Carry On, Carry Mine

by The Illusive Badgerpony

Rating: teen
Tags: Other, Romance, Braeburn, Big Macintosh, Sad, Applejack, Drama, Original Character, My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic
Length: 11222

In which Braeburn takes a risk for love.

Braeburn was in love.

Problem was, he weren't sure if said love would return his affection, and so he did confront said love about it.

Ol' Macintosh broke Braeburn's little heart, and the little cowpoke was just about ready to give up and consign himself to a life of bitterness, disappointment and unhappiness.

But when an opportunity shows herself, Braeburn decides to take a plunge, hoping that Macintosh would change his mind at last.

If only he knew what powers he did deal with...

Rated Teen for now, debating necessity of clop. Therefore no warnings section... For now.

But here. Have some BraeMac and silly gay romance stuff. Because I wanted to show up Guy_Incognito do it for the goodness of wanting to do it.

Thank you, and enjoy.

Edited by members of the glorious Story Cabel.

Kinda featured (you have to turn Mature off to see it in the box) 9/18/2013

If you downvote before reading you're an immature, homophobic prick.

Published 2013-09-18 05:10:02 UTC
Last updated 2013-09-29 23:10:56 UTC

Out

The summer night was cool, but Braeburn was still sweating.

He sat alone, in the old barn lost deep, deep in the expansive orchards of Sweet Apple Acres, the sugary smell of the sweet fruits wafting in through the wide gaps in the rotting woodwork. Blue harvest moonlight shone on through the same gaps, casting bars of eerie glow across the empty dirt floor. Empty, save for Braeburn, and the small crate that came up to his gut, and the lantern atop this crate that served as his only source of light.

The light itself was dim, yellow, warm. Homey. It was the sort of light that a weary traveler would be relieved to find after a long journey. It was the light that meant that this place, even if it was old, rickety, leaky, was a place of peace and rest in the harvest light. It cast soft, warm shadows, illuminating Braeburn’s humble features, merciful enough to hide the sheen of sweat that was building underneath his coat.

He was silent, ears perked up, at full alert. The deafening, neverending screeches of cicadas in the trees, the comparatively mild chatter of the grasshoppers, the whispers of wind through the trees as they swapped stories, kicking back and remembering times when trees grew as they wished, not underneath the care of ponykind. Braeburn was hoping that the conversations he would be holding tonight would hold somewhat more weight to them than the idle gossip the wind whispered.

Yes, the night was cool, but Braeburn was still sweating, a knot tied in his intestines and left there, his mouth dry, incapable of speech, his eyes watering at the many different scenarios playing out in his head, the results of this very important conversation he was going to have. No matter success or victory, Braeburn was going to cry during this very important conversation, even if he tried to hold it in, to suck it up, to be a stallion.

He sat straight up, his face straight, his eyes staring straight ahead, mentally chiding himself for even thinking such thoughts. He wasn’t going to cry. He was a grown-ass stallion and could take rejection of this sort. It didn’t matter how long it had been brewing, he had a duty to himself to stay underneath control, especially if things went belly-up. It wouldn’t be prudent, mature or manly to cry.

He whimpered. Well, a stallion had to let it out on occasion.

Braeburn turned away from the wide open barn door, put his head into his hooves, and started silently sobbing. His shoulders shook, his eyes squeezed shut, tears trailing down. Better now than during the conversation. Better here than in front of… Braeburn wiped his eyes, breathing, trying to regain control. It was a good cry, no doubt about it. At the very least, in the next few minutes, he wouldn’t suddenly explode.

He pulled in a big breath, and heaved out a sigh. There. All better. No worries. The conversation was going to go fine. It was going to succeed. There was no reason why it shouldn’t, no reason at all. None. Braeburn turned around, returning to his silent vigil, his ears perking up again, praying for a noise, just one noise, that would say that the conversation was actually going to happen.

But all continued to be quiet. It was the orchard, late at night in late summer, the trees still whispering, now about the cream-colored colt in the softly-glowing old barn, telling awful mistruths and lies and slander about him, all because of…

Braeburn sniffed. He got enough of that at home. Not here. Here, ponies were okay with that… Detail. It didn’t matter to them. He figured it was the proximity to Canterlot that let it be… Okay. There. And here. Not where he lived, though.

Braeburn sighed. Maybe he wasn’t going to come. Maybe he forgot, or maybe he meant to leave Braeburn in the dust. It would have surprised him, yes, but in his nervous state, Braeburn was willing to listen to any old theory about why his companion for this midnight conversation wasn’t here yet. Imaginings of abandonment filled his head, his eyes watering, and he rose to his haunches, beating on the ground with a forehoof, begging himself to stop lying to himself. He was going to come. He was going to come.

A minute passed.

Braeburn was pacing back and forth, muttering worried curses underneath his breath, hoping and praying, but still not a sign. The dejected farmcolt sat down behind the crate again, and let out a shuddering sigh of resignation.

A twig snapped.

He was coming. That was enough. Like a deserter in front of a firing squad, Braeburn’s life flashed before his eyes, and he struggled to maintain control, to sit there and face his destiny. Unlike the deserter, though, Braeburn wasn’t struggling to reel in spite, but something infinitely more powerful and less understood. His gut threatened to burst out of his body and crawl away, his heartbeat pumping in his throat as if he was going to vomit the blood-carrying organ out, the sweat making the cool night cold as ice. This was it. No going back. He was going to do this.

He closed his eyes, and silently prayed to whatever powers may have been. This had to go right. This had to go right. This had to go right this time. And nothing was going to keep it from going right. The conversation would go the way it was meant to go, or so help him, Braeburn was going to… Well, he didn’t know. He really didn’t know. But none of it mattered, because this was going to go perfectly right.

The door creaked open.

A big, red, lumbering stallion slowly slipped inside, looking behind himself as if to make sure he wasn’t being followed, peering into the harvest moon-lit trees. Satisfied, he turned around, gently kicking the door behind him, and nodding to Braeburn as he slowly trotted over.

Macintosh’s green eyes flitted all over the barn, as if expecting somepony to pop out of the shadows and oust the midnight tryst, and even as he sat on the other side of the crate, they still searched for a nonexistent witness. It took Braeburn’s nervous, girlish sigh to make Macintosh actually put his eyes on the colt that he dwarfed by mere proximity.

Somehow, the fact that he had actually shown up gave Braeburn just the smallest bit of peace of mind. Big Macintosh was beautiful, built like an ancient Romane statue, tall and wide and powerful, features always impassive, never changing. Big and strong, yes, but graceful too, those fetlocked hooves barely making the smallest sound as he approached the crate, the light, Braeburn. He smelled of sweat and mud, the scent of labor, and Braeburn pulled in huge breaths through his nose just to get more of it.

A silence fell over the two, as they both tried to figure out what to say first.

Braeburn cleared his throat. “Uhm… Hey, Mac. How ya doin’?”

“Okay,” the other, bigger fellow whispered.

“Good. Good,” Braeburn murmured. “Good, that’s… That’s great. Absolutely.”

Another pause, another silence.

“So…”

Braeburn raised a shaky eyebrow. “Hm?”

Macintosh blew a lock of mane out of his face. “You wanted to talk. Said it was important.”

“Right,” Braeburn stammered nervously, “Right, yeah, right, I did. Yeah. Uhhhmmm…”

The smaller farmcolt rubbed the back of his neck, closing his eyes, trying to keep the nervous tears in, trying to stay in control. Big Macintosh was here. They were going to have the conversation. It was about time for it.

Or maybe not. Not right now.

“Uhm… It’s a lovely night, ain’t it?”

Macintosh nodded.

“Okay,” Braeburn breathed. “I… I mean… they’re awful nice, these harvest moon nighttimes, y’know? You’ve got the big blue moon, and all of the cicadas, they just seem to… Fit. You think it’s ‘cause of the buttercup pegasus? D’ya know her? Is she a witch, cause–”

“You didn’t bring me out here to talk ‘bout the weather or… Whatshername. AJ’s friend.”

Braeburn sighed.

“Not… No. I....”

Macintosh nodded. “So what’s on yer mind, then?”

Braeburn swallowed. He didn’t gulp. Gulping was for cartoons and comedies. This, the most important encounter of his life, the one that would give him the one, was not a gulping situation.

“Oh, well, tons a things. Ya know me, all over the map n’ such! I… I guess… Uhm…”

Braeburn’s mind was completely blank, his brain incapable of any sort of thought, and when words did come out, it was automatic.

“Well, I already told Jackie about Bloomberg and all that, so I guess you already know all about it, right? Ya know that he’s in bloom… Bloomberg… Bloom… Eh. Uhm, but, yeah, he’s a werkin’ his branches and most of the other folk workin’ the orchard thinks we’re gon’ get a whole grove out of him. So, uhm… You pulled him out, right?”

The larger pony nodded.

“Right! So, yeah, was wonderin’ if you’d be interested in hearin’ about him…”

Macintosh shook his head, but said nothing. Once again, silence. One again, they were left to consider what to say.

“Braeburn,” Macintosh said, gently, “it aughta be really important if you’re draggin’ me out here in the middle of the night on a harvest moon.”

Braeburn chuckled nervously.

“W-Well… Ya see, we don’t… Talk so much, like, face-to-face like, y’know? A-And, well, when we have, it’s always been… Stuff. Stupid stuff.”

“Brae…”

“Looks like you folk down here in Ponyville are gonna have quite the harvest on your hooves this year! It’s like every tree is Bloomberg down here! Real amazin’, I say…”

“Braeburn,” Macintosh muttered. “Just tell me what’s wrong.”

The cowpoke stopped babbling for a moment, then shook his head vigorously.

“N-No,” Braeburn mumbled. “No, what we’ve talked before, I know. You didn’t want, need, or have to know about… Me at all. I… Y’know, that’s enough about that, I think.”

He glanced around the barn, as if searching the darkness for inspiration.

“You could fix this ol’ setup real easy, or tear ‘er down and put up a new one. Plenty of resources, apple wood is the best ya’ll can get, after all. If ya just picked out the right trees…”

Braeburn jumped as the thud of hoof upon wood smacked into the empty air, Big Macintosh having thrown his hooves onto the crate. His eyes trailed over those big, strong working hooves, up those powerful, sinewy front legs, to that barreled chest, up that thick, strong neck, to the face of the stallion he knew he adored. He saw anxious concern in those green eyes, and immediately felt shame course through his veins.

How could he have doubted himself? How could he have doubted Macintosh?

“Braeburn. I told you, there is nothing wrong with you likin’ colts, at least as far as I’m concerned. I told you you could talk to me ‘bout it whenever ya felt the need. Clearly, somethin’s eggin’ you, so lest you’ve got more to beat around the bush with, I’d like you to at the very least tell me what’s up.”

Braeburn pawed at the ground, pulling in a shaky breath.

“It’s…”

Macintosh leaned closer, and the shaky breaths grew faster.

“Them ‘phobics back in Apploosa are givin’ you the rap again? I aughta–”

“No! No!” Braeburn cried, loud enough to make dust fall from the ceiling and Macintosh to recoil. The pair looked at each other for a few seconds, before Braeburn cleared his throat, still looking at the ground.

“...No. Nopony ‘cept you n’ me know a thing about… That. It’s…”

Braeburn swallowed one more time. Here went everything.

“I think I found somepony. I… I think I’m in love, Mac…”

For a moment, it was so quiet, Braeburn could have sworn that Macintosh had just gotten up and left. Instead, the big, strong farm stallion had merely looked at Braeburn and waited for their eyes to connect again, his face as stoic as ever. Slowly, nervously, Braeburn brought his eyes up, expecting skepticism.

Instead, the statue’s features cracked into a small, happy grin, and Macintosh leaned off of the crate, sitting up with the tiniest of smiles on his face.

Proud.

Braeburn felt himself lift up into the air. Proud. Macintosh was proud of him. Macintosh was happy for him. Macintosh was there for him. There was nothing there that didn’t say that it couldn’t evolve, could it? Or that it hadn’t evolved yet?

The smaller cowpoke blushed, rubbing his neck with a hoof.

“It’s just… I don’t know if he feels the same. I know he likes me, and I know he… Well, I don’t know how he, uhm, swings, I guess, but… But I can tell. I can smell it. He… He might feel the same, maybe. He might feel the same way. But I don’t know for sure, and I just… I’m just not sure about it yet. If he… If he says he loves me back, I guess. Then I’ll come clean with everypony. They deserve to know.”

Braeburn sighed, looking up into the ceiling as if somepony had painted inspiration up there. “Do you think… You think it’s about time for me to do that?”

“Do what?”

Braeburn swallowed. “C-Come clean.”

Macintosh nodded. “Eeyup.”

“Uhmmm…” Braeburn sighed, looking down at the floor, trying to muster up the courage to say how he felt, but to no avail.

“Brae?”

He lifted his head, green eyes looking into green eyes, one pair impassive, the other barely restrained.

“Yes, Macintosh?”

The larger stallion cleared his throat. “I… I don’t really get why ya talk to me about this stuff.”

“Well…” Braeburn started, swallowing down the words that would start the conversation. “I… I trust you, Mac.”

Big Macintosh blew the tuft of hair out of his face again, looking at Braeburn expectantly, as if egging him to go on. The smaller cowpony gulped, putting his forehooves together nervously.

“I don’t… I don’t trust my folks. I don’t trust much of anypony back home like I can trust you. You… You,” Braeburn said, slowly and carefully. “You make me feel so happy. I feel like I can tell you anything, Macintosh. Anything at all. I… I can give myself up to you, y’know? It always feels like you’re there, even when you’re not. Even if it’s a letter every other week, Mac, I… I feel like you’re there for me.”

Almost done. Macintosh’s face hadn’t changed a bit. So far so good.

“M-Macintosh, what I’m trying to say is… I… Uhm…”

The silence yet again, only now, Braeburn was looking up expectantly at Macintosh, who was trying his hardest not to look him in the face. The smaller colt brought himself up with shaky hooves, trotting over to his side. Braeburn nuzzled into Macintosh’s big, red neck, a gesture that Macintosh had often done to him when he had bawled his eyes out during midnight trysts like this in the past.

“Mac?”

The big red pony hummed.

“Mac, that pony I’m in love with… I…”

“It’s me, ain’t it?”

Braeburn was silent.

They stood there, basking in each other’s warmth, once again waiting for one or the other to say something, Braeburn shivering in nervous anticipation, Macintosh still stoic-seeming as ever. Yet, Braeburn could hear him taking in shaky breaths, and waited for him to return the affection, nuzzling into his neck and sighing.

This was what he wanted, every night from this night forward, just him and Macintosh, together, close, bodies warm on cool summer nights, close, touching, nothing really dirty yet, just them, the rest of the world nonexistent. There was no apple orchard to care for or sisters to get nagged by or fellow townsfolk to worry about being beaten by should you be… Open. There was only two hearts, one place, connected, one.

“Braeburn…” Macintosh began.

“Yeah?”

He heard his should-be partner swallow.

“Brae, I…”

Something was off. Macintosh seemed stiff, not welcome to the contact, only standing still because of his gentle nature. The shaky breaths sped up, Macintosh lowering his head and softly pushing Braeburn away. The stiff, stone features didn’t change a bit, but Macintosh’s eyes stuck to the floor, as he pawed against it.

“I… I kinda like you too. Yer just… I’m just…”

No.

Braeburn felt the world fall underneath him, and held onto the crate for support, leaning back into it, tears falling, but no sobs or crying. No. It couldn’t be. It couldn’t be. But it was.

“Just what?”

The smaller colt’s voice was tiny, sheepish, ashamed. Big Macintosh cleared his throat.

“Just… I can’t. I can’t do that to my family.”

“The hell does that…” Braeburn bit back the rest of his comment, swallowing it, closing his eyes gently and shuddering.

“Means if they found out, well… I don’t know what they’d do to me. If they found out it was you…”

“They seem to take AJ’s fillyfuckin’ pretty well!” Braeburn cried, tears in his eyes.

“You watch your mouth,” Big Macintosh glowered.

“Stop giving me bullshit, Mac! I thought… I thought…”

The larger pony’s features softened as Braeburn held back a sob, and he put a hoof against Braeburn’s shoulder, sighing, hoping to transfer at least a little bit of compassion through it. It didn’t seem to be working, though– Braeburn wouldn’t stop shivering, tears coursing down the younger colt’s cheeks.

“Look. It’s nothin’ to do with you, Brae. Nothin’. I just… I just prefer ma–”

“That’s bullshit too,” Braeburn muttered, smacking Macintosh’s hoof away. “That’s… You’d have beat me good by now if that was the case.”

“Braeburn, not everypony who’s straight–”

“Most everypony that was straight wouldn’t left by now instead of stickin’ around to… To make stupid excuses for why he can’t be in love with who he ‘posed to be in love with.”

Big Macintosh didn’t counter his point. He bit his lip,trying to avoid eye contact with the little blonde colt in front of him, who begged for the truth.

“Braeburn… I just…”

“Tell me the truth, Macintosh.”

There was a small pause. Braeburn and Macintosh gathered their thoughts. Braeburn was half-tempted to leave, such was his agony and disgust, he just wanted to curl up into a ball and die, but for some reason, he stayed, he decided to stay and listen to the death bells to love. His heart pounded out of his chest, his face already soaked, a damp spot of tears on the ground.

Macintosh spoke. The hammer clacked as the nails went into the coffin.

“Well, I know that AJ prefers mares, and Apple Bloom’s restless, she won’t stay here, and I think some day she’ll go someplace far, far away and never come back. I can’t… I can’t let the Apple clan up here… Die out, y’know? Ifn’ I do, the whole farm’s at risk. One pony plus hundreds o’ apple trees just doesn’t add up.”

“So you’re a breedin’ horse,” Braeburn spat.

Macintosh swallowed, biting back a more ironic use of his favored phrase eeyup, the eyes to the floor telling everything.

“I just can’t risk it none, Brae.”

Braeburn swallowed. This was a bad dream. This wasn’t what the night had been leading up to at all. Macintosh was so wonderful and accepting and special and never got mad unless it was something really important. They were meant for each other, every weakness met a strength, they had so much in common, this wasn’t happening, this wasn’t happening.

The large red pony got up, and turned around. Braeburn reached with a hoof, stopping him just for a moment.

“But don’t you… You like me, right?”

Big Macintosh shook his head. “I’m sorry. I might like you, but I love my family, and I need to keep the family goin’ over here. Them’s the rules, Brae. Eldest carries the blood.”

“But…”

“Braeburn, I’m sorry.”

Braeburn fell on his flank to the floor, to weak to give chase.

“Don’t go!”

Big Mac turned around, his face still like a Romane statue, still not letting a single bit of any emotion out. If anything, they had hardened further, looking down upon Braeburn almost dismissively. But in his eyes, Braeburn could see something that he was feeling. Macintosh wanted out, he knew, because somehow, the big, red stallion would give in, he would let emotion override the needs of everypony else.

One last time, he blew the tuft of hair out of his face with a shaky breath.

“We ain’t got anymore to discuss, Brae.”

“At least consider–”

“No, Braeburn.”

A sob overtook Braeburn’s body, and he fell in a heap to the dirt, in such wretched display that Macintosh had to avert his eyes.

“If it’s… If it’s any… Consolation, Brae, I… I really, really wish I could. I do.”

He was gone before Braeburn could pull himself from his despair long enough to make a reply. The lantern went out, and Braeburn was truly, impossibly alone.

Down

There was a hole inside of Braeburn that seemed to suck everything else away.

He hadn’t moved from where Macintosh had left him in the barn. He had pretty much fallen on his hooves, his eyes still puffy from bawling like a little schoolcolt, his formerly sweat-clad body and tearstained face now covered with dirt, whatever sleep he had found fitful, dreamless. The blue moonlight had given to golden beams of sunlight that wrapped around Braeburn like supporting hooves, driving the cowpoke to slowly rise into a sitting position. Raising his dirtied head, he could see the clouds of dust as they rose in the brightness of the midday sun, hidden in shadows but revealed by the swords of sun.

Everything felt like a waste. Nothing seemed like anything anymore. He simply sat on his haunches and waited for his useless life to finally be over.

He shuddered, sobbing, smearing the dirt already coating his face, thin rivers of tears meeting the delta of his jawline and dripping into the dirt. No Big Macintosh. He had failed. He was a failure. He was a freak, and he was all alone in this world with nopony to turn to anymore. When was it going to end?

“Pull yourself together,” he murmured halfheartedly to himself. As if. It was going to be a while before he would even have the strength to get onto his hooves and leave for the train station back to Apploosa. Back to where he couldn’t talk about last night, or any of those previous nights in Ponyville, where he had to keep up a charade underneath fear of…

They wouldn’t kill him, of course. Braeburn repeated his murmured insistence to suck it up. No. They wouldn’t kill him, but they’d do worse. They’d ostracize him, they’d stare as he trotted down the street, they’d quietly vacate the bar whenever he went for a drink to quiet down his soul as it cried out for somepony, anypony to at least understand. Braeburn was, at the very least, a happy drunk, but he questioned the security of the charade when he would be rolling on his hooves, pleading for somepony to either love him, or hate him enough to put him out of his misery.

It was fine, though. Braeburn sniffed, doing as he had commanded before, his heart still broken, but at least holding together for the time being. It was fine.

It was fine because it was what Macintosh wanted.

At least he was happy, Braeburn mused, as he rose to his shaky hooves. At least Macintosh would be able to move on, had already moved on. Braeburn… Braeburn didn’t have that luxury. All he had was himself, and his own little problem, his own little love that would never be, could never be. He raised a hoof, taking a step, telling himself to put one hoof in front of the other, to get down to that train station and leave the life that could have been.

It wasn’t like he had much of a choice, anyhow. He couldn’t love anypony other then Macintosh, and Macintosh had left him to himself, forever and ever, never to be loved.

He turned around for just the slightest moment, looking around the big, wooden structure of the barn, as if searching for some sort of validation that it was all worth it in the dusty, gray-toned expanse. He only found dust, beams of sunlight, and a crate, a dead candle spilling now-hardened wax all over the top of it.

With a sigh, he left the barn, left the future, left whatever hope he had left.

His head and his hat were down as Braeburn marched solemnly through the middle of Ponyville, still lost in the trappings of his own head, still thinking of Macintosh.

Macintosh, Macintosh, Macintosh. Macintosh, big and powerful, red fur over a stocky, muscular, masculine frame, dripping with testosterone, and yet, quiet, reserved, almost bookish. Green eyes peered through Braeburn’s imagination, looking up at him, down at him, over him, begging for him, making him beg for Macintosh. Big, powerful Macintosh, overtaking Braeburn, making him his, forever and ever, lovers until the end. Macintosh, Macintosh, Macintosh, now never to be his.

He suppressed a sigh at exactly the wrong moment.

“Sounds like yer in a bad spot, stranger.”

A voice. Growly, leechy, surly. The sort of voice that filled the nightmares of little colts. Braeburn suddenly found himself stopping in the middle of the street, his head turning to the left, towards the source of his accoster. He wiped a hoof across his eyes, pulling the hat down a bit more, peering into a seemingly empty alleyway.

Nopony there.

Braeburn looked to the left and to the right, then shrugged and continued on.

“I’m talkin’ to ya, stranger. Best that you stop now.”

Braeburn’s stomach began turning, fear beginning to rise up inside of him. He was going crazy. He had to be. Whoever this pony was, he wasn’t there. This was crazy.

“Leave me alone,” he hissed to the shadows.

“Now why would I ever think a leavin’ a pony in need alone? Yer problems bes my problems, stranger, and I’m willing to solve them fer yeh.”

“What’s it to you?” Braeburn grunted, swallowing down his fear.

“Ta be honest, stranger, it’s business to me,” the voice said. “It seems as if you’ve a need, and I’ve mayhaps got the fix for you… At a price.”

With that, a figure walked from the shadows of the alleyway, pulling a small, covered cart behind him. Braeburn suppressed a gasp of surprise, looking over this odd pony that had been trying to wheedle a deal from him. He was clad in a navy blue cloak, almost black, his face concealed by shadows and a facewrap covered in intricate patterns. Braeburn couldn’t see his eyes, but he could feel them, peering into him, into his soul. The cart seemed almost dilapidated, no fancy advertising tricks, a secondhand cart, an antique from the pioneering days about to fall apart. It barely seemed large enough to house the two of them together, and yet the mysterious merchant said that he had a solution…

Braeburn swallowed again.

“What would you know about my… My problems?”

He didn’t see it, but Braeburn could feel the merchant’s smirk.

“More than you’d think, stranger. I know that it’s love, fer one. I can see your eyes have been crying, fer almost a whole night, though you’ve tried to hide it. Nopony would go out in the daylight when somepony’s passed, so I figgur you’ve had some sort of bad luck with somepony else. I have many a fix fer that sort of thing, if you’re willing to open up your heart to me.”

Braeburn shook his head, backing away, rationality trying to win out over curiousity. “You wouldn’t understand.”

The merchant’s invisible smile only seemed to grow. “So you're in love with another colt?”

Braeburn stopped backing away.

Impossible. He couldn’t have been that easy to read. He couldn’t have been. It was impossible. Him and Macintosh had made sure everything had been as secret as possible, only meeting at midnight, always talking quietly, never shouting or drinking, always friends, never lovers, until Braeburn had… Last night had…

“How did you know?” Braeburn murmured.

“Well, I didn’t, stranger, until you said it was so.”

There was a moment of silence between them, before Braeburn smacked a hoof against his forehead, dragging it down across his face. Oldest trick in the book…

“Look. Mister. I know you want to help, but–”

“He was thinkin’ of havin’ foals, wasn’t he, stranger?”

Braeburn’s expression hardened. “Alright, now I’m gonna go.”

“Why don’t you bear them yourself, then?” the other pony inquired, trotting around Braeburn and blocking off his exit. The farmpony glared at his accoster, before sighing and lowering his head.

“Do you really not get how this works? Mares carry babies. Unless you can make a stallion carry a baby, I don’t see it happening.”

He could hear the mystery merchant’s ears split from the size of his smile, but he couldn’t see his face move.

“Aye, stranger, but there’s a fix fer that…”

For a moment, Braeburn’s gaze only hardened.

Then he started to laugh. It began as a small, nervous chuckle from the throat, then turned into a trembling giggle, then into a lung-filled laughing spell, into belly laughs that filled the entire square. Braeburn laughed, for he had never heard such ridiculousness, except in old mare’s tales and the fantasies of children. Turn into a mare. There was no way that Braeburn was going to do that. It took a massive amount of magical power to do it, not to mention that in most provinces of Equestria, such magic was illegal…

Ponyville wasn’t one of these provinces.

Braeburn’s desperation-stroked mind ticked. Something told him to go through with it. Some little voice told him if he did this, Macintosh was his. Those long years he wanted to spend snuggled up with him, smelling him, smelling dirt and sweat and… Coffee. Big Macintosh smelled like coffee sometimes, and he wanted to bury himself into Macintosh’s very being, his scent, his body, his mind, his love.

“Show me,” Braeburn breathed.

The merchant reached up, and pulled down his mask, revealing the triumphant smirk upon it.

“Very well, stranger. Done Deal shall help you.”

For some reason, Braeburn trusted Done Deal.

He had only met the cloaked colt a half hour or so ago, and had spent about half of that time standing beside the merchant’s cart as various crashes, bangs and avalanches of metal, bone and plastic shot out into the air. He had been promised something preposterous, something that took strong, barely-legal magic, and yet he trusted Done to deliver. The merchant wasn’t a unicorn, or a zebra, but something simply told Braeburn that this was the path to Macintosh. All he had to do was wait, patiently.

Braeburn glanced up at the town clock. He had missed his train, anyways. If it meant a lifetime with Macintosh, it was worth a shot.

He shuddered, not in fear or in sorrow, but in anticipation, begging to the powers that be that he be freed of long, lonely nights, that he feel the colt that he loved hold him in the way that nopony else could ever hope to do so, that all of this work be for the best. It was the opportunity to never feel alone again that made him trust Done Deal so, and it was with that in mind that Braeburn shot up as the stallion stumbled out of the back of his wagon, coughing and wheezing from the dust that had only taken minutes to collect.

“I mustKaff! Warn youKahuakaffkoff!”

Braeburn hadn’t heard a single mangled word the merchant had said, his eyes instead trailing to what appeared to be a small, bronze amulet. It was rusted, wafer-thin and brittle seeming, the chain that held it obviously years younger than it. To the eye of the common pony, it looked like a bit of junk, a decorated old coin, or worse, the cap to a sewage valve or something. And yet, something about it seemed mystical. The outer edges were trimmed with a Trottish knot pattern, leading into inner rings of rune after rune after rune, until a single character of some long-lost language dominated the center of the medallion.

“That’s your solution? It don’t look like much,” he murmured, raising a hoof to closely examine the medallion. However, Done Deal had recovered from his coughing fit at this point, and was able to pull the medallion out of Braeburn’s reach with a scowl.

“Don’t touch ‘til you pay, stranger,” the cloaked colt growled. “She may not look like much, but what you be dealin’ with here is dark magic of the strongest sort.”

Braeburn remained quiet, although he let an annoyed eyebrow tilted upwards.

“I know, I know, she don’t seem like much at all,” Done Deal murmured, a smirk adorning his features. “But she’s a very powerful n’ vexing magic, she is. Fragile, too. So much as looking at her the wrong way shall make her crack, n’ you don’t want that, now. If she cracks, the magic leaks out, n’ if the magic leaks out, you ain’t going back to the way you were.”

“What does it do?” Braeburn muttered again, raising his hoof gently, only for Done Deal to take more affirmative action and smack it down. Braeburn pouted, but Done Deal merely smirked back at him, holding the amulet up high over his head.

“You’ll find out. But if your problem bes what methinks it is, it’ll be just what you wanted. If not… Well, I’ll buy it back at a high price.”

“I’ll take it,” Braeburn said, not a hint of hesitation in his voice, raising his hoof to the seemingly mystical amulet again. Done Deal pulled it out of reach again, a scowl on the uncovered part of his face.

“Now, stranger, be wary. I said she be a powerful n’ vexing magic, I did, and I wasn’t lying. You take this amulet, things will seem all well at first, but if ye be not careful, you’ll feel her cries of anguish throughout you. ‘Tis not a blessing she gives you, ‘tis a curse, stranger, older, stronger, n’ more powerful than even the Princesses could understand. The thing ‘bout curses now, stranger, is that some curses can be used fer your own good, just so long as you don’t abuse them.”

Braeburn sighed, his hooves shaking, his eyes shifting to either side, Done Deal’s words inspiring just the slightest tinge of doubt. He trusted him, doubtless, but trusting himself was a different matter entirely. Braeburn knew he wasn’t exactly one to keep his emotions in check. It had gotten him in trouble enough times to let him know that much. If this… Thing, this amulet thought he couldn’t handle it...

But he didn’t have much of a choice if he wanted Macintosh. And he wanted Macintosh more than anything.

“I’ll take it,” Braeburn said, all hesitation free from his voice. “How much you asking for it?”

Done Deal merely smiled a venomous, cold smile, and Braeburn could feel him gaze into his eyes, peering, drilling into his mind. His shivering grew, and he felt his gaze forced to the bricks underneath his hooves. The venom Done Deal’s smile held wasn’t one of malicious intent. It was a smile that spoke of promised regret, a smile that knew that Braeburn would be back.

Braeburn swallowed. Only if it didn’t work. If it didn’t work, he would bring it back. If it did, he would hope to never see this cloaked stallion again. Seeing the determination on Braeburn’s face, Done Deal merely chuckled innocuously, dropping the amulet at Braeburn’s hooves.

“All I ask is that you ne’er blame me, stranger,” he said. “‘Twill be payment enough.”

When he looked up to respond, the mysterious merchant was gone.

“Cousin Braeburn?!”

Applebloom had barely opened the door before Braeburn brushed past her, nodding a greeting to her as he practically ran up the stairs.

“Cousin Braeburn?! Did ya miss your train?! Hey!”

His hoofsteps echoed across the floor as Braeburn shot into the guest room, closing the door behind him with a rear hoof and locking it, a curious Applebloom almost smacking into the other side of the door as he shrugged off his saddlebags.

“Cousin Braeburn? Ya alright?!”

“Fine!” he cried, a bit too loudly, pent up excitement bursting from his lungs. He took in a deep breath, trying to steady his nerves. The clasps of the saddlebag snapped as Braeburn opened them up, his forehooves shivering, licking his lips as he lowered his voice a tad to address Applebloom again.

“I… I’m fine, Applebloom. Just… Just leave me be for a while, alright?”

“Ya sure? Ya sound pretty off in there…”

Braeburn sighed. “Just leave me alone for a bit, Cuz.”

He held his breath, listening, hoping Applebloom would go away. It seemed like an eternity and a half before Applebloom’s little hoofsteps could be heard trotting away from the door, apparently satisfied with his answer. And Braeburn was now satisfied with his solitude, rummaging through the bottom of his saddlebag, swearing under his breath as he longed for the clink of metal against his–

Clink.

Braeburn’s face broke out into a hysterical smile, and he let out a small, triumphant laugh. The amulet was pulled from the various bits of junk and treasures within the saddlebag, gray iron with streaks of brown and orange rust. It bounced around in his hooves, a gleeful smile on his face as he looked down upon it, his eyes wide with wonder. Here it was. His solution.

Braeburn trotted over to the full-length mirror on the other side of the room, examining himself. A pale yellow young colt, barely in adulthood. The sight of his eye made him jump– Bloodshot and swollen, puffy with despair and tears, a contrast to his face, a nervous smile etched into it. His hat was worn, beaten down by sun and time, and the same went for the leather vest that fell around his shoulders. Only a night of heartbreak, and Braeburn looked like he had been through hell and back.

He glanced down at the amulet. Here was an opportunity in his hooves to never have to go through another night of loneliness again. Here was a chance to never have to suffer the indignity of an empty bed and a tearstained pillow. Here was the chance to be loved as he wanted to be loved, by the pony he wanted to be loved by. And yet, every time Braeburn lifted the amulet to put it around his neck, something inside him stirred, crying out against him.

What was he doing? He had no idea what this thing was going to do to him. For all he knew, it was going to kill him, maybe fill him with acid, or simply zip up and choke him to death. And what if it didn’t work at all? What if, after all he had done, Macintosh still wouldn’t…

Braeburn sighed. No time to think about that. Either this worked or it didn’t.

He lifted up his hooves, shivering all over, and slipped on the amulet.

Nothing happened.

Braeburn took the time to look upon it in the mirror, and he finally felt how breathless he was. He had been running so hard home to try on the amulet, and… And it wasn’t doing anything. Braeburn raised a hoof to it, giving it a little shake, trying to see if something… Something magical was going to happen.

Nothing. The only thing about the tearstained colt in the mirror that had changed was that he was wearing a trinket around his neck. Braeburn let out a groan through his airless lungs. He had only himself to blame, of course. Listening to a crazy old stallion and his old wive’s tale. Running home, or what he had always hoped and prayed would be his home, only to put on an old piece of junk a homeless guy had given him. It was silly to put his hopes and dreams into the hooves of a crazy old coot with a cart full of junk.

Braeburn scowled, raising a hoof to the mirror to support himself. Goddess, it was hard to breathe. He must have run harder than he thought. Just a moment to catch his breath, that was all he needed. Then he would go back to Done Deal and throw this amulet right into his stinking face, that no good… Braeburn gasped, trying to pull air into his lungs, but they wouldn’t accept it, seeming to blow it out as fast as it went in.

His eyes widened.

This wasn’t breathlessness. This was literally being unable to breathe. Braeburn gasped and wheezed, trying to suck in precious air, but to no avail. He raised a hoof to his neck, massaging it, pushing into it, trying to force his throat to open up, coughing and hacking. He let out a breathless cry, his legs starting to ache, then starting to throb, then firing off into powerful, stinging pain, bringing him down to the floor with a thud. A silent scream escaped, the last use of what air he had left, as his leg bones cried out underneath him, spasming and slamming around the floor in helpless pain.

“Cousin Braeburn?!”

Braeburn’s eyes rolled up into his head, just as his throat opened up enough to let him get desperately needed air, though his voice was still missing, the silent screaming continuing through his burning voicebox. The pain in his legs moved up now, pushing and pulling his shoulders, his hips, his back, stretching, adjusting, changing, Braeburn squeezing his eyes shut as cramps built up throughout his entire body. It was agony in it’s purest form, a charley horse throughout the entire body and amplified.

He raised a weak hoof, trying to call out to Applebloom, to the little hooves banging on his door, but to no avail.

“Cousin Braeburn, are you alright?! What’s going on in there?!”

Braeburn let out small sobs of agony, feeling his insides churn, his muscles scream, his body in a vice of horrible, awful pain. He wanted to call out to Applebloom, he did, but he couldn’t, not enough air in his lungs, all pain, just pain. He couldn’t get up, he couldn’t even speak. All he could do was writhe on the floor and wait for it to end, just somehow end…

“Brae! Hang on, I’m gonna go get Applejack! Just sit tight!” Applebloom cried, her little hooves battering against the floorboards. Braeburn reached out a hoof, trying to cry out for his little cousin to stay, that there was no time to get Applejack, but to no avail. The hoof fell to the floor, and another silent cry of agony passed Braeburn’s lips as his entire body felt as if it was being slowly pressed, stretched, cut short.

The first spasm ran that ran through his face made him cry out, bringing his head down into his hooves, and he could feel his face, the muscles within churning. Another spasm, this one to his jaw, then one to his cheeks, one to his eyes. Braeburn sobbed, his already tear-dry eyes now forced to let go of more, it was so agonizing. He had nightmares of being beaten by the large colts that worked the Appleloosa fields, and somehow, this fit the bill perfectly, his bones snapping and cracking underneath the skin, fitting into the shape they wanted them to. Pain, endless pain, make it stop, make it stop.

Braeburn felt the a spasm in his nose, and felt a bit of warmth against his foreleg, a trickle of red going down his face. He groaned, flopping down, panting, breathless, throbbing with pain and letting out shuddering sobs. Pain, agonizing, unbearable pain was his world at that moment. It filled his muscles, it pulled at his bones, it slowly ebbed away at his form, until all he felt was a dull, throbbing, terrible pain. The blood from his nose trickled down to the floor, smearing it with small crimson streaks.

Braeburn thought the pain would end there, but then it felt as if his skin was being pulled on his very frame, and he let out more agonized screams as it slowly tightened around him, crushing him like a vice. It was the last straw. His muscles spasming, his bones groaning, his nose bleeding all over the floor, and now his skin itself was betraying him.

This was pain incarnate. This was a curse.

Slowly, though, the pain relented, and exhaustion set in. Whatever the amulet had done was finished. Braeburn groaned, rolling over, his entire body pain. No more. No more. That was enough pain for a lifetime. That was enough pain for a thousand lifetimes.

He laid there, sobbing gently. It was through his sobs that Braeburn found that his lungs were working again. He pressed his head against the bottom of the mirror, breathing deeply, sucking in air greedily. Air. Wonderful, wonderful air. Braeburn’s entire form shivered, his haunches upon the floor, his eyes dry now as he wiped them along his forelegs. Braeburn heaved, filling his exhausted lungs with that wonderful, wonderful air, almost crying, as if set free from a thousand year prison. Air. He could feast upon it for a lifetime.

It had been unbearable. Intolerable, horrible pain. Braeburn had yet to unscrew his eyes open, keeping them shut gently as tears continued to travel from them. Hopefully, Macintosh would relent, hopefully Macintosh would give in and love him after seeing… Whatever the amulet did. This had better have been worth it. Braeburn coughed, trying to clear his throat enough to speak, if only to see if he could.

“You better be worth it, Mac,” a voice said. Lighter, softer, more… Something. Braeburn couldn’t put his hoof on it. An perplexed look crossed his face. Odd. That was what he was just thinking, wasn’t it?

The pain was replaced with numbness, now. Braeburn slowly rose to his hooves, dragging his still-bleeding nose across the mirror, standing shakily on his limbs.

“You better be worth it, Mac,” the voice said again, enunciating slowly as Braeburn was trying to do through his apparently now broken voice box.

And there it went, repeating what he was saying again. Braeburn grunted, except the voice grunted instead.

“Applebloom, this isn’t funny! Stop it!” the voice cried out.

Braeburn tried to grunt again, but the voice did it instead. He could feel his mouth moving, and his throat, still aching, cry out in protest as he tried to speak, but the voice did all of it instead. He raised a hoof to his mouth. That was his voice. There was nopony else in the room. Was this the amulet’s curse? His voice was different?

His body…

He could feel it now, through the numbness. Different. Different shapes, different sizes, different everything. Some parts larger, most smaller, his face different. It was as if he was a different stallion entirely. Some sort of curiosity set in, despite everything in the past few minutes being every reason to ignore it.

Braeburn finally opened his eyes, and looked into the mirror.

Despite the pain, he let out a scream.

Drop

There was a mare in the mirror staring back at him.

Braeburn’s hooves scrabbled against the floor, and he shouted out in surprise. There was a mare in the mirror staring back at him. A mare, pale yellow. Underneath a crooked Stetson, her blond mane flowed out over her face, covering a side of it and hiding one of her eyes. She was slender, yet toned, her face boyish enough that one might mistake her for a colt were it not for the subtle softness of her features. In between the buttons of a leather vest, a rusted amulet laid upon her chest, not glowing, or morphing, or anything to suggest it’s magical nature, simply speaking of power by being there.

Braeburn panted, in time with the mare in the mirror. He slowly rose again to shaky hooves, in time with the mare in the mirror. He placed a hoof against the hoof the mare in the mirror placed against the glass.

“I’m a mare.”

He said it underneath his breath, as if he hoped it would snap him out of a dream he might have been having. Just to make sure, Braeburn bit his lower lip. Pain, then a copper taste. Slowly, Braeburn backed away from the mirror, shaking his head. That was him. He… She… Something. The amulet had… He was a…

“I’m a mare,” she said, as if it would make it untrue. “I’m a mare…”

Braeburn looked down at the amulet, pawing at it gently, feeling it bump against her breast.

“...This…”

She pawed at it again. Done Deal wasn’t joking. Her body still ached from the transformation, and she could feel little tingles flowing through her body. Tingles of magic, finishing up the change. It had worked. Sweet Celestia, had it worked, and had it hurt, but it had worked.

She. Braeburn was a she now, and good Goddess, it felt good for some reason. She looked over herself in the mirror, fear and apprehension turned to curiosity.

Braeburns hips had widened. The stocky, built legs of the stallion before were replaced by the slim, graceful dancer’s legs. Said legs held up a slim, streamlined body, sleek, toned, athletic. Her long neck stood tall, confidently holding up a face that even the stallion-seeking Braeburn had to admit was hard to ignore. It was his face, doubtless– the same boyish jawline, but with a new feminine touch, his nose smaller, blood smeared across it.

Braeburn raised a hoof and wiped her face with the back of it. Her face. His nose had stopped bleeding. Her nose remained.

She was a mare. Whatever the amulet had set out to do, it had worked. There was only one word that could fit the situation.

“Wow…”

“Cousin Braeburn!”

Braeburn’s eyes widened. Of course. She had completely forgotten about Applebloom. Now the filly was back, probably with help. Her eyes flitted around the room, desperately searching for some sort of escape. Too much to explain.

“Cousin Braeburn, I couldn’t find Applejack!”

Braeburn kept quiet, ignoring Applebloom, pacing back and forth. If she jumped out the window, she might break her legs from the fall, or hit the ground weird and not be able to get up. Hiding in the closet was moot– Applebloom wasn’t dumb, and would most likely look there. His silence was met by a trio of voices, whispering outside the door.

“He’s dead! I’m sure of it!” a scratchy, cocky voice said, seemingly excited at the prospect of a corpse.

“Scootaloo, shut it!” Applebloom grunted angrily.

“I’ve heard that ponies poop themselves when they die! It smells like poop out here!” Scootaloo cried.

“Well, maybe ya shouldn’t have run through the pigpen on the way here!” Applebloom grumbled.

“I did not!”

“Then what’s all that mud?!”

“I did not!”

“Answer the question!”

“Girls!” the demure voice cried, squeaking at the peak of the word. There was a bit of quiet then, presumably because Applebloom and Scootaloo were now paying attention to the musical one. Said voice cleared her throat.

“There’s a pony in there in serious pain, and you’re out here arguing! You should be ashamed of yourselves! We gotta get into that room!”

“No!” Braeburn cried.

In her new voice.

Aw, hell. Braeburn’s hooves shot to her mouth and covered it, muffling out any other noise that was to come from it, but it was too late. The damage was done.

The musical voice stifled an off-key scream.

Scootaloo giggled. “Holy cheese curls, AB! It’s a break-in!”

Applebloom had no response, though Braeburn knew that she was most likely shocked and confused into silence. A few more moments passed, filled with the musical voice’s panicked squealing underneath a hoof, Scootaloo’s giggles, and Applebloom’s stunned silence. All of them were unsure of what to do with this new development.

“Girls, huddle.”

Braeburn paced across the room, debating her options as the girls debated theirs in the opposite room. Closet, moot, window, moot, under the bed, moot. Braeburn considered shooting so fast out the door that the girls wouldn’t notice her changes, but even that was unlikely to be very effective, considering that they had heard his new voice already.

There was nothing. Nothing but to accept his new fate. After all, nopony said he had to keep it a secret.

She still felt, in the back of her head, that if he were to go out there as she was, things would go horribly wrong. Braeburn turned towards the door, sighing. It wasn’t as if Applebloom and her friends had given her a choice, anyways.

“Whoever’s in there, we’re a comin’ in!”

“Alright,” Braeburn murmured. Murmured. Mares murmured. Stallions muttered. She slowly trotted towards the door. There was more whispering.

“What are we doing?” the musical voice whispered.

Applebloom chuckled. “Sweetie Belle, we’re gonna catch that robber right in her lil’ tracks! Just do what I do, Crusaders!”

Floorboards creaked on either side of the door. Braeburn continued her melancholic march, swallowing.

“Last chance! We’re comin’ in!” Applebloom cried, trying desperately to put some growl in her voice, but only sounding kind of like she had a cold, which put Scootaloo in tears and made Sweetie Belle one stifle a giggle.

“Shaddup, Scootaloo! Help me out with this! Cutie Mark Crusader Bounty Hunters go!”

“More like Cutie Mark Crusader Bounty Hunters and a Bonehead! Ahahahaha!”

Braeburn unlocked the door, holding the knob, swallowing down the last vestiges of her fear.

“Scootaloo…”

“Alright, sorry. I’m in position.”

“Me too!” Sweetie Belle cried enthusiastically.

Here went everything.

“Ready?!”

She turned the knob.

“One, two, three!”

She opened the door.

Three pairs of tiny hooves slammed into Braeburn’s chest, knocking the wind out of her. She staggered back, while the trio of fillies that had delivered the attack staggered forward, both parties falling flat. Sweetie Belle recovered first, jumping up into the air and stabbing it with an accusatory hoof, pointed square at Braeburn.

“Stop right there, criminal scum!”

“Yeah, stop! What makes you think you can barge into our extra room?! There ain’t even anything here!” Applebloom accused.

“Yeah! If I was gonna lift this place, I would have just busted down the front door! Because that’s awesome!” Scootaloo growled. “And what you did was lame and cowardy!”

“I’m gonna give you twenty seconds to skedaddle ‘fore I make ya skedaaa… Daddle…”

Anything else on anypony else’s lips died upon them. Three fillies gazed upon a familiar-seeming mare, who gazed right back, looking each of them over, both parties breathless. Cautiously, Applebloom took a step forward, her friends on her six, slowly approaching the mare on the other end of the room. Braeburn looked away, shame deep in her cheeks and tears in her eyes.

“Cousin Braeburn?...”

Applebloom raised a hoof towards Braeburn, but she recoiled away. The little yellow hoof hung listlessly.

“Cousin Braeburn… You’re…”

“A mare,” Braeburn sobbed.

Applebloom took a few steps closer, Scootaloo and Sweetie Belle flanking her, looking upon Braeburn. When she raised her head, she saw three little awestruck faces.

“...How? I mean, you were a… A colt before! How did you…”

Braeburn sighed. “It’s a long story…”

“...Wow.”

There was a silence between the four of them, making Braeburn squirm, making him want more than anything to leave.

“How’d you do it?” Scootaloo asked, tilting her head.

“Said before it’s a long story,” Braeburn murmured.

“Wow,” Sweetie Belle gasped, “you’re really pretty…”

Braeburn sighed. “I… I guess.”

“Why on earth would you want to be somethin’ you weren’t born as?” Applebloom muttered, raising the hoof towards Braeburn’s face again. She smacked it away, fire in her eyes, and Applebloom pulled back the hoof and started backing away. Braeburn swallowed, regaining what little control she had before, trying to swallow down the mixed emotions of this confession.

“I… Applebloom, I…”

There was no way out.

“I’m in love!” Braeburn blurted, covering her face with her hooves and sobbing. “I’m in love, and I’m all stupid, and I b-bought this amulet thing, this thing, because I thought that he-he’d love me back if I… If I did whatever it did, and turns out, it turned me into a… A…”

“A mare,” Scootaloo breathed.

“Wait, he?” Applebloom said, raising an eyebrow. “But… I mean, you’re a colt, right? How…”

Braeburn sobbed. “Applebloom… I’m sorry. I don’t need to burden your folks any longer. I’m gonna pack up and… And just go.”

“No!”

Braeburn raised her head towards the squeaky voice of Sweetie Belle, and saw the squeaky clean face of Sweetie Belle, her mouth open in shock and her eyes sparkling with indignation.

“Sweetie Belle,” Scootaloo warned, but was cut off by Sweetie trotting towards Braeburn with determination in her eyes.

“I don’t care if you were a colt,” Sweetie Belle said. “I really don’t, because you’re not a colt now! You’re a mare, and you’re in love with a stallion!”

Applebloom breathed out, shaking her head. “Sweetie, we’ve messed with other pony’s love lives enough–”

“We tried to force that one!” Sweetie Belle corrected. “Braeburn– No, I’m not calling you that! That’s a stallions name, and you need a good mare’s name! Uhhhm, Brae! We’ll go with that for now and see if it sticks! Are you okay with that?”

“I… I… Yes,” Brae murmured sheepishly.

“Do you love a stallion?”

“I…” Brae’s eyes filled with tears. “I… Yes.”

“Sorry? I can’t hear you!”

“...I… I love a stallion.”

“Scream it out loud!” Sweetie Belle squealed.

“I love a stallion!” Brae cried to the heavens, before burying her face in tears again. “I love a stallion, and I’m all stupid for lovin’ a stallion! Auntie Orange was right, I’ve got something wrong in the head, because it’s never, i-it’s never, n-never…”

Sweetie Belle jumped into Brae’s lap and pulled her into a gentle embrace.

“Don’t cry, Brae,” Sweetie Belle said. “Whatever you do, don’t cry. Be strong! You’ve got a chance!”

“Isn’t that what your sister says every morning into the mirro–”

Scootaloo was cut off by a hoof stuffed into her mouth. The pegasus filly’s eyes went wide, before she spat out the offending extremity and kept her piece.

“Brae… You’ve got more of a chance then my sister does,” Sweetie Belle grunted, gently wiping one of her hooves off on Scootaloo’s wing, a gesture Scootaloo chose to ignore. “My sister… She’s got a lot of trouble even finding a stallion, and she isn’t really that great at… Lovey stuff. But you? You know what you want!”

“Yeah!” Applebloom cried. “You just need to tell him!”

“I already did!” Brae sobbed. “B-But he… I…”

“Wrong!” Sweetie Belle cried. “You haven’t as a mare!”

“...I’m sorry?”

Sweetie Belle sighed. “You went to him as a stallion, right?”

“Right,” Brae sniffed.

“So maybe he isn’t looking for a stallion. But you’re a mare now, right?”

Brae’s eyes went wide, realization flowing through his entire body. She shot up to her hooves, staring down Sweetie Belle. The little filly was surprised by Brae’s sudden change in demeanor, taking a few steps back to regain her personal space.

“Say that again,” Brae said, her voice low and intense.

“You’re a–”

“Before that! What did you say?!”

Sweetie Belle swallowed. “Uhm… Maybe he isn’t looking for a stalli–”

Brae let out a whoop, jumping up into the air, her face cracking into it’s first big smile. She laughed, no, giggled, the uncertainty of before a mere shadow of it’s former self. The Crusaders scrambled, avoiding Brae’s hooves as she bucked through the air, excitement zipping through her body. She spun and jumped and whooped and laughed to the heavens, praising the Goddesses, praising the Amulet, praising Done Deal, praise be to them, they’d done it, they knew it!

“I knew it!” Braeburn cried. “I knew it, I knew it! I knew it! Of course! Goddess, how could I have been so blind?!”

Braeburn’s hopping and jumping and skipping brought her to the mirror. She stopped, looking herself over, looking over the beautiful mare that stared back at her, and let the smile fill her being, fill the entire room.

“It’s so obvious,” Brae murmured, putting a cap on her excitement. “It’s so damn obvious. Macintosh wants me, not as I was, but he’ll want me as I am now! I know he will! I know he will! I knew he loved me, I knew it, but…”

“Wait, are you in love with my brother?!” Applebloom squeaked.

Brae sighed. “Yes! I am! And he’s in love with me! I know it! We just never… He needs me. I need him. And now we can have each other! Now we can have each other!”

She gave the mirror a kiss, feeling the cold glass against her lips, her mare lips, lips that would soon be pressed against Macintosh’s lips, lips that would be tasting him, feeling him, loving him. She hopped away, giggling like mad, practically dancing back to the Crusaders, and encompassing all three of the fillies before they could escape, pulling them into a squeezing, breath-stealing hug.

“Oh, Goddess! Ohhh, Goddess! I am the luckiest col– Mare! Luckiest mare alive! I am! Thank you! Thank you!”

The Crusaders struggled, eyes wide and gasping for air. Braeburn let go of them, and they fell into a heap on the floor, struggling and gasping for precious air.

“Thank you!” Brae raved. “Thank you, thank you, thank you! I’m gonna go see Macintosh! Oh, Goddess, yes, I’m gonna go see Macintosh! And–”

“Wait a sec!” Scootaloo panted. “Wait, wait, wait!”

Brae did as she was bid, tilting her head towards Scootaloo, an ear twitching.

“What?” she asked, breathless.

“You’re just gonna go up to this guy and declare your love for him?”

“Yeah,” Applebloom agreed, grimacing, “that doesn’t sound like much of a plan. I mean, this is my brother we’re talkin’ about...”

“Who needs a plan?” Brae sighed, her mind filled with Macintosh. “We’re in love…”

“Exactly,” said Sweetie Belle steadily. “That means you have to take it slow. If you just go up to him and declare to the world that you love him, especially the way you’re acting now? That’s not going to go over well.”

“You need to do what Scoots and Rumble did,” Applebloom nodded, a smirk on her face.

Scootaloo’s eyes narrowed. “I… I have literally no idea what she’s talking about.”

“Aw, shush, you,” Applebloom giggled, giving Scootaloo’s shoulder a punch. “We all know you two get up to snugglin’!”

“She’s a liar! She’s a lying liar!” Scootaloo cried. “I totally don’t like smelling that coconut shampoo he uses! I totally don’t like how he feels up close to me! I totally don’t get this like electric shock when we almost-maybe-kinda kiss! It’s all lies, it’s all untrue, and I’ve totally not skipped Crusader meetings so that I could nuzzle Rumble! That’s all horseapples, and Applebloom should especially know it, because I totally haven’t gone ooey-gooey sappy yuck around her and have had to tell her about the way I feel about that cute little colt, because I totally don’t!”

Three pairs of eyes stared at Scootaloo. Scootaloo stared at the floor, blushing profusely and panting.

“Well… Her… Hi… Hum… Hyperthetically…”

“I think you mean ‘hypothetically’,” Brae giggled.

“Yeah. Hypothetically. If I was going to declare my undying love for him? I don’t think I’d do it, like, immediately. In public. You have to see him somewhere else.”

“Like behind the schoolhouse?” Applebloom teased.

“Hypothetically!” Scootaloo blurted, blushing profusely. “Hypothetically, yes. Behind the hypothetical schoolhouse. Away from the hypothetical eyes of maybe a hypothetical pair of bullies, or a hypothetical pair of friends.”

Brae sighed. “I know, I… I shouldn’t just walk up to him, but… Truth be told… I’m a mite nervous.”

The three fillies looked between each other. Applebloom, with a confident smirk. Scootaloo, blushing and looking away with a scowl. Sweetie Belle, holding a hoof over her mouth and giggling.

“Don’t you worry, Brae,” Applebloom said, stepping forward.

“We’d be honored to help you out!” Sweetie Belle squeaked, trotting towards her.

“Yeah, sure, whatever, I’m game,” Scootaloo muttered darkly, halfheartedly approaching Brae.

Brae raised an eyebrow. “I… What do ya mean?”

“You need our help, Brae! I mean, maybe only one of us is even close to being as madly in love as you are–”

“Shuddup, Applebloom,” Scootaloo growled.

“I said maybe, didn’t I?” Applebloom giggled, deepening Scootaloo’s scowl until her eyes were almost lost underneath her furrowed brow.

“But the thing is, Brae,” Sweetie Belle said, gently nudging her fellows, “you weren’t a mare all your life, so you probably don’t know how to get a stallion!”

Brae sighed. “I appreciate the concern, but I think I know what I aughta do.”

The former stallion stood, biting her lip, thinking. She did know what to do, right? Couldn’t be too different then approaching him as a stallion, except with a greater degree of success. A greater degree of cuddling, kissing, humming, loving, breathing in that wonderful smell of coffee and labor and love. Warmth and wonder filling their bodies, until it poured out like molten iron, forging their hearts together, ironclad, impenetrable, together. He couldn’t have it, but she could. She just had to repeat last night. She just had to be ready and willing for success, rather than failure. She could do it.

But what if she couldn’t?

Applebloom was right. She wasn’t a mare. She was a stallion inside a mare, a pretender. She didn’t know how long the transformation would last, or if she had to wear to amulet to keep it going, or how to break the blessi– Curse, it was a curse, Done Deal called it a curse, and a curse it was. A “curse”, quote-on-quote. If Macintosh… Macintosh might not like Braeburn trying again. He might reject it, call it fake, artificial, desperate. That was what she was. Desperate, in need of those strong forehooves, that barrel chest, because nothing could possibly compare, nothing could possibly fill her mind more, make her want him more.

Applebloom sighed. “Brae, c’mon now. We jus’ wanna help. How bad could it be?”

Brae looked up towards the heavens one last time.

Well, her heart could be shattered into a million pieces. The stallion she had always wanted could reject her again. It could rain. But all of that seemed… Inconsequential. The risks were outweighed by the potential reward. The risks were outweighed by the big, warm stallion that was promised if she took them. His love, for her, forever.

“Well, alright,” Brae murmured. “Just don’t make me regret this.”

“Course not! Crusaders!”

The three fillies bumped their hooves together.

“Cutie Mark Crusader Matchmakers Go!”