Clyde arrived at his cabin in the foothills, and crashed inside. He had made the trip back home from Canterlot in about ten minutes, flying as fast as he could over the miles that separated the two landmarks. In the time of the trip, the cut on his forehead had coagulated, and blood no longer dripped down his face. Rather, it caked on his forehead in a dry, itchy crimson line. Out of breath, he staggered to the back of the living room to a large wooden cabinet behind his glass armor case.

He threw open the heavy double doors, revealing its contents; another set of Equestrian armor. It bore little resemblance to the antique he kept in the case as the centerpiece in the room. This armor gleamed so purely that it appeared almost white, though it was a light shade of grey.

It was different than standard Equestrian battle armor, as he had designed it himself. Being a Guardian had its privileges, after all. The metallic plates were made of a silver aluminum alloy, making it stronger and lighter than standard issued iron or gold plated armor.

This set adorned weapons of its own, independent of swords or spears. The first of these was a three foot lance topped with a spear tip fixed to the forehead of his helmet. The blade was double edged and sharpened along the shaft, so as to be effectively used as a spear and a sword.

His second tool with which to kill was a new design he had recently come up with; he called them razor-wings. They were strips of aluminum shaped to secure along the front edges of his wings. They were jointed so as to fold and flex as he flew, and sharpened on the outside edge. This way, in a charge, he had more lethal surface area, and took away the possibility of a changeling attacking his wings from the front, which they tended to do.

His final weapons were a pair of spikes he had fixed to the armor’s wrist gauntlets. They folded into a slot, and protruded when he extended his forelimbs ahead of him. This way, when he flew or thrust forward, they would extend, like cat’s claws, but he could still walk and run unhindered. This was due to a wire he had attached to the base of the blades and secured to the interior of his chest plate; extending his forelimbs tightened the wire, pulling the blades out of their metallic sheaths.

Clyde stared at his shining armor for a long while, then, he began to dress himself for battle. Though it was difficult alone, he managed to tighten all the straps effectively, and was confident that the metallic suit would not fail him.

He looked into a large mirror on the inside of the cabinet’s doors, inspecting his reflection. The armor fit well, and the majority of his body was covered. His chest plate protected his vital organs, wrapping around his ribs and breast in a gleaming three plated shell. His head and upper neck were encased in a dense sterling helmet, the razor sharp pike rising out of its metallic center. His blue mane protruded out of the back of the crestless helmet, too short to flow behind him but long enough to be visible.

He was nearly impenetrable from the front, but at his rear he was vulnerable. His lower back, flanks and hamstrings were exposed; having these parts encased would inhibit mobility and add unneeded weight, something he couldn’t afford to bring with him into battle against much smaller, nimbler, more numerous enemies.

Clyde took a deep breath, let it out slowly, and turned for the door. As he walked, his armor jingling with each heavy step, he noticed something out of the corner of his eye. It was full of color, contrasting the dull brown of the table it lay against.

He stooped to investigate; it was a pastel colored photograph, slightly protruding from a small drawer in the table in the center of the living room. He opened the drawer to retrieve it, and it slowly drifted down amongst other trinkets and such nestled in the bottom of the compartment.

He emptied the drawer onto the floor; it was easier than fumbling around in the small space in his cumbersome armor. Pieces of paper, an aged book, a withered and long dead plant and the photograph drifted to the floorboards.

The warrior knelt, his armored shins hitting the floor with a ‘clang’, and retrieved each piece one by one. The first was the withered plant.

He held the crumbling flora in his hooves, examining it. He was about to throw it away, when he noticed the still remnant, though faded and faint, tint to its pedals. They were yellow once.

For all the armor he adorned, a pang went straight through his heart. It was the yellow rose he found on his nightstand when he awakened in the hospital all that time ago. His friends had left it on top of the note.

"The note!"

He reached for a piece of folded paper near the bottom of the pile and began to read it. He already had once before, but only once, and he needed to hear its words again. His eyes began to moisten as he relived each word.

Dear Clyde,

I don’t know if you’ll ever read this, or if you’ll even care, but I want you to know in case we never see each other again that I am grateful. I am grateful for our friendship, no matter how brief it’s been, and your sacrifice. You didn’t have to do what you did, but you put yourself in harm’s way for us anyway.

That is the mark of a true friend, and of true love; to make sacrifices for somepony else. I know we haven’t known each other for very long, but I consider you one of the best friends I’ve ever had.

I’ve never understood fighting, and I know it’s a part of what you do, but if you can, try and stay safe from now on. I want you to stick around for a while, maybe even make Ponyville your home. You could have a great life here, and we could all be happy together.

Like I said, I am grateful for what you’ve done, and it breaks my heart to see you hurt because you tried to keep me safe, but that’s not all I’m thankful for. I’m thankful for you. I thank Celestia every day for sending you to us. I know I am a happier mare and Ponyville is a better, safer place with you around. I value your friendship more than you know and I don’t want you to go before it really even gets started. Ponyville needs you. I need you.

Please, come back to us.

Love,

Your friend, Fluttershy

The letter was stained with tears, both old and new. Clyde’s bitter droplets were slowly dripping from his cheeks, wetting the paper.

“I wish I could,” he said aloud in solitude.

He knew he would probably never see any of his friends after today. What were the chances that he would survive, let alone keep Equestria in the light for another few hours? An entire changeling hive was on its way to Canterlot, and he knew the odds of victory were slim to none; unless they could get to the elements of harmony. That was their only chance; it wasn’t about defeating the changeling army, it was about delaying them.

Regardless, just in case, he wrote a note of his own. He found a quill and ink, and scribbled what he needed to say on a page of a library book he had never returned, and placed it on the table.

Clyde rose, restored in vigor. He had something more than his region or his country to fight for; his friends. He would get them as much time as they needed to get to the elements, no matter the cost, and he found peace in knowing that he could save many, including his friends.

Clyde reached to pick up the picture that had siezed his attention in the first place. He turned the photo over to see its face; it was the picture Spike had taken the day the eight of them spent in the park the day after he got out of the hospital.

His expansive wings were wrapped his friends, a beaming Spike on his shoulders, eight faces smiling in delight. That was the first day he remembered of them being together as friends, and his eyes were flooded with memories, happy memories, that had taken place since. Most of them were immortalized in pictures adorning his once nearly barren walls, but this picture represented the catalyst that set all those times in motion.

He couldn’t get over the smiling faces.

Should he fail, that may never happen again. His purpose was to protect them so they could continue to smile, continue to be happy, continue to chase their dreams, and continue to live, even if it meant he would no longer be able to. It was his duty.

He swallowed the rest of his tears, and tucked the picture into a pocket in the interior of his chest plate, just in case.

Then he rushed out the door and into the sky.

Author's Notes:

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