Leaf Songs

Chapters

Chapter 1: AppleJill
Chapter 2: Pages
Chapter 3: Aubade

Chapter 1: AppleJill

"Mown meadows skirt the standing wheat;
I linger, for the hay is sweet,
New-cut and curing in the sun.
Like furrows, straight, the windrows run,
Fallen, gallant ranks that tossed and bent
When, yesterday, the west wind went
A-rioting through grass and grain.
To-day no least breath stirs the plain;
Only the hot air, quivering, yields
Illusive motion to the fields
Where not the slenderest tassel swings.
Across the wheat flash sky-blue wings;
A goldfinch dangles from a tall,
Full-flowered yellow mullein; all
The world seems turning blue and gold.
Unstartled, since, even from of old,
Beauty has brought keen sense of her,
I feel the withering grasses stir;
Along the edges of the wheat,
I hear the rustle of her feet:
And yet I know the whole sea lies,
And half the earth, between our eyes."

Before I realize myself to be awake, the poem has first escaped my lips. And, while so, I feel myself to have been swimming in a dream so described by the woven words. It must have been before this drowsy state of mind, where my consciousness danced from sleepiness to rousing, when my lover kissed me by my eyelids goodbye and set off to her morning chores, in her place leaving a lone thornless rose. Half of me wishes she had not done it; the scent of the flower petals overtakes what fragrance she left on the bed. Yet the image of her tiptoeing to leave a rose on my side incites in me a glamour that makes me blush.

It's the poem speaking, I think to myself.

Rolling the flower in my hooves, I return my attention to the red book entitled AppleJill–a play, no doubt, on my lover's name. Her nom de guerre, perhaps? It is not at all a coincidence that this lone leather bound is what steals my attention from all other articles in my lover's room. Beside the few ledgers of accounts and manuals on farming, this alone is covered with a red sleeve, bordered of golden leaf engravings, wrapped with protective plastic, and carefully, purposely, hidden behind the bedside drawer. Until I have turned the first page, I had not known that this is a poetry book.

I turn several more pages of poetry, all written in the careful cursive script from an absent author. I read aloud:

"When the last fight is lost, the last sword broken;
The last call sounded, the last order spoken;
When from the field where braver hearts lie sleeping,
Faint, and athirst, and blinded, I come creeping,
With not one waving shred of palm to bring you,
With not one splendid battle-song to sing you,
O Love, in my dishonor and defeat,
Your measureless compassion will be sweet."

Wow! I think. Why would she hide such talent?

And here I thought that my dearest has no way with words.

It is a fighting struggle to close the booklet and read no further. The words which I have read, I now so wish spoken from her lips. How frightened could she be, that the poor dear has yet to utter to me a line of rhyme and song? Must she think it too feminine–too out of place–for the rough lifestyle of the farm? I believe that it only takes a little push from me to her before she unveils this talent. And even if not to the whole world then to me, alone, would suffice to hear of her romantic whispers.

But must I be so explicit? Surely, humility is not the only reason for Applejack's concealment of her gift in written verse.

It is much more polite, and entertaining for my part, if I am to tease her talent out of her.

Armed with the excitement of this newfound knowledge of my lover, I am stirred awake. That dwindling consciousness has stopped dancing and landed on complete attention.

The morning sun, which has failed to rouse me, now stings my eye to beckon me up from the bed. I replace the booklet where I found it–on the floor where it had tumbled to after last night night's frolics–and wrap my body with the still-warm sheets to hide the red chafe of my lover's love bites.

With cautious hoofsteps, I make my way down the stairs. The necessity of having to care for the noise is proven useless as, there, in the kitchen, the early rising Apple family is wide awake and all ready for the morn. Big Macintosh sits at the table reading a newspaper and Granny Smith is preparing the breakfast in the kitchen; they both see me, and they both smile. Adorable little Apple Bloom does not notice me yet, with all her attention proportioning milk in cereal. Big Macintosh points out the porch and Granny Smith imitates the same gesture with a nod of her head.

I walk outside, to the blue misty dawn, and there I saw her.

Applejack is tilling the land, pulling on her back the steel plow against the recalcitrant earth. Even from afar, I can see the sweat of hard work trickle down her coat and mix in with the raindrops. Her chest puffs out with every breath she takes in the momentous effort it takes to finish her arduous task.

But, noticing me there, Applejack stops. She takes off the girdle of the plow and trots to me.

"Mornin', Rarity," she says.

And still, even after all we have done together in the past week, I am still unable to break away from the shell of timidity she secured me in from her last night's embrace. "G-G-Good morning..." I stutter.

She hesitates for a moment, but then cups the back of my head and tries to pull me in for a kiss. I fight it back, if only because of my embarrassment.

"S-stop..." I say, pressing my hoof against her chest, "I... I haven't even washed yet..."

Applejack laughs, knowing all too well that it matters to neither of us. She pulls me in again, receiving my lips, and this time I make no effort to stop it. She pulls back, gently afterwards, as if she is being cautious that I am to fall if she lets go too abruptly.

"Dearest, what are you doing working out here in the rain?"

"It ain't a rain," she laughs. "Just a mizzle. Mighty easier plowing some part of the lands when it does."

"Well, I don't want you getting any cold."

"That's least of mah worries," she laughs at the apparent impossibility of my remark. "Why don't ya stay in the house. Let Granny Smith fix ya some breakfast. She makes some mean pancakes."

She grabs me by the shoulders and it takes out the words from me. I can only nod in response.

"Ya seem to like that rose, too. Looks like there's no need for me to get you another one."

I look at the flower in my hoof. I did not know I have it.

"I'll be back when mah works done," she says, "then ah'll escort ya back to yer place. Ya don't mind waitin' do ya?"

"Oh please, don't mind me," I manage to say. "If ever, I'm the one intruding."

"Ah won't be long. Promise."

As she turns around, I call out immediately.

"Jacqueline!" I call out–my pet name for her–a little too loud.

She turns around and raises an eyebrow. "Yea?"

"You know... before we started going out... I never thought you had a romantic side in you."

"Really? Ah never thought mahself to be the romantic-kind."

I hold up the rose to her.

"Oh, that," she laughs. "Ah just reckon ya don't want wakin' up on the bed on yer lonesome while ah set up for work."

"Still... it's very..."

"Thoughtful?"

"I was going to say romantic again, but if you insist..."

Applejack returns to her home and busies herself once again to the demand of her task. I accept her invitation and proceed to join her family for breakfast where a bowl is already waiting for me.

At the Apple family's center table, the nutty aroma of cashews and almonds fill the air alongside that of steamed milk and coffee. Apple Bloom pours freshly milled oat and barley to my bowl as she speaks exorbitantly about an art project she and Sweetie Belle are working on, before hurrying out to be first in class. Granny Smith, attentive to my needs as well, sets aside a glass of orange juice and a plate of toasts before leaving to attend to something in the living room.

The courtesy only serves to embarrass me that, even after the two mares left–one mare and one filly to be precise–I am left more ill at ease that they hoped to be. And with Big Macintosh's impassive expression eyeing me, I only become more conscious of myself.

Even prior to last night–when Applejack invited me to spend the night with her–I have been assured of Granny Smith's approval. And I have relied on the old mare to instigate the next day's heartwarming conversation for my first morning with the Apples–perhaps hear of her approval of my relationship with Applejack firsthand. But left alone with Big Macintosh, I find his indifference overwhelming. I cannot even find it in myself to speak a word to him, not knowing what he thinks of me. I have always categorized him as 'the silent type' but I half-hoped for at least some body language in exchange for an idle chat. The fact that he refuses to even look at me–his eyes straight forward, distant–suggests his possible disapproval.

But, if true, then for whatever reason?

"So..." he says, suddenly, as he reaches out for the sugar cube, "Ya've been with mah sis for a week now."

"Pardon?"

"It's been a week with you two?" he asks.

"Two weeks," I answer, "...and two days."

Big Macintosh suspends the cup of black coffee inches from his lips. Still holding it there, he says, "Been awhile since AJ been with somepony this long."

"Two weeks!?"

"Mostly mah sis just have fun with'em for a day at most."

"With'em... with them?" I ask. "I take it that Applejack has had many relationships in the past."

Big Macintosh sips his coffee, before putting the cup down. "She didn't tell you." It isn't a question.

"We don't talk about previous relationships."

"Ah won't call what she had relationships. Ah recognize that a healthy grown mare like her has needs. Though she try to be discreet 'bout it, ah know mah sis more than anypony else."

"W-Well... Now that I'm here taking care of her, you don't have to worry about Applejack jumping from one relationship to another. I promise that I–"

"You ain't listenin'," he turns to me, eyes sharp. "Ah wasn't tellin ' ya to take care of mah sis. Ah was warnin' ya."

"Warning? Against what?"

He does not answer the question. "Ya serious about mah sis?"

"E-Excuse me?"

"Are ya in-love with Applejack?"

"Please, Big Mac. I am not at all comfortable discussing this with you so... boldly. I mean... If you disapprove–"

"If Applejack hasn't told ya then it's only right for me to give ya yer fair share of caution so ya won't hate her so much when the times comes when ya do: ah don't really care whether ya love AJ or not, cause frankly AJ can't love ya back."

"What!?" a gasp breaks out of me. It is as though I heard the same air which I breathe does not exist. "Why won't she?"

"Ah didn't say she won't. Ah said she can't."

"Well... why can't she?"

Big Macintosh hears me, but refuses to answer. Even if I am under his roof, this crude presumptuous demeanor by which he expresses his disapproval of me and my love is something I cannot stand for.

"Well, Big Mac," I say, controlling myself from throwing a glass of water to his face. "I am sorry that you have to think that, but you are wrong"–his face remain unchanged–"if you see what effort your sister goes through to please me, you will realize that these inventions of yours are unfounded. Applejack loves me wholeheartedly. And I, if you don't mind my saying so, love her equally if not more."

And even as I try to stare down his visage, I cannot find the subtlest change in his face that shows a lowered confidence of his previous statement. Except, perhaps, that small imperceptible drooping in his eyes that cannot be anything else but pity for my ignorance.

"Don't say ah didn't warn ya," he says, returning his eyes to the newspaper, not to rise again.

A few seconds later, Granny Smith comes out of the living room into the kitchen. "Ah hope ya like pancakes," she says, "cuz ah made enough to fill everypony up till lunch."

* * *

"Thanks for walking me home, dearest," I say, standing on the threshold between my house and the milky night. "This is very sweet of you."

"Don't sweat it. It's the... uhh... sweet thing to do. Wouldn't want ya tumblin' on yer way back."

"I appreciate it, really. Pinkie's party took quite the toll on me."

We remain silent for a few seconds, with me prodding my hoof on the ground and she tilting her hat to the side. It is not that I do not know what to say–I do, in fact–only that there is a candid overtone in my intentions.

"Well," she says, "ah guess ah better get going–"

"Would you like to come in...?" I blurt out. "F-For coffee, I mean. Sweetie Belle is away in our parent's house and I'm... all alone."

"Coffee," she repeats, smiling, "ah reckon that won't give me much sleep."

I step aside; Applejack steps in. I close the door behind her and jump her from behind.

"Oof," she groans, following a laugh.

How quick is this transition, I think, stuttering one second and into each other's embrace in the next.

Applejack turns around to me, lifting me by my haunches and laying me down the red couch. She eyes me for a few seconds and kisses my neck. Only after the first few taps of her lips against my coat, had I realize that this kiss carries with it a small love bite that tickles me.

I begin to laugh with each one of Applejack's pecks against my skin. And she, too, I can hear giggling.

Then, seizing me by my shoulders, Applejack releases her hold of me and gently pushes herself back. We lock eyes for a moment as our laughter dies down, as though she is searching for something in my eyes.

"You know, Rares," she says, running her hoof on my chin. "Ah never thought ya have this side of ya."

"What side, dear?" I ask, cupping her hoof in turn.

"This. Ah always thought ya were an uptight haughty mare. Didn't think ya were actually this cute, gigglin' and blushin' little filly when it comes to bein' with a pony."

Not just any pony, I think. "Well," I pout, "i-it's your fault for making me this way. I... I mean... if you weren't so... aggressive..."

"Aggressive!?" Applejack laughs. "Aggressive, you say?"

"Well, it's true! The first time we got together you were the one who carried me back to my place and attacked me with your... with your aggressiveness."

"Well... that's only because you were pulling me in and couldn't wait. You're an impatient little filly, aren't you?"

"I am not!" I say, my voice squeaking. "And you make sound so..."

"So...?"

"So perve–... You know what I mean!"

Upon seeing the irritation that reddens my face to a cherry pink, Applejack laughs again. This time, it is a loud boisterous belly laugh that sends her back against the sofa.

"Awright, awright," she says,trying to compose herself. "Let's take things slow between. We don't have to do nothin' tonight."

"Nothing? As in we won't..."

"Yeah." She scratches her head. "Much as ah'd want to, ah'd really want somethin' else. And that's gettin' to know ya better."

As Applejack sits up on the couch, she pulls me in that our bodies touch and my back is pressed on to her chest. She embraces me from behind.

"But... well..."–I try, but Applejack kisses my ear–"Fine. But what are we gonna do, then? We've already spent several years here in Ponyville together, and adventures after adventures after that. What's left to know?"

"Ah dunno, maybe nothin' really. Maybe ah just wanna keep holdin' ya like this till morning."

"You'd fall asleep within the hour if you keep using me like a pillow."

"You did invite me in for some coffee."

"I have some red wine if you want."

"Coffee's good enough for me."

I stand up. But as soon as I am divorced of my physical contact with Applejack, she grabs my foreleg and pulls me in for a kiss to my lips. The kiss lasts for a few seconds before she–not I–is momentarily satisfied enough to pull away.

I try my best not to hop to the beat of my heart as I walk into the kitchen. With my chest fluttering so, I may have been prancing my way inside. Though we both agree that we will not spend the rest of the night in each other's embrace–a prospect I highly regret–I am sure that there is no shortage of kisses from which we can compensate. And if Applejack is to test my impatience, as she calls it, then I am willing to let her do all the kissing tonight to prove her aggressiveness.

As I wait for the kettle to sing, I find myself thinking of what conversation I might stir. Should I bring up what Big Macintosh told me this morning? I think. Surely not if I want to maintain a peace in their household. The last thing I would wish from Applejack is for her to get into a quarrel with her brother.

"AJ can't love ya back" that stallion's rubbish returns to me.

Because surely, Big Macintosh is wrong in his estimation. How can it be possible that Applejack not love me after everything she has given and everything we have done.

If Big Macintosh only knows how romantic Applejack is...

Romantic...

The word carries with it a long thread of music and poetry. And, at that instant, I am able to drive away the pessimistic pondering about Big Macintosh's disapproval and, in its place, remember that mischievous notion of bringing about Applejack's talent for poetry.

I turn around and peek into the interior of the living room where I see her kneeling on the floor and looking at my old photo albums. Beyond her peripherals, I sneak into my bedroom and, from the nearby shelf, pluck out one of my own poetry booklets. Until now, poems have had received little attention from me and this–one of the many presents Fleur has given me–is no exemption.

I flip a few pages, skimming through the lasts words of each verse. Satisfied of the previewed quality, I make my way down back into the kitchen.

The kettle sings. I pour the hot water to two cups of black granule coffee–the more expensive quality which I have ordered from Columbmare. Levitating the tray in front–and the poetry booklet behind–I make my way back to my dearest.

"Do you want some cream and sugar with this," I announce as I enter.

"Nah. Ah like it black." She looks up from the photo album, and I see her laughing.

"What's so funny?" I ask, hiding the booklet beneath the couch.

"This." She raises the photo album. "Ah didn't know ya had braces when ya were a filly."

I can feel blood filling up my face in embarrassment. "Oh, give me that!" With my magic, I pull away the photo album back to beneath the center table.

Applejack and I resume our previous position back on the couch, with she leaning against the back rest and I melting against her. It is uncomfortable for her as it is quite difficult to drink from her cup with me on her chest, but the problem is easily resolved when I just have to lean back and share my cup to her lips.

"Hmm..." she says, after a sip. "Tastes... expensive."

"It's gourmet demitasse."

"Thought ya said it was black."

"It is. It is a cafe noir."

"Uh..."

"Cafe noir and demitasse mean the same thing, dearest."

"Oh.."

"It means black... Black coffee."

"Ohhh..." she moans. Then she grumbles, "Why'd ya high-society folks have to give it weird names and not just call it black. D'ya do it to make sound more expensive. Ah mean, ya don't see me callin' dark apples apple noir. We call'em dark friggin' apples!"

I detect it to be the spark plug of the conversation and I initiate, "Oh come now, dear,"–a smile breaks out of me–"it is nothing of the sort. Besides, it is not as though you haven't your own way with words."

She raises an eyebrow.

"Your own... slang," I continue. "Which matches that adorable accent, mind you."

"Ah ain't got no accent."

"Oh dear, it is nothing to be ashamed of. For example, you pronounce the word 'you' with a 'ya' and your 'I's with 'ah's. Tis one of your many charms."

"Uhh... Thanks, ah guess."

My horns glows and I dim the lights. The chandelier loses its shine and gives it to the desk lamps that bathes the room in a dark orange hue. The darkness around us is comforting, as though nothing exists in this candle-lit illusion but the few objects the orange lighting touches: the couch, the coffee cups, Applejack and I, and Applejack with I.

Applejack embraces me tighter and kisses my ear. The tingle of that touch sends a vibe down my spine that, surely, with how close our bodies are pressed, Applejack felt.

"But sometimes," I say, "I do wish you were as romantic as I am. And not just in our nights together when you're... gentle... with me but in your words as well as in your action."

"Ah'm not? Didn't ah just left a flower by yer side when ya woke up this mornin'? Ah thought that was pretty darn romantic. Heck, ya wouldn't let go of that rose the whole day."

"Well... yes. I... I thought that if i were to let go of it I'd..."

"That'd ya be letting me go?"

"...I didn't say that."

"Don't ya worry none," she says, holding by my chin and turning me to face her. "Even if ya let go of me, ah won't let go of you."

With how furiously Applejack pierces my eyes, and her words piercing my ears, the dim light can do little to hide the blush forming in my cheeks. And as Applejack's endearing smile grows from ear to ear, I know she can see it as clearly as I can feel it.

Embarrassed even further, I turn back, to Applejack's laughter.

"See, told ya ah'm romantic," she giggles. "And d'ya know yer ears also glow red when yer embarrassed like that?"

Unable to respond with words, I raise a hoof and hit her knee. It is not hurtful, but enough to convey to her the notion that I am both annoyed, and touched, by her words.

"What's wrong, hun? Thought ya want be to be more romantic-like."

"I meant that you..."–there is no more going about it, I must bring it up to the open if I am to similarly make her blush like so–"that you need to be more purposely explicit in your words to be more... romanticized. Not just romantic, but romanticized."

"Romanto-what? Isn't that a vegetable or something."

"No. It means to be classically chivalrous in the art of love."

"Uhh..."

"Like... in action, knights saving damsels in distress. Or, in words, bards singing songs and poetry."

"Ya want me to be yer knight and save ya?"

"No, we were speaking of romance in words, deare."

"Like singin'?"

"Or poetry."

"Ah'm no Fluttershy when it comes to singin', and ah can only do the country stuff unless ah'm with ya girls."

"Then poetry it is."

Applejack finally detects my insistence and, for a moment, her smile stiffens. "Ah... Ah don't do poetry."

"Oh, come now. Everypony does it once in a while–"

"They don't" she tries to interrupt.

"–and I, for one, find it to be one of the highest forms of art. Why, if you can recite me a verse, I'm sure it'll make my heart sing and–"

"Like ah said," Applejack interrupts again, "ah don't do poetry."

"That shouldn't stop you from trying. Whatever you can come up with–"

"An said ah don't do poetry," she says, her smile gone now. "if ya want to hear one that badly ya'd have to ask somepony else cuz it ain't gonna be done by me."

Is she embarrassed of her talent that much? I think. Is it out of embarrassment from her accent?

"Now," she continues, "enough of this talk and let's–"

But I cannot allow the topic to be derailed. I cannot allow such a beautiful part of Applejack be hidden away from me. "Ah, I remember," I gasp. "I have a poetry booklet here under the couch that I always read on my spare time. Let's browse some to get our juices going. And, perhaps then, you can read some to me. I'm sure to be glad to hear it."

"Rares, ah don't–"

"Ah, here we go," I say, levitating the booklet to my hooves. "Now then, shall I go first? What should I read?"

"Rarity," Applejack says, her voice deep this time. "Ah don't want to hear it.”

Ignoring her, I go on, "This one looks good. My only criteria for good poetry is for it to have a musical element and rhyme scheme. The so-called modernist's free-verse I see as nothing more than a series of broken sentences. It's entitled Romance, written by a stallion named Nevermore."

“Ah’m dead serious, please don’t even start.”

I stare longingly on the white pages, orange with the dimness, excited how this can unlock a part of my lover's heart if successful. I clear my throat, take a deep breath, and proceed:

"Romance, who loves to nod and sing,
With drowsy head and folded wing,
Among the green leaves as they shake
Far down within some shadowy lake,
To me a painted paroquet
Hath been—a most familiar bird—
Taught me my alphabet to say—
To lisp my very earliest word
While in the wild wood I did lie,
A child—with a most knowing eye.
Of late, eternal Condor years
So shake the very Heaven on high
With tumult as they thunder by,
I have no time for idle cares
Through gazing on the unquiet sky.
And when an hour with calmer wings
Its down upon my spirit flings—
That little time with lyre and rhyme
To while away—forbidden things!
My heart would feel to be a crime
Unless it trembled with the strings."

As I read through the words, the quieting sensation of humility warms my heart. The words, so beautifully woven, still echo in my ears. I can only expect Applejack to experience the same.

But as I turn to Applejack, her still stony face shows no other emotions but cold indifference. She is frowning now, and her eyes glaring at the pages I hold.

"Applejack?" I ask, cautiously.

And then without warning, without warning at all, Applejack swipes away the booklet from my hooves and hurls it aside, tumbling one of the lamps and breaking one of the coffee cups. The sudden impact is so powerful that I, too, am sent down on the floor.

I look up to her, wondering what is it that possessed my dearest.

Eyes glaring, teeth flaring, Applejack roars to me at the top of her voice, "What the hell is wrong with ya, Rarity!? Can't ya take a damn hint!? Ah told ya ah didn't want to hear no poetry! Ah don't like no poems! Ah hate it! Ah hate it more than anythin' else in this goddamn world. I–"

Applejack stops, shutting her eyes close as she bites her lower lips. She raises a hoof in the air and I shudder to think that she will strike me. But her hoof remains there, shaking, as though she hangs from it her anger. As the hoof gently retreats back to her chest, Applejack's breathing steadies slowly. And, even slower, her tearing eyes opens up.

"Ah told ya," she mutters, "ah told ya ah don't want to hear no..."

Applejack goes down on one knee towards me and extends a hoof. By instinct, I retract from it, stepping back.

"Ah... Ah'm sorry, Rarity," she apologizes, bowing her head. "Ah'm really sorry for raising my voice on ya. Ah'm just... ah'm so... so sorry."

Applejack waits there, crying even more, with her hoof still outstretched, waiting for me to taking it. I know that I must collect the courage to return to her side, for I know that for every seconds we stand apart, I am hurting her more. I can wait for the explanations later but, for now, my dearest's comfort comes first.

I rise and return myself to Applejack's embrace.

"It's... alright, dearest. I'm fine."

"Ah'm sorry... Ah'm so, so sorry."

* * *

My hooves resound across the room with every step. Back and forth, to and fro, there is no ceasing the echoes. And yet, for all the energy expended in my pacing not an ounce is spared to my work. I cannot so much weave a cloth or tie a knot in my current mental state.

It has been two nights since I have been with Applejack, and I try to pay it as little mind as possible. Our last encounter, when afterwards we had both agreed a momentary respite from each other's company after her outburst, I find too wearisome to leave alone.

As the seconds tick the hours by, I become more and more forgiving. But it is wrong for me to say that I can forgive her for Celestia knows that I have not admitted to her the slightest blame for what happened. If such blame is to be carried by somepony, then it is to myself who ventured recklessly to the unknown sensibilities of my dearest.

But must I be too guilty? I think to myself, biting my hoof. It was her accent, isn't it? Did she think I was making fun of her?

Unable to extend a day longer of this growing rift, I step out of Carousel Boutique and soldiered through the starless cold night towards Sweet Apple Acres.

From the distance, I see that the lights of the Apple's house are extinguished–undoubtedly, the firsts to rise are also the firsts to sleep. But I sweep aside what little hesitation I have left and proceed to knock on their door, fully aware of the discourtesy of waking a household.

It takes a few more knocks before the door opens to the sight of the giant red stallion that is Applejack's brother. His expression makes it clear that he is not at all fond of my misdemeanor.

"I apologize to come in so late, but I need to speak with–"

"She ain't here," he says, and yawns.

"Applejack?"

"Eeyup."

"She's not with me–"

"I know. She went out."

"Where to."

Big Macintosh stares at me. He is not hesitating as he clearly knows that he does not want to tell me his sister's whereabouts. But what he wants is different from what he does, and the purpose of this hesitation is the apparent display of his disapproval of me.

"Drinkin'..." he answers, "in a bar."

"What bar? Where?"

"Ah wouldn't advice ya goin' there right now."

"Please tell me..."

"The Stern Stable," he says. "Two blocks right of city hall."

"Thank you," I say.

But as I turn around to chase my dearest back to me, Big Macintosh's calls out another warning: "Ah still wouldn't advice it."

I do not stop to listen, albeit my ability to hear. So, heedless, I run and run, unmindful of the indignity for a lady to give chase. But if my dearest back to my side is what shall I win at the end of this race then run I shall.

And so I arrive to the bar, a lone and isolated establishment too elegant for the rustic community and too rustic for an elegant city. The yellow lights of a dozen oil lamps seeps out from in between the slits of unvarnished wooden planks. And it seems that from the light, the soft sound of an acoustic guitar sings an upbeat melody. I stand before the door, yanking on the protruding nail to pull it open, and step inside.

As Big Macintosh said, Applejack is there, sitting on the bar. But she is not alone. Between the length of no empty stools, she sits elbow-to-elbow beside a mare whom I know to be Roseluck.

They are both laughing gaily. Their bodies inclined towards the other's direction. Applejack is doing most of the talking, waving her mug of beer as she exaggerates a joke or a story. Roseluck receives her humor warmly, returning a laugh and the occasionally gesture of rubbing her hooficure all over my Applejack's chest.

This last, I cannot stand.

Hooves heavy, my stride brushes away the eyes of the rugged stallions that would otherwise flatter me.

As I near the pair, Roseluck is the first to see me, innocently wondering what has she done to bear my gaze. Applejack's follows Roseluck's stare, and fidgets on her seat as she sees me.

"O-Oh, Rarity," she laughs. "Fancy seein' ya here."

I do not reply.

"Ah never expect you to go to this kind of places."

"I never expected to you see in this kind of places, either," my eyes unremoved from Roseluck's, I spit out, "with such wonderful company."

"E-Excuse me?" Roseluck stammers.

"Please don't let me kill the mood," I say.

"Rare," Applejack says, "this here's–"

"Roseluck," I interrupt. "I know her."

Even as the strings from the background fills the air, it cannot outweigh the silence over us. The silence spreads over the table, and the surrounding onlookers peek from the corner of their eyes in anticipation of a drama-scene to serve as entertainment alongside their drinks.

Finally, before such theatrics can occur, Applejack downs her entire mug before slamming it down the counter. "Ya wait here, Rosey," she says. "Gonna talk to Rarity outside for a sec."

Applejack replaces her Stetson to her head. She tosses a few bits to the bar, murmuring something, before exiting through the door. I follow her, through the long dissapointed bellows of half-drunks.

We stop several paces from the bar, under the blanket of a cool night. We can still smell the beer and brandy not far from us and hear the joyous strings prancing from the inside. There are no ponies on this edge of the town beside the drunk lying flat face on the ground. We decide that this is as private as we are going to get.

"So..." I start, "you looked like you were having a delightful time with Roseluck."

Applejack does not say anything, neither does she even turn to see me. She stands there, facing the endless hills, her head cast down, her eyes hidden beneath the brim of her hat.

"So we have a small spat," I continue, "then two days later you're off with another mare!? How could you!?"

Applejack remains silent, unresponsive.

"I shudder to think what will happen if I have not found you. Would you have–"

"Rarity," she interrupts. "Ah want to apologize..."

"D-Don't think that I'll accept your apology just like that. Seriously, you already have me and you're going out with another mare to–"

Applejack turns to me, takes off her hat, and places it against her chest. "Ya don't understand. Ah'm not sorry that ah'm with Roseluck. Ah'm sorry that... you had to find out this way."

"What are you talking about? Find out what?"

She presses her hoof against the bridge of her muzzle. "Ah was... ah was gonna tell ya in the mornin' ah swear. But ah decided to have a drink first, make things easier. Then ah met Roseluck in the bar. She was alone. We talked. We hit it off. She... She's quite the mare, y'know. And ah'm... ah'm planning to go back to her place tonight."

It feels as though something slammed against my ears, penetrating, and into my lungs where shock punches out my breath and disbelief clutches tight on my airways. I blink, once, twice, thrice, hoping that in doing so it will expel the unbelievable words that forced itself in me.

"W-What!?" I cry out. "Darling, you... This better be some sick joke!"

Applejack turns away from me.

"Y-You can't be serious." I approach her. "But we were..."

"Look, look." Briskly turning around, Applejack approaches me and wraps a hoof around my shoulder. "Ah'm awfully sorry ya had to find out this way. But this was gonna happen sooner or later. And ah was planning of a way to make this hurt you less than it does right now. Ah don't want something like this to hurt our friendship, y'know."

"F-Friendship!?" I yelp and back away from her embrace. My vision starts to blur. "It... It was one fight! Why would you break us up like this? We... we were so great together!"

"Break us up?" she responds, raising an eyebrow. "We weren't nothing, Rarity! Don't you see that? We weren't no couple or... or lovers. We didn't put no labels. We were just two ponies who enjoyed each other in bed more times than what's necessary."

"Just... that?"

"That was all there is to us," she says, stomping her hooves. "Look... The first night we were together, that was mah mistake. Ah swore to mahself ah won't touch any of mah best friends. And every darn night afterwards, ah couldn't stop mahself from makin' the same mistake with you. We were amazing together, right? But that's it. We weren't goin' nowhere."

"That's wrong!" I cry out. I only now realize that tears are flowing down my cheeks. "B-But Applejack... I was... I was falling in love with you..."

Applejack looks up then, wide-eyed, her mouth slightly agape. But the expression of shock does not last long as contempt distorts her grimace. She clicks her tongue and looks down. "Ah'm sorry, Rares. Ah didn't mean for that happen."

"D-Didn't mean... Didn't mean to happen!?" I scream, fury rising. "How dare you undermine my feelings like this!? I love you, Applejack. And don't tell me that you haven't felt the same way."

"I..." she murmurs, "Ah did. Ah mean... ah was fallin' for ya."

"Then why didn't give us a chance? What happened that made you turn against your own–" I stop. Then, feeling the connection, I cannot help but mutter: "B-Big Macintosh was right. Y-You really won't love me."

And upon seeing Applejack's emerald eyes light up, I figured I was right.

"It ain't a matter of won't," she explains. "Ah can't... ah really can't. If it helps you any better, ah don't have no feelings for Roseluck either."

"To hell with Roseluck!" I scream. "Why can't you love me? Why can't you even try?"

"Because ah don't have the right no more!" she screams back. "Ah did once, but that's was a long time ago."

"Ah... is this what this is all about? You're still holding over about some previous love and couldn't move on."

She returns to silence.

"We've never talked about past relationships because I assumed that we were mature enough to get past that. But if your last break up is the only thing stopping you from–"

"Break up..." she repeats, shaking her head and almost trying to laugh. "You... ya make it sound too innocent. If it's somethin' that easy then ah would've made ya mah mare from day one. Celestia knows that despite our we'd do just fine as a couple."

She smiles at the thought. And there is humor in that expression, a benevolent form of comicality as though she is still waiting for me to discover a love she already knows to be there. But the smile–that smile–lasts only for a second; still holding up her lips, her eyes change and becomes crystalline and that solid expression which should mean to express joy now conveys only pity.

Pity for who, I ask myself, she or I?

Nothing in Applejack's nature will make me think that she shares my feelings any less than what she claims it to be. But that same nature ties the same sincerity to a plainspoken truth.

She cannot love you, I hear the words given voice in my thought. I do not know who I imagine speaks it: She? I? Big Macintosh or Roseluck? That unnamed lover whose ghosts haunts me and my dearest? Or, Celestia forbid, all of us.

Before I can inquire further, Applejack trots past me. All throughout the slow walk I make no effort to stop her. Again, her head is cast down and the Stetson hides the top of her face. But as she nears me, I notice how she shuts her eyes to hide the drop of an unmistakable teardrop.

"Ah'm... going back to Roseluck now," she mutters. "Ah suggest ya start off home. Try and forget about this night."

"S-So we've had a few failed loves," I babble out, in a last desperate attempt to change her mind. "It happens to everypony. Not all relationships end in happily ever afters but that shouldn't stop to keep us on trying for our chance! And I... I myself have had a few heartbreaks in the past, honest, but I'm not about to give up–"

"It's different with me," she says, stopping by the door.

"Each and every relationship we have is different, Applejack. That what makes it special! What happened that it should cripple you like this? How did your lover hurt you so?"

Applejack turns to me, looking over her shoulder. Without blinking, she answers: "Ah killed him."

Chapter 2: Pages

The mornings are not as I remembered it as a filly. It seems dreary now, utterly gray nimbi that harbingers a fore coming storm.

I force myself awake–I know sleep is no longer possible–and stir myself from my tear-soaked side of the bed; the other side is empty, I keep forgetting. I rise and proceed to my morning ritual of shutting close all curtains and windows as I make my way to the powder room.

The mare in the mirror looks beautiful still. That much pleases me. Besides her mane, which has rustled from last night's turning and tossing, and her eyes, drained of its moisture, the rest of her appears pretty much put together even underneath the thick cake of makeup. Yet she still attends to herself, trying to hide any trace of a broken heart: she washes her masquerade off with a stream of cold water, tosses a fresh coat of powder, brushing a layer of blush here and there, traces a delicate curve with the eyeliner, and, albeit having no inclination to leave her house, proceeds to apply a thin spread of lipstick.

One must keep appearances, I think.

I walk downstairs to my shop and observe my surroundings. There is nothing more to clean, nothing more to distract myself with. I have half a mind to open the store but, figuring it will mean to invite entrance to ponies, I decide against it. Even after half a day of sleep, I do not have the energy for interaction.

I haven't the appetite for breakfast despite not having supped last night. But still, either of physiological necessity or force of habit, I shamble to the kitchen to prepare something to eat. I open the fridge and feel nauseous at the thought that I will have to engorge on the fresh fruits and vegetables. But, much worse, a feeling of vertigo shakes my balances at the thought that I will have to cook.

I decide to eat out instead.

I leave the house, securing the door with a lock. The ‘closed’ sign is still there, and has been there for quite some time now. I may switch it later if my mood improves, but I highly doubt it.

On my way to the nearest restaurant, I pass through the marketplace. The hubbub in the air seems more distant now than it was a mile away. I lift the weight of my head up, careful that I don’t hold it so low that I welcome more attention that I imagine to be getting.

I stop then, realizing that on my way to the restaurant I may pass through to the Apple’s fruit stand and, there, lay my eyes on Applejack. I conclude that I may not be prepared for that yet, and decide against my current path to circle round the marketplace to reach the town square.

But the apparent better choice is short-lived. Shortly, after a turn I make to a shop, I am stopped by a familiar voice calling to my side.

“Rarity!” the voice calls, and I turn to look at the beautiful mare just standing beside me.

“Roseluck,” I say. “Good morning.”

Roseluck smiles sheepishly. “It’s… already afternoon, though.”

“Is it?" My voice shrugs for me. "I didn’t notice.”

“Yeah…” she says, looking up to the sky. “Clouds are a little dark. Raindrops says it'll rain today.”

“Will it now?”

“I think so...”

I just stare at her, for a moment, watching her hoof prod against the dirt. Surely, this weather is not the reason she stops me.

“Listen,” she says, “I guess I’m not the first pony you’d like to talk to right now but–”

“You guessed right,” I interrupt.

“I’m trying to be polite here,” she spits. “To be honest, I really just want to ask if Applejack’s okay. It kinda took me awhile to put two and two together and it was already too late when I did.”

“E-Excuse me…” I lean forward. “What are you talking about? What do you mean if Applejack’s okay?”

“Oh! She hasn’t told you?”

“Told me what? The last time I saw her was… when she was with you.”

"O-Oh... You two broke up."

"That's none of your damn business." Surprising the both of us, there is no hostility in my tone. Perhaps I am too exhausted even for that...

I see her already regret having initiated this conversation with me. No doubt she is now thinking how less involved she would be had she let me pass unacknowledged. But too late now, I think. I step closer, hoof pressing on the ground, and press the matter: "Applejack... she went to your place that night... That was two days ago, I think."

"That was four days ago, actually," she says. "And yes... For the same reason you're thinking right now."

My face remains still, unimpressed.

"Look, Rarity," she explains, "Applejack and I shared a bed a few times in the years past. I am one of the mares who always wants her... and is occasionally wanted by her. So when she picked me up in the bar, I thought it'd be just another one of our nights."

"And you thought wrong?"

"N-Not exactly." She fidgets in place. "We got back to my place, a little tipsy. She'd had a little too much which is, to be honest, quite rare for her. I mean, it's hard to get an Earth Pony drunk and I know she's not the type who would want to try. Looking back now, I guess it had something to do with you. Because shortly after she was mumbling about AppleJill and poetry and how you can't pick up signs and poetry. And then, I–"

"AppleJill?" I think aloud, unintentionally interrupting her.

"Yes, poetry," she clarifies. "So then I–"

"AppleJill? And poetry? I never told her about my finding of her book! Did she really say that?"

"AppleJill? Yeah," she says, nose wrinkling, "but I think she said 'poems' or something of the sort."

"Can you please repeat, in verbatim, what Applejack said?"

She sighs. "I wasn't really paying much attention–and this was four days ago–but she said something about you pressing her about poetry or poems something... something... AppleJill-something... even when she begged you to stop. Seriously, I don't get it."

"S-She didn't beg! I... I mean she asked me stop but she never begged me to..."

"I don't really care much." Then, she concludes, "So afterwards, I start kissing AJ. She kisses back. But then she hesitates, apologizes to me, and then leaves without another word. So yeah... nothing happened with Applejack and I that night. So if you two are having problems, don't take it out on me. Hey! Where you going?"

The lasts of her words are lost to me, I am already running, galloping towards Sweet Apple Acres.

Poetry? Can it be, that something so trivial be the cause of the rift that breaks us apart and that... thing about past loves be nothing more than a lie? No... Applejack would not resort to such a thing.

But poetry! Poetry!? Something so petty?

Unless, it is not petty for my dearest.

How could I have been blind not to see it? Since when had Applejack express so much anger, so much passion, than in that night where I have so force the art upon her, completely ignorant that it might mean more to her than I understand.

* * *

I arrive into the Apple's house and open its front door.

"Applejack!?" I call, looking around the interior.

There is no response, and neither do I see anypony in the room. I run up the stairs and to my dearest's room–to where we had last spent a night together–clinging on the slim chance that she may be there. Sleeping or crying, no matter what condition I find her in, I am willing to see it if it means I'll be able to speak to her now.

"Applejack...?"

But as I open the door and walk in, I am welcomed by her empty bed.

My racing heart subsides, the excitement in me dies in surrender knowing I can do nothing more to look for her. The prospect of finding Applejack in the whole of Sweet Apple Acres–no, in Ponyville–is impossible in my current exhausted and famished condition. But Celestia knows that even if only a second of time is to be saved if I step out right now than to lie in wait here then I am more than more willing to commit to the search.

But before I could turn around, the corner of my eye catches a glimpse of a familiar red book lying on top of Applejack's bed. I know that four days ago it was not I who left it there.

I grab the book, tracing the embedded lettering of AppleJill with a hoof, and proceed to read the exposed page:

“O Love, thou art winged and swift,
Yet stay with me evermore!”
And I guarded my house with bolt and bar
Lest Love fly forth at the door.

Without, in the world, ’t was cold,
While Love and I together
Laughed and sang by my red hearth-fire,
Nor knew it was winter weather.

Sweet Love would lull me to sleep,
In his tireless arm caressed;
His shadowing wings and burning eyes
Like night and stars wrought rest.

And ever the beat of Love’s heart
As a chime rang at my ear;
And ever Love’s bending, beautiful face
Covered me close from fear.

Was it long ere I waked alone?
A snow-drift whitened the floor;
I saw spent ashes upon my hearth
And Death in my open door.

I press my hoof against the half-crumpled page. The years have burned a deep sienna on the paper; and it would have kept on burning if not for the waters that has quenched the fire. For, still-fresh upon the words, are last night's tears so generously spent.

Applejack was crying... when she wrote this? I think, as the sound thunder breaks the the silence.

Snared by the words, I do not notice that there is somepony who stands behind me until he speaks.

"Ah should've known ya came across that thing," the stallion says.

I briskly turn around, seeing Big Macintosh standing by the doorway.

"Big Mac!" I say, startled. "I didn't mean to barge in. I was looking for–"

"It's alright," he says, moving closer. "Ah heard ya came in." He stops beside me and eyes the booklet in my hooves.

"Please tell me," I say, holding the booklet up. "What is it with Applejack and poems. I... I think this is the reason why she decided to break up with me. That night, I've never seen her so angry before that–"

"Ah never asked mah sis, cuz ah didn't want her to lie," he interrupts. "But ah guess she never really got around to throwing out this thing."

"Why would Applejack have to throw away such talent? I don't understand."

"That 's cuz them poems ain't written by mah sis," he says, taking the booklet. "It's written for her."

Big Macintosh flips through the pages, as though with each turn he is flipping back through the memory.

"It ain't talent she was supposed to throw away," he says. "It's guilt."

"Was it... Was it given to her by her former lover?"

Big Macintosh nodded. "First and last."

"D-Did Applejack love him that much?"

"Leaf Song loved her enough for the both of them."

"Leaf... Song," I repeat, the name unfamiliar to me.

"Tell me, Miss Rarity," he says, walking towards the window. "Ya've read a couple of his pieces, you've flipped the pages. What d'ya think he was like?"

"I wouldn't know... I can only guess."

"Guess then."

"I... I think he was a romantic. Passionate... and in love."

"He was," he agrees. "And this here book is all that's left of all that. It probably has more than enough to provide for the rest of mah sis's life."

"But that can't be. Applejack–"

"Applejack has been lonely for years now," Big Macintosh says, looking out the window. "And ah reckon she probably want to be this lonely for the rest of her life. She has you guys as her best friends, she has her all-supportin' family, she's even had a lot of of companions on bed. She has a lot of pony to surround herself with. But to fall in love?" He shakes his head. "She can't want that no more. Which is why ah think is the reason she pushed ya away before she does anything she regrets."

Big Macintosh heaves out a sigh. Roseluck's forewarning has finally come true, and the sky crumbles under the weight of its tears. Rain falls in a heavy downpour, easily laying a watery curtain against every window.

"To be honest, Rarity, ah'm not sure if ah approve for ya for mah sis. But ah'm sure that ah haven't seen her that happy in a long time, and always it's when yer with her or she's talking about ya. Ya've only been together for two weeks. That might not count much in yer book but the fact that Applejack stuck with ya that long meant she might–she might–finally be willing to forgive herself and open up again. Ah'm not saying that ya should love my sister... Ah'm just saying that if mah sister ever falls in love again, it'll probably be you."

"I don't love Applejack because I should, I wouldn't do that to her. I love her because I do."

He turns around to me, eyes squinting. "That maybe... but ah doubt you'll love her as much as Leaf Song did."

At this, I cannot answer him. I have not known Leaf Song, or why had he meant so much to Applejack. I cannot find it suitable to measure the beating in my chest, to that solid still-beating heart Big Macintosh holds in his hooves. Songs and rhymes so beautiful that it cannot be written by anything less than a passion unrivaled.

And yet, the enigma remains. The shadow of doubt I fear to enlighten myself. I clear my throat.

"Leaf Song..." I ask, "he's dead now, isn't he?"

Big Macintosh nods.

"Is it true that... Applejack.... killed him?"

"Who told you that?"

"She did."

Big Macintosh stares at me with deadpan eyes. He opens his mouth to speak, but closes it again.

“Yeah,” a third voice answers. “Ah did kill him.”

I turn around, to see Applejack standing there by the door. Fresh from the farm work it seems, her orange coat is muddled by spots of dirt. She is holding a white towel against her cheek, drying what part of her mane that still holds the rain.

"Sorry for intrudin'," she says, "ah was under the impression that this was mah room and not the public square."

"Applejack!" I gasp. "I'm sorry for barging in. I was looking for you and–"

But Applejack's hateful gaze only runs me a passing glance to me. Her death stare is directed to her brother.

I look at Big Macintosh, who is not at all affected by her sister's glare.

Applejack extends a hoof forward, and it becomes apparent that she is demanding the small poetry book that Big Macintosh is holding. "Give it'ere," she says.

Big Macintosh does not move. "Ya two have some time alone," he says. "Ah'll have to pick up Granny Smith and Apple Bloom from the market cuz of the rain."

"Give it!" Applejack barks, throwing her towel on the floor.

"No." Big Macintosh settles. "Ah'll be holdin' on to this for now."

The red stallion remains unfazed even as he walked through the wake of her sister's self-tortured anger. As he walks past her, their coat barely brushing against one another, the book sealed in his teeth, I cannot help but feel alarmed in fear that Applejack, at any moment, may pounce on her brother and wrestle the prize from him. But Applejack does no such thing. Even as anger chatters her teeth and quakes her leg, her rage does not extend beyond this internal tremor.

Even when Big Macintosh is gone from sight, and we have heard him close the door on his way out to the rainy afternoon, Applejack's trembling has not ceased.

"Applejack...?" I call out, and am immediately met with her scornful visage. For a second, I fear that she may redirect this anger towards me. But the second lasts only so long. I know, that moment I saw myself deep in her emerald eyes, that she can never truly mean any harm to me; and that this anger is not directed to anyone else but herself.

"Applejack," I try again, more resolute this time.

This time, it is she who defers her stubborn indignation. Her pained expression eases and replaces the scorn to shame in a sudden awareness of displaying this apparent weakness.

She breathes easier now, and I do not hesitate to approach her. Wrapping my hooves around her shoulders, I steal the cold of the rain and years of isolation with the warmth of my body. She, too, extends her embrace around me.

"Ah'm sorry ya have to see that," she whispers to my ear.

"It's alright, dearest."

Applejack's eyes recoil slightly at the title. She runs her hooves from my shoulder to my side. "You... ya look famished. Have ya eaten yet?"

"No," I answer. "I... I haven't yet."

"Yer not neglectin' yerself are you?" she asks. She removes her hooves from me. "C'mon... Before anythin' else, let's go to the kitchen. Ah'm gonna give ya something to bite."

Applejack trots ahead, and I follow just behind her. Until her remark, I have forgotten how weakened I am. In the last few days–four, according to Roseluck–where I languished in grief at the thought of losing her, I have treated myself in utter disregard. How unsightly have I become that she can see through me with a passing glance.

We arrive in the kitchen. It is smaller now for some reason. The lines and layers of pans and tins hang on the wall, neatly assembled. The two window on either side show nothing but the heavy downpour. The noise of raindrops tapping against the wood drowns out the sound of our hoofsteps. Yet despite this torrid weather, the room has still retained its homely atmosphere.

Applejack pulls out a chair for me, where I sit. She rushes to the cupboard and back, pouring me a glass of water. Then, as I take a sip to quench my parched throat, she is quick to ready a bowl of millet cereal and fresh milk.

"Help yerself to some of these first," she says, adding some sliced bananas and grapefruits to my bowl. "Ah'll be givin' ya a proper lunch in a few minutes."

I take a few spoonfuls. The bland starchy grain soaks in the milk, resulting to a smoother texture tinged with the appetizing sweetness of the fruit and honey.

"Is it too sweet?" she asks, as she sets up to heat a cauldron of soup.

"It's... It 's alright." I take a few more spoonfuls. "I mean... It's very good."

Applejack looks at me and smiles meekly. She steps forward, a napkin in hoof, and wipes a smear of cereal at the corner of my lips. The gesture–and my own embarrassment–makes me glow to a bright red.

But this romantic interlude–I know–can only last so long. My heart beating with her so near me, I cannot help but recall and accept the condition of our current displacement. My appetite gone, I push the plate away from me and finally confront my love.

"Applejack," I mutter. "About Leaf Song,"–the smile on her face vanishes–“did you really... kill him."

"Ah'm not proud of that," she sighs. "So please stop making me say it. Ah did kill him."

"W-Why...? I cannot imagine you why would you– Was it... was it self-defense? Did he try to force himself onto you?"

"Leaf Song would never do such a thing!" she responds, her voice coarse.

"And neither would you commit to murder," I answer back. "I know you, Applejack. At least, that part of you who would never willingly hurt anything."

"Maybe yer wrong then, and that part ya know ain't even half of what's there." Then, looking at me, her face stoic, the look in her eye changes. "D'ya love me, Rare."

"Of course I–"

"What if ah tell ya that ah killed Leaf Song for no reason–no reason at all!? Would ya still love me?"

"You're not capable of–"

"What if ah tell ya that it wasn't for no reason? That ah killed him out of malice? That ah killed because ah wanted to see him hurt. Because maybe ah'd thought it'd be funny if ah push him down the river knowin' he can't swim? That ah enjoy killin' him? There, Rarity. Would ya still love me?"

There is no time for me to answer. Applejack's body moves fast. She lunges forward. She lifts me. She hurls me. She pushes me against the wall at the corner of the room.

"Ah can take ya right now if ah want," she hisses, eyes flaring. "Ah can force mahself on ya. There, on the table, ah can do that against yer will. You know ah can. Yer magic isn't powerful enough to stop somepony as strong as me. Nopony will come in with this rain. And nopony will take yer word over the Element of Honesty."

But I do not give her the fear she wishes to summon. I stare at her, at this fragile, frightened and shivering pony over me. I cannot help, as she vomits these empty threats, but feel pity to one as self-tortured as she.

I run a hoof against her cheek. Then I whisper, solemnly, "Please stop hurting yourself like this."

She turns away and shuts her eyes. She stands away from me, careful not to inflict further harm on my body than what she believes to have already done. "Ah'm sorry," she sighs. "Ah didn't mean to–"

"It's alright, dearest," I say, wrapping my hooves around her.

Applejack pulls away, however, and reclines against the stove counter. She sighs, her head cast down, eyes under the brim of her Stetston.

I give her the space she needs and return to my place at the table.

"So..." she says "You... Ya really are in love with me, huh?"

"Y-Yes," I answer. Much as I care to say it, the prospect of love still embarasses me.

"That's mighty good to hear,"–she looks up to me, her face absent of emotion–"cuz ah think ah'm in love with you too."

"Hearing you say that makes me–"

"But that 's all mah love for ya is: just a feelin'. No more and no less. We ain't gonna be no lovers and we ain't gonna be no couple. Ah love you, Rarity. There, ah said it. Love is just too overrated for romantics like you and him. He was a poet ya see, that fella. So it kinda makes sense that he's overly a dreamer about this things. When ah first saw him in Manehattan, two of us were still foals then. Ah was livin' with the Oranges at that time and he was just a colt sellin' birthday and greetin' cards in a nearby newspaper stand. Ah remember how cute he was, yellin' things like 'Birthday cards! Get your Birthday cards here!' or somethin' of the like."–Applejack covers her eyes with her hoof as she laughs–"Actually... actually... he wasn't really cute at all in a handsome way... He was cute in a funny way. Ah thought ah'd spare a few bits and buy one. Y'know, for makin' me laugh. His first words to me was about how pretty ah am and he asked me how ah got so far off from Ponyville–he has a way with knowin' accents–and we hit it off after that. Few years later, he'd say it was actually love at first sight and that ah was the inspiration for the poem that gave him his cutie mark.

"Ah guess ah was in love with him at that moment too, just didn't know it. Ah'd make an extra effort to pass by the newspaper stand just to find the time to talk to him. It was kinda overwhelmin' there in Manehattan, and everypony was so... serious. He was the only colt who ever smiled on the streets. He'd show me around the city and tell me the names of each nook and corner. On rainy afternoons like this one–it rained a lot back then too–we'd scooch under the newspaper stand and he'd read me tons of his poetry. A new one each day. He was the only one not afraid to talk out loud, and laugh even harder. He... he actually laughs at his own jokes. Ah mean... who does that? Laughing at his own joke. He was simply too adorable that it broke mah heart when ah told him that ah decided to go back to Ponyville. It was then when he went full romance and said that ah am his 'bethrothed'. And that one day–wait for me, he said–one day he'll save up some bits and move to Ponyville with me. Ah think that was ah also the time ah told him that ah've fallen for him. Wait... No. Ah think it was before. Yeah... ah think ah was the first to admit that ah love him.

"We wrote to each other every week, and he'd send me a poem everyday. Ah mean seriously, a poem each day comin' in the mornin' mail. Every sunrise of that wait would begin with me rushing to the mailbox and read his words to me. Ah read it all and kept it all, hoping how ah'd tease him one day if he ever copied one from his earlier pieces. But he never did. It didn't feel like a routine or... or a chore. Every one he wrote is always new and fresh and only made me love him more. But luckily ah didn't wait long. It was surprising how fast he made time seem. He came to Ponville two years later. And ah remember how ah charged into the train station and punched him on the shoulder for making me so impatient. We were a little more bigger then, a little more older. But, as he said, we were still blossomin' into our teens. He just got his cutie mark, and it was a beautiful fir leaf whistling musical notes.

"We fell in love all over again and it was... it was the golden age of mah young years. He moved to a small two-bit apartment near Town Hall. Ah offered to let him stay at our place but he'd have none of it. Not until we were married, he said, stallion pride and all. Ha! The guts on that one for saying something like that so soon. But ah liked it and made mah heart race so ah let do as he want. We spent a lot of time together, during those days. Ah'd call him cloudy cuz he always had his head in the clouds, and he'd call me AppleJill. Within a week, ah managed to show him the ins and outs of Ponyville just like how he showed me the ins and outs of Manehattan. We went to a lot of dates, eatin' out in the stores. But ah think he facied our good'ol picnic more than anythin' else. Our special place is a secluded garden in the East Field of the farm. It really isn't a garden, not at first. We made it to a garden since we both liked flowers and the nearby river made it easy take care of'em. We'd have our picnics there almost every day. All home cooked meals by yours truly. We'd sit under the shade of an apple tree, flowers around us, looking at the river, while ah listen to him read poetry to me. A lot better than reading poems in a newspaper stand. Ah'm tellin' ya right now that it was like heaven. Oh, and did ah tell ya how he likes to poke fun of mah accent? He does. He'd tease me alot of how I'd pronounce my A's and G's; and ah'll give him a good'ol smack on the shoulder for teasin' me. Ah never read poetry out loud because of him, even durin' the times he'd beg me.

"But that didn't mean we didn't have our own ups and downs. Granny Smith was against him at first, because he grew up in Manehattan and didn't know two-bits about farm life. 'He can't tell a cattle from no sheep,' Granny Smith once said at the dinner table. Not to mention that, ever since Leaf Song came to Ponyville, ah'm spendin' half my day workin' the trees and the other half listening to his poems. Now, that big lug of a brother of mine, was different. He didn't care much for him, but boy did he care for me. He didn't mind working odd hours just to accommodate me and my dates with Leaf Song. But Celestia forbid if ah'm not home before his curfews. Ah did that once, by accident, gettin' home a measly ten minutes over ten. Big Mac was waiting for me by the door and even before ah can open my mouth to say sorry ah got one heck of a cussin'. To teach me a lesson, he prohibited me from seeing him for three days. Three days! That's three lifetimes by my count. When I picked up Leaf Song from the train, when he first came, Big Mac's eye was all over him; he said only one thing, 'if you ever–ever!–hurt mah sister ah'll...' then he whispered something to him that ah didn't hear, but drained the color from Leaf Song's face.

"And of course we had our share of fights. What healthy relationship doesn't? Most of the time it was with the simple things like paying the bill. I wanted to split it, but he always said that it's a stallion's job to pay for his mare's meal when out on a date. He also gets mad sometimes when ah don't wear the necklace he brought me. But our first serious fight involved that mare–whatshername?–Blue Berry-something. She was oogling him, no doubt, even when she knew he was mine. Leaf Song, however, was either too innocent or too blind to see it. Ah got jealous, got mad. Called him out on it, shouted at him. We didn't speak to each other for two days. But well... ah couldn't stay away from him for so long. So I came back to him apologized, and made up. That was all the bickering two of us ever got from each other. We... we never had another fight after that. I'd even like to think that that was the time I knew... he was the one.

"He... he was also my first, ya see. The first whom ah've given all of mahself to. He wanted to wait till we get married, but the second ah was all over him he couldn't control himself either and decided to gave in. Ah remember it very clearly. It was night time; ah broke Mac's curfew again knowin' the consequences. But ah'd give mah years to have him at that moment. We did it at our special place by the river, over a blue blanket and under the milky sky. The stars watched us, and the moon watched us. But we didn't care. Ah didn't give no darn about no moon and stars. He was my everything that night, and ah only existed in the place he touched and kissed. And he touched and kissed all of me. It felt like ah was lost there, in the heavens, and he keeps finding me each time. Gentle, that colt was. He... He'd even whisper to me. He'd tell me how much he loves me. When it was all over, we'd both lie side by side on the blanket. It felt like... like ah was back in this world after bein' given a peek of heaven. We were embarrassed. We were blushin' like crazy, couldn't say a word. But we couldn't look away from the world of each other's eyes where each found oneself reflected in the other.

"I... Ah don't think ah loved–or will ever love–anypony else than how ah loved him that night.

"But ah think... that night was our mistake. If we never.... if we never did it then maybe....No! Ah'm sure he'd still be alive today. Ah said that ah was willing to give mah life to have him, but even for that night... ah'm not willing to lose him.

"Love is a cruel thing. Just like when ya hit rock bottom and there's no place to go but up, when you've reached the heavens there ain't no other place to go but down; only what's worst is that, on your way fallin', you'll see all the distance you'd never reach again. And if ya pause and look up, you'll see that the fog was lifted and you find yerself losing the drive to climb up cuz ya already knew what it felt like.

"It was mah fault.

"Ever since after our first, ah've wanted him again and again. But no matter how many times we try, there ain't nothin' like that first time. Ain't nothin' like it. Our hearts stopped racin' and it slowed down a bit, helped clear our minds. We took it slow the next few weeks. Ah start becomin' more critical and watchful of him. The feeling of like... bein' high of love... of romance... was dwindlin' away. 'It's normal,' he once said to me. But ah refuse to believe it. Ah didn't want to. What we had wasn't normal. I-It was special! It was unlike any other. It wasn't some fling or puppy love everypony was saying it to be. It was the kind y-ya'd read in story books and... and in poems. It was–...

"It was only a few weeks later when reality starts creepin' into me. Creepin', that's the word. Slitherin' and slimy-like, unwanted. Ah guess it started on the day ah saw the mayor knockin' on his door to settle some debt he owed to some other pony. Or was it the day ah saw him pawnin' one his chairs for a quick bit. It had been happenin', long ago, but ah was always blinded by his smile to take any serious note of it. Ah came face to face with it when Granny Smith asked about a few bits missin' after the accountin' and Big Macintosh said he was givin' some of it to Leaf Song cuz 'The guy's gotta eat.' Ah talked to Leaf Song about it the next day, about my brother givin' him alms, and he confessed that he was acceptin' some, but only after his financial conditions got worse as his savings was runnin' out.

"He was a poet. He wrote words, wonderful and beautiful words that expressed the joy of living and fallin' in love. But no matter how good he was, no matter how I treasured each one of his poems... in the real world, they only sell two-bits a piece. Two bits... That's half an apple. He talked about compiling a poetry book, and about gettin' it published, but publisher replied almost immediately that he's still nameless and there's no market for poems right now. He... he was livin' near poverty the whole time, and he didn't tell me cuz he didn't want muddle our romance. Cuz back then, back at our special place, we were... happy. We were in our special world where nothing could hurt us except each other, and we don't. We didn't have to worry about filin' taxes, payin' the rent, or makin' budget cuts to balance checkbook.

"Ah offered mah place for him to stay in–fought Big Mac and Granny for it–but at the end of the month, none of us had a choice. He was three paychecks late for the rent and he was kicked out. He had nowhere else to go, nor had any bits to go anywhere. Big Macintosh gave him a room, but made him sleep in his attic. 'In case he tries something untoward,' he said. Well, Leaf Song, wouldn't do such a thing of course, so he didn't mind much. And aside for a few more house rules, he wasn't really bothered. He tried not to be a burden but... it was impossible. He was another mouth to feed, and the bits he brought back from sellin' poems didn't amount to much. He spent his mornings with me, always with me, but his afternoons playin' with Apple Bloom or writing and selling cards.

"It was Granny Smith who, at the dinner table, called him out on his impracticality. She called him a youngster who read too many romance novels, needs get down to earth, and find a real job. Ah remember ah was so furious that ah was about to shout back on mah grandma, but stopped when ah saw him holdin' his head down and started noddin'. For three days he went out and tried lookin' for one. But... nopony wanted him. He... couldn't do nothin' right. He's always been weak, physically, just draggin' an apple cart would exhaust him out. And he didn't have no formal education. Just the books he'd been borrowin' from the library. B-But he tried... he tried, damnit! And that should count for somethin' right? Right? By the fourth day, ah knew ah had to do something. Ah went to Mr. Cake and asked to give him a job, anything at all that he could do. In exchange that we apples would temporarily stop sellin' desserts to help their sales. Mr. Cake agreed, and made Leaf Song to a dishwasher. He screwed that up. After a few broken plates, he was moved to waitin' and cleanin' tables. When he screwed that up after forgetting orders, he was turned to a delivery colt, which he couldn't do after a few rounds in the town. By the end of the month, Mr. Cake figured he costs more than he was worth and fired him. So he was back to us.

"It was... It was easy to get fed up with him. It was easy to get disappointed so many times that you no longer have anythin' to expect. It was Big Mac who, after hearing about Leaf Song gettin' fired, suddenly stopped offerin' him advice and barely acknowledged him. Granny Smith eyes squint every time she looks at him. And even Apple Bloom will ask, bluntly, as to how many days more he'll be stayin'. We apples... we hated seein' burdens. Ever since Dad left us and Mom died, it was Big Mac, Granny Smith, and I who took care of a newborn Apple Bloom. All of us learned, the hard way, how to carry our own weight. So we naturally felt contemptuous to those who grew up not knowing how to carry theirs.

"Make no mistake, ah love him still. Ah want ya to know that. Ah never stopped lovin' him. Even when ah catch mahself sighing out loud when ah'm reminded of one of his failures, or even when ah feel the occasional pang of regret of giving my body to him, or even when the romance died, ah love him. And he... he loved me. We were still each other's world and we both knew that– No... we... we... both hoped... that one day... we'll get through this... and live happily ever after...

"I, uhh... ah remember that... it was the Apple Family Reunion. Other members of the family came to Sweet Apple Acres. There were lots of them too. Almost everyone came. We set up the celebration in front of the barn, and first day in, relatives were swarmin' and askin' us about this Leaf Song fella. He got a lot of attention. It was the talk of the day. 'When's the marriage?' they asked, not sure if their questions are a joke. Big Mac and Granny Smith didn't talked much about him, preferring to stay silent than lie about how wonderful of a colt he was. Even as we raced, played games, and ate our meals, the chat was always about Leaf Song and me. Ah think ah was overwhelmed by it all that... that ah actually became more frustrated than anythin' else. 'What does he do?' they asked. 'He's a poet,' ah'd answer, and listen to them laugh as though ah just mentioned a joke. Then they'll realize how serious ah am, and apologize for laughing. Once most of their questions were answered, it wasn't too long before their excitement turned to sympathy. My aunts would whisper, a loud whisper, how ah should find mahself a real stallion who can help around the farm. Mah uncles would say things about how'd mah work will cut out for me and that poems neither makes trees grow nor puts food on the table. Even mah cousins would poke elbows about introducin' me their friends–mares, even–who'd be a perfect partner for me.

"I felt sick inside throughout that night, as though the reason ah couldn't speak was because ah was holdin' in the vomit from my mouth. I started to stop shakin' mah head and begin to nod with every conversation. 'You're probably right,' I heard mahself saying.

"It... It was hard you know! Don't look at me like that! Ya don't know how hard it was. It felt like the world was closin' in on me, whisperin' and gangin' up on me. B-But it wasn't pressure that got me. It was good sense... It was plain good sense. They weren't malicious, even as they told me that ah was better off with another stallion. They were... honest. They were sincere. And what ah couldn't forgive is that they were screamin' the truth ah've been turnin' away from. Ah love Leaf Song! Damnit, ah love him! B-But... But he wasn't good enough...

"T-That same night... and it happened... that night.. a starry night... The celebration was dyin' down and most of mah kin are already tucked under their blankets and families. Only the few lovers remain awake, dancin' around the bonfire to what's left of the banjo. Ah just sent Apple Bloom to sleep and went back to attend to the guests. It was just in time for the banjo player to change the music... It was... It was a love song, quiet and solemn. Ah don't know the song's name. It was an old one. The lyrics was about some earth pony tryin' to fly to the clouds and reach his pegasus lover, failin' every time. The song was about the pegasus cryin' so much that it made the rain... It kinda... I dunno... It kinda 'got him'. Leaf Song approached me, hoof extended, bowin' his head and kneelin', askin' me to dance. I... ah humored him... That's what it felt like when I reached for his hoof and let him dance me around. It felt like charity, letting him dance with me. Ah was cold to him the whole while. Ah was deliberately tryin' to be. Ah barely said anythin' and forced mahself not to listen and sighed out loud. Ah didn't–ah couldn't–even look at him in the eye. But I think the worst part was that he couldn't tell; the worst part was that he took mah cruelty for exhaustion. 'Are you alright?' he would say. 'Maybe you should rest. You've been working hard all day.' He was smiling–the last time I ever saw him smile–and he was talking so fast and so excited. He... He was sayin' things about how wonderful mah family is, how he has a new idea for a poem book that'll sell, how... how he's willing to work beside me in Sweet Apple Acres and raise a family together and live happily ever after.

"But ah was no longer payin' attention to him. Ah stopped caring for a second. I... interrupted him. While we danced, while he talked, ah said... ah said–and this is what ah couldn't forget–ah said to him: 'You're weak. You don't deserve me.'"

As Applejack says those words she heaves out a long pained sigh. She clasped the center of her chest, and let out a long pained howl.

"I... Ah didn't mean it!" she screamed at my direction, but I doubt that it is me whom she sees or means to speak to. "I... Ah didn't want him to go away! Ah didn't want him to think that ah didn't love him no more, because ah did! I do! Even when I told him those words! Even as ah crushed his soul beneath my hoof! He... He was still smiling... His eyes changed but... he was still smiling. Ah didn't know what kind of savage strength did it take for him to hold his smile up. It... It was an act of mercy for his part. He knew... that he didn't want me to know how much ah've hurt him.

"So... h-he stopped talking. He just smiled at me... and we continued dancin' until the song ends. Then he kissed me one last time and he bowed his head... and he walked away.

"It was a few minutes later when one of mah cousins came running at us, screamin'. She woke us all up, sayin' how she saw Leaf S– how she saw... a colt jumped to a nearby river and... drowned himself.

"My c-cousin–ah can never remember who it was–didn't say who she saw. B-But somehow ah knew... that it was... him. And... ah remember... It wasn't my cousin screamin'; it was... me. Ah remember screamin' my heart out, ah remember collapsin' on the floor, ah remember how mah hot tears made me blind to everything else but the memory of his last smile. It took three stallions to restrain me and drag me back to mah room. Ah was in hysterics, they said. They had to lock me up. It was Big Mac who led the search.

"Ah cried in that room for four days. They locked me up, ah was out of mah wits. It was for the best. Ah was bawlin', screamin', tearin' mah mane out. Ah still remember how painful those days went. Here... in mah chest... it felt like mah heart was literally bein' torn apart. The fear that ah'll never see Leaf Song again... and the hope that ah will... pulled me in two directions.

"It was at the fifth day when Big Mac finally told me that... Leaf Song really was gone. He said that they found his body three days ago, floating next to a makeshift garden by the East Field. They had to wait before they finish... embalming the body before tellin' me cuz Granny Smith didn't want me to see him how he looked when they found him. By this time I was out of tears, my eyes are red, and mah throat burns that am already voiceless, and I can't even express my grief in any other way but to collapse on mah brother's embrace.

"They held a funeral for him; ah shut mahself in the room, tellin' mahself that ah ain't got no right to go. Big Mac said that they buried him in the garden by the East Field where they found the body. Ah didn't know if it was sheer chance, or whether mah brother knew where our secret place all this time. We didn't know his family and he didn't leave no names for us to contact. It was too late when we realized that he barely talked about himself.

"The mornin' after the funeral, ah paid respects to his grave not a second longer than ah need to, and went on to work. Ah bucked trees, fed the pigs, cleaved the fields, made breakfast, lunch, dinner... ah did all of sort of things. Granny Smith tried to stop me, sayin' how they all must understand how ah feel and that ah need time mourn. She said ah need to wait for a few weeks to pull mahself together. Ah would have none of it. Farm's a-waitin'. So ah worked, and ah worked, and ah worked. And when work was done, ah'd work some more. The ah'd find somethin' to work with. Granny Smith told me that what ah was doin' was unhealthy; Big Mac, if he disapproved, never showed it. But ah didn't care for mahself that much. Farm was makin' a profit at that time. Only part of Sweet Apple Acres ah didn't touch was the East Field, ah left that for mah brother to take care of.

"Ah became more social–if social is whatcha call it–cuz it helps me hide from mahself and what ah've done. It was... mah form of copin', ah guess... or denial... whichever applies. Ah've had many lovers... No, not lovers. Just... some colts and mares ah take to mah bed. Flings, ya musta call them. Every two months or so ah'd go to a bar, hit somepony or get hit on, and have a roll on the hay, before dumpin' them before the next sunrise. Big Mac called it irresponsible, but ah knew he wanted to say disgustin'. It must have been hard seein' his sister like that. He probably said to himself that it's only a matter of time before ah'm branded the town stud mare. Ah still kept goin' though, just jumpin' one after another those who ah've already slept with–Roseluck was one of'em... I-It didn't made me feel good, physically or otherwise... It just... It helped me numb the pain that was eatin' me inside. Ah hated mahself for what ah was doin', but that hate helped overshadow the guilt and make me sleep at night. Maybe... ah was tryin' to cancel out the love Leaf Song and ah had... by tryin' to pervert and disfigure what was our most intimate expression of love for one another. But it... doesn't work. No matter how deep ah bury mahself beneath the obscenity, the light of our romance still manage to break through at the briefest passage of a poem. It reminds me; it blinds me; and it hurts me.

"W-What did he ever do to deserve it!? Why did Leaf Song have to die!? W-Why would anyone kill him? Why!? Why!? Oh Celesita–Why!? He was a good pony! He didn't hurt nothin'! He was kind! He was lovin'! He was happy! All he ever wanted from this world was to live! To live! And write poems! Was that too much to ask!? He... he just... h-he just wants.. t-to spend his life me! ...Ah'm sorry, alright! Ah'm sorry! It was mah fault! Leaf Song, y-you didn't... you didn't have to leave me! You didn't have to..."

Applejack falls back and collapses on the floor. She leans against the cupboard. She holds her head up. With tears flooding her eyes, her forehooves reaches out to the heavens.

"N-No... He didn't have to... Ah didn't have to... Ah killed him, Rarity. There ain't no way around it. There ain't no sugar coatin' it. Ah murdered him. Ah heard every way to dodge that fact: 'Ya didn't mean for it to happen,' they said; 'It ain't yer fault,' they said; 'It ain't like ya pushed him down that river,' they said. But it felt like that, actually... That he... That ah already knew he was already standing on that edge, and he was struggling not to fall, and... when ah told him that... he didn't deserve me, it was like the last rope he was clingin' to suddenly dragged him to the bottom. Ah didn't... kill him out of mercy... or anger... or disgust... It was out of... cruelty. Because ah wanted to hurt him... knowing he couldn't take it. Because somehow... ah could just... ah could... just... spout some excuse about simply tellin' the truth! That ah was bein' honest! Honesty! Celestia fogive me, ah kill him out of honesty...

"Ah'm guessin' that's why the Elements chose me to bear Honesty. Mighty fittin'... mighty cruel. What is that, even? It's like fate is laughin' at mah face... or destiny punishin' me, for sendin' to death a colt who lived only to love.

"Ah wish ah wasn't honest then... ah wished ah could've told him that... 'You're good enough for me.' Ah wish ah could have just lied... and spared his feelings. Ah wouldn't care for the Element...

"If givin' it back meant ah'll be with him... even for just a day... then ah'll do it in a heart beat.

"Rarity, ah am tired.

"Ah've loved and loved a memory. Ah've held onto a vain hope that we'll meet again. S-Sometimes ah think that maybe ah should–ah think sometimes–that... if ah follow him down that river ah'd see him again... And if that's what it takes then maybe ah should try and... If we can't meet each other in this world then maybe–just maybe–in the next...

"Future looks bleak to me. Ah know that no matter what ah do ah'd never love or be loved again like what ah had with Leaf Song...

"...At least now you know. You've heard me; you've listened to me. Ya understand why ah can't love ya... even when ah want to. Leaf Song once wrote, in his poems, that love is something pure... and beautiful... and innocent. Ah don't think ah have the right to feel all that again... not after killin' the only one who ever believed in it."

* * *

By the time I am walking through the town square, the downpour has reduced itself to a drizzle. Somewhere along the way, the raindrops has merged with my tears. I look up and there are no clouds. The sky is a sheet of gray blotting out the sun.

Ponyville around me glistens to a dull silver. The haze casts a sleepiness undisturbed, and a crestfallen blanket of mist wraps it's structures. There are no ponies around me. But I see them, their shadows, look out from their windows. If they can see me, I cannot care for it now. So long as they leave for me the pavements I so want so alone, I can leave to them the comfort of their homes.

I walk through this; I cannot stop and be still. I cannot allow the thoughts to catch up to me, in fear that it is here–out in the cold rain and on the streets–that grief will coil at my heart and yank me to my knees. That, I know, I am saving for later within the privacy of my quarters.

She does not want you, one of the notions catch on.

And once more the coil is pulled and my chest tightens. I cough out a cry.

Her guilt shackles her to the past of long ago, with chains she herself forged with fiery self-hatred and cold self-abnegation. She loves me–that I know–but does she love me enough for her to tear through her heart’s manacles? Does she even want to!?

And, for myself, how can I compete against a love of that kind? A love that was once so pure and so full of promise that its hymns and songs and heartbeats still echo to this day.

Worn and weary, eroded from the rain, at last I make my way to the threshold of my boutique.

As I touch the knob with my hoof, the cold wet lead poisons me to a numbing stillness. I know that when I walk through this door and close the night behind me with a thud, the memory of this day is forever sealed. For the rest of the evening, nothing waits for me but the bed that will suckle my tears.

"Will we end like this?" I mutter, frozen in place.

"Ah think Ah'm in love with you too", I remember her words, "but that 's all mah love for ya is: just a feelin'. No more and no less".

Still clasping on the knob, I fall to my knees and watch as my tears fall to the puddle of rain. I bite my lip and struggle not to scream a cry.

How can I reach through within her? How do I free her from the cage she has imprisoned herself in!?

And, as though to answer me, I feel a phantasmagoric pair of hooves over my shoulders. I do not turn around, knowing that I will find no one there. I am not one to believe in the supernatural, but perhaps it is due to my distress that I hear this illusion tell me, whispering to me, not to give up. And he–I somehow I know he is a colt–gives me a gentle shove. My weight collapses forward, and the door to my house slides open.

What sunbeam permeates through the cloud shines a ray of light to the entryway, and to the open pages of Leaf Song's AppleJill lying in wait just past the threshold:

"All night I dreamed of roses,
Wild tangle by the sea,
And shadowy garden closes.
Dream-led I met with thee.

Around thee swayed the roses,
Beyond thee sang the sea;
The shadowy garden closes
Were Paradise to me.

O Love, ’mid the dream-roses
Abide to heal, to save!
The world that day discloses
Narrows to one white grave."

Chapter 3: Aubade

I dreamt moments ago, but I cannot remember what it was.

Only that I stood at the center of a pale universe. I was not alone, and it was not Applejack who stands there beside me. It was the same phantasmic silhouette who smiles endearingly yet whose face is invisible to my eyes.

He gives a few taps to my shoulder.

When I wake up, it is to an afternoon of drizzles and bluebirds. The sunshine has yet again to break through the clouds, and the drowsy morn has kept its mist on the air. Yet, still those fowls manage to nest beneath the overhang of my boutique to chirp me awake. I pick myself up from the desk and, in doing so, the half-length blunt-edge pencil topples over the edge and rolls on the floor. I do not mind it. It has done its purpose and would have no need to be touched again.

As I rub the sleep from my eyes, I find myself still clutching on to the pink wax-sealed envelope. I squint my eyes and refocus on the italicized script on the letter's bottom-right corner:

To Applejack

How long did it take me yesterday–if one day is all it took–to finally sign these last two words? My memories of yesterday consists of nothing but jumping my teary gaze to and fro Leaf Song's memoirs and my own blank page that waited to be filled. Yet no matter how long or how hard I pressed the jagged tip of that pencil against the paper, I cannot scribble a single word.

How could you have done it? I ask, tracing a hoof over the embedded cover of his book. A poem each day?

But I felt it–dear Celestia, I remember feeling it–that flurry of emotions that come and go like heartbeats with every flash of memory of Applejack and I. From the moment when we first met and when we first fought, to the days and adventures spent with her, I see it all projected and replayed on the blank before me. And I remember thinking that, if I sit here long enough, pencil in hoof, those feelings and those images may inspire in me the same skill and gift for rhetoric to convey what had once been uncommunicable.

But, in the end, albeit armed with Leaf Song's repertoire as my atlas, I myself can only manage so much; and what I finish may not suffice to convey the message I wish to thrust through the deepest part of her.

Is this all my feelings amount to? I think. Even after a night committed to pinning the wordless in ink on paper–and to weave them in artful song–it is both sad and humiliating that I have only produced so much. Whereas Leaf Song could have summed an entire archive, mine weighs no more than this single sheet.

Will this be enough to reach her? I am forced to think, eyeing the envelope.

I rise to my hooves and march through the flower field of crumpled stationery and into the washroom. I splash cold water onto my face and proceed to freshen up with soap and perfumery. When I look up to the reflection before me, I half-expected to see the disheveled eye-bagged mare I saw several days ago. But I am proud to see that she has gone; in her place, I see the fire in the eyes of a mare who has burnt out everything else within her but the conviction to pursue the love of her life.

And in this same mirror, I see a surreal vision of a colt reflected. He nods his head, smiling, and turns around to leave.

Thank you, Leaf Song, I tell him. Now, leave the rest to me.

I place both the envelope and the book in a satchel. Wrapping a scarf around my neck, I make my way to Sweet Apple Acres

* * *

I hear the raindrop play music against the roof of my parasol. The drizzle has yet to let up, bringing about the earthly smell of fresh dirt and dewdrops. The grass is wet and soft beneath me, folding gently with each of my hoofstep. The mist curtains the airy mountains beyond the orchard that this bowing greensward stretches throughout the infinite expanse of fog. Only the object of my destination, a red farmhouse, remains saturated is this dreary morning.

Big Macintosh sits by the porch on the rocking chair, eyes up to the rain.

There is no greeting between us. Somehow I have expected him to be here; and it is as though he has been waiting for me.

"Are you ready?" he asks, not even turning to me.

"Yes," I answer.

"You'll get hurt."

"I will."

"You'll hurt her."

"Nothing my dearest cannot withstand."

"But make no mistake, she still won't return your feelings."

"If you really believe that, you wouldn't have helped me in the first place."

Despite his expression, I am inclined to believe that, beneath that mask, he is smiling. He turns to me, and nods.

"Thank you, Big Macintosh."

"She ain't in the house." He leans back on his chair and sets his eyes to the East Field. "She's there... You'll know it when you see it."

I head straight to the direction where Big Macintosh is facing.

I march straight to it and through the canopy of trees lining across the path. Straightforward, the road is lost, but still I venture deeper into the woods. Somewhere behind me, Sweet Apple Acres had gone and the undergrowth of maleberries and rose shrubs open the rest of the trail. Here, the road is paved of flowers, tree bark and toadstools—few, at first, but collects to a bushel the nearer it follows the sound of a river. The floras seemed to be entranced by it, as though its stream is the mountain's song and all those who came, came not to drink but to listen.

I plow through the line of apple trees and into the clearing where I see her.

Applejack is on a turf of verdant grass, her back turned to me, eyeing up and beyond the raging river just a meter from where she sits. Her hat is placed hanging beside a wood branch and her mane is let loose without its ribbons. She is leaning back, forehooves behind her, as she tilts her head further up to the clouds as though to welcome the drizzle to her sleeping face.

With my magic, I levitate my parasol over her. She opens her eyes, surprised to be shielded from the rain in my stead.

I welcome the drizzle onto my coat.

"Dearest," I mutter.

"Y'know," she says, "ah'm no genius. Ah never get why the pegasi have to make it drizzle on some days and storm it up at another. Guess because life's like that too, huh."

"Apple—"

"This is where they found him,"–she stretches a hoof towards the rapids–"and on yer right is where they buried the body. See that huge apple tree? His gravestone's just there."

She did not have to tell me. At one look, a flower bed of roses and hydrangeas collect to a small stone. I lean closer. There are two letters engraved on the slab.

"Hey, Rares," Applejack mutters.

"Yes?"

"Have you given up on me yet?"

"Did you think I'd go here after you to give up."

"Didn't think so," she laughs, and slowly the laughter dies down. Applejack stands up and finally turns to me. Upon her emerald eyes, her tear-soaked irises still linger. "Ah said ah ain't no genius, but ah ain't stupid either. Ah know mah brother gave you Leaf Song's poetry book."

"He did."

"Do you have it with you?"

"Yes."

"Ah want it back."

I reach into my satchel and take out both the envelope and the book. With my magic, I float both to her open and eager hooves. She takes the book first, flipping through the pages, before holding up the letter.

"What is this?" she asks. That the envelope is crisp proves to her that it is recent.

"It's from me."

"From you?" Her eyes strays from it and on to mine.

I clear my throat. "I wrote it. I spent the last two nights writing it."

"What's in it?"

"Leaf Song's words... and mine."

I close my eyes and open them again to face the endless gray drizzle. I take in a deep breath.

"I know this is the only way I can ever reach you, dearest. I learn that whatever I speak out my lips is already muted to your ears; and no matter how much I feel you, my hooves will be rendered hollow. This is underhanded and unfair to you, I know. But this is the only way I can touch you now."

Applejack remains silent. He stares at the letter in his hoof. "You... you didn't have to do that, y'know. You didn't have to write no poem. I already know how much you love me."

"That's not what my letter is meant to say."

"So this is how ya'd imagine it? You write a poem, and it's almost like Leaf Song's, but it touches me, and it makes me realize that ah was wrong to be getting hung over with the past. Then ah break down in tears and ah love ya, and the rain let's up and we go back to the house hoof in hoof."

"Are you making a mockery of my–"

"Ah ain't," she says, shaking her head. "Ah ain't. To be honest... that's what ah really want to happen. Ah’m hopin’ it does."

Applejack scratches the back of her mane. She smiles at me and places the unopened letter inside the cave of her Stetson.

"Ah've had a lot of time to think since yer last visit, Rare," she says, her eyes deadpan on the ground, unable to look at me. Her whole body starts to shake with each word she says, "Yer... yer right. Ah love ya too... And that ain't no surprise to neither of us. You didn't have to write me no nothin'. Just you being here reaches to me enough. Leaf Song's gone and buried now... so ah guess ah it's to cut ties with the past... and all that comes with it..."

Applejack turns away from me and to the raging river. And then, Applejack, still shaking, still in the verge of tears, and without warning–wait hour warning at all!–flings her hoof forward, tossing Leaf Song's red booklet.

"No!" I shout.

But I am already in the air, having jumped by the edge of the riverbed reaching for the book with my hooves. I have only managed to keep it aloft by the raging water, before my body submerges into the depths.

The rapids opens its gaping maw and swallow me in its belly.

"Rarity!" I hear Applejack shout somewhere.

With my magic, I keep the book high above above the raging river. But my concentration leaves me helpless to control my own limbs. My body is tossed back and forth the current, drinking in air and water with each breath I take. I cannot so much scream without being muffled in turn. My vision jumps between the rain and the river.

The book, I can only think, at least let me save it!

All my energy, all my will to survive, is invested on protecting that sacred token which has collected my dearest's heart. I have lost all consideration for my own safety even as the rapid pulls me to its rocky bed with hands of twigs and fists of stones scratching and slamming my body.

But Leaf Song, my mind screams, Applejack's Leaf Song!!!

My lungs knock from within my chest, begging for air. I am dragged deeper and deeper until the drizzling morning is but a faint spot. With one last burst of energy, I expend all my magic to throw Leaf Song's book far and beyond the reach of the treacherous waters.

As the light vanishes from my eyes, a surge of hope blasts through from the surface.

A pair of hooves scoops my chest and heaves me up to the last remnant of twinkling light until...

Air fills my lungs as my vision comes back.

"...ity... Rarity! Hold on!!!" Applejack screams.

I lost the energy to move my legs and can only grab on to her shoulder. The tide carries us farther and farther. She pedals to the edge, battling the torrent, pushing through with all the strength she has to keep the both of us aloft.

At last she reaches the edge and manages to grab hold of a branch. But the river opens its maw and topples over us. My hooves give way, weakened beyond exhaustion, and I am carried by the succeeding waves. My dearest does not even pause to breathe, diving back into the water. She grabs hold of me again, this time grabbing hold of my waist, and bats her remaining hooves against the flood.

"...a-ain't gonna... lose you too," I hear her mutter.

With a scream, she pedals to the end and manages to grab on to the edge. With each splashing, blowing tantrum of the river, Applejack's energy wanes. When the ripple descends, I see her eyes red and coughing out a mouthful of water. She is struggling to breathe, and I can feel–and hear–the war drum beat in her chest. The current makes one last attempt to separate us, but her sheer fortitude allows her to withstand the force. She raises me over the grass and pulls herself up back to safety.

She crawls on all fours and up to me. "Rarity!" she squeaks out. "Rarity, can you hear me!?" She grabs me by my shoulders and shakes me up.

The dizziness stops and I manage a nod, and, a second later, some words of assurance. "Dearest..."

The smile on Applejack's face reaches from ear to ear, muddled only by the makeshift tears–or tears, truly–from the drizzle. She takes me in her hooves and wraps me in a close embrace. "Ya scared me," she mutters, "ya scared me half to death!"

Her embrace tightens that it starts to hurt me. But never, for the life of me, would I ask her to let go.

"What were ya thinkin' ya... ya crazy... ya crazy idiot," she chuckles, holding me back just so she can look into my eyes. "W-Why'd ya have to jump to a flood! A flood! Didn't ya see how fast the water was goin'!? Ya have some sorta death wish!?"

"I-I-It's you who are the crazy idiot!" I managed to shout back, and cough out water. "Why would you throw Leaf Song's book away!"

"Do we have to talk about this now? We just got out of a–"

"Yes, now! Celestia forbid that you do not explain yourself this instant."

I pull myself from her and stand up. Around us is another clearing, closer to the Everfree than the apple orchard. If we are lost, it is the least of my concerns.

"Not 'til ya tell why ya jumped to try and save it before yer own skin."

"Why should I tell you!?" I say, raising my voice. "Isn't it obvious? Isn't it blatantly, blindly, obvious! Leaf Song's book, his poetry, is the last remnant of his words and reminder of your love for each other. It has in it your dearest moments, your most intimate connection, it has in it the best years and love of your life!"

"It ain't worth you gettin' killed over!"

"It is!" I say, my eyes locking onto hers. "It is..."

Her hooves over me eases.

"I've read it. I've read everything... and I turn green in envy as those words seem to whisper in my ears the promise of a romance which I did not know existed. I listened to the melody of his voice; each line of each poem has nothing but you: you were the roses, you were the suns, the moon, the winds and the mountains. There is never enough ways to compare you to what the world has to offer, and precisely because he saw nothing but you in the world. He saw so apparently in you the beauty in the world which I once struggled to create and am only now seeing; and he weaved those in words we thought we can only hear only in music and read only in tales of chivalry. They're not superifical, dearest. Not bromidic or... or empurpled... Not baseless or ungrounded... and most definitely not hopeless. That book, Leaf Song's legacy, is a testament to that. And Celestia forgive me that if the only or last monument to a love so pure amidst this gray drizzling world is to be swept away!"

"B-But Leaf Song... he's gone now. He...We failed... Our romance didn't amount to nothing..."

I remain steady. I look at her in the eyes. I slap her face.

Once the ground stops shaking beneath her hooves, she regains her composure enough to ease the swelling in her cheeks.

"Take that back..." I hiss.

She does not even stare at me, her eyes downcast. "So yer saying all this is worth all that?"

"If... If I could just have a fraction from you of what you two had for each other..."

"Even if it's worth this much hurt...?"

"And a thousand times over."

"Y-You... ya don't know that. Ya haven't the idea..."

"I don't, and all the more reason." I clear my throat. "If I am to be hurt, then it is only because I've decided open myself to you."

"Ah'm tellin' ya... it won't be worth it."

"It will be. That I'd be loved so much... it will be."

I march toward Applejack and hold on to her.

"Dearest," I mutter, "I ask you to forgive me for hitting you earlier. But I cannot be forgiven for what I am am about to put you through... but please bear with me. Close your eyes."

"What?"

"Please."

Still holding a firm grip on her hoof, I whisper to her ear:

"I want you to imagine something dearest, with all the honesty you can muster. Fifty years from now and all this... all of it... is but a distant memory. You are in Sweet Apple Acres, rocking your chair over the newly painted porch and overlooking the endless garden of fruits which you have given your life to. It is a sunny day, unlike this one, but the breeze is cool against your mane. Playing in the fields are your grandsons and granddaughters. They have yet to earn their cutie mark–but you know they are well on their path to grow to be wonderful fillies and colts. And finally, beside you, is a pony whom you have shared this moment and this life with–and... and that pony is smiling at you, as though that smile is to give a hundred thanks for giving the joy of a thousand lifetimes. And you see yourself in that pony's eyes and you find that there is no sadness in you, and there is no more pain in the world, and that there is no regrets and there never should be and this–this!–is what makes life worth loving.

"Now, dearest, I want you to tell me–and do not spare me the pain–I want you to tell me... who do you see?"

Applejack opens her eyes, horrified, and briskly turns away. "I... I can't answer that."

"You can, and you must."

"N-No... I... don't want to say it."

"But you know, don't you."

She shuts her eyes close.

"Who is it? Who do you love more? Me or Leaf Song?"

She bites her lip and shakes her head.

"Me or Leaf Song!?"

She crumbles on the dirt and presses her hooves against her ears. She is trembling. I approach her and wrap my hooves around her shoulders.

"It's alright, dearest," I whisper. "Don't worry about me... I already know what you're struggling not to say."

Applejack looks up to me. I nod, holding back tears.

"It's alright." I manage a smile. "Say his name."

"...af Song," the words seep out of her. Then, she repeats, "Leaf Song..."

I did not lie. I knew what I was going to hear.

But, still, I am not spared the blow. I bite my lips in acceptance of this confession. The tightness in my chest wrings out the tears, and I thank the drizzle that it hides them from her. I nod my head, so slowly that is imperceptible.

"I... Ah'm sorry, Rarity."

"No." I shake my head. "Don't ever apologize for your feelings, dearest. I accept that you might not ever feel for me as you did for him; but, still, my love does not dwindle in the slightest."

* * *

She carries my cumbersome weight on to her back, her sprained knee buckling. With each shambling hoofstep, I can hear the splash of the puddles underneath us. And with that same aching limb, she brushes past the thicket of thorns and rosebushes on our way. She soldiers on. Around us, the drizzle has just let up save for the few droplets dripping from the tips of branches and leaves. With what's left of my flickering, dwindling magic, I conjure a protective canopy over the poetry booklet to protect it from those treacherous crystal beads.

"Dearest," I say to her, "I assure you that I can walk now."

"It's alright," she says. "Ah still want to carry ya."

"I am not as hurt as you might think."

"Probably," he chuckles. "But ah don't want mah princess gettin' mud on her hooves."

"Don't joke about such a thing when you are hurt as you are."

"This?" she raises her hoof up. "Ain't nothin' but a coat wound. Besides... we're already there."

She breaks through the tangled web of branches and out the forest. In any of the romantic medium where this story may be told, I imagine that the rain will be gone no sooner when we exit the woods, and sunshines and rainbows will take its place. But, contrary to that, the sky closes shut and pours out what's left of its rain.

"Oh, for the love of..." I mutter.

"Ain't no use gettin' riled up over that now," she laughs. "We're wetter than newborn ducks as it is."

By the time we reach the porch, the drizzle has build up to a downpour; as soon as the door closes behind us, the downpour has stirred itself into a howling storm. The interior of the house is full of poltergeists: walls squeaking, pans rattling, and gusts knocking against window panes. I drop down to my hooves and place Applejack's Stetson and Leaf Song's booklet on a nearby stool.

"Big Mac!" Applejack shouts, "Ya here, big bro?"

Only her echo replies.

"Guess not," he mutters, smiling at me.

At first, I do not guess the nature of that smile, having levitated a clean towel from the laundry to dry ourselves with. But as soon as that towel wraps around me, Applejack pulls on it, dragging me to her. She grabs me by my hips and raises me up. I wonder how resilient she truly is to be able to carry me this way–still with that sprained knee–up a flight of stairs and into her room.

She sets me down and locks the door, and before she can turn around I am already against her, pushing the entirety of my weight against her body and showering her lips and cheeks with as much kiss as I can give.

I hear her laughter, and I can only repeat after it in the interruptible hiccups of in-between my buss. Here were are, in her room, just having passed through our toughest ordeal, still wet from the rain, giggling.

She carries me again and throws me on top of the bed.

"Ahh," I moan, "the sheets will get wet."

Applejack laughs, planting her kiss against my ear and neck, biting against the skin. She moves down and starts to trace her lips from my navel up, nipping at the mounds of my body that she can hold.

But her kisses slows down and presses deeper and deeper unto me, and rise up to meet me face to face. She leans back, for a moment, to drink in the depths of my eyes, before she presses her lips against my own. She holds me tighter and tighter as her hooves wrap around my hips to push me up.

I feel the distinct and familiar warmth of her flesh even amidst the rain-soaked coat, and even here I can feel her heart beat to the rhythm of mine.

She leans back again and stares at me. "Rarity?"

"Yes, my dearest?"

"D'ya remember the morning after we first made love together?"

I start to blush, but manage to conceal it with a laugh. "You were frantic," I say, "You looked like you saw a ghost."

"I was upset... at myself, mostly, for breaking my only rule. But you didn't seem to mind. You were laughin' while ah paced myself back and forth across the room."

"Because you were so funny at that time. You looked like you wanted to regret what we spent hours and hours doing the night before, but the pink flush of color on your cheeks shows that you didn't." I lean forward and plant a quick kiss on that cheek.

"Was me blushin' that funny?" she asks, scratching the back of her mane.

"It is when you try to hide how embarrassed you were."

"Well, to be honest, Ah wasn't blushin' cuz ah was embarassed."

"Really, now? Why were you, then?"

"Ah was thinkin'."

"Of what?"

"Of something."

"What something? Do you plan on telling me, or you just keeping me in suspense?"

"What? N-No... No... I just don't know how to put it."

This time I do not answer, and only lie in wait for her to catch the words.

"Well, ya see..." she mutters. "Back then, ah was blushin' cuz each time ah turned to look at you, and see you there lyin' on mah bed, one hoof danglin' over the edge, draped by dove-white sheets, starin' at me, gigglin' and blushin' yourself like a school filly, ah thought' to mahself how lucky could ah be to have spent the night with somepony so... so wonderful. And... and ah thought that if ah ever find it in me to forgive mahself enough to have one thing–just one more thing–in this world again... then maybe... maybe... ah'd want to spend the rest of mah life with this beautiful mare."

I am stunned, for a moment, and have left my mouth hanging open like that of a dumb pony's. Is this a proposal? I cannot help but think. And what sound my mind makes is drowned out by the wild drumming of my heart jumping with a jovial Yes! Yes! and Yes!

But decency, propriety, and courtesy, restrains me enough to prevent me from giving an answer so direct and so coarse. I breathe in, and breathe out. I clear my throat.

"Do you know when I decided to spend the rest of my life with you?" I ask.

"When?"

"Just now."

Applejack smiles and traces her hoof on my cheeks and down to my chin. She leans forward and kisses me again.

And in this barely lighted room where the rain tips and taps across the glass pane windows, she presses her body ever so softly on mine and our two shadows become one.

* * *

I wake up in bed, with my dearest gone and a poetry book having taken her place on my beside. I do not yet feel the need to rise, and settle to let my body lie still and bathe on the sun. With my magic, I open the book and flip along the pages. One of which is bookmarked with my opened letter to my dearest.

Ah, she's already read it... I think to myself, smiling.

I put the letter aside momentarily, hold open he book, and read through one of Leaf Song's last poems:

The leaves talked in the twilight, dear;
Hearken the tale they told:
How in some far-off place and year,
Before the world grew old,

I was a dreaming forest tree,
You were a wild, sweet bird
Who sheltered at the heart of me
Because the north wind stirred;

How, when the chiding gale was still,
When peace fell soft on fear,
You stayed one golden hour to fill
My dream with singing, dear.

To-night the self-same songs are sung
The first green forest heard;
My heart and the gray world grow young—
To shelter you, my bird.

And as the last word escapes my silent lips, the gust of sweet morning fills the room. I sit up, and look out the window. At last, the morn has come. Outside, the clouds part, a timid sun peeks from its corners, and the color of the landscape is brought back anew. The ocean of green is as far as the eye can see, still-wet from the morning dew that each blade wink with a sparkle, and the horizon to the infinite is lined red with bountiful apple trees.

And there, in the far distance, I see my lover as a small speck of lovable orange across this vastness. She is dragging a full apple cart back to the barn when she stops midway.

And I think to myself how, from now on, I will always wake like this.

And as though she senses my looking at her, she looks up to this window where on its case I rest both elbows. She smiles at me, drops the load off her back right then and there, and charges across the field to the house.

And I am frantic to fix my mane to its wavy curls and slap the grogginess from my face. I grip on the letter, reading to words one more time, as I hear her rush up the stairs.

Thank you for falling in love with us.
–Leaf Song and Rarity

The door opens.

"Good morning, hun."

"Good morning, dearest."

THE END