Hang

by AShadowOfCygnus

Rating: teen
Tags: Princess Celestia, My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic, Dark, Other, Princess Luna, Drama, Tragedy
Length: 1223

A Pegasus warrior of old transcribes her final thoughts the night before she is to be hanged.

Recent archaeological expeditions to far-flung corners of the Old Kingdoms have revealed a wealth of pre-Celestian artefacts, dating as far back as the Hearthfire Wars. These artefacts shed a light on an era we of contemporary Equestria really know very little about, and the stories they share range from the highest court intrigues to the humblest backwater folktales.

This account, found engraved in the wall of an old Pegasi garrison known as the Eastmarch, relates the final night of a condemned mare, in one of the last wars of the pre-Celestian era. It has been translated for the benefit of the modern reader.

Pre-read by the inimitable Admiral Biscuit.
And now with a reading from resident crooner Illya Leonov.

Reviewed by Seattle's Angels,13 January 2018

Published 2017-03-12 22:10:01 UTC
Last updated 2017-03-12 22:10:01 UTC

Hang

I am not good with words. But they gave me the burin when I asked, so I should try.

Tomorrow, I am to die. They say it is for treason. They say it is for slaying a soldier-brother. He was no brother of mine.

But still they say I am to die.

I have seen many drumheads. No-one is ever innocent if one is called. We make the great circle of the sky, and stamp our hooves and beat our wings, and thunder follows. The accused faces the winds of his fellows. The major-legate sits in centre, weighs and judges. Their eyes always seem tired. Mine was no different.

I have seen many hangings. The gallows have not come down in months. They say it nicely: 'until the wingbeats cool with the heart's'. It is not so nice. I have seen many hangings. They cut the wing-cords so you cannot fly, just flap. I am never sure if they want that, to have us see sad pigeons flapping against the rope where Pegasi once soared. It is the same in the end. They wait until the tongue hangs out, and wings break for trying, and the shit streams down the leg, until

I must stop this.

I must gather myself. I do not want them to think I am afraid. I do not want them to think I have repented. Even if

No. I will write. I will try.

There have been many drumheads. Soldier-siblings steal food. They lose hooves or teeth. Some among the young desert, try to go home to their brood. They hang. Some among the old lay down spear and shield and wing-blade and refuse to fight any more. They hang too, where once they were given a warrior's death. And so many, so so many fight amongst themselves as bellies ache and wounds fester and the war goes sour. When somepony dies, somepony hangs. It is weekly. It is commonplace.

It is strange that I feel special.

She was small. So small. Barely past her first rutting. Foal enough to remind me of mine, mare enough to remind me of Procella. Horse this child may have been. Horn, even. It did not matter. I could not leave her.

I was tending fire with Tacitus, my second, when we heard the screams. Every soldier-sibling jumped at it. We thought it an attack.

We flew to the site. She was there. Belua and a dozen other brutes ringed her -- unsheathed, stinking. Some said later it was cloudwine; others the feral-blood. It did not matter then. It does not matter now.

Everything is clear as it was then.

She is mine, says Belua. She is of the Horse. She bears shields for their warriors. I slew her master, and she is mine.

Cries of admiration. He killed a Horse. He won a fine trophy. Keep her.

Cries of anger. He killed an ally. The Horse would revenge. Return her.

I am not young. Young enough to slice the skies, old enough to command respect. I am heard when I speak. I speak, and the cries are silent.

Belua, I call him. This cannot stand. You must return her to the Horse.

Away, mare, says Belua. Away, cunt. She is not yours to win. Not yours to choose.

Belua, I say. She is of the Horse. She is kin. You have slain kin.

Cunt, screams Belua. The Horse are not kin. The Horn are not kin. She is not Pegasi. She is mine by blood.

You know that is not true, I say. The Diarchs threaten all. They have made all of us kin.

The Diarchs will be slain, screams Belua again, and other voices rise with his. Their heads mounted on the Sungard Wall. They are not Pegasi. They are not kin. Horse and Horn are not kin. There is sky and sun only for Pegasi.

Tacitus, beside me, hisses. We knew there was dissent. Many believe in the god-princesses. I never bothered to learn much of them. They sought to break the tribes. They were the enemy.

So too were those like Belua, who thought he alone could march to victory. It is a foolishness many have died for already.

So I bare my blades.

Belua, I said, and many listened. I name you traitor. The Horse are kin while the Diarchs live. You have killed and stolen from kin. I will return her to the Horse.

I do not remember what he said next, only that my wing was at his throat before he finished.

The ring was quiet when he fell, and I took to the skies to take the foal back to the Horse. Tacitus joined me. The foal was quiet the whole way to their camp. She might have thanked me when I returned her to their war-leader. I do not remember.

I only remember her big eyes staring up at me as I cradled her in flight. I was too angry to notice, but Tacitus says I carried her as I used to my own.

This is nothing I did not say to the major-legate. It did not matter. Belua was dead. I killed him, and not the drumhead. It was the same.

It is nothing that Tacitus did not say to the camp of the Horse. It did not matter. It was a Pegasi matter. The foal was returned. It was the same.

And tomorrow I will hang.

Half the night is left. The moon is high. The major-legate came by, and asked me to name my replacement. As lieutenant, I have that right. Tacitus was my answer, though there were many who might do as well.

But Tacitus is a good boy. A good friend. I will miss him. He understands. He understands that no matter what the Diarchs might visit on us, whatever their desires, we must not let them make us break our vows to each other. We are sworn to help the other tribes, not turn against them.

It is strange. I remember a Horn I duelled at Montmouth. His colours were of the Night’s Autarch. He was a fine duellist, and his sword was well-tended. He asked me why we fought. I told him I fought for the tribes. All the tribes? he asked. Not just the Pegasi? I think he thought to catch me in some trick. But I was honest, and told him so. He had a brilliant laugh, and loosed it then.

Do you not know, then? he asked. Do you not know why mares and stallions like me fight for the Sisters?

They would see the yoke on us, I said.

No, he replied. They want to set you free.

He was a fine duellist. I am sorry he had to die.

I am reading back again, and I mentioned Procella-my-wife, and our foals. If there is any honour left here, they will not be harmed. The old ways were kept a week ago. With luck they still are.

Dawn. I hear the drums. It will be soon.

Let the jailer keep this record. I will have no other.

I am Lexima, Third Lieutenant of the Tenth Legion. I serve the Pegasi Ascendency, and the three tribes to which I have sworn fealty.

And today I am to die.