Shedding Your Skin

“—you’re going to have so much fun! I’ll show you the town square, and the bakery, and—”

Briar rolled her eyes as Ironwood babbled on. A grin crossed her face. As she’d expected, when Ironwood had come to retrieve her the next morning, he’d been practically bouncing.

She walked on, her hoof-falls almost silent against the crisp grass that surrounded the forest. The shadows of the Everfree retreated behind them, and in the distance, she could just barely make out the smudged, smokey blobs that Ironwood had told her made up the village.

“—and you can try village pie, and village cake, and—”

“I think I get the idea,” she cut in. Ironwood looked crestfallen at being interrupted, but his expression then softened into a smile.

“Heh. Sorry,” he said. “I guess I’m just not used to this kind of thing.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well...having a friend to show things to,” he said. “You’ve been showing me all this cool stuff in the forest, but I haven’t been able to show you anything at all. I’m really excited about it.”

Friend. She shot him a grin. “Yeah. I guessed as much.”

They soon came to a break in the fields. Here, grass gave way to a strip of dirt about twenty feet wide. Hoofmarks and long, thin gouges covered the surface, and a field of tall green stalks grew up on the opposite side. If Briar turned her head in either direction, she could see the dirt strip vanishing into the distance, its light-brown length coiling and turning like a snake.

Briar frowned. “What’s this?” she asked. “Is this the town?”

Her cheeks flushed a bright red as Ironwood chuckled. “Well?” she asked.

Ironwood coughed loudly and thumped his chest with his good hoof. “This is only the road into town,” he said, sounding amused. “It’ll take us to town, but I don’t think it’s the town itself.”

“The...road,” Briar said, tasting the new word. “And how many ponies live in your town?” she asked, still refusing to meet his eyes. “Ten? Twenty?”

This time, Ironwood did laugh, throwing his head back to guffaw. “Stop it!” Briar ordered, her face burning. “It’s not funny!”

Ironwood let out a final chuckle and turned to face her. “Oh, I’m sorry. It’s just—Briar, my village has over a hundred ponies living there. And we’re one of the smallest villages in the area—Troughton has almost a thousand!”

“One...hundred ponies?” Briar swallowed and averted her eyes. She was sure that her black coat was, by now, burning a bright cherry red. One hundred ponies. She’d never even imagined so many in one place. And that was small?

It seemed that even Ironwood could take a hint. When he next spoke, his tone was softer, all traces of mirth gone from his voice. “Aw, Briar. I’m sorry for making fun. This is new to you, right? I’m sure that if you stuck me in the middle of the Everfree, I’d have even less of an idea of what was going on.”

“We’ve already seen what would happen.” Briar let a smirk curl her lips in spite of herself. “How long did it take you to get lost? Thirty seconds?”

“Yeah, well,” Ironwood said, “I’m sure I could last even longer next time.”

“Forty seconds?”

“Forty-five,” he said.

Briar snickered, but startled when Ironwood put a hoof on her shoulder.

“Come on,” he said, grinning. “We’re getting close.”

The beaten road went on for at least another half-mile, with nothing but endless green stalks—corn, Ironwood called it, though it was a far cry from the wild corn that Briar was used to—accompanying them. The road was pocked with hoofprints both old and new, with puddles or small trenches scattered along the way.

It was only in the final few minutes of the journey that Briar was able to clearly make out the shapes of the houses themselves: they were squat, ugly things, with stone walls and thatched roofs. Smoke trailed from rooftop chimneys, and Briar found herself reminded of the fireplace in her own cottage. She wondered if there were cauldrons or cooking-pots in these houses, too.

The hoof-prints on the path grew in number, mixing with hay, mud, and even splinters of wood. Briar blinked as she realized that Ironwood was humming; it wasn’t a song she knew.

“What song is that?” she asked, stepping over a forgotten bale of hay. Ironwood stopped humming and turned toward her.

“Oh, I don’t know,” he said. “Probably just something I picked up. The troubadours play all sorts of songs when they drop by during the Summer Sun Celebration.”

There it was again—the Celebration. “What is it, anyway? A big party?”

“Kinda,” Ironwood said. “It’s a celebration of Princess Celestia’s birthday.”

“Princess?”

“She lives up in Canterlot—the capital of Equestria.” Ironwood chuckled. “I forgot that you’re not used to all this. Don’t worry—I’ll have you up to speed in no time.

“What’s with the interest in music, by the way? Do you like to play it?”

Briar shook her head as they walked on. “Not really.” The only songs that she knew, she’d learned from Matron as a young filly. A young filly, that is—the lullabies had stopped with her first coherent sentences, and the chores had begun at the same time. Music, it seemed, was a bigger thing outside of the forest than in.

“Well, I’ll have to find some way to get you to the Festival, or maybe to a summer bonfire—those always have great music,” Ironwood said. “And here we are!”

It took Briar a few moments to realize that they’d crossed into the village. As she raised her head, looking around at her new surroundings, she felt the Itch tickling down the back of her neck.

She could see ponies of all shapes and sizes trotting around. A few even wore clothes—ratty cloaks, patched-over hoods, or what looked to be shoes. The houses here seemed to tower far above Matron’s tiny cottage;

Even more rickety carts filled the roads here, their owners’ chatter filling the air with the pleasant buzz of conversation. She could even spot one or two donkeys, their elongated, brown snouts obvious amongst the more colorful crowd of ponies. Cobblestone paths led off of the main street and toward individual houses on either side. Briar saw one mare who was leaning out of an upper-story window. She held a bucket of water in her hooves and a piece of laundry in her mouth. The water—a murky grey rather than the clear liquid that Briar had expected—splashed out onto the path below, leaving a puddle of mud that began draining into the soil below.

Briar felt air moving before her hooves and paused midstep, holding one leg up to her chest. She stared as two foals—one grey, the other bright purple—galloped across the road in front of her, giggling all the way.

“What the—” she began.

“Hey!” Ironwood shouted after them. “I’m walking here!”

One of the two—the purple foal, a filly—turned around and stuck out her tongue, blowing a loud, wet raspberry. There was a horn on her head, and Briar stared after her as she turned to run away.

Ironwood blew his own raspberry in turn. “Kids, huh?” he said to Briar, chuckling. “Always underhoof.”

“Um,” she said. “Was that a horn?”

He looked at her oddly. “Well, yeah. We’ve got a few unicorns in town—not many, but they come in handy during the Spring Equinox.”

“Do they, now?” Briar shook her head, the words to the light spell buzzing in the back of her mind. And to think that there was some kind of pony who could do magic just be thinking about it.

Unicorns. She found herself grinning in spite of herself.

“Their magic’s damn useful for cleaning up snow. Come on,” Ironwood said. “We’re almost to the bakery.”

They walked on, Briar’s hoof pushing into into the hardened, spongy mud with every step. There were so many new smells here—she could smell old, musty hay as strongly as she could smell the scent of each pony who passed. And that sweet, sugary smell—what was it?

“Mom! Dad! I’m home!”

“Look at that,” a deep voice boomed. “You’re back early.”

Briar stepped into the building—the bakery, she reminded herself—behind Ironwood, her eyes flickering from side to side at the unfamiliar surroundings. The outside of the bakery wasn’t necessarily anything new, but the inside was anything but similar to what she was used to.

Where she was used to dim lighting, strange smells, and crooked walls, this place was all straight lines and square angles, well-lit by the half-dozen windows on the walls. It had its fair share of scents, but, as Briar raised her nose to take it all in, she felt her stomach rumble. A cacophony of delicious smells rushed into her nostrils, each eager to remind her of how long it’d been since she’d eaten.

The first thing she noticed was the array of baked goods sitting out on the counter. She took another sniff—there was no doubt in her mind that they were the cause of her grumbling stomach. She could see more bread here, loaves of every shape and size stacked high beside more colorful items—pastries, she remembered—that gave off sharper, sweeter scents of their own.

The second thing she noticed, though, was the simply enormous stallion standing behind the counter. He wore a fierce grin on his face, his chocolate-black mane swept neatly back behind his head. As the door swung shut behind her, Briar found herself taken by the stallion’s pure size—he towered above the counters, his massive head just inches over the stacks of bread. As she stared, the stallion set something down behind the counter, dusted off his hooves, and stepped out into the space by the door.

“Ironwood,” he rumbled. “Good to see you back.”

His smile widened until it looked like it was about to split his face in two. “And who is this? A new marefriend of yours? I don’t believe we’ve been introduced.”

Ironwood groaned. “She’s not my marefriend.”

“Then who is she? Come on—don’t leave your old man in the cold.” The giant stallion held out a hoof. An apron hung from his neck, almost touching the floor. “I’m Ironwood’s father—name’s Brioche.”

Briar took the hoof. “Briar.”

“So you’re the one who saved our Ironwood?” he asked. The mystery mare of the Everfree Forest?”

Briar’s head whipped back around to Ironwood. The smaller stallion was blushing a bright, cherry red, his eyes directed at the floor.

“What have you been telling them?” she demanded. “I thought—”

“Now, don’t get too worked up, Miss Briar.” Briar started as she felt a sudden weight on her shoulder; Brioche, it seemed was the kind of pony who didn’t believe in personal space. “We always knew that our little Ironwood would find himself an exotic mare someday.”

“Goodness knows he boasts about it enough.”

A mare emerged from a back door and into the front of the bakery. She wore a white bonnet over her ears, with just a few curls of her brown mane peeking through. There was an apron over her chest too, but it was there that the similarities with Brioche ended. Where his frame swelled with muscle and fat, hers was thin and reedy, with a chin so bony that it barely looked as though there was any skin on it at all.

Still, there was warmth on her face and a smile in her eyes, and the look she gave Briar as she entered the room was anything but unkind. “I overheard from the next room. It’s lovely to meet you, dear. I’d shake your hoof, but I’m afraid mine are a bit full.”

Indeed they were—piled high with bags, to be exact. It seemed almost impossible that a mare her size could carry so much weight, but the sight was impossible to deny. A thin stream of white powder—flour, Briar guessed—leaked from one of the bags on the bottom and onto the stone floor.

The mare set the bags down behind the counter with an audible grunt. “Now,” she said, coming back up and dusting herself off, “I believe I caught your name—Briar?”

Briar nodded.

“Flaxseed,” the mare said. “It’s a pleasure to meet the mare who saved our son from the Everfree Forest.”

“I—” Briar paused, feeling an unhealthy red rise to her cheeks. “Thank you.”

“So,” Flaxseed said, “I haven’t seen you around the village—and unlike my husband or son, I know how to maintain a social life. So are you a traveller, then? From a nearby town, perhaps?”

“Not...exactly,” Briar said.

“She lives in the Everfree,” Ironwood said helpfully.

“My goodness!” Flaxseed said. “Alone?”

Briar shook her head. “No,” she said. “I live with Matron.”

Perhaps it was the way she said the name, or perhaps it was something in her eyes. Perhaps it was just a matter of politeness. Regardless, Briar was thankful when Flaxseed didn’t push the subject further.

“In any case, dear, welcome to town.” Flaxseed offered a warm smile. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“It’s…” Briar paused, unsure. “It’s a pleasure to be here.”

And it was, she was surprised to find, true. The village made her feel warm—happy, even. There were so many ponies here, all full of smiles and friendly words.

She felt her gaze slide automatically from Flaxseed’s face. Right. Had to be careful about that.

“Briar,” Ironwood said, “didn’t you want to ask my parents something? Your reason for coming in the first place.”

“Oh!” Briar started.

She turned to remove her pin from her mane; as she fiddled with the rose tip, Ironwood picked up the conversation.

“She’s never known her parents, see,” he said, “and I thought that somepony in the village might know about them.”

“Is this true?” Flaxseed asked sharply. “You’ve never known your parents?”

Briar removed the pin from her mouth and shook her head. “Matron raised me,” she said. “The only thing I have to go by is this.”

Flaxseed’s eyes widened as Briar held up her pin. The pink tip caught the light just so, glowing faintly even in the well-lit bakery. The rose seemed to be encrusted in sparkles, and the dark green clip waited quietly beneath it.

“Goodness,” Flaxseed murmured, leaning in closer. “May I?” Briar hesitated. “I won’t damage it, I promise you.”

Briar hoofed it over. Flaxseed took it with evident delight, peering at it with wide, interested eyes.

“I’ve not seen the like anywhere else,” she murmured.

“That’s artisan work,” Brioche said, pointing with a hoof. “The edges have been carved with professional tools, see? There’s a symbol underneath.”

“You’re right,” Flaxseed said. She held it up to the light. “A sigil, perhaps? But who around here has that kind of money?”

Brioche shrugged. “Ain’t nobody you or I know.”

“No, indeed.” Flaxseed pursed her lips and, frowning, turned back to offer Briar the pin. “I’m sorry, dear. It’s certainly a very distinctive piece, but I’m afraid we’ve no idea of where it might have come from.”

“It was a silly idea, anyway,” Briar said. She took the pin back. “I shouldn’t have wasted your time.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Brioche said with a chuckle. “Every minute you waste is one that I don’t have to work.”

Flaxseed shot him a disapproving look and then turned back to Briar. “I didn’t say that it was hopeless, mind you. There’s one pony in town who might know something.”

Briar perked up.

Ironwood spoke first. “Who?”

“Old Gladius?” Brioche asked his wife.

“That’s Master Gladius,” she said, “but yes. He might be getting on in years, and bards grow better with age, anyhow. He’s certainly more well-travelled than most—if anypony would recognize that sigil, it’s him.”

“Thank you,” Briar said.

“Don’t worry about it, dear,” Flaxseed said. “In any case, I don’t think anypony in town would know how to identify this but him, but I’m afraid you’re a bit out of luck in that respect. The poor old stallion never leaves his cottage but for the Celebration.”

“And that’s next week!” Ironwood whirled to beam into Briar’s eyes; luckily, she whipped her gaze toward the floor just in time. “Briar, you even have an excuse! You have to come to the Celebration, now.”

“I…” Briar swallowed.

She’d already risked enough by coming here, she wanted to say. She was lucky that she’d manage to avoid Matron that morning, but again? And so soon after?

But the look on Ironwood’s face was too much to bear. She couldn’t bring herself to crush such a pure note of happiness. She let her mouth curve into a weak smile.

“Yeah,” she said. “I’ll be there.”

“Yes!”

“Ironwood!” Flaxseed scolded. “No shouting during sundown. Poor Old Miss Daisy next door is just getting to bed! You don’t want to wake her up, do you?”

Briar’s eyes widened. “Sundown—”

She glanced out of the window. Sure enough, the sun was already setting. Long shadows stretched across the road outside, the sky overhead already a conflagration of red and gold.

“Oh, no,” she breathed. “I—I have to get home.”

“I take it this ‘Matron’ appreciates punctuality?” Flaxseed observed.

Briar nodded. “I’m sorry—thank you, really—but I have to go.”

“Still,” Brioche said, looming over his wife’s shoulder, “I’m sure you won’t go home with empty bags.”

“But I don’t even have bags,” Briar said. “Why would I—”

Her gaze fell on the display cases groaning with breads and pastries. “No,” she said. “I couldn’t.”

“Are you sure?”

Her stomach grumbled, and she glared at it for its rebellion.

“Thank you,” she said, “honestly. But I really do have to go.”

The air was thick with incense as Briar stepped into the cottage, her hoofsteps echoing on the aged wood. Behind her, night had fallen, bringing with it an inky black sky that hovered over the forest like a shroud. Matron was nowhere in sight, and so Briar slowly turned around to close the door. She’d made it. Matron didn’t—

“You’re late.”

Her breath caught in her throat.

“I expected you for your lesson two hours ago,” Matron’s voice said from behind her. “You missed it.”

Briar forced herself to turn back around. She did her best to hold her head high, though her shaking knees betrayed her.

Matron sat in her old, battered armchair, though Briar could have sworn that it’d been empty scarce seconds before. There was no knitting held in her hooves, no steaming cup of tea on the table beside her.

Matron sat in her throne of patched fabric and forced Briar’s gaze to the floor.

“Where were you?” Matron’s voice struck like ice: soft and sharp.

“I was out,” Briar said quietly.

“That much is obvious. Where?”

It took only a moment before the fib leapt to her tongue. “Out in the forest. Gathering herbs. The oreroot is coming into season, and I wanted to see if—”

“Liar.”

Briar struggled to keep herself from flinching at the word, razor-edged and, it seemed, pointed straight at her heart. “It’s true,” she said, barely trusting herself to keep from wavering. “I was in the forest.”

“A lie,” Matron repeated. “I saw you leave the forest.”

Impossible. “How could you possibly have done that?” Briar asked. Matron had been asleep when she’d left the house—she’d made sure of that.

From the door beyond came a high-pitched, piercing caw. A raven’s. A shiver went down Briar’s spine.

“I have my ways,” Matron said quietly. Dangerously.

“I—I can explain.”

“I believe I can explain well enough,” Matron said. “I know all about your little ‘playdates’ with your villager friend. I know how, even when I told you to keep away from such folk, you continued to meet with him behind my back. I know how you broke my trust and chose today to go with him to a village that I had expressly forbidden you from entering.”

“It wasn’t like that!” Briar said. “I didn’t mean—Ironwood isn’t a bad pony. I didn’t think that—”

“You disobeyed me,” Matron said. Her words cracked like a whip in the still air. “You showed complete disrespect. You shattered my trust.”

“I—”

“An order is an order,” Matron said. “You broke one of the rules of this household. You broke one of my rules.”

Briar grit her teeth. “You can’t do that!”

Matron raised a single grey eyebrow. “Do what?”

“You can’t keep me locked up here forever,” Briar spat. “If I want to go to a village, or—gods forbid—have an actual friend, then maybe I should be able to!”

“It’s for your own good.”

“Maybe,” Briar said, her sides heaving. She glared directly at Matron’s chest. Her teeth ground as her thoughts rose up in a torrent of rage and disbelief. “Maybe I don’t want to do what you tell me!”

“How dare you.”

“How dare you!” Briar said.

Matron’s nostrils flared. “That is enough. You’ll never return to the village, and you shall not meet with this villager again. My word is final.”

“You,” Briar began, “have no right!” Her neck snapped back—and she looked Matron right in the eye.

The room disappeared around her.

She could remember flashes of lightning, crashing through dark clouds as laughter shrieked through the heavens.

It was dark. So dark. Why couldn’t she see? A flash of brilliant, blinding white exploded before her, and she let out a soundless cry as her body was thrust back through the air. The smell of ozone filled her nose, burning, burning—

She could remember fire, burning beneath the earth

The ground was shaking beneath her hooves. The trees, twisting like vines through the darkness, cackled as they fashioned themselves into a cage around her. Their thorns prickled, glowing a sickly yellow as a fire licked around the roots—

and a shadow that danced among the trees.

Dread filled every fiber of her being as the darkness gathered, collecting itself up into a single figure. It towered into the skies, lightning crashing and dying around it as every bit of light was sucked up into that awful, all-consuming creature—

Matron’s eyes simply flashed a dark, angry yellow

Briar was screaming; the eyes were watching her, staring into her soul. She was cut, she was bleeding, her very mind was burning—

and the spell was broken.

When she finally came to, Briar found herself shaking on the ground. Her knees had long since collapsed beneath her, her every muscle aching. Her limbs trembled, and her forehead was slick with sweat.

“You dared believe that such a trick as that would work on one such as me,” Matron said, her voice dripping with undisguised disgust. “Pitiful.”

“What…” Briar wheezed, struggling to get to her hooves. Her face wasn’t working right; her cheeks had gone slack, and she could barely see through the liquid clouding her eyes. “What are you?”

Matron didn’t answer.

“Why?” Briar demanded. The tears streamed down her face, her torso shaking with each wracking sob. “Why?”

“Your actions have sickened me.” Matron’s voice echoed like thunder upon high, darkening the very air through which it passed. “Never entertain such foolish notions as returning to that village again. Now, begone from my sight.”

Briar didn’t need to be told again. With a silent, wordless cry, she galloped out of the room. She crashed into her bedroom and slammed the door behind her. She flung herself onto her bed and sobbed, swirling thoughts crying and shrieking in her ears.

Finally, as her last sobs left her, she opened her eyes. There, sitting on the sheets and still clasped in her mane, was her pin. It glinted pink in the fading light.

Briar sniffed and raised a hoof to her eyes. That was it, then. She’d never find out where it’d come from.

She’d never see Ironwood again.

No, she told herself, shoulders shaking. It didn’t have to be that way.

But Matron had told her that it was. And when Matron spoke…

But Matron isn’t all-powerful, something whispered to her. The pin sat patiently on the bed, one of its petals curling through the air toward her face. Briar sniffled and took it in her hooves. You can leave her behind.

But—

Live your life as you will, or dance upon Matron’s string.

Briar swallowed. Hooves trembling, she set her pin back in her mane and turned toward the window.

That night, when Matron was fast asleep in bed, Briar slipped out of the door and vanished into the night.

Briar stood outside of the house, one leg clutched around her chest. The street was dark, but as she raised a hoof and knocked, light spilled from the windows and out onto the dirt road.

The door creaked open, and there stood Brioche, filling the door completely. He carried a lantern in one massive hoof, and wore a simple nightshirt over his neck. His eyes widened when he recognized Briar standing there.

“I’m sorry to disturb you,” Briar said uncertainly. “But I...I need a place to stay.”

Brioche closed his eyes and raised a hoof to rub the sleep away. When he opened them again, he turned to the inside of the bakery, leaving Briar on the doorstep. Her heart sank.

Then,

“Ironwood!” Brioche hollered. “Get your flank out of bed!”

Something warm filled Briar’s chest as she saw Ironwood, mumbling to himself and rubbing his eyes, stumble to the door. A floppy nightcap covered his ears.

He looked up—and noticed Briar. His face lit up.

“She says she needs a place to stay,” Brioche rumbled. “Think we might be able to help?”

Ironwood beamed.

Before Briar knew it, she’d been yanked inside and had the door slammed shut behind her.

“Oh, you can have my bed,” Ironwood said, his words coming faster than Briar could possibly respond. “I can sleep on the floor; it’s no big deal. Oh! And this means that you’ll be here for the Summer Sun Celebration, which is really really amazing. You’ll just love staying here, I know—”

“Ironwood.”

He stopped and glanced over to her, blinking owlishly. “Huh?”

Briar licked her lips and offered him a weak smile. “Thank you.”

She let out a dull grunt as Ironwood leapt toward her, hooves outstretched, and seized her in a hug.

“Any time,” he said, squeezing her tight. She raised a hoof to his shoulder and squeezed back.

“And what is this?”

Ironwood spun around. “Mom!”

Flaxseed stood at the end of the hall, a light blue nightgown covering her hooves. “Briar, dear. What are you doing here so late at night?”

“She’s staying over,” Ironwood said. “She’s sleeping in my room and everything.”

Flaxseed’s eyes widened almost comically. “Excuse me?” she choked out.

“On the floor,” Briar said quickly.

“Ah.” Flaxseed drew herself back up as Brioche returned from the front of the bakery, the wooden floor creaking beneath his hooves. “Might I ask why?”

Briar winced beneath her stern gaze. “I…” She cast about for a good reason, and finally settled on one that she hoped Flaxseed would find acceptable. “Family problems.”

Flaxseed nodded slowly. “Ah,” she said again, a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. “Then very well. Though I wouldn’t dream of giving you the floor—I’m sure Ironwood won’t mind giving up his own bed for the night.”

“But I already—” Ironwood began, but Flaxseed silenced him with a wave of her hoof.

“Good night, you two,” Flaxseed said with a smile. “Briar, if you need anything, please let us know.”

“Thank you,” Briar said. She bowed her head. “Thank you, so much. And goodnight.”

“Of course,” Brioche rumbled, stepping past her. “We’ll see you two in the morning.”

Barely minutes later, it seemed, and despite her own protests that she could sleep elsewhere, Briar lay on Ironwood’s bed, the sheets curled around her body like a cocoon. Beside the bed, Ironwood snored softly from the floor.

A soft smile touched Briar’s face. “Good night, Matron,” she whispered into the night. “And goodbye.”