Did you know that being a pony comes with certain natural advantages when it comes to soldiering? I’m not talking about pegasi flight or unicorn magic or earth pony strength and connection to the earth; I’m talking about how our brains develop.

You see, ponies are, by our nature, herd animals.

Now, this admittedly does come with certain challenges which must be overcome in order to develop a pony into a good soldier. The chiefest among these is the fact that our fight or flight response tends to default to the latter and prefers to shift to the former only when there are no other options.

Ponies can be ferocious when backed into a corner, and training – or an inborn talent – can control the flight impulse, making it a decision rather than a default action. This allows a pony to go into a combat mindset as easily as one might flip a switch. Still, it is generally a learned behavior. I am told that pony soldiers tend to take longer to train than certain other races – like griffons – but that we become quite the force to be reckoned with when we are trained.

And this is where being a herd animal has its advantages. You see, when ‘the herd’ unites behind a motivated leader, the herd will simply go. Oftentimes there is little verbal explanation needed, as ponies have a variety of nonverbal cues natural to our communication, as well as a certain single-mindedness when we are caught up in a grand action by ‘the herd.’ While this can certainly be abused, a good leader can inspire followers to accomplish things they’d never thought possible.

I remember Twilight telling me one story from the early days of Equestria. A warband of griffon raiders had swept down on a rural settlement. All that stood in their way was a hastily organized band of townsfolk. They weren’t professional soldiers, and were more or less expected to run or die.

What they did have though were two critical assets: their personal armaments, such as are sensible to keep for self-defense, and a leader. One, single, solitary pony with the grit to stand firm. While most of the ponies were in full panic mode, the town blacksmith – just a common earth pony with a little experience in weapon-handling – bellowed at the hasty militia until he got their attention. Then he told the militia that the griffon raiders would kill their families if they didn’t kill the raiders first. He said he was going to ram his spear down the throat of the first raider he saw, and said anypony among them with a shred of love for kith and kin would do the same.

At his words, the townsfolk shifted from fear to ferocity. Historical accounts differ somewhat on the details, but most agree that the militia waited near the edge of town until the griffons got close, then sprang an ambush, fired such arrows as they had, and charged. Apparently, they killed the raiders almost to the last griffon, leaving a few survivors to limp home and tell their chieftains that Equestria would not be easy prey.

Note how history turned solely on the courage of one pony and the herd mentality of the rest – he asserted his case, gave an order, and it was followed without question.

Having been swept up in more than one herd movement – for better or worse – I can confirm that it is difficult for a pony not to get swept up in the heat of things.

Thankfully, ponies are not typically the violent sort – and that we have a tradition of hooves off government – or else this sort of collective action would likely be abused far more often than it is. As a people, we are quick to ‘follow the leader,’ and that leader can be just about anypony with the presence to command respect.

Thus, if a pony were, hypothetically, to ask a retired Marine to undertake – just as an example, you understand – the task of helping her get back in shape as a sort of experiment in alternative career paths, and then that Marine were to, say, wake said pony up at the crack of doom with a veritable cavalcade of bellowed orders, it is very likely – again, hypothetically – that those orders would be followed.

All of which is a very long way of saying that I spend a good half hour – give or take a year – being put through my paces by Fitness-Sergeant First Class Iron Shod before I even think to question what’s going on.

Of course, by that time at least a decade seems to have passed, and I’m much too out of breath to say anything anyway.

“GET THE LEAD OUT, RECRUIT BELLE!” roars Iron Shod, his words driving me down the track with all the force of a hurricane at my back.

Did I mention we’re on a ten-mile run? We’re on a ten-mile run.

“YOU CALL THAT A RUN?! MY GRANDMOTHER – CREATOR REST HER SOUL – CAN RUN FASTER THAN THAT AND SHE’S BEEN DEAD SIXTEEN YEARS!”

I say ‘we’re’ on a run, but Shoddy appears to be strolling.

“I DID NOT GIVE YOU PERMISSION TO STOP, RECRUIT! WE’VE STILL GOT THREE MORE MILES TO GO!”

Backwards. Strolling backwards and still ahead of me at a run.

“PICK UP THEM HOOVES, FILLY! THIS AIN’T NO SUNDAY CANTER!”

I have not been able to feel my hooves for the last fifteen eternities.

“I CAN STILL SEE YOUR WHITE COAT UNDER THE DUST! THAT MEANS YOU AIN’T MOVIN’ FAST ENOUGH!”

Time loses all semblance of meaning as a morning jog quickly turns into a death march.

“KEEP YOUR PACE STEADY! FIND YOUR RHYTHM!” He breaks into a marching cadence at the top of his lungs – still running backwards mind you – and bellows:

“I DON’T KNOW BUT I BEEN TOLD!”

To my immeasurable horror, my vocal chords go AWOL from my mental faculties and gasp out:

“I dOn’t KnoW bUt Ai bEen tOlD!”

Did I forget to mention the herd mentality applies to singing?

“THEM ROY’L MARINES IS MIGHTY BOLD!”

The herd mentality applies to singing.

“th~EM ROyal marINES iS mI~ghTy BOld!”

It’s something ponies take for granted…

“AN’ UP UPON THEM BOLDEN SCENE!”

But I’m told it’s shocking or even horrifying to outsiders.

“An’ uP upON t~Ehm bWOld~en SEe~En!”

A single voice is raised in song…

“STANDS THA ’QUESTRIAN ROY’L MARINES!”

… and hundreds may join the refrain…

“sTan’s thUh KehstryAhn rhOil Mu’rEens!”

… whether they know the song, as in Shoddy’s case …

“SOUND OFF!”

… or don’t know the song, as in my case.

“ONe tWo!”

And, like any other herd mentality moment…

“SOUND OFF!”

… it is nearly impossible to resist…

“thREE FwWOR!”

… even if one really, really wants to.

“ONE TWO THREE FOUR!”

“ROY’l KEhstpREEAn Mu’RIne KWor!”

Just so we are absolutely clear, I have never once, in my life, heard an Equestrian Royal Marine Corps cadence, still less the specific one Shoddy chose for today. That said, I am fairly certain we made it through the entire thing.

“ONE TWO THREE FOUR!”

“ROYL KEQUESTPRIAN MUREEN KWPWOR!”

More or less.

“KEEP GOING, BOOT! YOU’VE ONLY GOT A MILE TO GO!”

My life flashes before my eyes in a blur of color and sound that makes me keenly aware that I’ve spent an inordinate amount of time dealing with monsters of supervillains, all of whom I would rather be fighting blindfolded than run the next mile.

“SWEET BEER-BATTERED CELESTIA, HAVE I BEEN STRUCK BLIND FOR MY SINS, OR AM I NOT SEEING ANY MOVEMENT?! PICK UP THE PACE, RECRUIT! GO! GO! GO!”

As I finally collapse in the muck after pushing my body beyond all previously held physical limitations and discovering that I appear to be capable of violating the laws of physics to please the drill sergeant, I come to an important, introspective realization:

Ow.

I blink my eyes for a thousandth of a second, and Iron Shod is on the ground in front of me, eye to eye with me, the smell of his breath seeming to bespeak ‘IMPROVISE, ADAPT, OVERCOME,’ which I did not realize was a particular scent up until that moment, but now seems so obvious that I wonder how I could have missed it all these years.

“Recruit Belle, why are you on the ground?” he demands. Strangely, he is not shouting, and yet his question feels more pointed than a fresh sewing needle being jabbed into the frog of my hoof.

Deciding that such a question merits a direct answer, I eloquently respond, “Legs *gasp* naw *wheeze* move.”

“You can’t move?”

“*gawheeze* no *hackspittle* I *wheezespittlegasp* can’t.”

“Could you move to save a brother Marine?” Iron Shod asks, his voice sober, intense. He’s not shouting like he was, he’s not even raising his voice, yet he conveys the gravitas of family, love, and loss. “Your brother needs you to move,” he informs me. He points over the low hill up which the path runs a few meters ahead of us. “Your brother is bleedin’ out over that hill. He needs you. You gonna leave him bleedin’, or you gonna get ’im?”

Warm bile rises in my throat as energy flows back into my limbs. Pain which debilitated me a moment ago now galvanizes me. The agony in my legs and gasping in my lungs cries out not for relief, but for movement. My suffering becomes my friend.

Needs me. Brother needs me.

I am back on my hooves before I realize what I’m doing, scrambling up the slope. My legs threaten to give out, and I nearly plunge back into the dirt, but I wrench myself onwards through sheer will.

I will not leave him.

My hooves eat up the ground before me, clawing me up the hill, moving me with a sort of shambling locomotion I never knew I possessed. I don’t think; I just do.

I manage to crest the hill and start down the slope before my limbs fully give out.

Shoddy is next to me in a heartbeat. The dread anticipation of his next words – no doubt words saying that I failed to get to my brother – does not allow me to rest. I scramble forward, intending to use my forward momentum and the downward slope to come out of my fallen posture and into a run—

Oof!

Legs aren’t working. Have to try agai—

Ow!

Still not working.

Improvise, adapt, overcome.

If I can’t run to him, I’ll crawl. Dirt and grit scrapes my underbelly, but I won’t stop, I won’t give in, I won’t— be able to move, apparently, because I can’t even crawl. Maybe if I shift my weight around I—

“Okay, Miss Rarity, I think that’s enough for today,” says Shoddy gently. He stoops over me and reaches for something in his satchel.

“It’S rEkROot BELle, FITnESs-S’rgeant Shawd, an’ Ah’m nAwt dUn Yett,” I say, which is rather remarkable when my verbal capabilities are essentially parked at the corner of Wheezing and Gasping right now.

My further attempts to crawl further meet with an insurmountable obstacle: the gentle push of Iron Shod utterly negating all forward momentum on my part. “Miss Rarity—”

“R’breeCRoot BwElle,” I insist.

There’s a pause before he says, “Recruit Belle, you have completed training for the day.” He pulls from his satchel a flask marked with a red cross and a little tin of what looks like mints, though are probably medicine given that they bear the same red cross. “Natural Zebrican anti-inflammatory and energy restorer,” he says, shaking the tin, “and a few gentle sips o’ this tonic – mostly water, but some other stuff that’ll help rehydrate ya without shockin’ yer system.”

I’m proud to say that Fitness-Sergeant First Class Iron Shod barely needs to assist me in opening my mouth to administer the medical supplies (or, as I like to think of them as I feel their pain-relieving effects, as he administers the ‘Sweet Nectar of the Heavens’).

Standing still proves a challenge though. Not that it matters because standing is apparently not a part of the Fitness-Sergeant First Class Iron Shod’s battleplan. Instead, he gently manages to drape me over his back so that he may carry me to town. Feeling rather like a little filly who’s been out playing all day and needs her big brother to carry her home, I start feeling drowsy. Not so drowsy, however, that I can’t ask an important question about our mission.

“Did Ah get ta him?” I ask, coming closer to Applejack’s drawl than I ever manage when I’m actually trying.

“Get ta who?” asks Shoddy.

“Mah brother Marine,” I clarify. “Did Ah get ta him in time?”

Shoddy is silent for so long that I actually start to nod off. The last thing that I hear before dozing off is his answer. “’Course ya did,” Shoddy assures me, his voice hoarse. “We… real Marines always get to their brothers in time.”

“He did WHAT?!” roars Applejack.

I wince as I adjust the ice packs lying on my legs. “He acquiesced to my request for a fitness trainer."

It’s been several hours since Shoddy’s and my excursion into the remarkable world of the Marine Fitness Regiment. I have regained feeling in my extremities, which is good. That feeling is mostly pain, however, which is less than ideal, but also leaves me with an odd feeling of triumph.

Or maybe I have some endorphins in my system who were too tired to show up earlier and are making their presence felt now.

Applejack is not feeling the endorphins. Applejack is feeling the rage.

“If ya asked fer that, he shoulda taken you on a jog, not a ten-mile forced march at bayonet point!”

I scoff, wincing again as the light scoff puts enough pressure on my extremities to hurt. “Oh please, Applejack. Don’t be so dramatic. There were no bayonet points.” His voice sufficed.

“True enough,” says Trixie. Applejack glares at her. “What?” the showmare protests defensively. “Rarity has a point. And that point is there were no points.” Applejack’s glare intensifies. “Bayonet points, that is. You see, it’s a play on words that— oh, Trixie is sorry, is she spelling this out too much? She’s spelling it out too much.”

I lie in my bedroom on the second floor of the boutique. It is that room wherein Applejack is glaring at both Trixie and myself – and presumably, at Shoddy downstairs through two floors and various support struts.

Applejack and Trixie had come by to see if I wanted to join them for lunch. Shoddy let them in and then – thankfully – disappeared downstairs before Applejack could see me and decide to rearrange his face, his limbs, and possibly some of his internal organs.

Our dear Applejack has always had a rather powerful Mom Look – likely from raising Applebloom and generally being the ‘big sister’ to our group (and others) – but it has only grown in power since serving in the Marines and – most recently and obviously – getting pregnant.

She now has a fully operational Mom Look.

I have no doubt that – without even needing to look down – her Mom Look is penetrating all the way to the basement, and Shoddy is probably down there cleaning his room, remaking his already made bed, and putting the toilet seat down without knowing why.

“Ah am gonna wring his skinny little neck!” snarls Applejack, pacing in fury.

“Oh, come now Applejack. You shouldn’t be so hard on Shoddy, especially not when it’s my fault.”

“Your fault?!” she shouts. “How in the Sam Hill do ya figure that?!”

I manage to restrain myself from a painful shrug. “I heard enough of your boot camp stories and have learned enough of Shoddy to have predicted something like this. I should have seen this coming.”

“She makes another good point,” agrees Trixie. “Not a bayonet point, you understand, because, as we’ve established, there were not bayonet points, but…” Applejack’s Mom Look lands on her, and Trixie takes a step back. “Trixie will be quiet now.”

“Shoddy should have known better,” snarls Applejack.

I roll my eyes. “No, Applejack, I should have known better. Especially since…” I bite my lip in hesitation, not wanting to admit what I’m about to admit. But I have to, or else Applejack might go cut a switch and tan Shoddy’s hide or some such thing. “Especially since Pinkie Pie was waving red flags and playing ominous music and making ‘Doom’ sounds when I asked Shoddy to help me get in shape.”

Applejack pulls up short, blinks rapidly, and says, “Oh.” She pauses. “Well then it’s your own dumb fault.”

“Idiot,” says Trixie, looking at me.

“Yeah, idiot,” agrees Applejack.

I sigh and accept the punishment, knowing I’ve spared Shoddy the wrath of Mama Applejack.

At least now perhaps we can have a civilized discussion and—

“Have ya pooped?” Applejack demands.

The question raises concerns in the higher levels of my mental faculties. Specifically, concerns that my ears are malfunctioning. My higher mental faculties send a runner down to my ear canals to get a confirmation. A few moments later, the runner reports back to said faculties that, yes, I did in fact hear her right. My vocal chords open a dialogue to resolve the many concerns such a question raises. “I beg your pardon?!”

“Pooped. Have ya pooped since runnin’?” Applejack clarifies, somehow managing to clear up exactly nothing.

Seeing that a standard form of questioning failed to work, my brain defaults to the more primal response of simply sputtering in confusion in the hopes that this will cause Applejack to explain herself.

“It’s a serious question, Rares,” Applejack assures me in an un-reassuring manner. “Boot camp does crazy things to tha body. Sometimes, yer doin’ so much that it don’t work right. If ya don’t poop in the next couple-three days, check in with Redheart or her husband. They’re both nurses, and they both went through boot camp, so they’ll know what to look for. If it’s longer, just go ta the hospital.”

“I… bu… you… you’re serious?”

“Ah am indeed,” nods Applejack. “They’ll check ya out an’ make sure yer plumbing’s workin’ agin.”

Trixie nods sagely. “They’ll make you poop before you fly the coop.”

Applejack shoots her an astonished look. “What is with you an’ these dumb jokes today?”

The stage mare shrugs. “Trixie got a book of Dad Jokes for Arinze this morning. But he was out, and Trixie got bored waiting for you when you had your morning sickness, so she decided to read them all.”

Applejack snorts. “Glad ya weren’t too inconvenienced by my pukin’,” comes her acerbic reply. “Why would ya give him a fool thing like that anyway? You know Ah hate them kind o’ jokes.”

Trixie puts a comforting hoof on Applejack’s shoulder and says, “Trixie understands this is a very confusing time for you, Princess Applejack, so Trixie will clarify.” Despite Applejack’s low growl, the showmare does indeed clarify. “You see, Trixie has long been distraught over her inability to torment you with daily pranks and jokes as she once did.” She leans against Applejack as though fainting against one of my couches. “All those long nights of agony asking, ‘Why? Why can Trixie not be there to torment Applejack with silly jokes and childish amusements, to unleash the full power of the little sister archetype and bring it to hideous bearing against the common-born Princess Applejack?’” She throws a dramatic hoof to her brow demanding, “‘Why? Why? Wh—?’”

She has to catch herself as Applejack steps back and allows Trixie to fall with a surprised ‘yipe’. After recovering, Trixie reasserts her overblown tone. “All those nights of agony… wondering… wishing… tormented by my inability to annoy you…” she drops the overblown tone and states blandly, “So Trixie bought the book for your husband so she could take comfort in knowing he’d do the work for her.”

Applejack gives Trixie a long, hard, calculating look. Her jaw moves as though chewing on her thoughts. Her squinty-eyed Mom Look bores into Trixie like a woodworker’s drill, and it does Trixie tremendous credit that she does not wilt under the assault.

Abruptly, Applejack turns to me and asks in a casual tone, “Random hypothetical for ya, Rarity. If’n Ah killed Trixie here,” she points to the mare in question, “would ya report me er not?”

What I have here is a golden opportunity to bring a peaceful end to the friendly threats and playful tormenting passing between them, to lower the level of playful aggression with a sort of ‘Oh come now, Applejack’ sort of statement.

That’s not what I do, of course, but it’s a golden opportunity for it.

Throwing caution (and any regard for my sore limbs) to the wind, I adopt my fainting couch pose and cry, “Oh Applejack, why? Why do you so vociferously fight the fond torments of Trixie and her dedication to annoying you? Why, oh Applejack, why, why?”

Soon Trixie adds her own cries of “Why, why?” to my own, and my room sounds like it’s the recording studio of a cheesy radio drama, interspersed with Trixie and I giggling uncontrollably.

Applejack stares us down with the flat look of one enduring an unnecessary and underserved lecture. Then she turns and makes fer the door. “Welp. Tha’ssit. Ah’m headin’ home. Ya’ll can go play hopscotch in a minefield fer all Ah care.”

“Oh, Applejack, come now. Let’s do lunch!”

“Nope!”

“Trixie will even annoy you by paying for it!”

“Nope! Ah’m out! Go hug a cactus, the pair o’ ye!”

We do eventually manage to entice Applejack to join us for lunch, though it takes me dragging my screaming limbs up and out the door to go after her so that I may suggest Sweet Ole Batter’s Pancake Emporium.

Sweet Ole Batter’s is a new addition to Ponyville that came while Applejack was away at war. It has such a strong, well-developed, staple-of-the-community-small-town-eatery feeling to it that Ponyville residents sometimes forget that it’s only been here about four years. Applejack was so pleased with the quality of the fare that she declared the proprietor, Ole Batter, to be a ‘Genuine Ole Staple of Ponyville,’ whom she insists has been here for decades.

To be clear, she knows this is incorrect, but whenever called to task on this she always says something to the effect of, “Don’t gimme none o’ that linear timeline crap. He’s been here all my life. Ain’t that right, Batter?” To which the elderly proprietor always replies with a twinkle in his eye and a “Yes ma’am.”

I’ve long passed the point of questioning it, so when Applejack introduces the place to Trixie as a Genuine Ole Staple of Ponyville – a ‘fact’ Trixie has no cause to question – I don’t even bother to comment. It’s a harmless joke.

Besides, they managed to neglect telling me – and, of infinitely greater importance, Twilight – that Trixie had emerged from her Cocoon of Selfishness and undergone the transformation to Close Friend and War Hero, so I think it’s fair that I don’t correct this blatant falsehood.

Yes, that logic is as flawed as a dime-store romance novel. No, I don’t care.

We secure a table in the back corner of the diner, one that’s near an exit, has clear sight lines, and is relatively secluded from the diner as a whole. In other words, it’s the table that Batter basically holds in reserve for any of the steadily increasing number of Royals who eat at his diner.

Kafil – who, due to his easy-going nature, has quickly become Applejack’s go-to bodyguard whenever she wants to be out on the town – posts himself up in a spot that lets him keep an eye on things and be close enough to intervene without being so close as to be distracting. Maybe it’s simply that I became accustomed to the presence of guards around Twilight, but it is remarkable the degree to which a tall, muscular zebra in a red uniform with colorful piping can become unobtrusive.

Conversation is fairly light, mostly touching on little everyday occurrences.

We talk of Trixie’s train ride down to Ponyville and the various shenanigans which occurred along the way.

We speculate on the disheveled history professor we see around Twilight’s castle now and then, a friend of hers who seems rather like the stereotypical cantankerous old uncle and to whom she periodically ‘grants sanctuary’ to so he can ‘hide from the Angry Mob’… whatever that means. An odd fellow, to be sure.

We recall how sweet it was to see Nurse Redheart and her beau (a fellow veteran) getting matching prosthetics.

Those sorts of things take up much of the conversation.

Toward the latter half of the meal, the Redheart story prompts a surprisingly humorous little wartime anecdote from Trixie involving a griffon who captured a medic friend of Trixie’s for the sole purpose of surrendering to him so that he wouldn’t have to fight anymore, though retelling it here would take too long and require too much context.

Applejack does not appear too engrossed in the story, possibly because she’s heard it before, or possibly because she has something else on her mind. What she says next suggests the latter.

“Rarity, last night, did we…” she rolls her jaw, choosing her words carefully as she idly taps on her mug with the edge of her hoof, “… did we get too grim with the talk last night? Is that why ya left early?” The question rather takes me aback. Before I can respond, she hastily adds, “Because, if that’s why, Ah do apologize. We oughta be more respectful o’ ya.”

Much as it shames me to admit it, a respectful reply to her contrite remorse is not the first thing that populates my mind. Rather, it is annoyance. Severe annoyance.

Heaven forgive me, but I am so deucedly tired of ponies walking on eggshells around me like I am a porcelain vase balanced on a sewing needle. I’m a seasoned adventurer, darnit, and I am far from inexperienced in the cruelties of the world! I am fifty-seven flavors of done with my friends hiding their lives from me!

I hold myself back because… because… because in that particular instance, I did leave early in part because of the direction the conversation took. It was so utterly shocking to me that anypony could miss the war – especially a pony like Shoddy who is so clearly still battling demons from the war on a daily basis – that I had to step back and process what I’d heard.

So then, how best to admit that without undercutting my general frustration with being treated like a foal by my veteran friends whenever conversation veers too detailed? True, it is not a problem which appears one hundred percent of the time, but it occurs often enough to be profoundly vexing.

Or, more precisely, the fact that they seem to be shutting me out of their lives is… not something that I can bear any longer.

In light of this, I manage to choke back my initial snap reply by sheer force of will, literally shutting my mouth against the words which would be spoken in haste and repented of in leisure. After a moment to compose myself, my actual response, though tempered, still retains more annoyance than I would have preferred.

“In truth, Applejack, I did need time to… mull over the notion of missing at least a part of the war. That was…” I lightly stir my tea, “… that was not a revelation I expected, nor was I prepared for it. However,” I am quick to continue before she or Trixie can interject with an unnecessary apology, “in truth I am glad Trixie said what she did. Moreover, I am glad of it whenever one of you actually discloses more of the truth about the war. I wish you did it more often.” Looking up steely-eyed from my tea, I meet their gazes levelly. “I do not wish to be spared the details of the conflict. That’s not to say that I wish to pry into things which you do not wish to share – I most assuredly do not –but too often you and the others will begin to freely share a story, only to cut yourselves off and either water it down or change the subject when you remember I’m present. I consider myself fortunate on the occasions when you forget yourselves and say what you mean to say before remembering you’re speaking in my presence. I do not desire insulation from what you all endured; if anything, I want to embrace it.”

Returning my gaze to my tea, I continue, “You’ve no idea what it’s like, stewing at home, knowing your friends are out there fighting and possibly dying, and feeling like a coward for not being there with them. To hear word from the front only in the form of cold after-action reports and second-hoof news stories and attempt to fill in the gaps with naught but occasional letters, and having naught to do but guess your stories and pray you live to tell them. Not being able to do anything to help played havoc on my conscience, and the lack of even being able to know your stories only made it worse. I was…” I bite my lip, “I was there Applejack. I was there when we almost lost… I helped Shining Armor keep the shield up. I was in battle that day, serving alongside all you girls, together, but then… when the war started…”

Shutting my eyes, I say, “I know it was… necessary that one of us remain. All things considered, it even makes sense it was me. But while what you all endured was surely more devastating than what I suffered, the fact remains that I still bleed inside for only having scraps of knowledge against your canvas of experience. I want to know what it was like, I want to know what you endured. I want to be able to experience it, even at one step removed, because I feel like… I feel like if I can know it, imagine it, even in some limited way, then maybe… maybe I can help share the burden in some small way.”

I look up at them to conclude my case, “I can’t go back and be there where you were, and live as you lived. But… I can listen. I can hear. I can be… somebody to talk to I… I want to help. I do. And they say that’s a way to address grief, don’t they? ‘Joy is multiplied when it is shared. Yet grief, when shared, is divided.’ If the only way I can serve is to accept the sharing of grief, then let me share it. Let me help you divide it. And, when you have those humorous anecdotes, well, let me help multiply the joy.”

Both of my dining companions sit quietly for a moment. Trixie I still don’t know well enough to read with as much confidence as I’d like, but her steady gaze suggests she’s truly considering what I have to say. Applejack scratches the back of her head, her eyes moving about the room to look at anything but me. She is the first to speak. “Rarity, it ain’t like we’re tryin’ ta cut ya off, it’s just…” she shudders, “what we saw over there was terrible, girl.”

Frowning, I reply, “It’s not as though I have no experience of war. I may have only tasted war for one day,” I blink, and for a heartbeat I can see Twilight’s blood on my hooves, “but I assure you it is a bitter taste well-remembered, and oftentimes its foulness returns to taint the flavor of my life. I may not live with it the same way you do, but I live with it all the same, and I do not wish to be spared the details. We are friends, Applejack. We are family.”

“Ah know that, Rarity, trust me, Ah know we’re family,” says Applejack earnestly, her eyes coming to meet mine. “Now Ah’m right sorry ya feel like we’re keepin’ ya out of our lives, but that ain’t why we’re doin’ it. Believe me, the things Ah seen…,” she shuts her eyes, “no pony should have ta see what Ah’ve seen, or do what Ah’ve done. Ah wanna spare ponies that,” she opens her eyes once more, and they are full of grief, “’specially family like you.”

Well, I suppose it’s hard to stay angry in the face of a reason like that. Especially since I’m not entirely certain which one of us has the right of it. But I’ve come too far finally letting this all out to stop now. Reaching across the table, I take one of Applejack’s hooves in mine and say, “Applejack, I am grateful that you and the girls love me so much that you don’t want me to know the horrors of war as you do. And, I repeat, I don’t want to pressure you into relating stories you’re not yet ready to tell. But… there are stories you do share, just… not with me.”

Leaning forward and maintaining eye contact, I declare, “I know it will be hard, Applejack. But I’m asking you to be honest with me.” She winces as I play the honesty card; I feel a little bad, but I’m desperate. “Applejack, I want to be there to listen, to learn and preserve the memories, and to understand… look, I know it may seem petty and selfish, but I want… I need to know what you girls went through. You…” I swallow as I feel my voice cracking, “you’re a part of me, all you girls are, and I feel like… like I don’t even know a part of myself anymore. And maybe… maybe you all need to talk about it to somepony who wasn’t there, so that the few who were there don’t need to carry the weight of the memory alone.”

“Three dead, seven injured, four of them crippled permanently,” says Trixie softly.

Her abrupt remark startles me; I’d been so intent on making the point to my friend – my sister – that I’d half-forgotten Trixie’s presence. A fact which I deeply regret now that she’s made such a grim statement.

“I’m… sorry?” I ask of her.

“Those are the casualties of one of my howitzers exploding in my battery in the midst of the First Battle of Pasturedaele,” continues the former stagemare in a muted tone, her gaze a thousand miles away. “I’ve handled explosives for years. Comes with the trade. I know how dangerous they are when proper precautions aren’t taken, and I know how, even when you do everything right, something can still go fatally wrong.” She shakes her head. “I drilled my gun teams relentlessly. I made them clean and maintain their guns so well that our safety and maintenance standards were better thanwhat ‘the Book’ calls for. Anypony I saw cutting corners I let have it for endangering his crew. ‘Slow is smooth, smooth is fast’ I told them. Maintaining calm and moving smoothly is faster than rushing, which is better for the troops you’re supporting and safer for you. But…” she looks at me evenly, “one day a howitzer had a misfire. The round cooked off inside the barrel. To this day, we’re still not entirely sure what happened. Could have been a bad round, could have been operator error, could have been any number of things.” She shrugs. “In all likelihood it was a combination of little factors no one on the planet could have predicted or prevented – a slight imperfection in the round with exactly the wrong pressure conditions in the chamber and grime built up from how many fire missions we’d had that day – a set of dominoes set up by the battle.”

“Still,” she sighs, looking away for a moment, and then back at me, “I’ll always wonder if I could have done something different. Something better. Maybe I missed something in the inspection, maybe the crew was too tired, maybe I didn’t train them well enough… maybe, maybe, maybe. Like I said, there was probably nothing anypony could have done. But,” she takes a drink of her water, “I’ll always wonder.”

There is a quiet agony in her gaze, a sorrow that runs deep into the marrow. But it is not her master. It is a part of her, one she lives with every day.

Yet still, she lives.

You’ve really become an incredible mare, Trixie.

“I’m… so terribly sorry to hear that, Trixie,” I say softly. Applejack doesn’t say anything, but puts a wordless hoof on Trixie’s shoulder comfortingly. “I can’t even…” a vision of the shooter pointing his gun at Twilight flashes before my eyes – the shooter I saw, but failed to warn of in time – and I stop short of saying ‘I can’t even imagine,’ and instead say the more truthful, “I believe that you’re probably right that there was nothing you could have done, but I don’t suppose that makes it any easier.”

With a tired laugh, Trixie replies, “It beats knowing there was something I should have done but didn’t, so on the balance it could be much worse. And, realistically, you’re right. Or rather,” she rolls her eyes, “technically Trixie is right and you’re agreeing with her. But, still, you’re right. Things happen you can’t control, and it’s arrogance to believe otherwise. We have not the power of angels to call on, however much you and your friends have very specific areas in which you are grossly overpowered,” her teasing remark earns a smile from Applejack and me, despite the heaviness of the moment, and she continues, “Trixie advised her fellow artillery ponies of much the same lesson. We all feared the same thing, after all. We each feared to be personally responsible for the tragedy. And, Trixie imagines, we all likely still… wonder from time to time. Perhaps that’s why we never really discussed it after it happened.”

A pregnant pause lies upon us.

“Until now,” I say softly.

Trixie smiles, at once sorrowful and at peace. “Until now,” she echoes.

“Do you… feel better for having told us?”

The showmare-turned-soldier is silent for a moment, scrutinizing the table as though it might reveal some answer before nodding slowly, “Trixie is not… I’m not sure ‘better’ feels like the right word. More that I feel… lighter.” Her smile broadens slightly. “Less crazy. Instead of my worries being trapped in the echo chamber of the mind, they are heard with compassion. What lurked in the dark is exposedin the light of day. Hardly the end of the battle, but a step nonetheless. One I didn’t know I needed to take. So, yes, I feel… lighter.”

It is a peculiar thing to feel both sadness and happiness at the same time. Sadness for the tragedy, and happiness for seeing someone face and process their pain. Joy for seeing someone in the midst of healing, sorrow that they have suffered the wound at all. That mingling of love and grief which is called compassion. Hope in the midst of loss. ‘Bittersweet’ barely begins to cover it. So, with a smile of both joy and sorrow, I say, “I’m glad.”

“Me too,” Applejack affirms. “Trix… Ah know bein’ married an’ having a kid on the way means it ain’t as easy fer me ta check in on ponies as regular as Ah’d like, but… you know you can always—”

Trixie pats her hoof reassuringly. “Fret not, dear friend, the Understanding and Wise Trixie knows you can always be counted on to help when Trixie – or anypony for that matter – really needs you.” She winks at me. “And your sister from another mister can spot you for the times you have morning sickness.”

I can’t help but chortle at that.

Nodding gratefully to Trixie, Applejack turns to me, picking her words carefully as she says, “Rares… Ah am sorry fer how we been treatin’ you those times we really were coddlin’ ya, an’ fer it seemin’ like we were even when we weren’t. It’s hard ta tell…” she scratches the back of her neck, “there’s things we don’t tell Twilight either, times we don’t tell anypony who weren’t over there. There’s things we don’t even discuss outside our own units. Sometimes it’s tryin’ ta spare ’em, but sometimes…” she shrugs, “sometimes there just ain’t no way ta describe what it was like over there ta somepony who wasn’t. Ain’t about you, it’s just how it goes. Everypony’s got life experiences that nopony else can ever truly understand, but most of it they can understand at least to a point. Some things though,” she sighs, “some things are so out there, so far beyond the realm of what most folks experience, that it sounds unreal ta folks who got no first-hoof experience with it. Like,” she shoots me a pointed look, “what happened last night when we all said we missed the war.”

I flush red. “I suppose that is a fair point, and one I hadn’t considered.” My blush deepens. “In fact, perhaps it is I who should be apologizing for making you all feel so uncomfortable when you’d all made yourselves vulnerable enough to share something like that… and then today I have the gall to criticize you for not sharing more with me like an entitled brat and I am so terribly sorry to both of you I have made a complete fool of myself and—”

“Rarity, stop!” Applejack cuts me off before I can hyperventilate. “Ah ain’t fishin’ fer an apology. Ah think… Ah think maybe we’re all just tryin’ ta figure out how ta handle somethin’ there ain’t no rulebook for. Ah only brought that up ta make the point that… well, it’s like ya said, ya gotta be vulnerable ta reveal somethin’ like that, an’ it’s somethin’ most of us gotta ease into. Cuz ya fear ponies are gonna judge you for what went down.” She cuts me off with a wave of her hoof before I can properly start to panic over being a horrible friend again. “Ah ain’t sayin’ that’s what ya did. Honestly, in yer place, Ah’d probably have freaked out an’ said somethin’ stupid. You kept pretty calm and then tried ta figure it out respectful-like, which is about the best Ah could hope for. Ah’m just sayin’… maybe we oughta take this slow. Work up to it, know what Ah mean?”

Letting out a breath of sheer relief that I didn’t make a total and utter fool of myself – perhaps just a standard fool – I reply, “I think that is a marvelous idea, Applejack.”

The rest of our lunch is thankfully less heavy. That is to say, the conversation is less heavy. The food, well… let’s just say I’m glad I didn’t have that in my system before taking the Iron Shod Death March. I would have – to use Rainbow Dash’s unsettlingly descriptive euphemism – performed the ‘technicolor yawn’ over most of the outer Ponyville acreage had I undertaken such a physically demanding exercise on a stomach full of hearty diner food.

Ah, Rarity. There was a time you never would have ventured to use such a term as ‘technicolor yawn’ when referring to the violent expulsion of one’s stomach contents, even in the privacy of your own mind. How Rainbow has broken you.

Still and all, our lunch is overall a pleasant one, and a productive one to boot. I have no complaints.

My joints and muscles however, have many complaints they would like to file, and file complaints they do! As I begin the slow and painful return to my domicile – with Applejack and Trixie ambling beside me and Kafil following behind – the complaints come so fast and thick that the Complaints Department of my brain is forced to co-opt employees from other departments of my consciousness just to handle the overload.

Regrettably, it seems they even managed to coopt staffers from the Hearing Department, because the Visual Department – thankfully better staffed – alerts me to an orange hoof being waved in front of my face, which signals my Hearing Department to escalate their Readiness Level, which in turn alerts me to the incoming message.

“Yo! Equestria ta Rarity!” barks Applejack from my right. “You there, pardner?”

Emergency signals send a crack team of specialists to my Linguistic Department in order to buy time for me to reorient my brain away from ‘BODY HURTS’ to ‘Polite Conversation.’

“Hmm? Pardon?” I manage.

“Ah said why’d ya ask Shoddy ta take ya out exercisin’ anyhow?”

Walking on my left – opposite Applejack – Trixie smirks and says, “Besides the—” abruptly, she gives her head a shake as though trying to drive off a buzzing insect, and then – to my great shock – she slaps herself.

As in, full hoof, full contact slaps herself.

“No! Bad Trixie!” she snaps, sounding for all the world like she’s rebuking a naughty puppy. “You don’t use the kind of jokes you would use on the hayseed and the tripod on Rarity!”

Applejack pops her head over my back to peak at Trixie like I’m a sandbag separating her from the enemy. “Trix, were you gonna slag Rares like you slag me an’ Dash?”

Blushing so hard that she practically turns maroon, Trixie answers hurriedly, her words almost tumbling over each other in their haste, “Trixie has picked up some habits in the military that don’t translate well to civilian life. One of them is the knee-jerk exchange of brutal insults that neither party takes offense at because neither party actually means them. It is important to not apply such practices to those who are not familiar with and accepting of such practices.”

It takes me a moment to break down what Trixie said, but when I do, I can’t help but chuckle. Yes, Rainbow Dash and Applejack have always teased each other ceaselessly, but neither meant a word of it and both learned what was over the line and what wasn’t, so they managed to maintain the teasing without wrecking their friendship.

Now that I think on it, all six of us girls engaged in some manner of this lively but un-serious teasing with each other once we got to know each other better, but none of us quite so readily as Rainbow Dash and Applejack.

With the passage of years and gaining more experience with soldiers – and, for that matter, firefighters, police, and the like – I’ve learned that this seems standard for those who labor in such dangerous professions.

However, those who are not familiar with such provocative humor – ‘slagging’ as it is sometimes called – are often… put off when they see it without context. Many a time growing up I witnessed colts and stallions treating each other in such a manner, and I always had a hard time understanding why sometimes they laughed and sometimes they took offense. My father explained that there was a difference between slagging and cruelty, though it took me many years to truly understand. The difference, as it happens, is intent, trust, and understanding. Firstly, one must not intend any offense, but that is not enough by itself. The recipient has to understand that, and there must be a level of trust that no offense is meant and that – if offense is accidentally given – it will be duly apologized for.

And, as always, we must learn where the line is.

All this being said, since I do not know Trixie particularly well – and am still only one day into processing that SHE’S A WAR HERO AND COMRADE-IN-ARMS TO MOST OF MY CLOSEST FRIENDS – I’m not sure how I would have taken such ‘slagging’ if it was directed at me.

Since I now know that it would have been innocent and friendly slagging, however, I am curious.

Applejack shakes her head at Trixie and clicks her tongue like a mother chiding a youngster. “Now, Trixie, you know you can’t just go about sayin’ the first fool thing that comes inta yer head around these civilized folk.” She throws a hoof over my withers and says, “They’re liable ta take offense.”

“Oh, yes, very liable,” I say blandly. “In the interest of furthering my education about you barbarians, however," I tease, “what exactly were you planning on saying?”

Trixie actually looks abashed, and pulls her hat down to cover her eyes. “Trixie… Trixie does not wish to share that information. Trixie feels it would be unseemly.”

Scoffing, I say, “Trixie, I know you mean no genuine insult. I know it would just be ‘slagging.’ I give you permission to voice your venomous quip.”

“Trixie does not want to. Trixie’s mind was mean.”

Rolling my eyes, I reply, “Trixie, I know you don’t actually mean it. And besides, I live with Shoddy under my roof for pony’s sake! You think he’s never said something off-color, tactless, and offensive without meaning to? Not to mention putting up with this brute,” I nudge Applejack, “and the ever-tactless Rainbow Dash for years! Between thethree hooligans, I think I’ll manage!”

Perking back up, Trixie deadpans, “That is true, they are all worse ponies than Trixie.” At an outraged cry from Applejack, she clarifies. “Actually, that’s too harsh. Shoddy is wonderful.” Another outraged cry. “Well, Miss Rarity, if you insist… what I was going to say when Applejack asked ‘why did you ask Shoddy to take you out exercising’ was... ‘besides the obvious you mean?’”

The question actually causes me to stumble. “My heavens!” I exclaim, raising a hoof to my forehead. “I… I think I was just transported back to secondary school!” Stopping and sitting so I can massage my temples I continue, “Oh, how I hear them again! The catty girls making snide remarks behind my back! The whispers around the drinking fountain! The back-hooved compliments spoken by schoolmates with barbed tongues! Oh the Equinity!”

“See?” says Trixie miserably. “Trixie warned you her mind was mean!”

“Darling, I’m not mad, I think you just discovered a form of time travel! I went right back to secondary school!”

“Ah ha!” exclaims Trixie, rearing up triumphantly. “Time travel! The Great and Powerful TRIXIE has finally beaten the Stupendous and Exceptionally Regal Twilight Sparkle to something!”

“Eenope,” drawls Applejack. “Sorry Trix. Twi already time traveled fer real.”

“Oh come on! SERIOUSLY?!”

“Eeyup. Few years back now.”

Dropping back to all fours, Trixie scuffs the road in irritation. “Well drat! Now Trixie is back to apologizing for Rarity and not having any great discovery to show for it.”

“No need to apologize, my dear,” I assure her, rising once more to my hooves so we can resume walking. “I insisted. I know well the dread power of a quick wit and an acid tongue, and I insisted you reveal the things your mind conceived before you were able to stop it. Just as was the case with Shoddy, I have no one to blame but myself.”

“Yeah, stupid,” says Applejack.

“Stupid,” echoes Trixie.

“Splendid,” I sigh. “Glad we’re all on the same page.” Again, at least I am used to Shoddy’s outbursts.

We walk in silence for a moment before Applejack says, “Sooooo… speakin’ o’ Shoddy…”

“Why’d I ask him to take me out exercising? Well, in truth, it is partially because I’m out of shape.”

“Not really,” says Trixie. I arch an eyebrow at her. “What?” she exclaims. “Trixie only thought of that jab because there was setup for the punchline. Again, Trixie didn’t actually mean it. Heck,” she continues with a grumble, “while Trixie wouldn’t mind living closer to her wartime friends, at least living farther away from Ponyville means I won’t have to get out-competed byyou for attracting all the most eligible stallions.”

That’s… I don’t really know how to respond to that. It’s weird enough getting a genuine complement from Trixie. (Well, really, it’s weird enough that Trixie now gives genuine complements in the first place). But what’s even weirder is that… she assumes that I’m having to fight stallions off with a stick. And, don’t get me wrong, it’s flattering that she thinks that, but…

…

I don’t know.

Maybe stallions are intimidated by my perceived status, a twist which would be ironic and infuriating in equal measure…

…

Maybe it’s how wrapped up I was for the duration of the war with caring for Twilight, helping administer the castle, running my business whilst also helping other ponies run theirs, worrying about my friends, feeling like I wasn’t doing enough, doing everything I could so I felt like I was doing something…

…

… maybe… maybe I’ve given so much away that I don’t have much to offer anymore.

…

But I don’t want to say all that in public or at all so I force myself to stop ruminating, take the genuine complement for what it is, and pay one in return at the same time.

A genuine complement in return, mind you. Because war hero Trixie has done more than me to warrant the attentions of eligible bachelors lately.

“I… I thank you for you kind words Trixie. I believe you sell yourself very far short, and I’m sure that some wonderful stallion will recognize what a treasure you are and sweep you off your hooves, but I thank you for your complements all the same.” Clearing my throat, I clarify, “However, I was not thinking of my figure when I asked Shoddy to help me get in better shape. I had not cause to think on it until I recently had to run all across town—”

… specifically, running in a panic to Sweet Apple Acres when I thought Applejack was moving, though I don’t say that part aloud…

“—and discovered myself quite out of breath and lacking the endurance I once had. I found myself thinking on what excellent shape I was in when we six Bearers battled monsters and cultists and existentially threatening magical catastrophes on the regular.”

Applejack smiles fondly, “Ah, good times.”

“Quite. And good exercise to boot!” I shrug. “I hadn’t realized how much I relied on the Tuesday Crises to keep me in top physical condition.”

Tilting her head, Trixie asks, “Tuesday Crises?”

“She means the sort of hullabaloo that always seemed ta stir things up ’round here,” clarifies Applejack. “You know, Nightmare Moon, tha parasprites, Discord, tha Darin’ Do shenanigans, Discord again, tha Noodle Incident…”

Trixie frowns and interjects before Applejack can properly begin the list. “Did your crises really always present themselves on Tuesdays.”

“Not at all, darling,” I say, winking at her. “As I recall, you showed up on a Wednesday.”

Applejack guffaws and Trixie’s eyes narrow dangerously, though there’s amusement in her gaze. “Oh, well played, Miss Rarity. You have now made Trixie’s List of Retribution.”

Smiling primly, I reply, “I wouldn’t have it any other way, darling. But, returning to the matter of Shoddy,” I continue, reverting to the actual topic – Celestia, we have gone down far too many rabbit holes! – “I went out to the farm yesterday to talk to her Royal Highness Applejack,” her royal highness growls, but I carry on undeterred, “only to find that she was away.”

“Doubtless on Royal Apple business,” supplies Trixie.

“Doubtless,” I agree. The growl increases in volume, but my story holds its course. “As she was away on Apple-related and certainly Royal business, I found myself conversing with Applebloom, Sweetie Belle, and Scootaloo.” Hmm. It occurs to me that if – when – Big MacIntosh marries Twilight, Applebloom will be the only non-royal of the Apple siblings. I shall have to procure a prince or duke or something for her just to round things out. “Those three holy terrors – or, excuse me – those three fine and upstanding mares have something of a side hustle going.”

“Trixie is not surprised by this,” remarks an unsurprised Trixie. I glance at her and see eyes full of understanding. “Trixie has heard the stories,” she explains dryly.

“I see. Well, then it should not surprise you to know that they have opened a Cutie Mark Consulting business, complete with a noir-style office, noir-saxophone, noir-attire, noir-style ambient narration, and even a magical glamor enchantment that lays a black and white noir effect over the office and everything – and everypony – within it.”

“Trixie commends their dedication to their craft and showponyship. Trixie intends to see this for herself and converse with these worthy young mares.”

Applejack snickers. “Gonna talk shop with some other over-dramatic showponies?”

“Yes, Trixie is going to engage in worthwhile dialogue with fellowartists rather than the usual Philisteeds she has to endure,” she replies with a prim sniff.

“Anyway,” I interrupt, keen to avoid yet another rabbit hole – I also notice we took a wrong turn somewhere and aren’t even heading to my home but I don’t want to get sidetracked from this conversation again – “we got to discussing what Iron Shod’s special talent might be. While we are still far from certain, I think we have narrowed it down to some general principles…”

I explain in brief terms what the girls and I discussed: that Shoddy’s special talent is likely along the lines of mental tenacity, physical endurance, and mind-over-matter toughness. That being probable, deciding to try various things which meet that general criteria would be logical. Hence, the physical fitness trainer.

Applejack nods approvingly at the explanation. “Pretty good plan, Rares.” She smirks. “Even if it was stupidly executed.

“Yeah, stupi— oh, sorry, is this bit played out?” says Trixie. “This bit is played out. Trixie will move on to the next joke.”

It’s a good indicator of how strange my life has become that I don’t even bat an eye at this.

Applejack, equally unfazed, remarks, “Ah’m mighty impressed ya figured this out, Rares. Shoddy always was cagey ’bout what his special talent was, but Ah guess it never really sunk in that maybe he was so cagey ’cause he didn’t know himself.” She sighs and shakes her head. “Yet another tough break for the guy.”

“Pardon the intrusion,” interjects Trixie. “Trixie doesn’t mean to be rude in asking this, but… Rarity, what exactly is your business arrangement with Shoddy? Applejack mentioned he was working for you, but it seems more like you’re trying to run a personal development seminar on him. Even as he runs a fitness development seminar on you.”

“Shoddy’s had… a hard time adjustin’ after leavin’ the service,” drawls Applejack, still uncomfortable with discussing a friend who isn’t present. “He ain’t got much in the way o’ civilian skills, and he’s had a hard time reintegratin’ with civilian life.”

“Hmm. Unfortunate, but sadly not unexpected,” remarks Trixie sadly. “Trixie never knew Shoddy to have much – or any – filter on his mouth, and she imagines that has not gone over well with prospective employers. One requires a certain degree of tact to land steady employment.” She waves a hoof in the air so as to stave off snide remarks. “Yes, yes, Trixie is well aware that she is one to talk about tact, but even Trixie had to know who to kiss up to if she wanted gigs, especially when she was starting out.” She sighs. “Many troopers – especially young ones – just don’t have job experience outside a pair of combat boots. Trixie is fortunate, both that she remains in uniform and in that she has multiple career options lined up to fall back on if and when she returns to civilian life.”

Applejack chuckles. “‘Multiple’ career options? You mean Option A, playing on the road, or Option B, playing for casinos?”

“I mean chemical engineering and ordinance testing and development,” says Trixie, dropping her third person speech as she drops into a deadpan tone. Applejack and I stop and stare at her. “What?” she says. “I made all my own fireworks, fog, special effects, smoke bombs, everything I used in my act.” Fixing her gaze on Applejack, she states, “You know this about me. You don’t think I have the training to back it up?”

The farm mare princess holds up her forehooves in surrender. “Yer right. Ah’m sorry.”

“I literally designed new ordinance mid-war.”

“Ah get it. Yer right.”

“I’m going to open a manufacturing firm. Sell my inventions to every allied nation and all their militaries and every mining company and every showpony on the continent. Make enough money to buy Ponyville.”

“We get it, Trix.”

“Gonna rename it Trixietopolis.”

“Trix,” sighs Applejack tiredly, “We were talkin’ about Shoddy, remember?”

“Right. Sorry.” Trixie clears her throat and resumes her more flowery, authoritative tone. “The point is, he and a lot of other veterans don’t have many trained skills. Now, there’s a lot of unskilled labor work, and many of those jobs even make for decent careers. But if he’s having a hard time re-adjusting to civilian life… Trixie can see that making it hard to hold a steady job. One of Trixie’s best gunners had a problem like that. He was even a semi-skilled laborer with a good job history before the war, but he always had a temper, and once he got back, he kept picking fights. Couldn’t hold a job. Fortunately, he had Trixie in his corner.”

My ears perk up at that. Thankfully, Shoddy isn’t out getting into bar brawls, but hearing how this veteran dealt with his troubles could help Shoddy.

“Well, what did you do?” I ask eagerly.

“Trixie introduced him to a hype pony and a coach and got him into heavyweight boxing. He’s in the minor circuit right now.”

I blink rapidly at that as I try to process this information. On one hoof, better a controlled environment than a street fight. On the other hoof… I can see that potentially backfiring. Yes, martial arts have often been used to help one control one’s temper – that’s why I studied karate and why I still practice now and then – but the tournament environment can bring out the worst in ponies if they’re not properly formed and tempered.

Still, I don’t want to offend Trixie by saying my reservations aloud. I have to say something open-ended, generally positive, and simple. Something that doesn’t sound like waffling or leeriness but also doesn’t say something I don’t mean.

“That’s… well… nice… um…”

Oh dear. It seems the others have a point. I am stupid.

Fortunately, Trixie seems not only to not take offense, but also to have considered the same potential pitfalls. “It’s not ideal, Trixie admits. The tournament circuit is not without its more brutish elements. But the hype pony in question has experience reining in destructive behavior, and the coach knows how to give him a listening ear, a gentle correction, and tough love as needed, so they keep him channeling his aggressive energy in a controlled and healthy way. Something to temper the temper, so to speak. The coach especially has a good track record of making temperamental ponies less temperamental through discipline.” She shrugs. “Trixie was in the midst of transferring when she set this up. Best she could manage on short notice.”

Now feeling more confident, I assure her, “Well, it sounds like you did right by him.”

And, given how limited my progress has been with Shoddy – despite apparently having more time to work the problem – I suppose I’m not really in a place to judge.

Especially since, for all I know, boxing might be exactly the right fit for Trixie’s comrade.

“Trixie certainly hopes she did right by him,” the showmare says with a sigh. She looks around as we continue our slow pace through the winding streets. “Trixie also hopes her memory isn’t going, as she remembered your home being closer to the diner than this. How long have we been walking?”

To my surprise, Applejack wipes her brow with relief. “Whew! Thank goodness! We did get turned around somewhere! Ah thought my memory was goin’ too!”

“Yes, yes, we did get off track somewhere,” I admit. Fiddlesticks. I’d been hoping to get us back on the right path before anypony noticed. “I hope neither of you had someplace to be.”

Trixie checks her pocket watch, then shrugs. “Trixie needs to swing by the telegraph office and pick up some correspondence, but it’s not a disaster if she’s a few minutes late.”

“Need a hoof findin’ yer way there?” offers Applejack.

The showmare snorts, then pulls out a map and compass with her magic. “As it is not a bar, a pool hall, a shooting range, or a crayon factory, I’m not confident Marine navigation will be of any assistance to me,” she quips, before barely ducking under the swipe of Applejack’s hoof. “Besides, Your Royal Appleness, you were as lost as Trixie. And you, Fitness Recruit Belle,” she says with a brief glance at me, “need to get off those hooves if you want to be ambulatory tomorrow. Especially,” Trixie smirks, “if you’re planning on continuing your fitness regimen.”

A shudder runs all down my body from the tip of my horn to the tip of my tail, then back up again. “I… may have a word with Shoddy about proper scale of intensity,” I admit as my muscles quiver in dread.

Trixie smiles and pats my head. “See? Not so stupid after all.”

“Most kind of you,” I reply dryly. “Well, we shan’t keep you, Colonel. Ta ta for now. Lunch tomorrow, perhaps?”

“Indeed,” she says with a smile. “And perhaps we can even find a restaurant to cater to Applejack’s unique culinary preferences such as—”

“If this is another ‘Marines eat crayons’ joke, Ah’ll kill ya with mah bare hooves,” interrupts Applejack, deadpan.

“Trixie doubts you could catch her with a bun in the oven,” the showmare counters, pointing to Applejack’s pregnant belly.

“Fine. Ah’ll order Kafil ta kill ya with ’is bare hooves.”

Glancing at the bemused zebra, Trixie nods. “Well-played, Hayseed Highness. Trixie will see you both later.” With a quick parting hug to each of us, Trixie departs.

Applejack and I stand in silence for a moment, watching in the direction Trixie just went. (Kafil also stands in silence, though presumably he is watching all directions for possible threats). After a moment, Applejack breaks the silence, saying, “Ya still can’t get over the fact she’s a friend now, can ya?”

“I still can’t get over who she’s become in general, Applejack,” I retort somewhat hotly. “She is a completely different mare than when I last saw her. Virtuous, personable, funny, compassionate, charming, the lot of it! If she’d been like this when we first met, she might well have joined us on our adventures!”

“Might well have,” agrees Applejack.

“She’s completely different in her values, her worldview, her motives, her outlook on life, and yet… and yet…”

“And yet she’s still Trixie?” suggests Applejack.

“Oh, more than that, darling! I dare say she’s more Trixie now than she’s ever been in her life, at least she’s more than she was before having her ‘come-to-the-Creator’ moment at the start of the war!”

Applejack tilts her head curiously. “How do you mean she’s ‘more Trixie’ now than she’s ever been? She don’t even talk in the third person all the time no more.”

I scoff. “Oh puh-leeze, Applejack! That’s just a surface level trait! It’s like when one of those new moving pictures does a bad adaptation of a classic novel, and they take the obvious traits of a character – the catch phrases, the costuming, the same jokes that they run into the ground – and they assume those surface level things were what really moved fans in the first place, and not the real depths of the character that lay beneath the surface.” I gesture vaguely in Trixie’s presumed direction. “Trixie’s eccentricities are no more than a reflection of her deeper complexities.”

“Riiiiight,” says Applejack slowly, seeming bemused by my assertions as we wind our way back to – hopefully – my boutique. “So… what’s the business about her being more Trixie now than before?”

Feeling philosophical, I say, “Each of us is on a journey, Applejack, a journey between the best version of ourselves and the worst. We fall somewhere between the two, moving back and forth, to and fro, becoming either fuller or emptier depending on whether we follow our better natures or our worse.”

Applejack continues to give me the bemused side-eye as though she’s not following what I’m saying. Knowing her, she’s following perfectly well and, for some foolish reason, feels the need to pretend she isn’t.

Undeterred, I continue, “Trixie used to trend towards the emptier side of herself, the less virtuous, more vicious, and thus ultimately worst part of her nature. Now, she strives to be the best version of herself, growing in humility, virtue, goodness, and, as a result, fullness.Truth.Ergo,” I conclude, “she is more authentically ‘Trixie’ now than she has ever been in her life.” Raising an eyebrow at her continued bemusement, I say, “Have you some jest to deliver, Applejack?”

The farmer chuckles. “Just ta say ya sound like a preacher, which ain’t an insult, just funny. Normally when Ah hear heavy meanin’-o-life philosophy stuff like that, it’s from one o’ the chaplains or one o’ the princesses.”

“Well, seeing as you are a princess now, oh Fair and Noble Apple of the Zebrican Royal Line, perhaps you ought to be taking notes,” I say primly. The Fair and Noble Apple of the Zebrican Royal Line jostles me with her shoulder, making a noise that’s both a chuckle and a much-exaggerated snarl as she does so. “But… thank you. I suppose I’ve picked up a thing or two from dear Twilight after all these years.”

“Mm,” grunts Applejack. “It is a good point, though. We all got the makins o’ saints in us, as well as sinners. It’s a good reminder that we all got potential. Our chaplain once said the realest version of ourselves is the best one, and we can get pretty well there, even if we ain’t gonna get there perfectly.” A silence hangs between us a moment as we walk. “You might make that point ta Shoddy when you get the chance. Only,” she chuckles, “maybe don’t say it sound so pretty as ya did ta me.”

“Indeed not,” I chuckle. “Actually, I was hoping to make that point by ‘showing, not telling,’ with the personal trainer suggestion, but…” I stretch my back slightly as we walk, and there’s an audible and stomach-churning series of *pops* as I do so, “… perhaps a more tempered approach is called for. I just… I just want him to see that he has many strengths and many virtues. He’s a good stallion, he simply… needs to find a way to exercise his goodness.” My muscles scream. “Hopefully with less actual exercise.”

Author's Note

I remember going to a college fair back when I first got out. There was a pretty young mare at the table for Seaddle U. – braided golden mane, peach coat, friendly eyes. I went up and told her I’d like to apply for the university. She told me that Seaddle U. prided itself on the quality of its education and got out a fresh application form for me. Since I was applying using the Veteran’s Bill, I was in dress uniform – she asked me what skills I’d picked up in the Marines; she said it was to help place me in a program that would be suited to my talents.

I told her that I had been a mortar pony, that I was proficient in carbines, rifles, and pistols, and that I’d received advanced hoof-to-hoof combat training. She became increasingly flustered as I listed my qualifications, and kept asking questions to try to see if I had any experience in other fields. I was getting frustrated too, though I tried not to show it. I was listing skills which were as close as possible to what she was looking for – getting cross-trained on field artillery was something of a mechanical engineering background, in my view. I knew that nothing would be a direct match, but that was why I was going to school – to adapt my skills to something applicable to civilian life.

After a couple minutes, she got so irritated that she blurted out, “Didn’t they teach you anything useful in the Marines?”

Folks nearby got quiet when she said that, especially the other vets. I looked down at her and said, “They taught me how to kill griffons. I got pretty good at it.” About then I decided that Seaddle U. wouldn’t be a good fit for me and I left to find another table.

—Excerpt from The Old Breed, by Steel “Sledgehammer” Sledge, MA Engineering,

Corporal (retired) Equestrian Marine Corps

***

The subject of encouraging vets to share their war stories can be a bit complicated.

On one hand, I firmly believe that such stories should be told, for those sake of those telling them and any closure they may find, for the sake of those who are no longer alive to tell their stories, for the sake of honoring the sacrifices made for our sake, so that civilians don’t take their hard-won peace for granted, so that the public and the government are not so quick to desire war, and many more reasons besides.

It’s also worth noting that there’s this idea that it’s somehow “weak” to be vulnerable about trauma.

That’s BS.

We, collectively, need to take that idea, tie it up, stick it in the trunk, take it out to the dock, put it in cement shoes, and dump it into the depths of oblivion where it belongs. It’s a dumb fricking idea, and I’m very glad that there are an increasing number of veterans of both emergency services and the military – including spec ops guys – who are making it their mission to assure fellow veterans that they can and should seek help when they need it.

On the other hand, it is wrong to force or try to guilt trip veterans into talking. We should do everything we can to make it clear that they can talk freely, to de-stigmatize seeking help with trauma and whatnot, and to help in what ways we can… but, ultimately, we cannot force someone to accept help. It’s their choice.

Rarity, AJ, and Trixie are all trying to navigate that particular complexity, each burdened by their own wounds and their own needs, and none of them are handling it perfectly… but they’re all trying.

Honestly, this can be a touchy enough subject that I’ve been afraid to put this chapter out (it’s the main reason for the delay). But fear can’t rule us, so… here we are. Hopefully it’s good.

The secondary reason for the delay is that I’m a perfectionist, and I kept letting ‘perfect’ be the enemy of ‘good.’ Frankly, I’m still not entirely happy with this chapter. I feel it ends abruptly and at times I’m not sure if the meandering pace is adding to the slice-of-life tone or just plain meandering, and different readers will I’m sure have different opinions. But, again… I can’t let ‘perfect’ be the enemy of ‘good.’ So, in an ironic parallel to Rarity here, I just need to do something, even if that something isn’t perfect, and deal with it afterwards.

***

I don’t think I mentioned this before, but this story actually has a tie-in set in the same universe now, spawned by a FanOfMostEverything story contest and a throwaway joke from the chapter ‘Baggage of Tricks.’ (It was just a funny aside… until it wasn’t).

Daring Do and the Ditzy of Infinite Possibility, featuring the eponymous characters, has very little directly to do with Homecoming, but it is part of the shared universe (and is a much more lighthearted adventure story), so… check it out if you’re interested.

***

There are a lot of little references sprinkled throughout. One I’ll highlight is that the story of a griffon capturing a pony medic solely to surrender to the Equestrians is a reference to a M*A*S*H episode wherein a North Korean soldier ‘captures’ two of the doctors – Hawkeye and Honeycut if I recall correctly – so that he can follow them back to American lines and surrender because he doesn’t want to fight anymore. Every time they bump into North Koreans, he has to pretend to be ‘capturing’ the doctors so that they don’t get actually captured, and whenever the doctors try to just leave he threatens them with his gun and demands they let him surrender. Hijinks ensue.

Some previous chapter, I don’t remember which one, Nurse Redheart is noted to have been a combat medic who lost her eye when the plasma bottle she was holding while administering first aid was shot, and shards of glass pierced her eye. She went on to keep treating patients with glass in her eye. That’s a reference to a real story from WWII; a combat medic named Robert Eugene Bush had that happen to him on Okinawa and kept on treating patients and prioritizing others over his own treatment. A heroic man with a staggering level of pain tolerance.

As always, thank you all for your patience.