being evil doesn't usually mean being evil.
The thunder struck and rain puked itself out onto the ground. A sea of bodies that caked the ground like a crust, streams of blood on every body, rain drowning away the horrors of hours ago. The rain had come so quickly and had become so harsh that a fog had settled over the eerily silent fields of battle, where nothing happened and nopony moved. So silent that the cries of the dying reigned supreme over the screeching rain.
Fyril cast his blue eyes over the landscape, leaning against the single oak tree that stood out like a sore thumb in the plains of dead bodies and dying stallions. Here and there, he saw still-sitting stallions' blood running down whatever wound had struck their head or chest, the rain doubling that speed as they sat there, clutching at it and staring blankly at the ground. The pain they fought was unbearable, and they soon collapsed, hidden by the gore of ponies and changelings alike. Pony's spears with handkerchief sized flags on the bottom stuck out as the spearhead had embedded itself into the ground, slightly torn and bloodied, spread throughout the battlefield as if the ponies believed that would mark their territory in the sea of carnage.
The changeling flag, however, had stood tall and proud in the center of the mass of bodies, to celebrate it's victory over this day. Another milestone they had achieved to total victory. But what for? Fyril coughed, the trees soaking up the rain before it became too much and it began to dribble on the remaining living soul beneath it. What the changeling wore was an iron chest plate, a green cape torn and rugged flowing down his back to his loins, appendage guards and steel hoof guards, as well as a terrifying lion's head of an etching into his helmet's face mask. His sword was laying, vertically planted into a Solar Guard, blood still leaking freely from his head.
Thunder struck again, and Fyril hissed as the once dull pain in his side had intensified as the water seeped into it and accelerated it's bleeding process. He laid an armored hoof over the wound, getting up on three legs with stride. Why had he need to experience such pain, such horror and so much death of friends and potential friends alike. He despised war, with every fiber of his being. It had taken what he had, and crumpled it into a waste bin before him, laughing at him at his helplessness, when he was in fact helpless.
"Why?" Fyril croaked, limping a couple steps as the rain intensified around him, crows circling the sea of bodies. "Why, Creator? Why have you.. done this to us?" Fyril choked on his tears, which were running freely down his face as he took the hoof holding his wound and grabbed the hilt of his sword, tearing it out from the corpse. The entire blade was stained red. How many kids had he killed? Those eighteen year old kids and the such? How many families has he ruined?
How many families did they ruin?
He hated this exhausting feeling. Get up, fight, lose friends, kill some ponies, rest for a second, march, sleep for a maximum an hour, get up, rinse and repeat. With each battle, he accumulated more scars to wear, scars that he wish would wash away like the number of friends he had. Fifteen friends all decomposing in the ground. For what reason? Because their bastard Queen couldn't handle a stupid grudge? They were told by their commander that somepony three fronts away called Thorax was rising up in the ranks, preaching new ways to feed as well as peace with ponies. A portion of the army follows him, while the others stare in silence or disagree.
They say he's made treaties with the ponies already, and that the rest of the changelings across the other fronts who weren't lucky enough to be in his army when it occurred are as good as dead. Sheathing the sword in it's scabbard, Fyril limped slightly, his gaze stoic as he approached from under the slight protection of the foliage above him. Now, he stood soaked, a silhouette of water casting an eerie glow to him, his lips trembling slightly from the amount of families that were ruined before him. Thousands. Thousands of bodies, ponies and changelings alike.
Looking up to the sky, he snorted. Of course the Creator wouldn't do a thing about this; just like he never did a thing when they were starving, or dying to disease all those years ago. Standing at twenty-four right now, Fyril could confidently say he had the mentality of a ninety year old. Sixteen battles, three campaigns he had been in service for his country in a span of four years. From the border to the siege of Ponyville, he's seen it all. Glancing at the sign that was covered by a dead changeling littered with arrows, Fyril limped to it and pushed the corpse off, reading it.
PONYVILLE, 10 KM NORTH, SAFE TRAVELS!
He could barely read it from the amount of arrows and blood that soaked it more so than the rain itself. Tears continued to flow freely down his cheeks as he muffled his cries of sorrow, slowly limping and carefully stepping around any open spot that the corpses made to continue his way to Ponyville.
The battle had been won.
As the lone survivor, it was his duty to serve his country no matter what.
At the largest scaled battle in pony history, fifteen thousand Royal Guards and two thousand Solar Guards had fought against thirteen thousand changelings and two thousand Queen's Guards, one of the guards being Fyril. He spotted a downed changeling flag, and limped towards it, promptly grabbing the pole it was attached to and carrying it over his back semi-proudly, continuing his march to Ponyville without further question.