Under Luna's Moon: A Collection of Pony Tales

There was a time, before the twisted reflection staring back at her, reminded her of how far she had let herself become comfortable with the way the world had become. The things she did now, she would never do as the pony she was before during those days of innocence.

Innocence - if there ever was such a time, it had long since past. Even if she had lived during such, her innocence had begun to fade before the time of her commitment to the path she had now chosen. When she had taken that first life, she had let go of whatever remaining innocence she clung to - forever.

They say, the first time was the hardest. That part, Summer agreed with. The first time she had killed some pony, was the hardest, but she never agreed that each kill afterward got any easier - not on the inside at least.

It had taken much practice hiding the hurt on the outside from everypony, but the wear on her soul took its toll and each time a target she aimed at never stood back up again, was one more weight that crushed her soul.

She had killed more ponies and other creatures than she had ever dreamed or thought possible of herself. So much so that she doubt the average pony had even killed as many. Death had made her its tool and in the end she had become the Prairie Queen because of it.

Even the first time, she never wanted to kill, but the world of today, didn’t give second chances lightly or at all. It was kill or be killed. Live or die. Survive or perish. There was no middle ground and the new darkness within her feed on that reasoning. If she let him go, he’d just kill her or he’d come back with reinforcements. Who knows what they’d do to her then. After all that’s what happened to her neighbors. She couldn't’ let him go and so - so she had to.

She killed him.

Life was not fair and very much cruel, especially to a lonely pony who had to watch her mother fade into the grave. Any pony or creature that believed it to be otherwise was a fool.

She never knew his name. He made sure it went to the grave with him, but that had not deterred her. Why she had ventured to know, only she could fathom the reason. In the end she had found his family. What was left of them.

She could still remember their bodies, more bone than meat. What the carrion eaters hadn’t taken, the bugs feasted happily upon. What she remembered most was the smell of overpowering rot that kept her visit short and sweet. Those days, she did not scavenge as she did now. Even with the foul smell, she would have stripped the house clean of any valuables and then some.

That smell - only time allowed her to escape the memory of that stench. What she couldn’t escape was his face. His blood beaten face. By the Elysium Fields! Why didn’t she just shoot him!

Young fool that she was, she smashed in his face in as though it was a better death for him and her soul! No wonder he would appear at the most random of moments to torment her and each time he would moan: “My family - you killed my family! They starved, because I was not there! Why wasn’t I there!” Then his voice would pause allowing it to sink in. “Because, you killed me! You beat me to death like some animal!”

She had broken down with each appearance. There was no escaping what was now part of herself. Over and over she would weep and ask for forgiveness, but none would come. If anything, the image would appear again and condemn her more so for even asking for such. She had even thought about ending her own life, but by then she had met Obsidian.

As time progressed and the more victims had fallen to her rifle, the horror had eased. The image that had so frivolously haunted her, rarely appeared. When it did, it did not speak to her. No, that time had past. It was now her time.

“You killed your family.,” she would tell the face. “They starved because of you! Because, you tried to kill me! Because, I killed you first. Don’t blame me for your failures!”

She had embraced the monster of necessity and in time the good part of her was buried deep within, but not forgotten. It waited patiently, like a caged animal, for that moment to strike. In those moments that it would, any who’d pass by as she slept could hear her speak: “Why won’t you let me forgive myself.”

This night, her rifle snapped-to at the ready, she felt the ease of control between that which lived and that which died as she ran towards the commotion. She had gotten very familiar with that feeling. Using the rifle without hesitation was like a normal movement of her body. There were no second thoughts. Just the motions of the rifle firing and the target falling.

As she looked down the iron sights, her target stood accurate and clear. Her heart eased, her breathing relaxed. As the axe of the pony lifted to the sky for the last time, she took the moment for her own and in a quick movement of her jaw the rifle discharged with the sound of thunder following behind. The axe fell and the pony with it.

Another weight to the pile of souls, another body for the dirt to collect, another reminder to herself of how easy it had become to ignore the days of innocence.