Scootaloo awoke that morning with a terrible pain – her entire body was shaking all over, and her insides felt like they were going to burst. She groaned as she tossed under the quilted sheets that covered her flimsy bed; the frame of which was only held together now by some improvised nails and bindings. She tossed some more, causing the old springs to squeak, before rising and making her way to the window.
Scootaloo pulled back the blinds, allowing the morning sun to flood into the confines of her modest, second-story room. Outside, the usual sights of the day greeted her – the shady streets of the little town of Ponyville filled with the odd-vagrant or way-ward traveler, among a host of other ponies, who simply had nowhere else to be or simply didn't care to go anywhere.
It was a beautiful morning though, despite all things. The birds were flying freely in the sky overhead and a soft breeze was blowing in from the north. It was a calm, peaceful serenity that these types of mornings offered, devoid of any of the usual types of loud noises that Scootaloo imagined a larger city might have, and which she had learned to appreciate in her residency there.
The young filly gripped her sides as she felt another stomach pang. This feeling was not a new one to her, but it was one that she had never gotten use to. It was a present, permanent state of want – one that she constantly tried to fill, but never quite succeed in doing. One that, every day, just seemed to get worst. It got so bad that sometimes she almost felt like it was literally gnawing away at insides.
Scootaloo went over to the other side of the room, where a mirror stood against the faded wall. She lifted her shirt and examined herself, as she did every morning. She had grown so thin that her ribs were now clearly visible beneath her skin and fur. Every time she breathed, she could see as her muscles stretched against the bones, causing her frail form to shake and tremble. On her back, her tiny wings still seemed short and stunted, compared to other pegasi she had seen.
Scootaloo sighed. She remembered a time, not too far in the distant past, where she normal, healthy appearance. That was back before the war had started. Food was still available then; back when a pony could go down to the market and buy whatever fruit or vegetable they wanted; back when there was still such luxuries as chocolate and ice-cream to be found.
Her stomach rumbled at the thought.
Ice-cream. It had been nearly three years now since her lips had felt the cold, frothy texture of the sugary treat, but yet, its taste remained as vivid in her memory as if she had eaten it yesterday. She longed for the day that she might try it again, but knew that so long as things continued as they did now, that day was still a long way off.
Scootaloo sighed as she brought her mind back to reality. It didn't do her any good to fantasize about such things, especially when there was so little to eat. Which brought up another question: what was she going to eat? She hadn't the faintest clue. The last she had checked, the pantry was now empty, and it was still a week away before they would be issued a new ration-card.
Another salvo of rumbles. She guessed she'd find out what the morning meal (if there was any) had in store for her.
Scootaloo took off her single-piece nightshirt and folded it neatly into a square, placing into the top drawer of the dresser that stood in the corner of the room before making her way to the closet, and retrieving her favorite dress.
The dress itself was a ragged thing – made out of cheap cotton and held together be a menagerie of off-color patches and stitches where the fabric had ripped or started to unravel. Its blue and white stripes had long ago lost their bright hue from the repeated times it had been washed and left out in the sun to dry, and in several spots, there were stains that had never come completely out. Yet, despite its modest appearance, it served its purpose well, especially during the summer months, which is why it endeared itself so much to the young filly.
She donned the dress and combed her mane with the water from the basin that lay in front of her mirror before making her bed and going down-stairs to the kitchen where she found the usual things that had been laid out for her – some tomatoes and few onions. When she went to look in the ice-box, hoping that perhaps it had been magically filled overnight, she saw that there was nothing there as well, save for two eggs sitting in the back of the cart.
It was a disappointing bunch of ingredients, but she could make do – she always did. She took a tomato and an onion and chopped them into bits before cracking one of the eggs in a bowl. After which, she mixed them all together, adding some garlic for good measure, and poured it all into frying pan to make herself an omelette, which she eagerly ate, before washing it down with her daily cup of milk.
When she had finished, she washed the dishes and put them away, before making her morning pilgrimage outside to the front porch where, sitting on her rocking chair by the door, her grandmother would be waiting for her. Scootaloo opened the front door and, just as expected, there she was, idly reading in the morning shade.
“Good morning, Grandma Sophie” Scootaloo greeted her, kissing her on the cheek.
“Good morning, dear,” she said, putting down her book. “Sleep well?”
“Yeah,” she said stretching. “I slept alright.”
“Good. Did you eat?”
“What little there was...”
“I took the tomatoes and onions from the garden this morning” she said, looking over at the side lot, where a picket fence stood erect around some blooming rows of fruits and vegetables. “Those were the only ones that were ripe...”
The old pony sighed.
“Wasn't so long ago where we could have nice things,” she said with more than a hint of remorse. “Can't even get new needles for my sewing now. Seems everything is always in short supply.”
“It won't last forever,” Scootaloo said, sitting by her side.
“It can’t go on much longer,” her Grandmother replied. “I know that, otherwise I don't what I'll do. But this war has lasted so long now; it feels like it will never end.”
“Grandma, how did the war start?”
“I couldn't tell you, sweetheart. You'd need a book to name all the reasons, and I'm sure there are hundreds of others who could give you a better answer than I could.”
“Erica, from down the street, told me it was because they wanted to destroy our way of life, while our teacher, Mr. Half-Well, said it was our moral responsibility to ensure peace in the world. Whatever that means.”
“They're probably both right,” Grandma Sophia replied as she looked into the sky, using her hoof to shield her eyes from the sun. “It's going to be a hot day,” she said fanning herself. “It's been like this every day for a week now.”
“Will it rain today?” Scootaloo asked.
“That's what the weather forecast said in yesterday's paper – one hundred percent chance of rain.
Scootaloo looked up into the sky – there wasn't a cloud to be seen in any direction.
“So much for the weather,” her grandma said.
“I'm sure it'll rain soon...”
“I hope so,” the old pony said, opening her newspaper again. “A drought is the last thing we need at a time like this.”
Scootaloo sat and watched as other ponies passed by on the street, while her grandmother rocked back in forth in her chair, her newspaper folded in her hoofs.
“What are you reading now, Grandma?” she asked curiously, trying to eye some of the headlines.
“News from the war,” she said. “Apparently our army is making big advances on the southern front; that's where all the action has been lately.”
“Is that where dad is?” Scootaloo asked.
“I don't know, dear,” the old pony replied. “I have not heard from him in nine months now.”
“Do you know if he's okay?”
“I wish I could tell you,” she said. “I pray he is, but somewhere in the back of my mind I can't help but think that...”
She sighed.
“No, he's alright child,” she said reassuringly. “I'm sure he's just fine, doing whatever it is soldiers do.”
“So when will he get back then?”
“I don't know...”
“What if he never comes back?”
“He'll come back. I just haven't received a letter from him in a while.”
“Do you have his last letter?”
Grandma Sophie nodded.
“May I see?”
Grandma Sophie looked into her bag, which was sitting next to her chair, and unzipped it, before producing a folded piece of faded paper and handing it to her. Scootaloo, in turn, unfolded its worn creases, and looked over its intricate lines.
“I can't read it,” she said handing it back. “The words are in cursive. I haven't learned cursive yet.”
Her grandmother smirked.
“Here,” she said. “Would you like it if I read it to you?”
“Please.”
“Very well,” she said, adjusting her glasses, as she looked it over herself. “It says:
Dearest Mother,
The regiment has made camp a few miles away from the front, near a little town whose name I do not know. Tomorrow we will be relieving our own Third Battalion, which is already over-due for rotation. But before we head out again, I thought I would use this time to write you a few lines, so you won't worry overmuch about me.
The conditions here are very agreeable, and the rest of the colts are getting along well. The rations are good and, so far, the weather has not given us any trouble. It's relatively quiet here, compared to other sectors, so I do not think we will be seeing much action, but even if we do, you shouldn't have cause to worry – you know I always take care of myself in a fix.
I have cause to believe that my deployment will not last much longer. We have been making swift advances all along the line, and there is a rumor going around that the conflict will be over by the end of the year. Though I have a hard time believing it, I can only hope at the prospect of peace and a final end to this war. Even so, I do not let my optimism cloud my judgment. It would be a mistake to underestimate our enemy – they are a determined lot, and will fight to the death if given the chance. But if what they say is true, then the end may be near at hoof, and I will be back home once again.
In the meantime, continue to take care. I know in your last letter you complained of shortages, so I am sending you a few tins of non-perishables, as well as some needles from a spare kit – don't ask where I found it!
As always, give my love to Scootaloo – tell her that daddy still misses and thinks about her. With any luck, I will be able to see you both again soon.
Your devoted son,
Auburn.”
When she had finished, her grandmother folded the letter again and put it back into her bag.
“When was that sent?”
“September, which was nine months ago, and I have not received another letter since.”
“I'm sure dad is alright...I mean, he said it himself in the letter: he always takes care of himself. So he has to be okay, right Grandma?”
Grandma Sophie shook her head.
“I sure hope you're right, child...”
At that moment, an older pony with a folded cap atop his head came pulling a large ice-cart behind him, and stopped in front of their house.
“Good Morning Hagia,” he said, waving his hoof. “How does this wonderful day find you?”
“Good Morning, Mr. Glaze,” she said, smiling. “And it finds me well sir, but how many times must I say: it's Mrs. Sophia to you.”
“Terribly sorry,” he replied, apologetically. “But I was just so captivated by the radiant morning sun glowing off of your face that I was put into a trance, and I forgot myself.”
The old pony blushed.
“You're such a hopeless romantic,” she said, waving.
“Shucks,” he said, taking off his caps. “You know I don't mean nothing by it.”
Scootaloo felt like she was going to barf.
“So, what do you have this morning?” her grandmother asked.
“Ice,” he said, undoing the door on the back of his cart and heaving out a perfectly square block. “Same as I do every morning.”
“What do I owe you today?” she asked.
“Nothing,” he said, heaving it up to the front porch. “You know I don't charge you.”
“That's mighty generous of you...”
“Ah think nothing of it,” he said going into the kitchen with it and returning a moment later. “It's all in gratitude to your dear departed husband – rest his soul. You know how close him and I were, and I know you have a son at the front; paying your tab is the least I can do.”
“You're too good to me, Glaze,” she said planting a kiss on his cheek. “But I do fear you will spoil me with all your favors.”
“That's what I live for,” he said chuckling as he sat down. “I spoil all the mares in my life.”
Perspiration came streaming off the gray pony's brow as he fanned himself in the shade of the porch.
“Gracious it's hot,” he said, wiping the sweat off with his hoof.
“Well here, let me get you a drink from inside,” Grandma Sophie replied, going into the kitchen and emerging with a fresh glass of water.
“Thank you kindly,” he said, accepting it graciously. He continued to take large gulps of it until he had finished it with a content sigh.
“That really does it,” he said, wiping his lip. “Thirsty business it is out here.”
“Indeed. I really don't know how you do it,” Grandma Sophie said, placing the empty glass on the table next to her.
“Years of practice,” he chuckled. “You get used to it after a while. But on that note, I really need to continue my run. Good day to you, Mrs. Sophia,” he said, tipping his cap.
“Good day,” she replied as he headed to his cart.
Just as he was rearing to leave though, the gray colt stopped.
“Oh, and another thing,” he said, almost as an afterthought. “Another train just arrived in town this morning – full of soldiers.”
“Probably more wounded,” she replied. “They've arrived here by the train-full since the war started.”
“You're probably right,” he said nodding. “Well anyways, I'm off.”
“Take care of yourself Glaze!”
“I always do!”
“He's a nice pony and I know he means well,” she said idly to her granddaughter as she watched him travel down the street to the next house. “But sometimes he overdoes it.”
Grandma Sophie giggled.
“He's still adorable though.”
“Grandma,” Scootaloo said. “Why is Mr. Glaze still here while all the other colts around town are gone?”
“Because of his job, dear,” she replied.
“Oh, I see,” Scootaloo said, nodding.
“Yes, he has what they call an 'exempt occupation' – which means he doesn't have to go off to fight. He has other obligations here at home.”
“Must be nice...”
“And speaking of obligations, I think yours are overdue to begin – time for piano practice.”
“Aw, do I have to?”
“You ask me that every day and every day I give you the same answer: yes.”
“But I don't want to,” Scootaloo groaned.
“Oh stop that now,” her grandmother said. “There's a lot you can learn from piano practice.”
“Like what? What can I learn from piano practice?”
“Patience, for one, and diligence, for another. Learning to play the piano is a refined art – it coordinates the mind, body, and soul into one, united force. It shows us the value of harmony and how to achieve it – through perfect integration and cohesion.”
“I don't understand any of that!” Scootaloo protested.
Grandma Sophie sighed.
“It's a nice skill to know,” she said. “It impresses other ponies and you it helps your coordination.”
“Why didn't you just say that?”
“I did – in a very embellished way. Now, upstairs, to the piano. I'll be along shortly – just as soon as I water the garden. In the meantime, practice until I get there. Understood?”
“Yes grandmother,” she said, bowing obediently.
“Good, now run along.”
Scootaloo turned around and headed inside – through the parlor and up the stairs to the spare room next to hers where her grandmother's piano was kept. It was an old instrument, but well-kept, and it played just well as any other Scootaloo had heard. The finish of it was sleek, but the green patina on its brass knobs betrayed its age.
Scootaloo sat down at its bench which had been adjusted specifically for her, and placed her hoofs upon the keys at their correct positions, ready to begin.
She despised playing the piano – she found practicing on its ivory white keys, hour after hour, to be repetitive and boring. When she first began, at her grandmother's insistence, she put up a facade, a clever illusion that she got some thrill from it, but over time she could not mask her disdain for the piano, or singing for that matter (another of her grandmother's passions). She just wasn't a musical pony. Still, it brought her grandmother some amount of satisfaction, which is why she had continued up to this point, and as much as she hated it, she much preferred it over the agonizing monotony of doing nothing. Piano, therefore, was the lesser of two evils.
Scootaloo idly began to tap the keys, going up and down the scales as her hoofs traversed the board. She had done these so many times she could have done it blindfolded – a simple, but precise repetition.
A few moments later and her grandmother appeared in the doorway behind her.
“Ah, I see you are practicing.”
“Yes, grandmother,” Scootaloo replied.
“Good,” she said taking a seat beside her. “Then you are ready to begin playing.”
“Same tune?”
“Same tune.”
“Alright...”
“Remember, posture straight, hoofs relaxed, and foot on the pedal. Ready?”
“Yes.”
“Begin.”
Scootaloo took a deep breath. The sheet music, the same one she had played countless times before, was standing open in front of her eyes; the only thing left to do now was to play. She relaxed her hoofs and, with a gentle ease, began to press the keys.
“Good,” her grandmother said. “Remember to keep the beat: one, two, three, one, two, three.”
Scootaloo nodded as she made sure to keep in rhythm.
It was a waltz she was playing – a sad, somber tune that still had an airiness about it, despite its slow and sentimental melody. Scootaloo could easily imagine such a piece being played at a funeral or a wedding – it worked equally well for both.
A few moments passed before Scootaloo's serenade was broken by the sounding of knocking coming from the front door down-stairs.
“That must be the mail-pony with the daily post,” her grandmother said getting up. “You continue playing. I'll be back shortly.”
Scootaloo nodded as her grandmother turned around and walked out the door, descending down the stairs to the parlor to the front door.
Scootaloo leaned her head on her hoof as she began to idly tap the keys with the other, lazily playing an improvised melody. A moment of this passed before Scootaloo heard something strange – a faint whimpering wail... crying?
Scootaloo got up from the bench and went to the door way.
“Grandma?” she called down-stairs.
She could hear it clearly now – the distinctive tremble of her grandmother's voice, broken and frail. She was crying.
Scootaloo rushed to the stair-case and descended the wooden steps just as fast as she was able, not knowing what to expect.
“Grandma, are you...”
Just as she was mid-way down the stairs, a strange sight came into view: there, standing in the doorway was her grandmother, but beside her, there stood a tall, white colt with a reddish-brown mane – wearing golden armor and his helmet in his hoof.
He paused as she stood frozen on the step before looking up at her and smiling.
“Hello, sweetie,” he greeted her softly.
“D-dad?” Scootaloo stuttered.
“Yes dear,” he said, moving towards the stairs. “It's me. I'm home.”
“Dad!”
Scootaloo raced down the stairs as fast as her hoofs would carry her, straight into the arms of her waiting father, nearly knocking him off balance.
“Whoa, you've grown thin,” he said, lifting her up with his arm.
“Dad I've missed you so much!” she said, the tears streaming down her cheeks as she buried her face in his shoulder.
“I've missed you too, sweetie,” he replied, holding her close. “I've missed you both terribly.”
“Son,” his mother said, gripping his arm, tears still brimming in her own eyes. “Tell me that the war is over and that you've finally come back to us for good."
“Well, the war's not quite over,” he said, bowing his head. “But I've served my two years enlistment and have been put on active-reserve, which means I don't have to go to the front anymore. Look,” he said, producing a crumpled piece of paper from the pack he carried on his back. “I have my discharge papers – it says so right here. I can stay here now and look after you both. I'm home mom, aren't you happy?”
“More than I can say,” she said, breaking into another flood of tears.
“I thought...I thought you'd never come back,” Scootaloo said between sobs.
“Aw,” he chuckled, cradling her in his arms. “Why would you think that?”
“You were gone for so long, and I... I...”
More tears flooded down her ruddy cheeks.
“Oh dad,” she said, gripping his shoulders. “Please don't ever leave again...”
“I won't, sweetie,” he said, petting her head. “I'm going to be staying here from now on. I'll never leave again – promise.”
He planted a kiss on his daughter's head as she held him tight.
“Here,” Grandma Sophie said motioning him to the kitchen. “Why don't you sit yourself down? I'm sure it must have been a long journey to get here.”
“Thank you,” he said, pulling a chair from the table and sitting down. “Yes, it was long journey, but not too bad. Our train had to make a few stops and lay-over’s on the way, but nothing too serious. Certainly better than walking, that's for sure.”
“Well, I'm glad you made it home alright. Please, make yourself at home. Would you like me to get you anything? Some water perhaps? Oh, I wish I had something more to celebrate such a wonderful occasion.”
“No, that's alright,” he replied. “Thank you though. On that note, though, I got something for the both of you.”
“Something... for us?” Grandma Sophie asked.
“Look here,” he said unzipping one of side pouches on his bag. “What do you think of all these?” he asked, producing a bag of potatoes.
“Good gracious son!” Grandma Sophie exclaimed. “Where did you get all those?”
“Got them from a farmer while I was leaving the front. His wagon had broken down on the side of the road, so, I stopped and helped him. He gave me these for the help.”
“I've...I've not seen so many potatoes in ages! Must be a least two dozen here! That's not an awful lot, given, but I could easily make this last a week!”
“Ah, but that's not all,” he said. “Here.”
He pulled out a purse and threw it on the counter, letting gold bits go in all directions.
Scootaloo gasped, while Grandma Sophie nearly fainted.
“Opened up a bank account while I was away – put all my extra earnings in it each month.. Had it arranged to be all sent back to you had I been...well, anyway, here it is. I knew it would pay to save instead of blowing at the brothels like the other did.”
“What's a brothel?” Scootaloo asked.
“I'll tell you when you're older, sweetie,” he said.
“Son...” Grandma Sophie said trembling. “How much money is that?”
“Three hundred bits, or a little over, I think.”
“You must be the richest dad in the whole world!” Scootaloo exclaimed.
Her father chuckled.
“Not a terrible lot, but not too bad either. It's enough to get by with, at least for a while anyway.”
“It's more than enough!” Grandma Sophie said. “Give me twenty five bits and I'll have the pantry full by tonight.”
Auburn shook his head.
“How will you do that with rationing?”
A knowing smile crossed Grandma Sophie's lips.
“You'll see,” she said, smirking. “I know some ponies...”
True to her word, Grandma Sophie delivered; by the end of the day her pantry was filled to the brim with all manner of canned food and of every variety and type, and that night, the family sat united at the dining table and enjoyed a dinner like the kind they used to before the war.
The meal itself was fairly ordinary – baked potatoes with carrots, some hay on the side, and little bit of garnish to give it some extra flavor, but to Scootaloo, it was like being treated to a royal banquet. She eagerly helped herself to as much as she was able to eat, and then a little more for good measure. By the end of the evening, as the candles on their holders were flickering low, she was quite full, and very satisfied.
It was after dinner though, when she was instructed to go upstairs and wash-up before going to bed, that her father and grandmother retired to the parlor and began to talk. Scootaloo did as she was told, yet, out of curiosity, she decided as she was going to her room, to sit at the top of the stair-case and listen as the words passed between them.
“Son, I'm so happy you're home, but now I only wonder: what do you plan to do now?”
“I don't know, to be completely honest,” he replied “I just figured I'd pick up where I left off when this whole thing started – taking care of you and my daughter.”
“But what will you do for money? There are no jobs around anymore.”
“It won't be easy,” he said. “But I'll find something, somehow – you'll see. I just got put myself out there. In the meantime, though, I'm going to start making up for all the time I've been away. See, when I was out in the field, I got to thinking, and it made me realize just how precious this life is. Before the war, I was just a clerk, working from pay-day to pay-day to make ends meet, but now I want to do more, so much more! I want to make a name for myself. But more than that, I want to live life again. You know what I mean? You never realize how many of the small things you take for granted until you don't have them. I want to smell the flowers in the fields, breath the fresh air, and watch the sunset without having to worry if that will be the last one I ever see again.”
“Was it really that bad over there?”
He remained silent for a moment, but when he spoke, is voice was low and steady.
“None of us soldiers like to talk much about it, at least the ones I have met. I know there are others who can, but not me. I've seen things that I hope no pony should ever have to witness. In the beginning and for a long time after, I thought I wouldn't be able to live with myself, after seeing what I did, but...you learn to deal with it. You learn to carry on and...” his voice lowered to a whisper. “Do your duty...”
He looked out the window into the evening sky.
“How about the others?” Grandma Sophie asked. “The ones you went off with? How many are left?”
“I couldn't say,” he said, leaning on the mantle over the fire-place. “They did a reorganization before our last assault. Pieces of the unit were transferred all over. I know there's Cloud and Peaches – they're still alive. Thunder got separated; I don't know what happened to him. Apple's dead though. I know that for certain.”
“Did he...?”
“No, he didn't. It was very clean. I doubt he felt anything at all.”
He shook his head.
“Hell of a thing, war is,” he said. “Nothing but senseless dying, and I've seen enough of it to last a life-time.”
As they talked, Scootaloo felt a knot begin to form in her chest. She could feel that with each passing word that there was a heaviness being pressed down upon her. She had always known, like all the other school-ponies, that when you played war, you were not suppose to get up again when you're “dead”, but then, it had always been a game to her. Now, as she continued to listen to her father's voice, she began to tremble as the reality slowly dawned upon her. With every grim phrase, every solemn word, every harsh recounting, a portrait of death and suffering was painted in vivid color in her mind, and as she stared into the void, she felt darkness descending all around her.
Soon, the weight on her chest became too much. She leaned forward to her knees, covering her face with her hoofs, and began to weep – weep for all the other little colts and fillies like her who had loved ones they'd never see again; weep for the spirit of hatred that would possess ponies to kill one another, instead of love; weep because she knew that this evil was still on-going, and there was nothing she could do to stop it, no matter what she said or did. She had tears enough to spare for all of them, and then some.
She continued to silently sob at the top of the stair-case, until a pair of strong arms wrapped themselves around her shoulders and held her tight.
“Why are you crying dear?” her father whispered. “What has made you upset?”
Scootaloo could hardly compose herself to form an answer as she tried to wipe away the warm haze in from her eyes and stay silent long enough to reply.
“I heard...I heard you talking, and I...I...”
Another gush of tears.
“It's alright,” he whispered. “Here,” he said, getting up and retrieving a cloth from the bathroom. “Use this.”
Scootaloo took the cloth did as her father instructed, drying her tears until she could talk again.
“Now, what all did you hear?” he asked, petting her head.
“I heard you talking about how bad it was, and...and...Did you really do all those things?”
He bowed his head.
“I'm ashamed to say so,” he said regretfully.
“But...why?”
Her father took a long breath.
“I ask myself the same question every night,” he said, leaning his head on his own hoofs. “I wish I could tell you why, but the truth is, I don't even know myself.”
“Will it ever come to an end?” she sniffled.
He nodded.
“Yes...” he said thoughtfully. “One day it will all come to an end. One day the violence must stop, and peace come again. The darkness we see now is just a passing thing – a storm running its course, but there are sunnier days ahead, my child, I swear.”
“But when? When will they come?”
“I do not know,” he replied. “But I know it cannot last forever – for this too must pass. But in the meantime, we have cannot let that stop that from enjoying ourselves. It's up to us – you and I – to continue living while we still have the chance. I know have been away now for longer than I ever dreamed or hoped I would, but I'm here now, and that's all that matters.
“I'm going to be a part of your life from now on, I promise. I'm going to make up for those lost years by being with you every step of the way, because the truth of the matter is, when I look and see what a fine young mare you're growing up to be, I couldn't be prouder of you. You're one of the best things to ever happen to me, child, and I love you more than anything because I see the best myself in you.”
“You...you really mean that, dad?”
“With all my heart, dear.”
Scootaloo pressed herself to her father's chest, and the two of them sat embraced in each other's arms, cradling each other back and forth as they both shed tears together – not of sadness now, but happiness, happiness that they were both still alive and finally together again once more.
“I love you, dad,” she whispered in his ear, wiping away the last of her tears.
“I love you too, Scootaloo,” he whispered back. “But I think it's time for bed now, don't you think?
“Aw, do I have to? I'm not even...” she said as she stretched her hoofs, yawning. “...tired.”
“Aha, see,” he said, smiling. “Now off to bed.”
Her father kissed her forehead and Scootaloo went to her room, where she hung up her dress and donned her nightshirt, before pulling back the covers and climbing into the bed.
As she sat staring up at the ceiling, she thought about the future and what was to come. So much had happened so fast it was almost unreal. In a single day, everything had changed – whether it was for the better or not, she didn't know. Was her father the same pony he had been before he had left? Every indication seemed to suggest though, but Scootaloo was still unsure. How does a pony whose been through all that he described ever go back to being “normal” again? Do they just pretend that what they experienced never happened and go on with their lives? Or do they try to deal with it the best they can?
Scootaloo didn't know her father's inner struggles, but she knew that whatever happened, that things would never be the same as they had been before. Things had changed now, and she had to change also. She would have to help bring about some order in a life that had, until recently, struggled everyday with the madness of bloodshed and chaos. To that end, she vowed to herself that she would do everything she could in these coming weeks and months, perhaps even years, to help restore some semblance of normality and help her father readjust himself to being at home again.
She knew that such an undertaking would require her to patiently endure many adversities; though she wondered deep-down whether she had the resolve to remain dutiful, especially if it meant doing things she didn't really want to. Still, for her father, who had so far shown her the tenderness and kindness that she had always known and expected from him, she considered any sacrifice she made to be worth the price of his recovery.
There would be many tribulations still yet to come, but what of those? For now, they were all united, as a family once again. And Scootaloo felt the lull of sleep overtake her, she allowed herself, for the first time in ages, to dream, and to hope...
~
There was a warm breeze blowing in the soft summer evening. The sun was setting in the west, and the sky was tinted with the hues of the evening – orange, red, and purple. The birds chirped melodically, yet serenely in the trees; as if to lend a cadence to the retiring of the day, and beneath a large oak tree, Scootaloo, now almost fully grown, watched as the darkness slowly overtook the landscape – the shadows growing more pronounced with each passing minute.
It was quiet. The bustle of the day had faded away, and all that was left was the quiet sounds of nature, and the silence of the coming night.
The young mare sighed.
How the events of those many years ago still resounded in her memory. She still remembered it as vividly as if it had happened yesterday; the words, the emotions, the exchanges passed between them – how they burned like a candle, illuminating the recesses of her mind with one of the few times she had ever been truly happy.
That time was filled with many fond recollections. For her birthday, which had passed two months before his return, her father had used his earnings to buy her a scooter – her scooter – and taught her how to ride it. He took her to the forest near the edge of town and showed her how to fish in the creeks, and track and navigate through the forest, so she wouldn't get lost. They also spent many hours in the evening talking with one another, sharing secrets and telling stories.
Those were happy times – but they didn't last. That next spring, as the war dragged into its fourth year, conscription was imposed. The offensive had turned against them, and the army was short of soldiers; all able-bodied ponies were called back into service – including her father.
At the train station, it was a fateful sight as she begged for him not to go.
“Please,” she pleaded, gripping him around the waist as the tears came once again. “Don't go. Don't go. You promised you wouldn't. You promised. Please don't go.”
“I know what I promised,” he said regretfully. “And I'm sorry, but I must...”
“Why? Why must you leave?” she said, sobbing. “Why must you always go away?”
“Please, dear,” he said, petting her head like the many times he had before. “Don't make this anymore painful than it has to be.”
“But...but I'll miss you.”
“I know,” he said bending down. “I'll miss you too. But I'll come back. Don't you think I'll come back?”
She sobbed some more.
“There, there,” he said encouragingly. “It's not so bad. You want to be brave though, don't you? You want to be brave like me, right?”
The little filly nodded.
“Then be strong, that way, it’ll make things easier for the both of us.”
“But...when will I see you again?”
“That's hard to say,” he whispered. “I don't how much longer this whole thing will last, but I do know this: we will meet again – that much you can believe. There's no power on earth that will stop me from coming back to you. I don't know the where or when– but one day I'll come back, you'll see.”
Scootaloo found comfort in her father's words, even as she fought to keep back from crying into his chest.
“I won't be long,” he said, as held her shoulders. “Now give your dad kiss before he goes.”
She leaned forward and gave him a peck on the cheek before he held her close in a tight embrace.
“No matter what happens though,” he said. “Never forget, sweet child, how much I love you – and remember this above all: there is no challenge too great that, when you set your mind to it, you can't overcome; and when pursue it with all your heart and soul, then not even the heavens themselves will deny you.”
The tears flowed from the young filly's face as nestled her father's shoulder, wishing that their embrace would never end.
“You keep being a good filly for your grandmother,” he said, pulling away. “And I'll be back before you know it. You promise me you'll look after her while I'm gone, won't you?”
“Yes,” she said nodding. “I will. I promise.
“Good girl,” he said, smiling. “I know you won't let me down. Goodbye, Scootaloo.”
“Goodbye, dad.”
They embraced each other for the last time before parting for good, as her father joined the ranks of the other soldiers, as they embarked on the waiting train carriage.
Scootaloo made her way back to where her grandmother was, and stood silently beside her as the last of the passengers boarded, and the departing whistle sounded. The train lurched forward, and slowly began to chug out of the station, before her grandmother leaned forward and whispered in her ear: “Wave, child, wave.”
The young filly raised her hoof in the air and shook it back and forth into the wind, until even after the train had long disappeared from sight...
Scootaloo sighed as she got up from her place beneath the oak tree, and walked a few meters away, to a place where the grass was even and flat. There, a tall, white, marble stone stood facing towards the west. On its face was inscribed, in large, bold letters:
CORPORAL AUBURN MANE
Beneath it were his dates of birth and death (including where he fell), as well as an inscription, written in plain lettering.
Scootaloo smiled faintly to herself as she read it out loud:
“Faithful to the end...”
The words echoed through the stillness of the evening, and within Scootaloo's heart.
“Faithful to the end...” she whispered again.
She bowed her head solemnly as she rested her hoofs on the tombstone, and let the tears fall from her cheeks onto the cold ground below, before she felt someone lightly touch her shoulder. She turned around to see her teacher, and now adopted-mother, Ms. Cheerilee, standing there.
“Would you like to stay a little longer?” she asked.
Scootaloo shook her head.
“No, I don't think so.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah, I think so. Just give me a minute more.”
“Alright,” Cheerilee said, nodding. “Take your time. I'll be waiting.”
The older mare turned away, leaving Scootaloo in complete solace where her father lay.
“Thank you,” she whispered, as she kneeled beside the stone. “For everything that you did; for giving me the strength to go on. Thank you. I know we'll meet again...some day..."
The young mare leaned forward and planted a kiss on the top of the tombstone, as fondly as she had once planted it on her father's cheek, before getting up and making her way back home, as the night descended around her...
Author's Note
Some appropriate music: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cHcunREYzNY&feature=kp
Dedicated to all the brave men and women who risk their lives everyday around the world in dedication to their country. Thank you for your service.
