I was jerked out of my thoughts as a high-pitched whistle and a slight jerk signaled that the train was finally pulling into Ponyville station. I remember the sight that met me out of the window as we decelerated: a flat, dark calm laid over the snow, with only a few flurries being blown every which way by the strong winds.
I was one of only a few ponies on the train car. It was to be expected, since so few ponies decided to travel this close to the holiday in the first place. It was practically a red-eye train, as if that wasn’t enough reason for ponies to skip buying a ticket. What was surprising, however, was that I was the only one who stepped out of the train and onto the platform. The rest were headed to Canterlot, I suppose.
As the train doors closed I felt the sudden compulsion to turn and watch the train leave. The trademark symbols of the Friendship Express- its pink coloration, gingerbread-styled siding and confectionary-topped roof- were completely invisible, covered in a blanket of white. Eventually, the train hissed and began to slowly accelerate into the distance.
I watched the train pull away, a solid part of me wanting to sprint after it and leap back onboard with my saddlebags. Canterlot was preferable to Ponyville, after all. I could have found someplace passable to stay.
I remember slowly trotting after the train to the far edge of the platform as it left and began its slow ascent toward the capital; there was no chance I could ever catch up to it, of course, but there was a compulsion to keep it from getting further away. It was painful to stop at the edge of the platform and watch the clouds of steam from the trains engine, nigh indistinguishable from the slow, thick assault of snow from the sky and ground blown by the wind, slowly fade away.
I spent a number of minutes looking at the space where the train had once been, wondering if I had made the right choice in getting off of it. Eventually, however, the regret and the biting wind were enough to make me turn around and head to the other side of the platform, following the steps down carefully so as not to slip.
The roads were of course recognizable, even in the white shroud which covered both their path and the landmarks surrounding them. Years of experience had made certain I would never forget them, no matter the season.
Despite the often fond memories from my foalhood, I found the scene rather bleak. Ponyville, despite being at an hour which during the summer would have seen the square crowded with ponies, was completely desolate, almost as if it had froze entirely beneath the chilling layer of snow which laid everywhere. The desolate blackness of the sky wasn’t helping matters, I’m sure.
A frosty, biting wind cut across my body and moaned through the empty boughs of the trees between my path and the river. I shivered and bucked slightly to adjust my saddlebags; half out of a desire to find a more comfortable load distribution, and half in a futile hope that somehow the action would grant me some extra warmth.
It wasn’t a comfortable walk home, mind you. I was without a scarf or hat and wearing only the thinnest boots, which didn’t even keep my coat from freezing against my hooves. In fact, each step felt like I was hiking on solid iron- something I had only read about in tomes recounting the tales of the famous ponies who had charted the dragon lands.
Rounding a soft bend in the path, the soft scattering of trees faded away to reveal the creek which runs through the center of Ponyville, branching every which way. I kicked a rock over onto it, and despite the thick covering of snow I could still hear a resonant crack. It was almost as if the cool, soft waters of that ravine were a blanket of stone to complement the iron path I followed.
Another short turn soon followed, and an almost endless white sheet shifted into view. During the summer the field would have been filled with all manner of crops; carrots and strawberries being most common. Now, there was nothing but snow upon snow. I couldn’t help but smile softly as I remembered building having built a snowpony there as a foal long ago- albeit with a little help.
I rounded the final bend in my journey and stopped, sitting in the snow to catch my breath. I had been moving quickly, it seemed; no doubt a side effect of my nerves. I lifted up a freezing hoof and caught a snowflake. For a moment, I watched as the intricate, complex patterns of the crystal slowly degraded, placing the hoof back into the snow as the once ornate flake became a small, round dot of water.
It was then I remarked that the glory of the creator was not content to remain unseen. Equestria, and even the earth itself, were temporary, I knew; but in that moment, I knew that in no way could the beauty and order of nature ever meet a similar fate; they serve a higher purpose.
Not that such a revelation made me feel much better. Standing up, I began to ascend the small incline that I had traversed so many times before, dreading what was coming.
What could I possibly give to make up for what I had done? No amount of bits would make up for the words I had said. Even if I were a wizened philosopher, which I was not, mind you, no wisdom would be able to erase the fight I had caused. Truly, I had wished they were all dead, and said so to their faces. Nothing could make up for that…but, if I was lucky enough, maybe a heartfelt apology would keep them from leaving me for dead in the snow.
In what felt like no time at all, I crested the top of the hill. In the distance, I was able to make out the quaint little home that I had ran to so many times before; the lights were on and I could see the silhouettes of ponies dancing across the walls inside, framed by twinkling lights of red and green. The annual party for Hearth’s Warming…of course. I slowed my approach and began to chew over my words.
When I was still far off, I was able to make out the opening of the front door through the tangle of snowflakes that were being constantly kicked up by the wind. A dark form stepped onto the icy little square of concrete that served as the front porch, lifting a hoof to its brow and peering toward me. After a moment, the pony’s head jerked upwards. They had been looking out for somepony, it seemed. There was no other way that somepony would have been able to spot me from such a distance, especially not during such a raucous celebration.
I tilted my head in curiosity as I continued to approach the house, the faint sounds of merrymaking slowly becoming audible. The pony on the front approach began walking towards me, the snowing coming up to the middle of its legs. Then, it began to trot briskly. Then, it ran.
As the pony approached I made out the form of a stallion. Crashing through the snow and sending waves of white every which way, I made note of a severe limp critically impacting his gate; the stallion favored his back-right leg.
As he drew closer and closer, I could make out more detail: the short, sea-foam green mane, the piercing indigo eyes, the wrinkled visage, and the sharp point of his muzzle. All of them familiar.
However, the last detail I noticed was something completely foreign to my experience: the stallion had tears running down his face and staining the entirety of his cheeks.
Then my Dad reached me, throwing his front hooves around me in an embrace, and kissed my cheek.
