Caspian was only young, and as his friends died around him he regretted that he'd thought to join the army because war wasn't fun.

And telling friend from foe - because he didn't know everyone in his regiment, how could he? There were more people than he'd ever known to be in the army, and as he watched a mare that could have been Samey's twin struck down Parten with a flick of her bladed tail.

And then he was bowled head over hooves as something big and heavy rammed into him. He rolled, barely dodged a pair of hooves as big as his head that slammed into the ground where his head had just been, and then he was hunching up and shaking his horns at a stallion that stood two hands taller than him and much thicker, the other stallion loping back an easy circle on long, dark legs before spinning around and beginning to charge him again, feathering catching in the mud, and the grey dapples on the stallion flashed in the harsh light and made Caspian's eyes cross, and when the stallion raised his head the younger stallion threw himself into his own gallop, aiming for the white X that splashed across its face though it was hard, he could meet the yellow-no amber?-gold? of the other horse's eyes and see humanity there, it wasn't like the dummies he'd practiced on or the deer he'd hunted as a youth, it was like looking in a mirror that he was about to kill - or try to - and they crashed together hard enough to rattle his bones, the larger beast's curving horns catching with his and they dug in their legs, beginning to grapple.

The fight was over, and they had won.

Not without cost, of course. Friend and foe both laid dead or dying in the field, the wounded crying out or suffering in silence, their flanks heaving and their hooves (or paws, or other such appendages) thrashing, digging furrows into the ground. He watched it all without a word, mind heavy but blood still thrumming and heart proud, face betraying nothing as his ear flicked back when he heard the thudding of the medics' cart working its way over the stones, and as they always did the youngest, the still learning, of the two paused and looked at him. "Should he-?"

"He won't." and they'd fought over it many times, you'll be more use to us once you're taken care of! but he'd only just let them slap a bandage over the wound before following them out onto the field: there was work to be done. Though it wasn't right, no true warrior would do so, medics were so often targets of attack even once the fight was called done, and it was only right that he played guardian as he helped them track down those that could (and, really, couldn't) be saved. They needed an extra hand getting them onto the cart, after all, and with so many to bring back - enemies too of course, because it was the rules of engagement to treat and bury both sides, to show them all the respect you would your own men - they could always use an extra, willing body. Even one wounded and hurting, going down when the last of the injured and dead were brought back, refusing to admit when his wounds opened up and began to bleed again.

Tug, after all, was many things - not too prideful, none-too smart, a lotta bit honorable - and he was definitely a bull-headed, self-sacrificing idiot.

He is the only son of an only son, and the recruiter looks at him like they think him a fool. And he cannot blame him, for he is not intimidating, or in any way promising. Though there is promise in him - his hooves are large and he is muscled from years of pulling a plow. But still he is young though an adult, and not yet done growing. His horns are only nubs, and his legs are knobby. His fur is flattened in places from long hours of plowing and mending fences.

If he were a good son, he'd have stayed and helped his mother and father with the farm. But he'd earn more money as a warrior, and every year their crop grew smaller and smaller. The year he'd become an adult, they'd farmed more stone than anything else. He'd be able to send them money, and support them where he couldn't as a farmer's farmer son.

But the recruiter - though he told him 'You should go back to your family, son,' had no true reason to reject him, so he stamped his paperwork and sent him on his way.

He heaved as he ran the circuit, not at the front of the herd but not at the back. When they did distance practice he could outlast almost all of them - his legs had strengthened and his barrel had widened - but he'd never been much of a runner even as a foal and his time as a trainee hadn't changed that. But he didn't allow himself to drop to his knees like some of the others did, or to vomit, instead he lowered his head and kept on, the gleam of his family's crest on his neck driving him on.

Their horns clashed together, and he pivoted, to drive them - dulled, of course, though they could be sharp if he was of a mind to take a whetstone to them - into the chest of the other stallion's chest armor. The stallion grunted at the impact and staggered back, rearing up and bringing his hooves down hard on Tug's shoulders. Like a stone he dropped, and rolled, barely avoiding a blow, and clambered to his hooves, spinning about and slamming them into his chest in a mock finishing blow.

He stood tall among the ranks as they graduated - he'd done it, he had, though there had been times he thought he wouldn't. His mother and father stood in the crowd and he couldn't have been prouder.