Masquerade

Tired.

Applejack tasted the word, rolled it around in her head a few times, and frowned, shaking her head upon finding it unfitting.

Exhausted.

Yes, that was better. It was all, exhausted. She was exhausted, they were exhausted, but, most importantly, it was exhausted.

The land, was exhausted.

Tears fell freely from her eyes, down her cheeks, dripping from her chin and to the exhausted dirt.

She tried to repress the thoughts about everything else, and instead focus on just the one fact—only keenly observing that the land was exhausted, and nothing more.

Finally, after an unspecified amount of time, she felt the touch of another pony, and heard the voice of another pony.

“Let’s go inside.”

And so, numbly, she did as was suggested, dimly observing that she was following Macintosh. She focused on the back of his head until the two of them made it indoors; thereafter she had other things to focus on, and switched her stare promptly to the wall.

Macintosh sat across from her at the table, and after the final squeak of his chair, there was nothing but silence for a very, very long time. It was a gloomy silence, and a contemplative one.

When they had sat in this way for longer than her sanity could stand, Applejack got up, and, seeing Mac’s questioning gaze, muttered, “I’m going ta meet Pinkie.” Then, in an afterthought, “I’ll be at th’ inn if somethin’ happens.”

The town of Ponyville had but one inn—a crammed and pitiful thing which saw much traffic, for times were hard and alcohol was cheap.

Applejack staggered her way through the vociferous mass to take a seat at a table, watching fair-mindedly as a fight broke out in the far corner—one that was soon put down, and ended her distraction. She thought about getting a drink, but then thought better of it—she had no money, after all.

“Applejack,” a voice and a soft pat on the withers greeted her from her left, and she turned as Pinkie made to take a seat beside her.

In all accounts, Pinkie Pie could not be painted in a clear way. Her family was noble, once upon a time, they say, but in that day and age it took more than mere blood to wear the rank, so the Pies were erased generations ago. Nonetheless, they had respect, and they had land, and that was more than most ponies had.

The Pies were separated from Ponyville, living on the borders and never wandering into town. Pinkie was, consequently, the only connection that the hamlet had with the old family.

Those who met her found her pleasant in manner, if a bit overzealous. Yet all who met her came away with a smile or a chuckle, and not a bad word was spoken about Pinkie when her name was brought up in the talks. She was charismatic in her own way, bearing a strange sense of familiarity with everypony she met, and over time had gained many close friends within the city borders.

Ponies enjoyed and were fond of Pinkie.

The Apples and the Pies were close acquaintances only because of the intimate friendship that binded Pinkie and Applejack; one that neither, reportedly, remembered the start of, yet both knew had lasted for about a lifetime.

“Pinkie,” Applejack greeted back, nodding her head once and then turning away to stare out again, the way she had been before Pinkie came.

They sat in silence after that for a while, but it never became cumbersome, probably because of their understanding of each other.

When Applejack sighed, Pinkie perked up, but timidly so. “Ready to talk?” she asked with a simple patience that said she would have stayed sitting beside Applejack for days in silence if necessary.

But a sigh was good. A sigh opened up things; it was a noise and noises always brought forth a chance of the question why. Why did you sigh? What was that noise for?

But Pinkie was better at reading ponies than that. Or, at the very least, better at reading Applejack than that.

“I’m exhausted, Pinks,” Applejack said in something like admittance, even though she was not particularly hiding the fact.

“Too much work?” asked Pinkie conversationally.

Applejack frowned, sighed again, stared without seeing. “Too much work and nothin’ to show for it. The land’s gone.”

They fell silent once more, and this time the silence carried a different weight, one of unity under misfortune. Pinkie wrapped her foreleg around her friend in a seemingly reflexive movement of comfort and support.

“My farm isn’t doing so well, either,” Pinkie informed, idly. “They want more ore, more rock, but rocks are like, the slowest crops ever.”

“Ain’t the crop’s fault. It’s theirs,” Applejack growled darkly, then. “Nature ain’t gonna speed up for them, an’ they don’ like that.”

Pinkie nodded silently, familiar as she was with Applejack’s outbursts. But the tirade died out right after that statement. It seemed today she simply could not gather the spirits to be bothered about it.

“I’m sorry ‘bout yours,” Applejack sighed after a while, returning Pinkie’s half-hold. “High time to change the subject, what do you say?”

Pinkie nodded, perking up again—but unrestrained this time, free as she was, for now, of her quandary. “Sure,” she agreed. “Have you heard the rumors of the rebellion?”

Applejack tched. “Carrot Top’s starting that stuff again?” she asked, weary. “She’s not careful, she’s gonna end up beheaded.”

“Maybe,” Pinkie said, diplomatically. “But if it’s something she believes in, wouldn’t it be worth it?”

“Not many things are worth dyin’ over,” Applejack grunted, and then squinted her eyes at Pinkie. “What was that tone o’ voice from you?”

Pinkie blinked, the perfect picture of pure perplexed ingenuousness. “What do you mean?”

“With the whole ‘if it’s something she believes in, wouldn’t it be worth it’ thing,”

Pinkie shrugged. “There are things I would die for.”

“Like what?” Applejack challenged.

“Well, my mom and dad and sist—”

“Well, yeah, family’s about the only thing worth dyin’ for,” Applejack snorted. “I mean like, those fools who ‘die for a cause’—like what Carrot Top’s preachin’. That rebellion they had down in Baltimare? There were what, three thousand ‘o them? Wshh.” Applejack made a cutting downward motion with her hoof. “All dead. Slaughtered.”

Pinkie shrugged again. “Guess they were willing to die for a cause they believed in.”

“They were jus’ tryin’ to get their names printed in the paper,” Applejack said resolutely, shaking her head in disgust.

“Or die for a cause they believed in,” Pinkie repeated. “I mean, think about it, AJ. The war’s been going on since before you and I were born. It’s about time somepony stood up and did something about it.”

Applejack narrowed her eyes at the suddenly impassioned Pinkie. “You’re not thinking about—”

“Maybe they just needed a better leader. I mean, rebellions are hard to stage, right?” she asked, as if Applejack would know the answer, then, without waiting for an answer, she continued, growing confident and ardent while her eyes glazed over. Applejack suddenly had the premonition that Pinkie had been thinking over this for a very long time, repressing it all.

“Look, the war is not going to stop—of course it’s not going to stop, the politicians and nobles up in snotty Canterlot are making fortunes off of it. The rich are getting richer, and we’re starving!”

She slammed her hoof on the table, then, and Applejack jumped, wildly looking around and seeing a few of the nearby patrons turn their heads towards them. She shushed Pinkie; put a hoof on her shoulder and guided her back into her seat, for she had started to rise from it in her diatribe.

“Are you insane?” Applejack whispered in furious tones to Pinkie once the ponies that had drawn their gazes towards them went back to their conversations. “Sayin’ stuff like that in a public place? Rebellion is treason, Pinkie. There are eyes and ears everywhere. They’ll burn you on a stake, or hang you, or decapitate you.”

“Your farm, Applejack,” Pinkie hissed back, blue eyes fiery. “My farm. Our families. Think about it; do you really want Apple Bloom to grow up the way we did—having to give almost everything we grew to ‘the war effort’? You really want that kind of life for her?”

“I don’t wanna hear it, Pinkie,” Applejack said, her tone gathering a bit of steel.

“Come with me to Carrot Top’s meeting,” Pinkie insisted softly, her gaze intent and burning into Applejack.

“No,” Applejack said unequivocally. “I’m not going, and you aren’t either.”

Pinkie sneered. “You’re not my mother, Applejack.” She rose from her seating, then, rage in her eyes, and made to leave in an outlandish fit of fury, which was all but a very good act.

Applejack grabbed one of Pinkie’s forelegs in her hoofs, holding it to her breast as if it was a doll. “You can’t,” she cried softly, in a most rare moment of pure fear. “They’ll find out and they’ll kill you!”

Pinkie shook herself free with more strength than her deceiving frame gave her credit for. “Then come with me, and protect me,” she muttered, and in that moment, her voice took on a peculiar change, almost imperceptible unless one was listening for it.

Applejack wasn’t. Her eyes darted here and there wildly. Nevertheless, she bit her lip; eyebrows knotted together, she looked at Pinkie with upset eyes.

She nodded, not trusting her voice to speak, and as soon as she nodded, she felt as though every ear in the room had heard their treasonous conversations, and every eye was following them inconspicuously, ready to turn them in.

Pinkie slid off her stool. “Follow me,” she said, and her voice had changed to a low, cautious murmur the likes of which Applejack had never heard from her before, or thought her capable of.

And in the years to come, many a scholar would ask the question on when it was, exactly, that the fires of rebellion started in Applejack’s heart. Their answers would lead them here, to the only inn in Ponyville.