Casca's Glory

Dark Flight was in a tent, thinking.

Princess Luna was strong and brave, but the lions were swift and stealthy. Luna would stop them all, but only if she could spot them first.

And if she didn’t, then ponies would die. Zebra would die, and he was determined to prevent that. One of his men was out right now, mapping the land so that he could make better plans.

He heard yelling from outside, and went to see. What he saw surprised him.

Two zebra were fighting each other, and a few others were watching, yelling abuse.

Just as he was going to stop it, Zehara’s voice cracked out like a whip, and the pair separated.

She walked to them, glaring.

“Is the fear of the lion not enough to put aside this hate?!” she demanded. “I want every zebra to be at their best, to defend with their all! If I see this continue, then you will answer to the lions when they kill us all, understand?”

“The short stripe,” one began.

“I do not care! Stand as one and live, or stay apart and die! That is our truth, and that is what we must do! If this lake is lost, then far more than just the long stripe and short stripe will suffer.”

They both looked unsure, but nodded.

“Go. Be apart and cool your heads in the water, and then return to your tasks.”

They did so, and Dark went to Zehara.

“Why are your warriors fighting each other?” he asked, slightly confused. He had a nagging feeling that he knew why they were fighting. Zehara sighed.

“Ponies would not understand what a zebra does.”

“Try me.”

She eyed him. He simply stared at her until she sighed.

“The short stripes are old enemies of the long stripes. They both think themselves the superior, and are willing to shed the blood of the other to prove it.”

“…Short stripe, long stripe… Why do they fight?”

“Because one says that short stripes are superior, and the other, long stripes are superior. Soon, the all stripe will come, and those are the most arrogant of them all.”

“… You hate each other because of the differences in your stripes?”

“In every way a zebra’s stripes can be different, there is a group. And each group hates the others because of it, and try to assert that their pattern is the best.”

She saw the look of disgust in Dark’s eyes and nodded. Just like she knew he would respond.

“That is stupid.” Dark spat, looking down.

“I have heard the same from every pony who heard it. But that is the culture of the zebra; separation because of our stripes. You do not understand the meaning of the hate.”

“The problem is that I do.”

Zehara huffed. “Impossible.”

“…Look at my wings Zehara, and tell me what I am.”

She did so, and stared at his wings for a moment. The nature of the bat wing; stretched and nearly see through skin with nearly visible bones was nothing special to her. She knew what he was.

“You are a pegasus.” she said, wondering what he was trying to get her to see.

“Just like those the short stripe and the long stripe are zebra.”

“… I am not sure what you mean.”

“A proper pegasus has bird wings. Feathers. I have bat wings, and no feathers.”

“They call me a batpony, and because my wings are different, the pegasus think themselves the ‘better’ pony. And it goes deeper.”

“Unicorns hold themselves over others because of their magic. Pegasi can fly and therefore are the best. Earth ponies call them all arrogant and think themselves righteous.”

“It took something horrible to make them stop thinking like that. And yet, the little hates still survive. Batponies are hated and feared by pegasus, and distrusted by everypony else.”

“Ponies have their own ‘stripes’, and I am all too familiar with the hate that the difference brings.”

“So when I call it stupid, I mean it.” he finished, glaring at her. I know exactly what might be going through a zebra’s head when they see a zebra with different stripes.”

“Look at that.” he said, his tone accusatory and filled with rage. “Somepony different from myself. I am better, because I am normal, and they are worse, because they are different.”

“Usually followed by; I should make sure that they know that they are worse than myself and those that are just like me.” Dark spat.

Zehara was speechless. Dark Flight had effectively outlined why zebras fought. He did understand, and she had said that he didn’t. She slowly lowered her head.

“I am sorry.” she said, looking away from him in shame. “I should not have judged so quickly.”

“It’s fine.” Dark said, sighing. “I’m used to that.”

The pair looked away from each other for a moment. Then Zehara looked back.

“…Do you have… time?” she asked.

“… Maybe a little. We have a few hours before the sun sets, and I can’t prepare until everything is ready. Did you want something?”

“I… have a small home here, in this place. By the lakeside.” She pawed at the ground, slightly nervous. “If you would accept… I have some fruit, and a place for you to rest.”

Dark hesitated, growing nervous himself. Zehara, sorrowful and worried and nervously watching him, her head low, looked…

He stopped that line of thought. She was zebra, and he was a pony.

“I… I would enjoy that.” he said. Zehara smiled a small smile, and walked away, gesturing for him to follow her.

He did so.

Casca’s tale

My den was never large. I was born to a low male, with only one mate, no lion special in any way. I had an older sister, and soon, a younger brother.

Like all the rest, we were hungry. It was rare when we could find food; sometimes a week passed between meals, and it was no different for the rest of the den. No different than any other den.

But I can still recall that day. I was seven summers old when my sister caught a young zebra alone. She brought it back, and we feasted that night, the kill given to us because of the small size of it.

It was soft, and the muscles not grown. Father gave me an entire leg, and my hunger was almost gone when I finished it, gnawing on the bone to try and get the last scraps of it.

That is when the watcher cried out. We left our home, and saw the rest of the den, fighting with zebra, but not the zebra I knew. Not the lone zebra in that sometimes wandered near the den.

There were many, and they were practiced, and held spears. Stabbing at any who came close, the zebra in a tight group, each one protecting the one next to it.

The males fought, but not one managed to make it past the spears, dying impaled upon them.

I feared, but not what I should have. In my youth, I thought that the zebra might seek to claim the den for their own, and take us as theirs. I was upset, but not as upset as I should have been.

I thought that they were acting as lions.

I waited for them to scatter, which they did. I saw others come from elsewhere, and block any escape, but didn’t truly notice.

I watched them approach the homes in small groups, the females confused and worried. And when the first was run through, the rest growled, mothers readying themselves as their own attackers came.

My mother stared, and then shoved us back into our home.

“Mother!” my sister cried.

“Go, hide the little ones!” she said. “Keep them safe for me.”

My sister watched my mother turn and walk back, and then looked at us, fearful and worried.

I was terrified, and my brother and I huddled close to each other in our fear.

Our sister looked around and then nodded, pushing us into the very back and digging a small pit quickly. We were pushed within and then she covered us in the dirt.

Then she leaned down, and whispered, “Stay still and silent.”

“What’s happening?” I asked, tearful.

“Me and mother will keep you safe, just don’t move. Don’t make a sound.”

“I love you both.”

Then she turned and walked a little forward when four zebra came to our home.

My mother swiped at one, and one managed to spear her paw. My sister ran forward, but they sliced her throat before she got there.

My sister jumped at them.

And one zebra held up his spear, and she was impaled along its length. I could hear her gurgles of pain, and she twitched as the zebras shook themselves. I closed my eyes, no longer willing to see what was happening, wishing that I could stop hearing my sister’s death cries.

My brother next to me was perfectly still, and I heard them enter deeper.

One made a sick sound. “Guess we found him.”

“There is still something to bury, but where are the cubs? Look; tiny paw prints.”

“Look around. Maybe they are hiding.”

I had my eyes closed as tight as I could, and my heart thundered in my chest in fear. Hearing them wander, and search for us.

To kill us.

And just when I thought that they had given up and were leaving, I felt my brother shift.

I opened my eyes in sudden fear of his motion, and saw one zebra staring at us, peering at where we were hidden. the same one who killed my mother and impaled my sister.

I was never so scared. I froze, and my heart stopped beating. He had found us.

That is when my brother jumped up.

He was only five summers. He was just getting his teeth in. He was a tiny cub.

And he was braver than I. I hid in the dirt, and kept my voice inside, and my tears flowed without stopping as I saw it.

He ran forward, and bit the one who had impaled my sister, tearing at his leg with his tiny claws and tiny teeth.

That zebra screamed as my brother attacked him, and managed to kick him off, bleeding heavily from the leg and limping. Hurt badly.

The others went at him, and he dodged the first spear, rolling.

He did not dodge the second.

He screamed as he was pinned to the floor with it. The worst sound I had ever heard, the worst sight I had ever seen.

The zebra killed him quickly after that, but the sight of his tiny face in agony is still vivid in my mind. Sometimes I can still hear him.

I closed my eyes again, trying not to shake in my sobs, muffling my voice as best as I could.

“I… I can’t…”

“We have you. Come, quickly, to the healer.”

“That looks bad.”

“If we are swift, perhaps the leg can be saved, now move!”

I heard them leave, but I waited a long time before I dared to look again.

They were gone. I was safe.

I got out of my hiding spot, and walked past my dead family, and peered outside. Not one zebra could be seen nearby. Just the dead lions of my den.

I sat down and wailed.

In one day, everything had been taken from me. Not a single lion was left alive. Not my mother, not my sister, not even my brother.

My mother died to give my sister time. My sister died trying to save her. My brother, my brother the tiny cub, gave his life to save mine.

And I watched them die. I heard them die, heard their screams and saw their agony as they died on the spears.

I cried every tear I had that night. I kept crying until the sun shined its light once more on the dead lions around me.

And then my tears dried; I could cry no more.

I was alone. Nothing left for me, just a cub, barely grown. I had my teeth and my claws, and nothing else.

I hadn’t learned to hunt. I didn’t know how I was going to survive on my own, without the protection of the den and the teaching of my mother.

But as the sun rose, I stood up.

I promised myself that I was going to live. I was not going to die.

I was going to survive on my own. I would survive, and even thrive.

Not because of anything good. Not because of something I had learned.

Because I was going to kill that zebra for daring to do that to me. For daring to attack the lions, and for daring to kill my mother and sister, and for daring to slay my brother in front of my eyes. I wanted to see his eyes, the zebra that my brother mauled, and watch his terror as I killed him.

I would survive, and grow strong and fast. But I wasn’t going to stop with just one zebra.

They were all going to pay. They were all going to suffer.

I was going to kill every last zebra I could find.