My teeth chatter against themselves. I lost control of my jaw's shivering long ago. I barely have control over any other aspect of my body.
My hooves, despite my socks and boots, are numb.
My muzzle, despite being hidden away beneath a dark blue scarf, sends me no feeling.
My breaths place dew upon the fabric, and that dew freezes before I can breathe another breath.
The wool covers over my thin, membranous wings barely do anything against the cold.
It is not windy. It is not raining, hailing, or sleeting, but gently snowing. The weather is calm, but so harsh. The tranquility it brings offers no peace in my mind, nor the minds of my comrades.
I draw my gaze over to three huddled Royal Infantry, their gold armor hidden away beneath thick, wet blankets, and their helmets replaced by wool hats.
I look up to that tranquil sky of dark clouds. My Highness's moon does not shine through them. Nothing but a featureless blanket of deep gray.
What little light can be gathered by my slit pupils allows me to see around my trench. There is no sound. My sensitive ears only pick up my own heartbeat and the low roar of my own existence.
How can silence be so loud?
The crack of cannons, rifles, and pistols is quieter than this silence.
Since sundown, the guns have been quiet.
My frozen rifle lays across my slouched figure, and I meddle with the bolt. I press down on the stock to hold it tight as I slam my hoof up on the frozen bolt, and it is freed from its icy shackles.
I slide the bolt back only a little to prevent the clean brass cartridge from shooting across the trench into the mud.
I close the bolt and stare at the rifle.
It is so much warmer when I am shooting. The bangs of powder, the heat of my comrade's muzzle blasts, the flashes of cannons. They remind me of a fireplace.
I imagine staring into a fireplace. The little pops of moisture begin quietly, yet grow and grow in intensity. I hear the rifles and cannons once more. I blink.
Slowly, I lean up, peering across the pure darkness at the direction I remember the enemy being in. During the day, the Griffon war flag waves proudly as ours does, the two pieces of fabric seeming to taunt each other.
Now, I cannot see it. Their torches are long extinguished, as are ours.
I look over to see one of my fellow Lunar Infantryponies, scanning intently with his scoped rifle.
I wish I had a scope.
I watch as he ducks back down, shakily wiping frost from the forward lens. He resumes.
I would tell him such a search is futile, but he is keeping himself busy. Best to leave it alone.
I close my eyes, not to shield my brain from the war around me, but to rest. I try to think of warmth.
I try to think of the family I am fighting for. I think that I am doing good by being here. I am cold, so they can be warm.
I force images of my living room into my mind. I see my fireplace. I see my wife. Her smile brings more warmth than the fire ever could.
I imagine waking up tomorrow morning, not in my fighting hole, but my bed. Beside my wife.
We go down and open presents with our son.
I don't know what he wants this year.
I shiver as a tiny breeze breaks through my padded armor. That breeze blew away my thoughts and placed me back where I was.
I hear a whistle; not our Officer's call to open fire, but a tune-like whistle formed by the mouth.
I open my eyes. I see her. She stands in the open, at the opposite end of the trench. Her white coat stands out against everything. Her angelic mane flows with color and light.
She wears no armor. She bares no sword, shield, staff, or rifle. Only her temple is fitted with her gleaming, jewel-encrusted crown.
The crown I fight for. The crown I tell myself I fight for.
She smiles at me, then draws her gaze to those around me. I do the same, seeing that I am not the only one who sees our Highness.
She unfurls her pure wings, her feathers barely making a sound as she brings herself across the trench.
I watch as her sun-like aurora of magic pierces the night. That blinding light. The sun itself stands upon the fringe of our trench, and with her magic, she gently pulls our flag from the frozen earth.
In her magic, I can see it; a flag split in two, one side white, one side blue. In the middle, a sun surrounded by a crescent moon.
She looks at me and my comrades as she treads towards the enemy trench.
She walks alone across the no-pony's land.
I feel a jolt of adrenalin as I sit up and draw my rifle to my hooves. I stand on my hind legs, dropping my chest onto the edge of the trench. I shoulder my rifle and wrap its sling firmly around one hoof, placing the other on the trigger.
I watch for flashes. I listen for cracks. Still, her Highness continues on. I ready a scream in my throat. My mind flashes with the image of my Princess being struck by a round. I throw it away, shaking my head and continuing to scan.
I know not if my iron sights are aligned, but by Celestia's will, I hope they are. Once more, I watch for flashes.
If they are stupid enough to strike her down, then I, nay, we shall fight until the very last one of us draws that terminal breath.
She knows this. In the middle of the land, far from our eyes, she stops.
She plants our flag there, and continues. She keeps her horn ignited with the brightness of the sun itself.
The silence has never been louder.
We all watch her, and we watch the place we know the Griffon trench to be. We wait. We wait for them to react.
I continue to run the scene through my head. I picture myself screaming, jumping from the trench and affixing my bayonet.
Seconds feel like years as she stops before their flag. She looks around, her horn's light casting into the enemy trench. I can see Griffons. I can see their eyes peering at her.
I can't see the details.
I wish I had a scope.
However; I see her smile. She turns, draws their flag into her magic, and continues on towards ours.
With her back turned, with her face still holding a smile, she moves away from the enemy.
Still, they do not strike. They are as we are; motionless. Soundless. Thoughtless.
Confused out of their wits.
She plants their flag before ours. In her divine light, I see the two hanging fabric banners. Side by side.
Maybe as they should be.
Her eyes move from our trench to theirs. She does not speak, but every soul knew what she said.
I look to my left and right to see the silhouettes of my comrades stand. Some sling their rifles over their necks, others simply leave theirs behind.
I follow. I bring my rifle around my armored, heavily clothed figure and climb from the trench.
Together we match forward. Not to claim lives. Not to claim land. Not to claim fame, wealth, glory, or death.
Together we match forward to claim... something.
I don't quite know what it is yet.
No pony does. I look at the expressions of those nearest to me, and they are as mine is. Shock.
Not shock. Bewilderment. Shock comes from trauma. Shock comes from artillery landing.
This is not shock.
Together, we make it to her light. Her divine light. It causes the eyes of the approaching Griffons to glimmer in the darkness.
As I stand only several hoof lengths from her Highness, I see, through her light, a Griffon.
He looks at me and no pony else.
In his eyes, I see things I don't understand. I cannot read what he feels.
What does he see in mine?
As I stare, I feel as if I have known this fellow for years. I feel a bond with him, one I did not forge.
The bond formed between enemies.
The bond formed by leaders shouting and declaring war.
Yet here stands my leader. Not fighting. Not yelling. Not killing, maiming, or destroying as we have done.
She stands pure. Absolute. She stands as an equal to us. She stands as an equal to the enemy.
I was enlisted, and I told myself I fought for her. I watched my friends perish, and I told myself I fought for them. I read a letter from my wife and son, and I told myself I fought for them.
What do I fight for now?
I am startled as her Highness' divine light calls into the aether and brings forth a fine stack of freshly chopped logs. She lowers them to the snow, and as she releases them, the stack stays still.
She looks at me. She looks at all of us. Her light begins working within the stack, and a small flame sprouts from between the logs.
I watch as it grows. She watches as it grows.
Slowly, those distant from me begin drawing close, pony and griffon alike.
Together, we gather around this burning pile of wood.
The fire blazes on and on, melting away the frost covering me.
We all draw closer. From the corner of my eye, I see her smile widen. She looks over me and my comrades, then over our enemy.
I look past the flames to see that Griffon again. He looks up to meet my gaze.
I watch as he looks to her Highness, and she looks to him.
Through her gaze, she speaks to him. She says so many things.
Though, not a single soul has spoken. We could all speak, oh so loudly. We choose not to. The enemy chooses not to. We know that speaking is to break what her Highness has created. Speaking now would be a greater crime than killing her Highness herself.
Suddenly, I feel something I have not felt in a long time. I feel warm. I turn myself, letting the fire warm other parts of me.
The Griffon is doing the same. His wing is spread to allow the warmth to enter his feathers.
I remove the wool cover from my wing and do the same. That blinding light pierces through my fleshy wing. It brings such warmth...
Our two sides remain motionless. Not a soul dare move. Even her Highness dares not move. We all stand, pressed against one another, warming from the fire.
I hear a strange sound, and look up to see that Griffon with his head hung low. I see his body shivering not from the cold, but from his tears.
Quietly, he weeps.
I too want to weep, but something prevents me. Something prevents me from acting at all.
I know well what prevents me from acting. I look to her Highness, and after a time, she shares my gaze.
Her lips may form a smile, but in her eyes, I see something that terrifies me. I see anguish.
Anguish that we may suffer for her. Anguish the enemy must suffer against her.
Her eyes come away from mine, and her wings spread. She lifts from the snow, over our formation, and to the ground behind us.
Every eye watched as she went back towards out trench. Slowly, her mane fades away. That rainbow glow joins with the void of the night. Her white coat no longer shines as the moon does. Her eyes no longer sing to me.
I turn back to my comrades and enemy, and our collective shares a glance.
We know not what we saw, how we saw it, or why.
But we knew we saw it.
We knew we saw her.
I look back to the Griffons, and they look back to us. On our sides, we still stand. Our flags still separate our lines.
However, we are not separate.
No hooves go for rifles. No talons grasp for the handles of daggers. No horns cast searing bolts of magic.
We all simply stand.
In harmony.
Author's Note
This, for me, was extremely experimental. I've never written anything heavily about war. I've never written anything with 0 dialogue. I've never written anything in first person.
Guess I can cross all that off the list of to-dos.
