Chapter four

You can recall the memories all too clearly now.

Yes, they flood into your perturbed mind like a great hurricane of distress and uncertainty. Like bullets screeching past your head and leaving your ears ringing, they cloud your wisdom and drag you into an altered state of consciousness as your blood turns hot from within you.

You once called her a friend.

You will never forget those countless nights of ridiculous stories, always interrupted by fits of giggling by all parties, by the fireplace which were once the only highlight of your worrisome days that left you utterly exhausted.

She was one of the few people that you’ve ever that special bond to, that bond which enabled you to think of them as that sibling you never had, and, by god, you can still hear the faint echoes of her laughter as a wistful smile tugs on the corners of your lips.

Leaning back in your chair and taking a good moment to breathe heavy in order to calm your nerves, you caress your eyelids with a cold hand that does little comforting. After a long moment of containing your inner emotions, there comes a familiar silence over you two as the wind picks up.

Leaning down in your seat to lower your own bottle of fizzy soda—she was never much of a drinker, and you didn’t want to make it awkward or anything, so you went the safe route when in her company—down to the her’s, you take a moment to mouth a solemn, “Cheers” before clinking your glasses together and taking another long swig of the substance.

The fattening substance does little to calm your nerves with its flavor, but does wonders as to bringing back memories spent with the young mare and her clueless wife. Slowly, yet surely, your eyes blankly graze over her another time as a weak film of water forms over them.

Her white slab is all too familiar to your eyes—of which you can feel the bags under all too well—as you read the carefully chiseled name that has plagued your mind for the past decade.

Greymane.

Then, all at once to your senses, there comes a roar of steam from a beast of crude iron and coal from some ways off to the right. The sound is near deafening—so much so that you can feel your insides shake at the train’s sheer momentum—but, as per usual, you’re not one to react to anything with any semblance of fear.

You don’t flinch at the metal behemoths approach, nor do you blink as it gives off another steam-induced scream to alert others of its approach, but, rather, you keep your eyes trained on the final resting place of the one mare who enabled you such confidence all those years ago.

Despite her stubbornness at times, you would always find yourself intrigued with that quirky and cranky personality of hers that often reminded you all too well of your little brother’s. There was nothing in your heart to suggest anything more than a platonic love for the mare—as you’d have had to repeat a great many times to people who would’ve thought you would put the metaphorical horns on her wife—as she made your life worth living for a time.

Swallowing the fatty drink, your side stings with the pain of an injury almost a week old, but your heart bleeds fresh from the visiting of an old friend who made you what you are to this day.

Then, to remind you of the time, comes the fourteen consecutive gongs of the bell that hangs from the top of town hall. Two o’clock, on the dot.

It was the second time that the bell has interrupted your thoughts.

Sitting up from your comfortable seat and kneeling down to dust off her tombstone yet again, you gingerly place the two bouquets of white flowers off to either side of the stone slab.

With only another sad smile given to your best friend, you give a friendly pat to the top of the tombstone before uttering the request which you always knew the answer to.

“So, same time next week?”

The smell of freshly baked goods, plucked vegetables, and the unmistakable scent of Equestrian filth fills your nostrils yet again another excited towns person rushes past your weary body. Like the others, he too wears a look of mild interest and excitement on his long face that doesn’t give you any reason to calm down.

You can already guess as to what the locals are all upbeat about—the sizable, yet dissipating, cloud of smoke coming from the train station is clue enough for your mind—as your tired legs carry you onwards to the usual place you love to stop by after the regular Saturday visit.

Though, sadly enough, the cozy pub is on the exact opposite side of town from Greymane, and it takes you nearly twenty minutes to reach it by the way of foot.

And to add insult to injury, the place is right next to the train station to swindle the tourists out of their hard earned money.

Well, whether you like it or not, you’re going to see what all the commotions about.

The locals, as you’ve come to expect, give you a second glance when they see you again—no doubt surprised about your quick recovery and wondering of the story you have to tell—but fall in line towards the crowd amassing at the foot of the train station. Said crowd is bustling with whispers and excited chatter, but nothing much more than that as all look up expectantly towards the large mass of steel that’s screeching to a halt.

“Probably something about the false gods,” you mutter at the crowd with the disdain nearly tangible in your voice, though not before a moment of unmolested silence breaks your step mid-stride. It’s a rare silence, the type that would only occur right before you cursed loudly in the classroom or something similar, which was always followed by either a moment of embarrassment or fear.

While all of the Equestrians among the crowd lean on the tips of their hooves to get a better look at the show on the stage, you offhandedly tilt your head to the side to catch sight of whatever it is all these morons are fretting over…

And when your eyes lock onto the six puppets of the false Gods, freshly emerging from the train that hasn’t even skidded to a complete halt, to which you can’t help but sneer at.

With a disgruntled mumble leaving your mouth, you return your attention to finding a nice seat by the fire with a mug of hard liquor at your side. Truly, after a morning filled with discussing your situation with your boss, which was followed by your weekly visit, you deserved at least some downtime.

Hurrying along, yet being careful not to seem like you’re in too much of a hurry, you skirt along on the outskirts of the crowd, of which has now started to chatter incessantly to the six lap dogs. You see several familiar faces, but nobody that is willing to give you any greeting or recognition beyond the natural flick of the eyes to see the large figure in their peripherals.

You don’t need them, though. All you need is a hard drink and someplace with silence enough to let your thoughts reign supreme.

Though, when you meet the sweet lady that is an open street as you leave the crowd, you’re met with a terrifying sight. Your eyebrows furrow slightly at the sight, which is followed by a thinning of the lips to show some hint of displeasure, all the while you lean slightly back before the group of ten odd children as they rush by.

As their dust cloud soon passes you as they rush by to the commotion, no doubt trying to get into the thick of it, you idly check your watch while wondering why the youngins are out so early...

Slapping your forehead just after remembering that it it’s Sunday, you make to pick up your feet and begin to retreat back towards the pub, one quaint Huff and Puff, with an alacrity that surprises even yourself. Truth be told, your side cramps up with every step you take, every bit of movement making you grimace deepen all the more, but you can’t be bothered to stop and rest while knowing that relaxation is no more than two minutes away.

And so with a muffled grunt of effort, you spot the familiar pub that houses some of the best mead and potato wedges you’ve ever had the pleasure of eating. Picking up the pace, you are interrupted by a faintly familiar voice calling out your name.

“Anon!” it calls out with an unmistakable lick of that certain drawl that you were once so accustomed to that it brings back memories of the once complete Apple family, “Anon, Anon, hey, Anon!”

There was some sort of commotion just to your left, one that you recognize as a certain mare trying to move her way through the thick crowd. Her apologies for muscling her way past the mediocrity were a constant as she rapidly grew near, calling for you all the while.

Coming to a halt, you give out a tired sigh before slowly turning your head to get a look at the approaching ten-gallon hat that serves as a marker for the one mare. Your eyes focus on that familiar color, memories of the previous owner returning all too vividly, of which force your breathing to quicken as goosebumps hit you.

Your fingertips warily rub the creases on your forehead, a bit of sweat already beginning to accumulate on the smooth skin. Feeling just a bit better as you try and rub away the stress, you relent your off-hand before opening your eyes to see something that makes your breath stop for just a moment.

“Anonymous!” says the young Applejack, her green eyes locked onto yours with worry, excitement, and a myriad of other, unreadable emotions evident in the orbs. She stands before you, uncaring of the attention that you two have now gathered, and has you deadset in her eyes, all of the world made insignificant before your reunion.

Blinking, you take a moment to actually look about to see a sizable number of stares now directed at you and Applejack. You spot a number of familiar faces, several of which are devoid of their usually uninterested looks to ones of rapt interest as their plate sized eyes stick onto you like those first days after emigrating to Ponyville from way back when. You’re hard pressed to find any face that brings any semblance of comfort, though.

Snapping your attention back to the mare with a quick shake of your head, you scramble for a response to the young mare who continues to look up at you for a response.

“Good morning, Miss Applejack,” you say after another moment’s hesitation with a slight nod, “what brings you to this neck of the woods?” You take a moment to look up from her eyes yet again to scrunch up your face in confusion before admitting your thoughts, “Sorry if there’s something obvious that I’m forgetting, I can’t remember much of that night besides what others told me.”

Your words seem to bring a cringe to the young mare, but she quickly recovers with eyes glued to the ground, oddly enough. Her ears splayed back, she audibly gulps before letting out a nervous chuckle and giving her reply.

“I was just…” Applejack says aloud with eyes slowly lowering down to where your right hand was gently held over your wounds, of which she eyed for several silent moments, “worried about you, is all. Sorry I had to leave with the girls to Appleoosa, it was just that everything happened at once, the Royal Guard said they would keep everypony safe while we were gone, and Braeburn said he really needed our help…”

The young Applejack seems rather upset at herself for all of this,—as her eyes find the dirt road extremely interesting as a hoof idly plays with the pebbles underfoot—something that you wouldn’t expect from someone that’s supposed to have a sense of bravado to match your own.

Hell, you’d expect this type of shy behavior out of her big brother, not the aspiring Apple that owns the entire family business and runs her household of four.

Rolling your shoulders, you’re all too aware of the silence between you before the distinct cracking of your neck speaks for you. The cracks are as meaty as they are relieving to your battered form, but you’re more into doing this for the effect that it’ll have.

“Believe me when I say that it’ll take a lot more than two of Them to kill me,” are your words that leave your mouth with the utmost conviction you can muster. And, for a moment, you wonder if you even believe yourself before going forward with the next words that come to mind, “They got lucky: it was an ambush in the dead of night and they held every imaginable advantage while I was going two days without sleep and dinner.

“Hell,” the words that leave you slowly gain courage before ending in a low chuckle as a little grin tugs at the corners of your mouth, “and even then I managed to take one down with me before the other one ran home with another breathing hole.”

Your mind temporarily flashes back to what you’ve heard from that night by the small garrison of Royal Guard that came to the scene to respond to your brief message. A sizable trail of blood dripped all along as the second beast ran back, unsurprisingly, to the Everfree and left a crumbtrail that’s yet to be followed beyond the fringes of the Everfree. As such, the trail has gone cold as no more information was provided other than that more guards were a must from the situation, as the killing of an Equestrian on their own soil is something near unheard of and dealt with swiftly.

Though, surprisingly, no course of action has been taken other than bulking up Royal Guard numbers around the perimeter of the town and setting up watches on the borders of the Everfree.

Returning from your little flashback to that night and what has happened since, your eyes flick back to Applejack and those Equestrians surrounding both of you. With your frame still made masculine from your time back in Aragon, you stand like a god among the Equines who now look up at you with several emotions swirling in their eyes, ranging all the way from admiration to mild trepidation.

But your eyes focus back onto the second youngest of the Apple family before anything else, and you give off your usual cocky, lopsided grin at her, which is just enough to get her lips to begin to move.

Though, sadly, that isn’t meant to be as another mare takes her spot in the conversation with a voice that’s near forgotten to you. It speaks with a gilded and meek tone that makes your eyes go wide before snapping onto the light blue form of one now distantly-familiar unicorn.

“If…” the young mare says aloud, her words failing her for a moment before she shakes away her nervousness and speaks anew, “If you did so well against the two of Them, then why haven’t the Royal Guard done anything to get rid of them?” Her words seemed forced, as if someone urged her on to speak the words before pushing her outward from the group, but are met with murmurs of agreement from the rest of the crowd as their worries are now made known.

Truly not expecting the young Minuette to speak out to you or about such a matter—your mind flashes back to the first meeting between you two, the young one just starting puberty and seeking to try her hand at writing, what with a strange alien living on the outskirts of the town with a master that seemed nice enough—after your last, explosive meeting after your framing at the Silver Stallion some long years ago, you take a moment to look at the mare oddly while letting your brain attempt to process just what the young mare had said.

There is silence for a moment longer as you force yourself to look into the eyes of Minuette, you now too aware of past emotions reemerging up in as all eyes are now upon you. Taking a short breath, you answer with as much confidence as you can, though you can’t help but let a little edge leak out into your words.

“If I know Equestrian Military, and, trust me, I do, then Lieutenant Damascus is sticking to her training and avoiding going on the offensive, lest she repeat any mistakes made in The War and suffer blinding losses at the hands of the unknown.”

“But this isn’t The War!” shouts a voice from among the crowd, shattering what you were about to say. Several Equestrians among the crowd, more loudly this time, make their protests known yet again.

Raising an eyebrow at the crowd and finding your temper growing at the blatant disrespect upon your and Applejack’s privacy with every interrption and moment eavesdropping, you give out an experimental cough before raising your voice that of a man needing to be heard above all else.

“This isn’t a discussion for me to be having,” you holler at the crowd at large, eying every one of them—save for the two named ones in front of you—with as much disdain as you can muster, “If you’ve a plan for how to best deal with Them, then go take it down to Lieutenant Damascus at the headquarters in the town center, and, if not, then you’re more than welcome to piss right the hell off!”

As if you’ve given all of the personal death threats, eyes grow wide as if the Silver Stallion Incident had just reoccured and all were present to witness it. Eyes flickered to the ground, and then back to you when they thought you weren’t looking, before the crowd quickly dispersed before fifteen seconds had passed.

Well, you still had a crowd of two.

As if sensing that you’d just thought that, Minuette grows fearful of no longer being with her friends and looks behind her to see no friendly faces awaiting her. Turning back to you, she gives you a sad and pained face that almost seems apologetic as her mouth opens to say something, but closes after a few moments of hesitation.

Minuette wordlessly turns away and hastily retreats to find her compatriots, eager to be rid of your company by the looks of it.

And now it was someone else’s turn to be confused, as Applejack gives a baffled look about her as she tries to get an idea as to why everyone found your words so threatening. The stereotypical head scratching goes on unmolested as you give the mare time to look about and shrug at the sudden privacy you two enjoy.

“Well…” Applejack begins after a short, awkward chuckle, “that sure is one way to deal with a crowd, huh?”

And, for the first time in a couple of days, you’re given reason to smile. There’s just something about her chuckle and smile that forces her optimism and good mood to spread to you after a moment of your face holding solid, but only for a second before your normal facade shatters into a slightly bemused grin.

“Eh, that was nothing,” come your boastful words as you regain your composure and comedically dust yourself off, “I wasn’t even trying to be loud; if I was then your ears would be ringing right about now.” And, unsurprisingly, this gives the young farmer cause to raise her eyebrow in a skeptical manner.

“You… loud and intimidating?” Applejack mutters with a bemused look overtaking her face, “The shut in, quiet Hunter that only comes to town when he needs to buy some ammo and beer every Sunday?” Her face is thick with jest and good humor as she tilts her head to the side with a knowing smile upon her lips, “Shoot, I’d bet five bits that Granny Smith could beat you in a hollering fight.”

Your eyes lay upon the young farmer for a moment longer, unsure if she knows of your history with her elder, before both of you erupt in a fit of chuckling, probably both for different reasons. Her probably just for the fact that she’s being teasing, and you delving back into memories of better days and friendlier faces.

Though, sadly, the moment of levity doesn’t last too long between you two, now not entirely unfamiliar, associates.

A small cough is had by Applejack, one followed by a flick of the eyes off to the side while she makes a rub for the back of her neck, just before she mumbles some words—most likely motivational—to herself before addressing you properly and with a tone completely void of humor.

“You know that wasn’t pulling your leg earlier when I said I was worried about you, Anonymous.” Her words are chalk full of conviction and, much to your surprise, honest compassion that doesn’t fade for a moment as she speaks, “But, uh, I just don’t know what to do or where to begin… I wasn’t lying when I also said that this all happened at once,” Applejack says, her voice now dripping with exhaustion as she allows the drain of the days to show on her, what with you now noticing the slight bags under her eyes as she allows her shoulders to slump heavily, “we’ve never had anything like this in Ponyville, and it’s all the worse when it’s on your property while you’ve got a family to look after, duties to do with the whole ‘Element of Honesty’ thing, and a whole bunch of other stuff that was just kinda’ thrown at me.”

Hmmm. Now that she says it like that… It does seem rather bad, doesn’t it?

“Well, we did have something like this way back when,” you half mutter to yourself and to Applejack with an uncharacteristically quiet voice before bumping back into your usual, bravado filled tone, “but, honestly, I feel pretty bad for you.

“I just got ran through,” you continue with a quick pat to your aching side, “I don’t have to worry about anyone mourning me or providing for a family, much less a younger sibling. Lord knows that if I were in your position that I wouldn’t sleep without having all of the windows boarded up and having at least three guns by the bedside.”

“Pfft, yeah, you’re telling me,” comes the exhausted reply from one Applejack, with just a hint of jealousy in her voice as to your ability to purchase firearms and ammunition with impunity. Two of the few benefits that come with being a Hunter, actually.

Though before any more discourse between you two can emerge from the encounter, there comes something.

Or, rather, someone tackily dressed with a large, white bonnet that replaces her usual red ribbon. An unusually large pendant, one of a light golden chain and decorated with a bright red gemstone in the middle, dangles from the little one’s neck as she makes her way over towards you two, now able to find you two with the streets being clear of pests.

“Applejack, can we go home already?” comes the call of one young Applebloom as she finally makes it to her sister’s side, breathing a bit heavy with the bulging briefcase that lays resting on her back. . The sight of the little one all done up makes the corners of your lips curl up in unmolested mirth, as you could never have expected such a sight.

With a hand-me-down dress—one that looks just a tad bit too large and made out of a white fabric that holds a few stains but looks good nonetheless—on her little body and that bonnet making her look like a little puritan, Applebloom takes a small breather by her sister’s side, seemingly unaware of your presence.

Applejack gives out a coy little smile at this, her previous exhaustion vanishing in the blink of an eye as the little one reemerges into her life, before acting with a voice that speaks of mischievous joy.

“Well ain’t that a rude way to say hello to a friend, Applebloom?” come her words, which are followed to a playful bump to her sister’s shoulder, along with a nudge of her head towards you.

Upon her elder’s words, the little one scrunched up her face in a humorous manner before focusing her tired eyes dead ahead. Though, before she notices your unseemly sight, she glances at her sister with an irked look that is often so common in the youngins. Somehow she hasn’t noticed you and dismissed her sister’s words upon not immediately seeing a friendly face at her level.

“Now what in the hay do you mean by that?” Applebloom questions aloud, “Are you still thinkin’ that I’m mad ‘bout when you made me sleep in the same bed with ya’ because ya’ were afraid of the wendigo gett-”

Sploch.

Both you and Applebloom slowly lower your eyes to the youngin’s mouth to, unsurprisingly, see an orange hoof belonging to Applejack placed firmly on the lips of the younger sibling.

A moment of silence passes upon all three of you. The young Applebloom raises an eyebrow at her sister, effectively communicating the unspoken “Really?” between them as the aforementioned elder grew a funny shade of red in the cheeks.

“Smooth like butter,” you can’t help but blurt out with an patronizing, yet playful, nod.

“Oh hush,” is all Applejack offers you along with a quick glance that bore a momentary grin, before returning her attention to the young one.

Though Applebloom could care less about her elder at this point, as she had just glanced over and has her eyes deadset upon your own. And, by god, you see a warmth and joy directed at you that has all but been forgotten.

She remains still for a moment, a moment filled with the ambient chatter of the crowd that has moved onto greener pastures, before a high pitched cacophony filled the air. It was a rather harsh, yet impassioned, mix of what you guessed is a cheer, a surprised yelp, and perhaps a botched saying of your name.

The little one, upon dropping all of the possessions on her back and giving a quick sprint towards you, latches onto your right leg with a certain degree of desperation and strength that you never expected.

You’re taken aback at this rapid set of events. Why would this little one care so much about someone she doesn’t even know? Perhaps it’s due to that special childlike idiocy that holds children captive until early adulthood? Perhaps she was never told of your situation? She sure sounded unsure of your state in her letter from the hospital, after all.

“I thought you were a gonner, Anon!”

…

……

You look up from the small Equestrian firmly hugging your thigh, which she also has her face firmly planted into for an inkling of comfort up, up to the Element of Honesty.

“Now don’t you go worrying your little head about me,” you say in a friendly tone while keeping eye contact with Applejack, your face keeping a neutral appearance all the while, “I told your sister that I’d have it dealt with, and I dealt with it, didn’t I?”

A moment of silence followed your little question, one you filled with a quick tipping of Applebloom’s newfound bonnet so that she can look up to your eyes. There is a moment of cathartic release for the youngin as she looks up to the man who she had thought had possibly died, eyes wide with joy and relief.

You have a moment to spare to glance at Applejack, though. She stares at you for a few solid seconds with a blank, neutral face before she gives off a nervous chuckle and darts her off to the side, suddenly interested in something in the background.

“She just told me that it’d all be fine,” the little one still looking up at you says with a huff of annoyance that forces your eyes back onto her’s, “always telling me to just ‘not worry about it’, as if everything’s all Hunky-Dorey!”

As if sated by this little outburst, the little one returns to the ground on all fours with a little clop as her hooves hit the dirt road. One last puff of haughty air given out, she tilts her head slightly at you while looking for some words to utter; some profound words the encapture her exact feelings as she looked into the eyes of the local giant.

“Whew!” says one Applejack as she nears, cutting an effective end to whatever her sister was on the verge of saying, “I dunno’ about either of y’all, but I’m exhausted after that train ride and all that, so how ‘bout we head in for a little shut-eye, huh, Applebloom?” The elder ends this with placing the once-forgotten luggage bag of Applebloom upon her own back and giving her sister a light pat on the head, an honest, yet stern, smile plastered down at the youngin all the while.

For the most part, Applebloom looks dismayed at this but manages to hold her tongue. With a quick glance back up to you, she gives off her best attempt at a smile that shows true amicability and warmth, yet still has bits of doubt clinging on the fringes as she gives you a wave goodbye before steeping in line behind her elder.

“Sorry ‘bout that,” Applejack excuses after leaning in an a not-so-discreet lean in towards you with a hushed voice, “it’s just that… So much’s been going on and all that, I don’t really know what to tell her right now.” The finely-hatted mare gives out a look that’s heavily stirred with unease and confusion before her eyes rest upon you with a tinge of her past unease returning. “Listen,” Applejack begins to say with her voice now back to its proud self, “how ‘bout you come on over sometime later tomorrow for a beer come lunch time? Lord knows me and little Applebloom need some rest after all of this, plus I’ve got a long list of things to check up on now after being gone for so long…”

Hmm. Now that second to last bit caught your interest from the moment ‘beer’ was uttered.

Free beer? You’re no bum, but you’ll happily take a free drink when it’s offered in good company.

And you’re also not one to drag on a conversation when it’s apparent that the other has things to do.

“You can count on it,” you say aloud with as much bravado as you can muster in an attempt to sound like your usual sure-fire self, “though don’t be surprised if I’m more than a little late; it may be just a flesh wound but, by God does it hurt like no other.”

You catch the suppressed flinch of one Applejack as you finish saying your piece, but you don’t say anything as the two give you their goodbye smiles and waves. Both do seem quite tired as you can see slight bags under their large eyes, the idea only furthered by their somewhat sluggish movements as they are joined by several others as they begin to make their way back to Sweet Apple Acres.

You catch the immediate sight of a few of the other element bearers breaking from their chatter to unite with Applejack and her little sister,—their faces showing similar levels of exhaustion as the farmer and her little sister—which is sight enough to make you scrunch up your face in anger before turning back to the direction of your destination and heading on your way.

No, they weren’t regular Equestrians and locals in that group that just greeted her after waiting for her business with you to be done, but, rather, they were of the other five element bearers; more lapdogs to the false gods.

You know all of the others by title and by name, all except for two, and you know them as genuinely good people. But, after all, you cannot know just what they’re up to, whether the false gods have doted upon them so much that they turn as vile as those which they all but worship.

Applejack excluded, of course. She offered you free beer, and anyone who does that is good in your book.

With that in your mind, you lazily grasp the door handle of the Huff and Puff tavern after walking about fifty more paces, a pained expression overtaking you as you misstep for the last time as you enter the second most familiar part of this town that you know.

There is a slight burn, a hiss of pain as it shoots down your throat.

Holding it in, you taste the sweet relief of the drug as the chemicals hit your brain like gentle pinpricks, letting forth another wave of cathartic, yet unspoken, relief.

Blowing out the stream of white smoke, you let the stream of white linger in the air for however long it wills it necessary. Although initially thick and blinding, the cloud eventually dissipates into nothing which effectively brings to light the “fine” scenery all about you.

Your off hand rests half of your body weight against the darkened mahogany table below—which, thankfully, is at a comfortable height that comes up to your breast—that seems to sway every which way but still. You’re forced to try and hold in your previous meal at the sudden nauseousness that overcomes you with little success, a familiar, and burning, taste overcoming your tastebuds that ends in you coughing violently into your elbow.

“Blegh, fuck,” you can’t help but mutter to yourself…

Wait a moment… You’re still coughing like mad!

Getting your little fit under control, you have to give an actual effort to look to your right, where the oddly-familiar voice came from. Sadly, your addled mind can only remember that it knows the voice and cannot—probably due to the alcohol—focus on who the enigmatic voice belongs to.

Dark green eyes, ones displaying a cathartic level of anger and disappointment, stare down at the countertop as you can hear a distinct smacking of the lips, as if the stallion is tasting something and trying to determine whether it’s good or not.

“Hmmm,” says the garnet colored stallion with a certain eloquence about him, “tastes like shit.”

Wait a moment. Now you remember why you can’t get a good look at this guy!

Removing the cigarette from directly in front of your face, your vision clears up significantly as the picture of the lad comes into full quality.

Your eyes widen slightly as his detestable face now meets with a freshly opened bottle of imported wine, the type that tastes horrendous but is acclaimed by people with copious amounts of money, without so much as a flinch as he begins to chug freely. The young one drinks greedily from the bottle, like a baby on the teet of his mother, as his gulping is audible from the two chair distance you two share.

The emerald green field around the bottle slams the glass thing down upon the countertop as soon as its contents are drained. There is an ominous silence as you, as well as all other patrons of the pub, openly stare at the young one with open annoyance, mild interest, and bits of boredom.

The bartender, one Berry Punch, gives a skeptical look at the young stallion, a look that doesn’t care to hide how unimpressed it is by the blase act and attitude before her, before shaking her head with a sigh and reaching for something under the counter. She returns a moment later with a thin bottle, one identical to the first, clenched between her mouth.

Though before she can set it down to give to her customer, a sickly green aura emanates the entirety of the bottle before it is unceremoniously yanked from the mare’s mouth. This, understandably, angers the bartender noticeably, if her immediate frown and eyes boring into the head of the stallion before her chugging the bottle were any indication.

“Mate,” says one Berry Punch after leaning in over the counter and slowly, yet firmly, grabbing the bottle and pulling it down to end the drinking session, “I get it, you’re angry and stressed about Them and all that, you have a right to be.” Her voice is originally restrained and gentle, but hardens along with her eyes as she makes eye contact with the green eyes of one Keen Spark, “But if you do that again, then I’m kicking your sorry ass out of my bar without a second thought.”

This contact holds for a moment longer as the bar’s owner and the newcomer continue in a silent contest of wills, other patrons and regulars holding with bated breaths for the outcome of it all. And, for a moment, you’re sure that you’re going to get the opportunity to glass him upside the head.

Hell, it’s been far too long since you’ve done that…

Though before you have the opportunity to bash in another skull with your favorite brand of beer bottle, there comes a gruff pout from Keen Spark that is followed by an incoherent mumble that sounds an awful lot like, “Whatever…” before he waits for the bar owner to slowly set the bottle down upon the countertop.

The young stallion takes it in with initial bits of uncertainty before taking it back into a full chug again. And, before ten more seconds have passed, the thin bottle is depleted of its nectar and left only with its glass shell.

Slamming the bottle down yet again, though a little less noisy this time, you can now see the visible distress and indignance in his eyes as he looks left and right at all the Equestrians eying him curiously. He cares not what the think enough to actually act upon his rage, though.

Or, well, that is up until he sees you.

“You!” he hisses with a familiar edge to his voice that brings back memories of nine years prior, “Why the hell are you in here instead of helping our lads with the search for Them?” He approaches you in a bold manner, his emerald eyes bearing no sign of amicability or intent, but, rather, unmolested malice and hatred that you’ve come to expect out of this one.

And now he stands before you on two legs after slamming his right hoof down on the counter in an attempt to intimidate.

Through your drunken stupor, you can’t find a better course of action than to take a slow drag out of your cigarette and to blow it off to the side of the young stallion’s head. You don’t care to act with any words, and instead find yourself ready to glass the bastard at a moment’s notice as you idly flick the cigarette’s ash into your allotted tray.

“You act like you’re tough shit around town, always looking like you own the goddamned place and giving us those condescending eyes,” Spark says with rage as bits of spit scatter on your face and jacket. “But what the hell do you do when lives are actually at stake?” he takes a moment to scoff and point his off hoof at you, “Yeah, that’s right, you hide in this bar like the fuc—”

“Alright, that’s enough, you’re done!” comes the rarely assertive tone of Berry Punch, one that you’ve learned not to argue with in fight’s past. It is a tone that you yourself had to once master when times required it: assertive, confident, and unwilling to put up with any backtalk.

Keen Spark doesn’t care in the least, though, as he continues on uninterrupted.

“Yeah, you have no idea how to really be a hunter of beasts, you know only how to kill us, you fucking Imperial!”

At those last lines the bar goes quiet save for Spark’s heavy breathing and the sound of Berry making her way over.

Imperial: a derogatory term used to identify anyone loyal to the king of the Aragon Empire.

Imperial: often synonymous with one favoring genocide, scorched earth, or favoring fascism over all.

Imperial: used to denote an active enemy combatant to half of the civilized world during The War.

You slightly reel from the accusation, now more than half of the eyes in the pub being squared solely on you. You can only imagine if they heard it or not, or if they’re going to believe this insolent colt.

“I said enough!” says a voice that interrupts your hand beginning to raise itself in the beginning notions of vengeance, “Get your slimy ass outta’ my pub!”

Keen Spark tumbles downwards to the ground in a grand fashion, hitting the ground with a hard smack that echoes throughout the establishment.

You cannot help but muster the bravado but to give a low chuckle at this, half tempted to spit down at the young stallion who almost signed his own death warrant. Sure as hell, Berry Punch was one of the few ponies within Ponyville that could offer you a challenge in an arm wrestling match as well as a fight, and this just goes to show it.

Not that Keen Spark was ever a muscular one, though…

As he slowly picks himself up from the ground, groaning as he does so, you cannot help but shed a little light onto his situation after another drag of your cigarette.

“Believe you me, old friend,” you say aloud with a visible pause to flick the ash of your cigarette down upon his unsightly face, “I want to go burn their dens and crucify them more than nothing else for what they’ve done to me, but I can barely walk as is.” You turn fully in your stool as he finally stands on all fours, making a show of gently hovering your hand over your wound in your left side of your ribs, careful not to disturb it any, that suddenly becomes painful as you pay attention to it.

“It’s only been a couple of days, Sparky, just go home and take your dick-smelling breath with you.” With those words spoken, you turn fully back in your seat to the counter, intent on destroying your drink and what little remains of your third cigarette.

The sad little stallion tries to give his rebuttal, but Berry Punch makes her wishes known and ushers him out without any trouble whatsoever.

Smashing the butt of the cigarette down into your tray, you make eye contact with Berry as she returns behind the counter in her normal position. You put on a thankful little smile while sliding a handsome amount of bits into the tip jar, giving the old acquaintance a nod of amicability that she returns with a weary smile.

“I don’t know what happened before or between you two,” she says while leaning in on the counter after hopping onto her seat, “but… We really… Uh… Ah hell, nevermind.” With her attempts at being eloquent aside, the middle-aged mare merely switches her face from sincere and warm to neutral as she reaches below the countertop before audibly searching for something.

She returns a moment later with something blocky and easily identifiable that she shakes with a warm smile that makes you chuckle and shake your head in embarrassment.

“Really?” you say aloud with genuine joy in your voice as your face grows a bit hot, “We barely even talk, Berry…”

She configures the blocky camera within her hooves to try and get the thing working, though her voice is a mild one that you’d only expect out of a kind mother as she speaks, “Oh, we talk a lot, you just don’t remember much.”

Now that sends your blood cold for a moment.

Sensing your hesitation and pinprick eyes, Berry gives out a hearty, yet short, chuckle before turning her attention back to you with a calming look. “Kidding, kidding, sheesh…” she says comfortingly enough that you can feel your heart rate decrease, “though you have told a number of funny stories about you and Greymane, though, but nevermind that.”

She takes a moment to click something in the camera and looks up at you with a kindness that you haven’t seen since your last meeting with Derpy. “You’re a good guy, Anon, I’ve learned that through the years. You’ve been nothing but good, if not apprehensive about accidentally pissing me off, you’ve always tipped nicely, laughed at my jokes when nobody else did, listened to my tales when nobody else gave a damn, and, hell, you came back after all these years, out of all the pubs in Ponyville, to my little hole every Sunday? I may not show it, but I appreciate you.”

Awestruck by the words of kindness by a mare that you always thought hated your guts for your bad first encounter, you watch silently as she raises the camera for a shot to your mug.

Smiling bright, there is a powerful flash of white as the troubles of day’s past seem to melt away, giving forth to a new sense of euphoria and good feelings.

You can get used to this, that’s for damned sure.

You lazily wave and give out a drunken smile at the newfound friend, one Berry Punch, that eagerly sees you off.

She was pretty adamant that something bad might happen on the way home, what with Them yet to be caught along with the notion that she thought that Keen Spark will try something, so she did you a solid and walked your drunk ass home.

“I’ll see you next Sunday, or whenever. Have a good one, Anon!” she says with a tired wave of her hoof which you happily return while staggering for your keys. She gives off a bemused scoff at your attempts to pick out which key is right, but trots off into the night just as well as any other.

Her hoofsteps grow only fainter as time goes by, which eventually dissipates into nothing.

Struggling for the right key, you eventually find the right one after several minutes of work and find yourself lazily shutting the front door and stagger inside.

You can’t do much at all now except drunkenly tumble around your first few rooms in a desperate attempt to find your beloved bedding.

“We shall not stumble, no we shall not fall,” you sing a little song to yourself, emboldened by your relative isolation as you find your room’s entrance, “we shall not crumble, no, we shall stand tall!”

Belching, you swing open the door and slam it shut behind you, exclaiming the last bit of the vocals to yourself as you now make a crash course for your bathroom. You emerge minutes later, now fully ready for rest and prepared to be lulled away by the sound of whatever song is playing on the radio right about now.

With a smack down on into the sheets, and immediately curling into the sheets to gain a bit of protection from November’s nipping cold, you soon find the world dulling into nothingness as a drunken sleep overtakes your senses.

…

……

Your eyes shoot open, uncaring of how tired your body is and whatever else is hurting.

You can sleep through parties, storms of incredible magnitude and everything in-between, but not this.

There’s no way in hell that you’re going to sleep through the sound of a door opening in your house while you’re in bed.

Trying your best to ignore the premature hangover pounding in your skull as exhaustion also makes itself known, you clamber out of bed while trying desperately to strain your ears for any precious sounds that would feed you information on the situation.

As you reach under the bed and pull out an old friend that has helped you a great many times, each time you having to add a scratch along the barrel of the thing in remembrance of its utility. Switching off the safety, you’re not exactly pleased by the powerful silence that now resides over your dwelling.

Your mind races at the possibilities. Did you even close the front door? Hell, did you even close the door separating the front of your business that connects it to the rest of your goddamned house? Maybe its someone running from Th—

Your blood runs cold, if only for a moment, when the surefire sound of a singular, bold footstep echoes throughout your head and tugs at your heart.

The sound came from the pathway between your business and your living room, the ominous creaking of your wood flooring letting a familiar calm run through your body. Something in your mind clicks again that recognizes the familiar situation and puts you into full survival mode: it’s either you or them.

Creeping forward, thankful that you know the place to a fault and where to step to avoid noisy spots that would groan under your weight, you shoulder the smoothbore shotgun, one with a barrel that is seemingly covered in marks, with ease before arriving to the right side of your closed door. Glancing down, you notice that, unsurprisingly, you did none of the several locks adorning your door earlier this night.

It’s steps echo throughout your mind and beat against your eardrums like being slammed with a bat. Currently it’s walking about the kitchen, being deathly quiet besides its audible footsteps, as its feet smack quite distinctively against the tile for those who care to listen.

Just what in the hell are you going to do?

You hold the advantage here, that much is true. This is your home, you know it better than anyone else alive, and you’re sure that the thing probably doesn’t expect an ambush with fire and lead.

As much as you’re sure of your own capabilities, it’s a double-edged sword; you know your own capabilities.

You’re groggy, not nearly as reflexive and quick as you can be, you still have crust in the corners of your eyes, you can’t see all that well in the dead of night, and you know how quick these Things are. True, your pellets would outrun it in a heartbeat, but you can’t be sure that you won’t be dead if you miss the first shot and surrender all of your advantages if you twitch in just the wrong direction by a centimeter.

Before you can ponder any longer on the next course of action, there comes a noise that reminds you of just how out of it you are: the sound of raspy breathing.

Eyes snapping to attention, you take a single step backwards from the door while shouldering your weapon, not entirely sure of what the hell is going on, yet determined to make sure that you don’t end up like Caramel.

There is a jingling sound, however, that you’re not entirely expecting which makes your pupils dilate.

That jingling sound is the door knob being crudely, if not gently, handled by the thing on the other side of the door.

And, just like that, it happens.

Your hands move on their own as your eyes catch sight of the oversized and hideous hand that holds the door knob. There is a flash and a thunderous crack that sends a red mist into the air.

There is a cry of unmolested pain and terror from the thing as it audibly reels back into your living room before toppling over what sounds like your coffee table.

If you’re to trust your sight when the flash of the shot went off, then everything below the bastard’s right elbow should be a fine, indistinguishable clump of hanging meat, bone, and sinew.

Rushing through the door to follow the cries and mad panic of the thing as it tries desperately to gather its wits, you’re only able to see its vague outline through some early morning light that’s coming out of the few windows you have scattered about the place. You flick towards the body without truly aiming center mass, and are rewarded with the thing, in a surprising show of reflexes, rolling just out of the spread and scrambling for the front door.

Aiming hard this time, you take a moment to give a slight bit of lead, considering how fast the thing is going, before releasing a breath and pulling the trigger.

There is another loud crack of gunfire as the shot echoes throughout the countryside for the third time tonight, though there is something amiss as the sizable pellets zoom towards their target.

Namely the blinding gold shield that appears before your eyes and sends the pellets back in all directions.

Your brain doesn’t care to process the information and instead tells you to aim again after cocking your weapon again. You snap onto the target, rapid as it reaches the door, and let loose another salvo of pellets that scream towards the target at a blinding speed.

The same result occurs, unsurprisingly. You’re familiar enough with this sort of technology, but you don’t dare give up the initiative and give chase.

Following in suit, you enter through the door to the front part of the business to see the thing scramble out of the front door to the vast thing that is the Whitetail Woods, given some smidget of light by light blue rays of morning sun. You trace the figure roughly, even as he passes through the doors and takes a hard right towards the forest proper, and fire at the next chance as he passes through your vision by the window.

There is another echoing gunshot that rings out to Ponyville proper and the countryside abroad, though you’re sure that there was no distinct flash of gold to come and save your game from the fate it deserved.

The gunshot resonates aloud in your ears and through the early morning sky, unable to let you rest for a moment as you stand there, just behind your counter with weapon still aimed and another one loaded into the chamber, unsure of what the hell just happened.

Your breath is heavy, yet not labored, as vivid memories of past experiences with the most mass produced goods during the time of The War come back to you all at once. Shields, as they were often called for simplicity’s sake, are personal protection wards—often powered by the initial magic that was made to create it, though are considered useless and potentially dangerous when drained fully—that are used exclusively to block traditional ammunition by reflecting it back in all directions. Potent shields can withstand seven direct shots from larger caliber rifles, while weaker, less efficiently made ones, can only take a hit or two from smaller rounds before shattering.

But as you can hear the distant sound of Ponyville’s belltower urging all to find safety within their homes and shops, there comes a strange moment of tranquility as you look down and realize that you’ve nearly killed an intruder, shot up your house in an attempt to snuff out its life, set the whole town of Ponyville on high alert, all while butt ass naked with a nasty hangover.

“And somehow I feel like I’m going to be blamed for all of this,” you spit at nobody in particular before skulking off to your room to get prepared for the group of Royal Guard that’s bound to come and investigate.

Author's Note

Hey all!

Sorry, I'm in a rush at the moment, I need to shower and pack before going off to do some Navy stuff, so I'd hope that you'd wish me luck if you like the story.

Don't forget that comments go a long way, and thank you for your ongoing support, friends!