Author's Note

A quick forward for what you are about to read. The character of Dashiel is my interpretation of War Dash, or the Rainbow Dash who fought against Sombra and the Crystal Empire, loosing a wing in the process. In my canon of that character, she battles survivor's guilt and PTSD both, but is slowly making progress.

November 11th, 2018 marks the 100th anniversary of the end of the First World War, also called "The Great War" and "The War to end all Wars" because no one could conceive of a conflict like it ever again. A war that saw the mainstream introduction of tanks, combat aircraft, automatic weapons and poison gas.

Sadly, we know that it was merely a prelude to an even greater conflict to come. As you go about your day, take a moment to think on those who made the ultimate sacrifice for their nations, and for those innocents who died whose only fault was to be caught up in those conflicts.

Usually, I write an afterword to my stories, but it didn't seem right to do that here because for the fallen, there was no afterwards.

At the 11th Hour...

It was a bright, late fall morning on the hill overlooking the small town of Ponyville. The air was crisp and clean, holding the promise of winter snows soon to come. Most of the leaves were off the trees, and had been cleared away during the latest “Running of the Leaves.” However, enough remained on the ground to make the footing occasionally treacherous for the slim blue figure pulling a heavy cart up to the top of the hill.

The pegasus was curious, both in her task and in her appearance. Rare indeed were the number of times anypony would ever see a pegasus pulling something over the ground instead of through the air. The reason for this pony to pull a cart was clear though, as they were missing an entire wing from their body.

Whatever had taken the pony’s left wing had also left a wicked scar over her left eye, and had deeply torn and notched her left ear. The healed wounds that lent an air of savage determination to the pony’s face as she laboured her way up to the top. Just before the crest, she fell to her knees as she slipped on some of the wet leaves. Rising back up with a curse, the maimed pegasus rose and powered her way up the last stretch. Her fury daring anything to try to stop her.

The mare paused to rest for a moment, looking back down at the slope she had just conquered. As her breathing slowed, she gave a small snort of contempt for her foe before unharnessing herself from the cart and checking on its contents.

Satisfied that she had lost nothing, she began to remove a quantity of firewood, which she piled with kindling in a pyramid suitable for lighting into a good sized fire. Around the incipient bonfire, the pony planted a series of tall banners, their colours vibrant with recent manufacture and designs rich with heraldic symbols.

“Hello, princess,” the slim blue pony said, as their sensitive ear picked up the soft landing of a pony behind them. “I thought you were smart enough to stop trying to surprise me by now. Bad things could happen.”

“Dashiel,” Luna said, with a small snort. “On your world, you were a pony who survived countless battles against Sombra’s empire by reacting to danger at a moment’s notice. Never apologize for your instincts. If I cause you to strike out at me, t’is my own fault for not respecting what you have been through.”

“Still,” Dashiel said, turning to face the kinder, gentler Luna of this new world she found herself in. “You’ve seen my dreams, you know I could hurt somepony by accident. I’ve told you that I should be locked up before I make a mistake. The ponies here don’t understand what war is like.”

“I’ve seen your nightmares, Dashiel,” Luna said, correcting the Rainbow Dash who had been exiled to this world following the end of the Crystal War. “I know the horrors you’ve endured, the battles you fought. I’ve seen you burying countless friends and comrades. I know you relive those moments in an attempt to punish yourself for the crime of surviving, when they did not.”

“Yeah,” Dashiel said, her voice rougher as her eyes gleamed with a suspicious dampness. “That’s uh… kinda why I asked you to come here. Because you can understand.”

“I noticed the banners,” Luna said, looking around. “Did you ask me here to assist you with a sort of symbolic burial?”

“We’ve got a tradition, back in my Equestria,” Dashiel said, taking the last items out of the bed of the cart. “Every year, on the eleventh day of the eleventh month, at the eleventh hour, we remember the fallen. Usually, I’d be doing it with the survivors of the units I served with, but I’m here, and they’re… well, there.”

“So, the banners are stand-ins for those friends and comrades,” Luna said, nodding.

“A little bit, ya,” Dashiel replied, opening the bottle of high proof brandy she’d pulled from the cart.

“What is involved in this tradition?” Luna asked. “And how am I to participate?”

“I gotta do a couple of things, and read a poem or two somepony wrote, then do a thing or two to close it out,” Dashiel said, and sprinkled half the brandy on the wood before setting it alight. “I asked you to come because you’re my commander. Seeing as you got me to swear loyalty to you instead of doing something terminally stupid…”

“It is best that I come to know all I can of you,” Luna said, nodding sagely. “It is nearly 11, when did you want to begin?”

“Now’s good,” Dashiel replied, pulling out a bugle. She was just about to begin playing it when the Princess of the Night intervened.

“Citizens!” echoed out the Royal Canterlot Voice. “Comport yourselves in respectful silence and attend to the words of Dashiel, Veteran of the Crystal War.”

“You could have asked me first,” Dashiel whispered sourly.

“Go ahead, Captain,” Luna said, addressing her pony by their former rank. “All of Equestria will hear you.”

Nodding, the former soldier drew in a breath, and began to play a slow, sad tune.

Setting down the horn, Dashiel stood to attention and began to recite:

With proud thanksgiving, a mother for her children,
Celestia mourns for her dead on crystal scree.
Flesh of her flesh they were, spirit of her spirit,
Fallen in the cause of the free.

Solemn the drums trill: Alicorns august and royal
Sing sorrow up into immortal spheres.
There is music in the midst of desolation
And their glory shines upon our tears.

They went with songs to the battle, they were young,
Straight of limb, true of wing, horns steady and aglow.
They were staunch to the end against odds uncounted,
They fell with their faces to Sombran foe.

They shall not grow old, as we that are left grow old:
Age shall not weary them, nor Nightmare condemn.
At the going down of the sun and of the moon,
We will remember them.

They mingle not with their laughing magics again;
They sit no more on familiar fields of home;
They have no lot with the clouds of the day-time;
They sleep beyond Equestrian loam.

But where our desires are and our hopes profound,
Felt as a well-spring that is hidden from sight,
To the innermost hearts of all ponies they are known
As the stars are known to Luna’s Night;

As the stars that shall be bright when we are dust,
Moving in marches across Luna’s mane,
As the stars that were bright in the time of our darkness,
To the end, to the end, they shall remain.

“We don’t know who wrote that,” Dashiel said, into the echoing silence that followed her recitation. “It was found in the remains of the headquarters of the Royal Expeditionary Force, after they were wiped out in the second year of the war.” Drawing another deep breath, the maimed pegasus again braced to attention and spoke:

In Farmer’s fields the apples grow
Between the ponies, row on row,
We mark their place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the war below.

They are the Dead. Short days ago
They lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now they lie
In Farmer’s fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hooves we throw
The torch; be it yours to hold on high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though apples grow
In Farmer’s fields.

“We know a bit more about the author of ‘Farmer’s Fields’,” Dashiel said, once she had finished the second poem. “His name was ‘Mac’ or ‘Big Mac’ as some called him. He was an Earth Pony stallion who lived in Po— lived on a farm. After his town was hit by a deep raid, his farm was used as an emergency cemetery. He buried his sister there, and then went to war. The poem was later found in his stuff, after he found what he was after.”

Dashiel put the bugle back to her lips and again played the slow call on the instrument. When she had finished, she said, “Thank you, Equestria, for taking the time to remember the sacrifices made by others in a far off place.” Looking over at Luna, Dashiel gave a slow nod, and understanding the pony’s intent Luna cancelled the spell that had sent the veteran’s words far and wide.

“I sense there is more yet to come,” Luna said, raising an eyebrow to her pony.

“Yeah,” Dashiel said, putting away the bugle and taking a swig of some of the remaining brandy. “You know how I said these were banners of units I’ve served with?”

“Yes,” Luna said, examining a couple of them. “Very well made. Rarity’s work, if I’m not mistaken.”

“The seamstress in town?” Dashiel asked, rhetorically. “Yah, and I’m glad she could make them up quick. The important thing though is that these aren’t just units I worked with.”

“No?” Luna asked, moving out of the circle of banners around the fire. “What else is important about these banners? They seem familiar to me.”

“That’s because you’ve seen them before, Princess,” Dashiel said, her face becoming a stony mask. “In my nightmares. These are all units that were either wiped out, or took so many casualties they were disbanded while I was with them.” Luna’s eyes widened as she replayed her memories of what she had seen in the war-torn nightmares of the pegasus and realized the truth of what Dashiel had said.

“So, this ceremony is also a memorial for them?” Luna asked, understanding Dashiel’s lack of apparent emotion now.

“Uh huh, and in my Equestria,” Dashiel said, picking up a burning brand. “We burn our dead these days.” She stood before the first banner, cloud grey with crossed telescopes on it.

“The Third Cloudsdale Scouts, my first unit,” Dashiel said, setting the banner alight, and moving to the next. “The Seaddle Marine Battalion.” It too, went up in flames, like the first.

“The 86th Combined Arms Squadron,” Dashiel stated, as a banner of red lightning bolts went up in smoke. “Special Operations Group Six.” Dashiel moved around the circle, announcing the name of each unit, then setting their banner ablaze until only one remained. For the first time since she had started the memorial, Dashiel’s voice began to break, and Luna realized she knew that final, famous banner.

“The… The… “ Dashiel tried to continue, but her throat had closed up completely, rendering her unable to say the last name.

“The Wonderbolts,” Luna said, and Dashiel gave a shaky nod in thanks as she set the familiar blue and yellow banner alight. Like the others, it caught fire immediately.

“Thanks,” Dashiel said, her voice like gravel. “I was recovering from losing my wing when they saved Manehatten, all by themselves. I was the only one who wasn’t there, and now I’m the last one. The Last Wonderbolt, they called me.”

“You blame yourself for not dying at their side,” Luna said. It was a statement, not a question. “You feel that if you had been there, they might have lived.”

“Maybe. I don’t know,” Dashiel said, sitting down and taking another swig of the strong brandy. “If you’ll excuse me now, Princess. I’ve got a lot of toasts to make, and I’m probably going to be a bit of a mess by the end of it. You probably don’t want to be here for that.”

“Nonsense,” Luna said, and a flash of light heralded the arrival of an array of bottles from the palace cellars. “One should never be alone when remembering old comrades. Particularly when there is strong drink to be had.”

“Thanks,” Dashiel said, saluting her new commander with the bottle she had, and a new respect in her eye. “To absent friends.”

“Absent friends,” Luna repeated, opening up a bottle at random and joining in the first of what would be a great many toasts. “If it is not too painful, my Captain, I would appreciate knowing how the Wonderbolts met their end.”

“It hurts, but everypony should know what they did,” Dashiel began, settling the bottle beside her comfortably. “Sombra had stolen a march on Celestia and Manehatten was wide open to him. Spitfire took the lead of course, with Soarin on her left, and Thunderlane on her right flank. Sombra’s tornado was full of shards, but…”