Guilt

by The Cyan Recluse

Rating: teen
Tags: My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic, Sad
Length: 1010

In an empty dive bar at the edge of Canterlot sits a mare and a long line of empty shot glasses.

In an empty dive bar at the edge of Canterlot sits a tired, battered mare and a long line of empty shot glasses. Everypony says it wasn't her fault. They say that sometimes bad things just happen. They say all sorts of things. Maybe they even believe it.

But what do they know?

They weren't there.

Placed seventeenth in the March 2016 Write-Off Event: It's Your Funeral.

Published 2016-04-16 22:50:01 UTC
Last updated 2016-04-16 22:50:01 UTC

Guilt

The cheap rotgut whiskey burned like fire all the way down, and the mare savored the sensation of heat.

It was the only warmth she could feel anymore.

“Bartender! Another shot!” She slammed the empty glass onto the bar beside its numerous siblings, and her hoof barely shook. Once upon a time she would have taken pride in that fact.

Pride. Ha.

The bartender, a rough looking brown stallion, gave her a hard look before pouring her another shot without a word. Which was just fine with her. Silence and alcohol were what she craved.

Enough alcohol might even silence the memories looping in her head.

“I don’t know boss. Shouldn’t we wait for the rest of the team?”

“There’s no time for that! Get your rear in gear and follow me in!”

The bar was a bit of a dive. Grungy, dimly lit, and sparsely populated. She’d had a long, painful walk getting this far out on the fringes of Canterlot. The doctors would probably be pissed at her for straining herself. They wouldn’t be too pleased with the drinking either. Well, to Tatarus with them.

It’s not like she ever listened to advice anyway.

“Let’s hit it from the East! If we drop the pressure there, we can divert the path...”

“Not enough! They’ll still get wrecked! We need to push at the core! Follow me in!”

Damned doctors hadn’t wanted to let her out today in the first place. As if they could stop her from attending. Her partner deserved that much from her. Deserved a lot more than that, no matter what everypony else told her.

“This is too much for just the two of us, Captain!”

It was the truth, and she knew it. But it was too late. They were committed now. She had committed them.

“Shut up and keep up! We’re going deeper!”

The dim lighting went a long way towards hiding her injuries. The dark bruises, the missing feathers and patches of bare skin. Her uniform had done a better job of course, but she’d ditched it right after the ceremony. She didn’t want to stand out. Didn’t want to attract attention. Didn’t want to deal with ponies offering their condolences. Their sympathy. Or worse, their accolades!

She couldn’t stand one more pony telling her it wasn’t her fault.

“We’re in too deep!”

“Just keep it together, damnit!”

The Everfree forest was unpredictable and uncontrollable. A reminder that ponies would never truly master Mother Nature. It was an untamed place. A place filled with monsters. Not just of flesh and blood and bone, but also of wind and water and wild, unpredictable weather.

And sometimes those monsters slipped out.

They’d done it. It had taken every erg of wingpower they had, but they’d diverted the rogue cyclone. It had been a close run thing, but the disabled passenger airship would survive. The passengers would have a rough time of it, with the storm passing by so closely. But the ponies on board were unlikely to suffer more than a few bruises.

The same could not be said for the pair of Wonderbolts.

Sometimes, bad things just happen, the shrinks told her. As if she needed to be reminded of that fact. She was Captain of the Wonderbolts! She knew that sometimes bad things happened! That sometimes events were beyond the control of mere mortal ponies, and that such things weren't anypony's fault!

Just like she knew that it was the job of the Wonderbolts to stand between other ponies and those bad things.

Just like she knew that as their Captain, it was her job to stand between her ponies and those same bad things.

It was like being in Tartatus.

The cyclone was a living, breathing thing. A beast of air and lightening and rage. Their efforts had denied it its chosen prey. And now it was unleashing its anger upon the pegasi trapped within its heart.

She was their Captain. They gave her their loyalty and their obedience. And in return she accepted responsibility. She was responsible for them. For everything they did, for everything they said. For every success and every failure. She was responsible for making sure they were ready, willing, and able to complete any mission handed to them.

And she was responsible for making sure that they returned from those missions alive and well.

It was her responsibility. Nopony elses.

The wind screamed and howled, crying out for their blood. Fur and feathers were stripped away by the wind sheer. They were in too deep to climb out. Too tired to ride it out. Too far from help to expect rescue.

She looked back at her wingpony, and saw her own expression mirrored back at her.

Fear. Despair.

Acceptance.

She never saw the tree branch that struck her.

They said she’d made the right decision. They said her actions had saved hundreds of lives. They said it wasn’t her fault. Said it was a miracle that she had even survived. Said she was a hero.

Another line of fire traced its way down her throat. Another shotglass slammed onto the bar.

What did they know?

“Bartender! Another!”

The crusty old stallion looked at her, then down at the line of empty glasses. It wasn’t a short line. And she had every intention of making it grow far longer before her teammates found her.

“I think you’ve had enough ma’am.”

Spitfire narrowed her eyes and glared. She spoke slowly, her voice as cold as a glacier, clearly enunciating each syllable.

“Another. Shot. Bartender.”

After a few seconds the bartender squirmed, then looked away.

“Fine. Whatever you say ma’am. It’s your funeral.” He grumbled, setting another shot before the mare.

“No it’s not.” Spitfire growled, snatching up the glass. She tried not to remember the peaceful look on Soarin’s face as he lay there in the casket. Tried not to remember the look of fear when she’d last seen him alive.

“But it should have been.”

Even the burn of alcohol felt as cold as ice.