camouflage, flattened on his stomach against the hot ground. Internally meanwhile he winced at every harsh scratch and scrape of his armoured form against the jagged floor, along with the occasional metallic clink from his saddlebags, both sounds seeming loud beyond measure.

Breathe in, breathe out.

Little by little he came to the edge of the rise, his forehooves reading what his eyes could not: the disappearance of the path into a sheer precipice before him. His vision was elsewhere as he settled on the cliff face, sweeping across the ruptured landscape of fissures and ravines (not all of the craters having natural origins), landing on the single feature of any interest in the emptiness. Like some cancerous taint-filled growth a town rose out of the copper coloured dirt on the horizon. His sight briefly blurred, zooming in on impulse.

Remain calm. Breathe in and breathe out.

He did his best to obey the serene words, tightly regulating his breathing even as his inner tension grew in intensity. So far the heady thrill of anticipation remained his most resistant adversary, although in truth he probably enjoyed it far too much to effectively combat it. Why draw up battle lines against one of life’s few unadulterated pleasures? The hunt had few rivals in this regard, different to the quiet satisfaction which came from planning or manipulation, second only to the pure euphoria of the main event.

Calm. Remember that you are the predator here; you are in control.

Herein perhaps was the reason of it all. He had been cattle, he had been prey, but having risen beyond these fetters he revelled in his antithesis. Or perhaps he was afraid, scared of any retrograde step. He knew where he came from and from there he drew his hate, his past wretchedness granting him direction, but beneath this was there fear?

His bisected vision filled with only his target, casting his bloody gaze throughout its streets and buildings. Their timing could not have been more perfect: it was market day. This swollen abscess of a settlement therefore teamed with “life” (or rather the meaningless form of existence which many mistook for life), its rusting arteries clogged with a mass of ponies. From the youngest to the oldest, all looked the same in his eyes. In a flurry of chaotic movements wares and caps exchanged hooves, all conducted to an orchestra of competitive bleating. On each passing face, momentarily illuminated in his crosshairs, there was a hunger, a desperate want of sustenance. At the back of their irises he could see it: a collective void, for which they all bade for a filling anything, pitiable to behold. Except that he did not pity; he could only loath.

Theirs was not the only hunger however, his own roaring just as loudly, bearing its fangs as his scope alighted on each fresh visage. His at least could be satiated (at least for a little while), although like theirs it lacked a living cure. It was almost too tempting, requiring only a simple squeeze of the trigger gripped in his jaws to be granted relief. His mouth curled up around the bit into a broad fanged grin. Such a small action with so great a reward and…

Any and all focus was instantly shattered as a tongue ran its way in a slow teasing lick up the back of his ear.

‘Buck off!’ a surprised Malignus just about managed to mutter through gritted teeth, majorly hindered by the battle saddle in their grip, only barely refraining from jumpily firing the weapon.

‘Is that any way to address your Caesar?’ The whispered words were soft and playful, much like the touch which preceded them, and in this totally at odds with their speaker.

‘Cut it out.’ Again the frumentarius struggled, his voice fighting through a giggle, tickled as a set of lips moved to kissing his neck.

‘Consider it training’ his attacker continued in between further defiant kisses.

‘How exactly is d-distracting me supposed to be helpful?’

‘A legionary cannot become complacent.’ The answer was only jokingly serious, its mock solemnity evident in a smiling undercurrent to its base tones, toying with him. ‘His senses and nature must be constantly sharpened to tackle any obstacle, no matter its surprise or source. In this way he is tested in both body and will in order to grow great.’

Malignus’ task of scouting had quickly become a losing battle, utterly unable to keep up his concentration under the barrage of affectionate attentions. In a last vain attempt at composure his mind registered, with some satisfaction, the crowd of emaciated figures huddled around the town’s clinic. A few of the refugees he recognised, having “charitably” furnished them in flight with supplies positively glowing with radiation, a plan which had obviously been effective beyond its limited malicious aims. Then he was reminded again of his Lux at his side, the pale brown earth stallion’s warm breath and whispered words playing at his ear. To this he had no defence as it irresistibly pulled him from his scope, immediately falling victim to the gleaming emerald eyes which waited for him in ambush.

Lanius’ capacity to sneak up on him (or in fact to be stealthy at all bearing in mind his Caesar’s hulking armoured frame) would always be a surprise. Then again though, most others would likely be more surprised at the ‘Monster of the East’s’ tenderness as opposed to his sneaky approach. Like the unmasked and scar marred visage now before Malignus, the granite grey zebra foalishly clung to these unique views of the other stallion that only he could claim. The horned helm which the world normally saw instead and rightly feared lay discarded on the floor alongside the frumentarius’ own.

There was quiet between the two of them, not a void, rather nothing needed to be said. Malignus simply gazed, silenced. He was Legion, he had been of the dissolute, he had been made frumentarii and then raised to decanus. With all these chains at his back (all of which he was proud to bear) the hunter would never admit it openly, but he was still prey. He had long ago fallen victim to his tall dark predator’s soothing voice, warm smiles and soft caresses. Now he was tightly and inescapably bound, but in this he was far from fettered. His bindings were truly enveloping. In them however he could soar, loosed with direction against the world, aflame, whilst beneath him he was supported by an adamantine foundation. The central pillar of this was set beside him, with whom he needed no disguise and from which he demanded none; somepony who somehow brought him contentment, silencing his bloody hunger.

A vast part of Malignus hoped that some small part of this, as well as his intense accompanying gratitude, was conveyed in his enraptured gazing. Keeping his saddle’s bit in his maw he closed the slight distance with his partner, meanwhile he cycled his rifle’s ammo selector to high explosive. As their lips came together he squeezed the trigger, sending a single round tearing through the arid air. Unseen to either of them, both distracted with eyes contentedly closed, the bullet struck the clinic’s sign, exploding like an airburst in an eruption of flame. They remained carelessly locked as one and his gun continued to thunder, flaying apart far off flesh and bone in a storm of vicious shrapnel.