The Gift, Part 1
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The Hearth's Warming Gift

The Gift, Part 1

He was never going to see her again.

The sheets in the bed were warm and soft and far, far too clean and white; they smelled of lavender soap, the sharp aroma stinging his nostrils. The air inside the small room circulated through the ventilators which provided a constant hum in the background, that mixed with the rhythmic beeping of the machinery that surrounded him, and the steady hissing and huffing of the metal behemoth that breathed for him. The radio on the table next to him was crooning out a scratchy rendition of Faust Rest Ye Merry Gentleponies, every line punctuated by static.

He turned to the window. Snow flurries danced against the glass, like white ghosts passing by his room, their ethereal bodies reflecting the lights of the lamps far below. He could just barely see the streetlights beneath, standing sentinel even as the snow gathered at their bases. The electric light bulbs did not waver in the face of the wind, piercing the darkness of the night. Bright green wreaths hung from each of the poles, pinecones, holly berries and bows clinging to the leaves that danced in the wind.

It was Hearth’s Warming Eve, just like all the ones that had passed in thirty two years since he had seen her. On this night every year, he had felt some faint hope that he would meet her again, that she would appear in some store window or around the corner with the scent of cotton candy in her mane. But that hope had faded away over time. And now it was just him in the too-clean room, listening to the radio on what he knew would be his last Hearth’s Warming.

He closed his eyes and settled down into the pillows. Perhaps his last dreams would be of her; if he listened closely, he could almost hear her melodic voice…

“Mason? Mason?”

His eyes opened and he raised himself from the bed, his heart leaping in his chest. He was not imagining it! That voice was real, as were the hoofsteps echoing off the hallway walls.

“Pinkie?” he called out through the open door, his voice a rasp.

A silhouette appeared at the hallway, and then the figure herself rounded the corner. Thirty-two years had taken a toll on her: the bright pink of her coat had faded somewhat, and white streaks like snow were running through her mane and tail. But her smile shone brightly through the wrinkles that were slowly running up her face, and the baby blue eyes still held that same shining spark; he felt the warm glow from her gaze as soon as she set her eyes upon him.

“Mason!” she cried, galloping across the room and flinging her forelegs around him. He grunted in pain as she impacted against him, but raised his hooves and hugged her in reply as he buried his muzzle in her poofy mane. Her hair smelled of peppermint and gingerbread.

“Happy Hearth’s Warming, Pinkie,” he whispered.

“Happy Hearth’s Warming, Mason!” Pinkie cried, pulling back slightly to examine him.

His body was thin and frail as a dry stick; his slate black coat clung to his long bones, and all that remained of his hair was a silver band around the back of his skull.

“You look great!” Pinkie smiled.

A genuine smile stretched across the Mason’s face. “It is good to see you again, Pinkie Pie.”

Pinkie Pie pulled up a chair seemingly from out of nowhere and sat down next to his bed. “I’ve been looking for you for thirty-two years,” she said softly. “I knew I had to see you one last time, and now I’ve found you.”

Mason’s grin widened to reveal his teeth. “I always hoped that you’d come,” he wheezed, punctuating his sentence with a series of hacking coughs. Pinkie gripped his hoof gently until the coughing fit passed and he dissolved into slow, heavy breaths.

“Here, I brought you this,” Pinkie said, reaching behind her. Out of nowhere, she conjured up a plate with a small plate with a mince pie sitting atop it, steam rising from the sugary surface. The top of the crust was carefully carved into the shape of a five-pointed star with a swirl design in the center. The warm scent of plums filled Mason’s nose.

“You remembered,” he whispered, taking the plate. The warmth seeped into his hooves and all the way down into his heart.

“Of course I did!” Pinkie chirped. “Thirty-two years isn’t that long a time!”

“No,” Mason said. “No, it isn’t.”

The snow and wind whipped at his face, as if just to spite him more. He wandered down the main street, ignorant of the symbols of joy and merriment that surrounded him, deaf to the caroling and laughter from the other ponies in the town.

She had rejected him, after he’d come all the way to this backwater town in his quest to make things right for once, to restore what had been lost between them. Just slammed the holly-decorated door in his face as soon as she had seen him, throwing all his efforts aside at once. And now he was lost, wandering down the street, still carrying the gift that had been intended for her upon his back.

He paused outside a building that had been decorated to look like a gingerbread house, and looked at his reflection in the window that was displaying a collection of baked pies and cakes. Slate black coat over a full, plump body, contrasting with the white snow that clung to his back. His pale blonde mane danced in the wind, framing his drooping face. He could see the reflections of other ponies behind him, all of them walking past, caught up in their own joy to notice him. The tears that run from his dark purple eyes were already freezing in the bitter cold.

Then, another pair of eyes met his. Sparkling baby blue, full of joy and warmth, accompanied by the widest smile he had ever seen in his life. The pink pony with the fluffy, cotton candy-like mane on the other side of the window waved enthusiastically at him.

The cold of the winter was banished instantly as his breath seemed to solidify in his chest. His heart leapt up within his chest, as if it had been sleeping before and was awoken by this mare’s smile.

She beckoned him to come inside, and he obeyed, pushing through the door and jingling the bell over his head. He found himself inside a bakery, with boxes and shelves of baked goods everywhere. Tantalizing scents of sugar, peppermint, and chocolate filled his nostrils, and the warmth from the furnace penetrated the icy layer that covered his body.

“Hi!” the pink pony chirped, bouncing up to him and offering him a mince pie, the crust designed with a five-pointed star with a swirl design in the center. Steam rose from the treat, indicating that it was fresh from the oven.

“I’m Pinkie Pie!” she continued, guiding him over to a table. “What’s your name?”

It took him a few seconds to remember that he had to reply; his lungs were still having some trouble functioning, as though the young baker was stealing his air. “S-Stone Mason,” he stammered out.

“Well, welcome to Sugarcube Corner, Mason!” Pinkie said. “Mason, like Mason jars! Do you have any jars? What do you put in those jars? Would you like some hot chocolate?”

“Er...yeah,” Mason stammered. “The hot chocolate, I mean, please.”

“One hot chocolate, coming up!” Pinkie said, bouncing off and returning a moment later with a mug of steaming hot chocolate, which she set down on the table next to the meat pie. “Well, c’mon, eat up! You’re all wet and cold!”

Stone Mason reluctantly pulled himself away from the sparks in her baby blue eyes to his food, taking up a fork and sampling the mince pie. The taste of warm plums, accented by sugar, filled his mouth with pleasure. He closed his eyes and moaned softly with delight. “This is great!”

“Glad that you think so!” Pinkie said, propping her elbows on the table and resting her chin on her hooves. “So, who’s that gift for? Who are you spending Hearth’s Warming Eve with?”

The elation that had been carrying Mason suddenly crashed around him as he was reminded of the weight he was carrying on his back, of his failure. He took the present in his hooves, examining the careful green and golden paper wrapped around the small rectangular box, accentuated with a pink bow.

“She didn’t want it,” he muttered, tossing the present down onto the table. “I’m...I’m not spending Hearth’s Warming with anypony.”

The smile vanished from Pinkie’s face. She slowly reached forward and took Mason’s hoof in both of her own. “Nopony should be alone on Hearth’s Warming Eve,” she whispered, carefully rubbing his cold hoof.

Mason forgot how to breathe again. Her hooves were so warm, and she smelled of cotton candy and peppermint.

“Oh, I know!” Pinkie cried, her eyes brightening as another smile crossed her face. “I can spend Hearth’s Warming with you!”

Mason blinked. “I…”

“It’ll be fun!” Pinkie continued, still holding his hoof. “We can go make snow angels and have a snow fort, and go sledding and make a gingerbread house together...what do you say?”

Mason felt a smile, a genuine smile crossing his face as he was infected by the same joy that Pinkie carried with her. “Okay.”