It was a warm summer’s breeze that stirred the air, making the rolling hills of poppies ripple in waves of red and green, swirling like the currents of an earthen-sea around thousands of stark white tombstones. A lone unicorn mare made her way through the forest of graves, her pace slow and unhurried. Sometimes she would pause and linger by one headstone or another; for the most part she simply made her way up and down the lines, marking each name as she passed. She was no longer a young mare, but was not yet elderly either. Her lavender coat covered a frame still fit and hearty; her purple and crimson mane remained undominated by the grey that ran through it. She wore the black and red formal dress tunic of an officer of the Equestrian Armed Forces, its folds pressed to regimental standards and it brass buttons polished to a mirror-like finish. Five golden stars were set to blue shoulder epaulettes. The former marked her rank as a Field Marshall; the latter marked her as retired. The myriad of medals and campaign ribbons that adorned her chest shone in the dying sun as Celestia’s ward made its slow descent towards night.
To a casual observer, the mare’s journey might have appeared without direction beyond simply passing down one line of graves after the next. But appearances can be deceptive, and a closer look would have revealed a searching countenance to the mare. What she searched for could only be guessed at, but her strides were purposeful; deliberate; as though her journey could not conclude until she found what she sought.
Her steps took her up the side of a low hill, one of many rolling mounds of soil that added to the wave-like illusion of the land. A single gnarled willow tree stood watch over the hillside, a mute sentinel guarding the tombstones that stretched for miles in the poppies. At its base was a single grave. It was an unassuming thing: an anonymous white lump of carven rock, identical to every other in shape. Only the name and inscription upon it was unique, as it bore the name, rank, unit, birthplace, and years of its charge. But even in this there was a certain anonymity; after all, the one thing that made this grave unique was the same thing that made every other one unique as well.
Yet it seemed that there was something different about this grave, for here the mare stopped. She examined the white stone with careful eye, staring at it as though her gaze could penetrate to something deeper than rock could normally reveal. Then she quirked a short smile. It was not a happy smile; nor was it simply a mask for grief as one might expect in a cemetery. Rather, there was a fondness to it, and a sadness as well; a sadness so deep that it passed beyond grief into something approaching acceptance.
“Private First Class Indomitable Will,” she read aloud with a slight smirk. “I like the name, but I bet it was quite the mouthful to say. Did you go by ‘Indie,’ I wonder? Or perhaps just ‘Will.’”
The white stone stared back.
“You were a MacBridle native, it looks like,” she added after a moment’s examination, “so perhaps you just went by ‘Willie.’ I rather like that name. Do you mind if I call you ‘Willie,’ my friend?”
Wind rippled through the poppies, the only sound for miles.
“Well, my name’s Twilight, Willie. Twilight Sparkle. From the uniform you can tell I was a Field Marshall, though you might have seen me when I was still just a young Brigadier General, freshly promoted.” She shook her head. “A lifetime ago, I think that was. It’s funny; at the time I thought I was being pushed up the ranks too fast, without a chance to learn first. Now, when I look back, I see that my rise was slow compared to some. Not surprising I suppose, given our casualties those first bitter years. But that’s the nature of war then, isn’t it? You grow old too young, or you never grow old at all.”
The headstone made no response.
With a small sign, Twilight tipped a hoof to her head to remove her cap. “Well, how do you do, young Willie. It’s a pleasure to meet you. Do you mind if I sit here and enjoy the warm summer sun with you for a bit?” Taking the lack of response as a yes, the aging mare eased herself onto the ground. “I’m not as young as I once was, and I’ve been walking a while. Walking all day really. But . . .” she nodded to herself, responding to some unspoken question, “but I’m nearly done.” She positioned herself so that the headstone was to her right, the etched name facing the same direction as her. Twilight lifted her face to the sky and shut her eyes, smiling as the sun warmed her face, keeping away the chill of the unseasonably cool breeze. After a moment’s quiet, she looked over to the grave, reading its face as she chatted. “I can see by your gravestone you were only nineteen at the battle of Westfoal.” She paused, her eyes flicking back and forth from the grass to the stone as if searching for something. “I hope you died well, Willie. I hope you died clean. There can be a certain mercy in facing a .30 caliber machinegun, I suppose: with your front to the enemy, if the armor doesn’t catch the bullet, then the end is usually quick.” Her gaze drifted down to the earth at her feet. “Sometimes we need our final moments to make peace with our Maker. But if you were ready to go... then I hope it was quick for you, Willie. Too many were just caught in the mud; stepping off the planks into the mire and . . .” she trailed off and blinked several times. “Nopony should have to die like that.”
Poppies swayed and rippled as a gust of wind, stronger than the last, set them to dancing. It was a vibrant redness, and while her first instinct at seeing that color was to see blood, that image didn’t hold for long here. There was a liveliness to the poppies that stood in stark contrast to the markers of death they surrounded. Yet they did not feel out of place.
“Did you leave a wife or a sweetheart behind?” she asked. “All these decades later, does she still hold your memory close to her heart, preserving you as she last saw you? Nineteen and young, and so very brave?” The unicorn paused to chew her lip. “Or are you a stranger to all but the Heavens, with nopony left to mourn you? No family, and all your friends lying here with you, your only marker this tombstone, and perhaps an old yellowed photograph sealed away somewhere in a forgotten frame.”
She shook her head and gave a wry smile. “Either way, I’ll bet they gave you a grand sendoff. Pipes and drums; a band; a salute. The Guard loves sending its warriors home in the most magnificent way possible.” The unicorn waved her hoof. “Don’t misunderstand; I’m not criticizing or mocking. We should give our best to the soldiers who gave theirs but . . . I sometimes wonder who the funeral is really for? The dead, or the living? After all, your troubles are over. Paradise awaits a good stallion like you, so what can even our finest funerals do to compete with that?” Twilight chuckled. “No, I think it’s at least as much for us as it is for you. A way of trying to balance the scales . . .” Her chuckle turned dark. “But you and I both know that’s a hopeless cause.”
After a moment’s quiet, she laid back and propped herself up on a folded foreleg so as to better stare up at the sky. “It’s a beautiful summer’s day, Willie. The sun shines bright, defying the few clouds in the sky to stop her doing so. The air is warm, and yet the breeze keeps it from being stifling, and the red poppies sway and dance in the wind, rippling and dancing like the waters of a lake after a storm.” Sitting back up, she scratched idly at the ground with her hoof. “It’s still strange, you know? Even after all these years? This place, I mean. Its beauty. I still can’t help but remember the barbed wire; the trenches; the chatter of machineguns; the roar of artillery pounding the earth; and the mud. Endless pools of mud.” She glanced back at the tree. “This willow was probably a young sapling when the War visited this place. It’s a wonder that it survived. Perhaps there’s some lesson in that; about life enduring through death. These poppies sure seem to think so. I’m told that no earth pony needs to tend them. They just . . . grow.” She patted the ground by the headstone. “Or maybe they’re tended to by all of you. Now that’s an interesting thought, don’t you think, Willie?” The retired soldier nodded to herself. “It really is a peaceful place, now. You’d never know the War came here; it might be any old cemetery, after all.” Her nostrils flared. “But I can still smell the War here. Can still taste it. Can still feel it in every stone and every flower.” With her magic she took up a clump of soil and ground it to sand. “Countless white stones in a forest of death, standing in mute testimony to our blind indifference to our fellow beings.” She opened her magic to admit the breeze, allowing it to whip the sand away to parts unknown. When the unicorn spoke again, her voice was husky. “To a whole generation butchered and slain.”
Twilight shivered as a chill ran down her spine. “I can’t help but wonder, Willie. What did you think you were dying for? Your country, of course. Your family. Your friends. But what else? Did you think this would be the end of it? The Great War; the Last War?” She shook her head. “For a time it seemed like everypony believed that: that this War would end Wars. It seemed like it had to. The bloodshed and killing; the valor and disgrace; every atrocity and tragedy; it seemed like it had to be the end of it, because after living through all that how could we ever want to fight again? Even I believed it, once. Or, at least, I wanted to.” Her eyes narrowed. “I wanted to believe that we’d learn our lesson, and never do this to each other again.” She snorted. “I hope you never believed that lie, Willie,” declared the mare, grim. “It was a naïve hope, and we were fools to ever think it possible. Maybe if more ponies had realized that sooner, we would have been better prepared for it the next time.”
The unicorn plucked a poppy from the ground and floated it in front of her face. She seemed to examine it for a time, but her eyes didn’t see the flower. “Because there was a next time, Willie. War, I mean. It at all happened again . . .”
She tore off a petal.
“And again . . .”
Another petal came off.
“And again . . . and again . . . and again, and again, and again, and again, and again—"
With a start she realized that tears had formed in her eyes and the flower had been reduced to shreds. Blushing in remorse, she laid the flower down gently on the earth and wiped her eyes. “Maybe it’s better if you believed the lie, Willie. I’m sure Applejack would disagree. But I can’t help but wonder if maybe giving you some last comfort as you died might not have been kinder.” She sniffed. “But whether you believed it or not, you death wasn’t pointless. It meant something, and you need to know that.” There was a ring of iron in her voice. “Maybe we can’t end war; maybe we can’t end cruelty; maybe we can’t stop meanness, or violence, or bigotry, or hate, but that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t try! And it doesn’t mean that our sacrifices don’t mean something! Maybe we don’t save everypony, but we save some! Maybe we don’t stop every tyrant, but we stop this one! Maybe we don’t end all wars, but by Heaven we end this one! And, if we’re lucky, we spare our children the next!”
Twilight stopped, realizing that she was panting and that the tears had returned. She brought her hoof to her chest, sucking in a slow breath, then let it out as she pushed her hoof back out. “It’s never pointless to stand up for what’s right. Even if we fail. Even if it costs. Even if it costs everything. We have to do what’s right, no matter what it takes.”
She stared ahead over the graves, her eyes unfocused as they saw a different field before them. “I didn’t want to do it, you know,” Twilight insisted, her voice scarcely a whisper. “At Westfoal, I mean. I tried every possible scenario in my head; wargamed with my officers; planned dozens of strategies but . . . there was no other way! There was no other way but forward!” Her voice was insistent, desperate, as though everything hinged on her explanation being understood and accepted. “The Equalist artillery was positioned to shell the entire valley; we were low on ammunition, low on soldiers, low on time . . . the entire 3rd Army was exposed, and the only way out was through! That redoubt had to be taken! It had to be I—"
Tears streamed down her face and she didn’t try to fight them. “I’d already committed the entire reserve! The 77th Battalion was the only infantry left! You were all so green, so untested, you hadn’t even seen your first battle yet, and I knew it would be a massacre but . . .” Without conscious choice she’d shuffled around to kneel in front of the headstone. “I tried to find another way, Heaven help me I did, but that redoubt was pounding us and I had thousands of lives to consider! And not just the 3rd, but the whole province! They’d already butchered Stablebrook and Harvestford, and if they broke through they’d do it again and I couldn’t let that happen, I just couldn’t and—"
A strangled sob cut her off. “And, Heaven help me, I sent you to your deaths! I knew it was suicide, and I sent you anyway!” She was weeping uncontrollably now, her words coming out only intermittently as she bent her head before the tomb of her soldier. “I tried! I swear to Celestia I tried! But there was no other way! And I’d do it again! I have done it again! Heaven forgive I’ve sent thousands to die in war after war! Why have I sent so many to die? Why did they have to die?!” She raised her eyes to the sky, as though the warm sun might have the answer. “Why?!”
Shutting her eyes did nothing to stem the tears, and nothing to stop the pain. “They say I’m not supposed to hurt this much! I only knew a fraction of you by name! I’m not supposed to think of my soldiers as friends, but— but how can I not?! You all left your homes and families to fight beside me! That makes you friends! That makes you family!” She screamed in grief to the whole mute assembly. “You’re my family! You’re my family and I sent you to die! I- I—"
She bent her head to the earth and submitted to her grief. “I’m sorry! Willie, I’m so sorry! Please, please forgive me for what I did to you!”
And she wept before the mute grave, the faceless white stone that could offer neither compassion nor condemnation, but only a silent audience for her pain.
How long she lay there sobbing, Twilight did not know; nor did she want to. But after a time, there was the sound of leathery wings flapping, a slight tremor in the earth, and the approach of footfalls. If the unicorn noticed, she didn’t react. A bass sigh rumbled behind her, and a clawed hand descended to rest gently on her back. “Oh, Twilight,” rolled the deep voice.
For a moment, it looked like the weeping mare would not heed her name. But eventually she lifted her tear-stained face to regard the newcomer. The dragon had grown much larger since the day she’d hatched him, standing at two meters when fully erect. His captain’s dress tunic had been cut to allow for his impressive wings. The claws which rested so gently on her back could easily have torn her in half if he’d wished, and his angular face held an almost absent-minded menace. Or, at least, it would have, if the dragon had intended it. As it was, it would have been difficult to find eyes more compassionate than his at that moment. Without a word, the mare buried her face in his chest and wept in his tender embrace.
There is no grief so great that it cannot be worn down by physical exhaustion, and in time Twilight’s sobs subsided, replaced with a tremulous voice and red eyes. She unburied herself from her comrade and sat looking at the grave. “There must be something wrong with me, Spike.”
“What?!” exclaimed the dragon, horrified. “Why?!”
“Because I went back,” she replied, sounding drained. “All the evil that I saw in the Great War . . . all the suffering, the killing, the hate . . . when it ended I wanted nothing more than to leave it all behind; go home to Ponyville and try to pick up the pieces. I knew there was no going back to the way things were before. Too much had happened. But at the very least I wanted peace.” She sniffed. “But when Maretonian War broke out I was back in uniform ten minutes after I heard the news.”
“You weren’t retired yet,” protested Spike. “And we were protecting an ally. No shame in that.”
“Perhaps not, but what about the Yakyakistan Incident? I was actually preparing to retire when that broke out. But I put that off my retirement a few years to go fight and kill again.”
The dragon raised an eyebrow. “Would you rather a less competent commander have—"
“And then when I finally did get out, what good did that do me?” she interrupted, not seeming to hear him. “I tried my hoof at the civilian sector, helping Their Majesties’ Government as a private citizen, not a soldier, and even then I couldn’t escape it.”
“Celestia asked you to run for Prime Minister, Twilight. How could she not?” He patted her head with a fond smile. “You were the best pony for the job.”
Her face soured and she gave a humorless laugh as she wiped at her teary face. “Yes, and that ‘job’ was to get us ready for another war, because nopony else had the sense to see it coming. Not even in uniform anymore and still sending ponies to their deaths! What talent I seem to have for it.”
“Twilight—"
“Thousands, Spike. I have the blood of tens of thousands on my hooves.” Her chuckle was bitter. “They don’t call me ‘Love and Guts’ for nothing.”
Spike pulled away slightly so as to better look down on you, his gentle face becoming stern. “Twilight, listen to me. Those deaths aren’t on you. You didn’t start any of those wars! Celestia knows that no other mare has ever prevented so many wars in a single lifetime as you! Why do you think she wanted you for the job? Sure, they call you ‘Love and Guts,’ but that’s because you stopped so many wars by building alliances, even friendships between sworn enemies. And you risked your reputation, even your life to do it! And whenever a war came that you couldn’t stop, you at least ended it quicker than anypony else could have short of Celestia dropping the sun on our heads! You can’t blame yourself for deaths you tried everything to prevent!”
Twilight gave him a sad smile. “Spike, I was in command. Ultimately, a commander is responsible for every soldier under her, and for their actions.” She nuzzled his side. “It’s kind of you to remind me that I did the best I could, and you’re right. I did. I know I did.” Her gaze returned to the grave. “But their deaths are still my burden.”
A silence hung between them for a moment as each mulled the other’s words. At length, Spike gave another rumble and snorted. “Fine. Maybe that is your burden.” She looked up in surprise at his apparent agreement. “But that doesn’t mean it’s yours alone to carry. It’s mine too, remember? I led ponies to their deaths more than once. And dragons and griffons, come to that! And let’s not forget Applejack; she took your job after you retired, after all, and this last war was as bloody as the first. How about Rainbow Dash? No air-fighter has more kills than her; and no squadron suffered higher casualties. Good as she was, as perfect as she played her cards, you don’t think that keeps her up at night? Pinkie Pie rained hell on the Equalists with her earth-pounders, then went into RnD to make even better guns for the next war! Rarity followed you from war into politics and has faced each and every battle with you! Fluttershy patched ponies up and sent them back out to die, then became a Solarian Sister and joined the chaplains’ service so that she could help families grieve! Shining Armor and Cadence led the Empire in battle! Big Mac stormed Gallow’s Point! Celestia and Luna, heh, those two have been doing this for centuries!” He tucked a claw underneath her chin and lifted it so that she couldn’t help but meet his earnest gaze. “This is our burden to carry as much as yours, Twilight. So put those years of experience to use and let your friends help you!”
Fresh tears welled in the mare's eyes, and she opened her mouth to respond, but Spike wasn’t finished yet. “Maybe you’ve killed thousands, Twilight. But you’ve saved millions!” With a flick of his eyes he indicated Indomitable Will’s grave. “And he was a part of that! His death was a part of that! If you apologize for that, then it takes that away from him. That sacrifice was his to make, and he made it for something that mattered; something we all fought for. Sure, there’s still evil in the world, but that doesn’t mean there isn’t good. You? Me? Him? We’ve all done a lot of good. You’re always saying that we have to fight evil; that what we did meant something.” He ruffled her mane with an affectionate smile. “It’s time you took your own advice.”
The two old friends stared at each other for a long time. At first, the words didn’t seem to have any effect. Then tears welled up in Twilight’s eyes. But these were happy ones, and the smile on her face, if bittersweet, was genuine. “Thank you, Spike,” she said huskily. “I didn’t realize how much I needed to hear that.” Her eyes gazed out over the forest of graves. “For all my talk about sacrifices having meaning, about how we have to fight for the right thing no matter what, I suppose a part of me has started believing that it really isn’t worth it. It’s just... ” she shut her eyes. “I’ve seen so, much, death, and sometimes I... ” she sighed and opened her eyes. “I’m just tired of it all, Spike. So very tired of sending young people to die in my place.” The weathered old veteran turned back to Will’s resting place. “And maybe it was selfish to come and beg for forgiveness when I did nothing wrong but... I am sorry, you know?” She looked back at her friend, her eyes far older than they had any right to be. “I’m so very sorry about each and every one of them. Good and bad. I can’t help but wonder how things might have been different, how we all got this way, why we choose to hate when we can love, how if a single moment could change we’d... ”
She trailed off and closed her eyes, talking a deep breath in before letting out a long sigh and looking back at the grave. “I’d trade places, you know that?” she asked in a whisper. “I’d trade places with each and every one of my soldiers. No hesitation. No strings.” She made a furrow in the ground with her hoof. “But the world doesn’t work that way, does it?”
Spike regarded her for a moment. “No, it doesn’t.” He pulled her into a gentle hug. “And thank Heaven for that, Twilight.”
With a warm chuckle she rested her head against his chest. “What would I do without my Number One Assistant?” she asked.
The dragon set her back down and dismissed the question with a wave. “Well, you’d probably mope around a lot more for one. And you’d need to learn how to cook properly.” She smirked. Spike glanced up at the sun and noted that it was reaching the end of its descent. “It’s getting late. Want me to fly you back to the car?”
Twilight considered his offer for a moment, then shook her head. “No, I’ll be fine walking back. I’ll meet you there soon but . . .” she edged back to her seat next to the tombstone. “The sun’s still out. I’d like to rest a little longer with my soldiers.” She indicated the grave with a flick of her ear. “Willie here in particular.”
Spike nodded understanding and leapt into the air, flying back to where her car and the rest of her escort waited. Twilight sat silent until he was a distant speck in the distance, then leaned back against the grass as she had before. Her face bent to a small smile, one both fond and sad, and finding solace in acceptance. Unbidden, the words of a song gave voice to her soul in a soft soprano that matched her smile.
“Did they beat the drums slowly?
Did they play the fife lowly?
Did they sound the Death March as they lowered you down?
Did the band play ‘The Last Post’ in chorus?
Did the pipes play “The Flowers of the Forest?”
Author's Note
The closing lyrics of this story are from the song "The Green Fields of France," originally by Eric Bogle, though the song has been performed by hundreds of professional artists and thousands more individuals (all copyright belongs to those who own it, but Eric Bogle has allowed hundreds of covers of this song, so I imagine he wouldn't mind this story existing). It is a lament about the First World War, about the tragedy of our hatred for one another, and about the heroism of those who fight. It asks why we can't seem to learn our lesson, while honoring those who have died because we cannot learn.
The song as a whole, in particular the version by The High Kings (link), inspired the tone and direction of this story. Even a righteous fight leaves scars, and even a just war is a tragedy, however necessary it is. And while it is true that life can spring forth even from death, it can still take years to come to grips with grief and regret. I wanted to tell a story about that journey, to show the hope without dismissing the hardship. Sadness is a healthy and necessary part of grieving, and it must be let out before it can be let go.
This story is part of a larger AU canon called War's Generation, which I add stories to as I am able. An overview of the conflict (and links to relevant stories) can be found here. Rest assured, not all will be as tragic as this one. There will be a greater emphasis on showing moments of heroism in action, and there will be as much triumph as tragedy; even the moments of tragedy will often be turned to moments of triumph.
This story is dedicated to those who have served and continue to serve in the Armed Forces, and in particular to those who made the ultimate sacrifice or who returned home scarred. For any veterans living with trauma, I've placed a link here for the veteran helpline, here to the suicide hotline, and here to an international list of crisis lines. There is no shame in needing to talk to someone.
Thank you to all who serve, to those who came home and to those who did not. Rest in Peace.
