Thicker Than Water

One week later, on a pale, chilly morning, Cranberry had no tears left to shed.

The Canterlot City Cemetery was bleak and beautiful. Situated near the southern end of the Clement Blueblood Memorial Park, it lay in a quiet copse of maple and oak. The trees were all in bloom, their bright blossoms shaking defiantly against the overcast sky. Seasonal birds had yet to return to the north, so the only sounds were the flowering branches rustling quietly in a faint breeze.

The cemetery itself was a few small acres, enclosed by a wrought-iron fence. The bars were still shiny, unmarred by rust. They had been built along with the rest of the park six years past, replacing a long streak of burned-out ruins from the griffon siege. The tombstones were spaced widely and scattered beneath the trees, but only one held meaning for Cranberry today. It bore little text, befitting a stallion who’d never bothered with frills unless he was decorating his pastries.

Apricot Strudel

303-329

Twenty-six was far too young, even for a pony. Cranberry felt that hollow ache in her chest again as a few stray leaves from vanished autumn brushed over the grass. Apricot had deserved another decade at least, time to spend with his wife, his son, the grandchildren he’d never meet… She drew closer to Inger, who squeezed her shoulders with a sturdy foreleg.

The unadorned pine box, mercifully closed, lay in a rectangle of open earth beneath the stone. Circled around the grave were dozens of mourners, dressed in funereal black. Rye’s ink-dark robes had the opposite effect of their ordinary yellow counterparts, seeming to leach him of life and vibrancy. A few splashes of color were present thanks to Windstreak, Inger, Tyria, and a few other veterans and soldiers wearing bright blue dress uniforms.

Inkpot, a white flower pressed neatly into her reddish mane, stood at the foot of the grave behind a small podium. Her eyes were calm and tired, but she still held her head high. Cranberry was amazed she hadn’t collapsed days ago, with how thin she’d been spreading herself during the arrangements. Rye and Cranberry had both taken up as much of the slack as they could, but Inkpot had gently insisted on being the one to deliver the eulogy. I owe him, she’d repeated, more than any of you know.

Rye wasn’t holding up as well. He looked older than Cranberry had ever seen him. Those heavy black robes and the dark circles under his eyes seemed to age him a decade. Was he grateful to be here for his mother’s sake, she wondered? Or did he wish that he was still in some distant land, blissfully unaware? Beside him stood Tyria, drawn and reserved in the prim military uniform she’d dusted off for the funeral.

Cranberry’s eyes flicked over to Inger, standing at her side. She would never have made it through the last excruciating week without him to lean on. She knew that, deep down, he didn’t truly understand what this felt like. His mother, Pomegranate, had died so long ago that Inger—with shame—had privately admitted to her that he barely remembered her face. But he was trying to help anyway, making sweet, clumsy gestures of love like laying out her clothing this morning to save her the trouble of digging the funeral wear out of the attic. It helped, just a little, to know that she wasn’t alone.

Not like poor Windstreak. Cranberry’s heart hurt whenever she looked at the old war hero, standing proud and utterly shattered in her crisp Firewing blues. The mare’s parade-ready stance revealed no hint of the hurricane of grief that must be tearing her apart inside. Always putting on a brave face for her children, thought Cranberry, brushing a lock of golden hair out of her eyes. The thought of that great pegasus standing alone in the empty bakery was almost too much to bear.

“Are they starting soon?” Apricot hesitantly shifted in his spot in front of her.

“Shh,” scolded his older brother, scowling. Strawberry was a light orange pegasus who’d inherited his father’s prematurely serious air. He tapped Apricot’s leg to quell the younger colt’s fidgeting. “Not everypony’s here yet. Settle down and be patient.” He flashed an apologetic look at Cranberry.

She patted Apricot’s shoulder. “It shouldn’t be much longer, honey.”

Her son nodded and resumed staring at the muddy ground. He’d taken the loss of his teacher hard, spending most of the last week sequestered in the brothers’ shared room. One day she’d spied him levitating his pillow through the ajar door; before she could congratulate him, he’d dropped it to plunge his head into the down and burst into tears. Fighting maternal instincts, she’d let him be. Apricot hated when his parents saw him cry.

Though childishly blunt, his concerns about the delay were understandable—the ceremony was supposed to have started almost ten minutes ago. Cranberry returned to her surveillance of the park entrance, wondering when the final guest would arrive. A gust of wind shook the trees, and she caught a flash of gold through the foliage. She straightened.

Two pegasi in full Firewing battle armor marched around the bend. She recognized Major Specklestraw on the left, but the other was someone new she didn’t know. Behind them strode the reason they were both in armor, not uniforms: Princess Celestia, flanked by a second pair of Firewings, appeared from the trees. Her enormous mane shimmered with all the colors of the Sleipnordic aurora.

It was impossible to dress more formally than her daily wear, so the princess had gone in the opposite direction. No crown adorned her head, no gold lay around her neck, and no jeweled boots encased her hooves. Celestia was here as a family friend, not a ruler. Cranberry swallowed. She’d never seen the princess look so… mortal.

Inkpot was the first to bow, followed by all the other funeral-goers. The Firewings took up their places at the back of the group, and the princess walked slowly through the parting crowd to stand beside Windstreak and Rye.

Windstreak was the first to raise her head. “Your majesty,” she said, her voice cracked and raspy, “thank you for coming.” She looked up at her liege with a trembling jaw.

Celestia bowed her head to the new widow briefly, eyes solemn. “You are most welcome, Windstreak.” She lifted her head again, looking sadly down into the grave.

Inkpot cleared her throat as the small crowd settled. “Welcome to all of you. For those who haven’t met me, my name is Inkpot Sugar. I was not Apricot Strudel’s daughter by blood, but he and Windstreak cared for me and my sister for many years. Today we gather to pay our respects to him: as a father, friend, and,” she smiled, “the best cook in Canterlot.”

A few sad chuckles emerged from the crowd. Inkpot’s smile remained, but her eyes fell to gaze into the open grave. “Apricot never liked long ceremonies unless there was cake involved. I’ll do my best to keep this short.” She lifted her head. “Then again, that may be difficult—Apricot touched so many lives, from all kinds of ponies. Soldiers, librarians, artisans, aristocrats… we’ve all enjoyed his marvelous confections and warm smiles.”

She glanced around at the gathered ponies. “They say you can measure a pony’s worth by the quality of the company they keep. If that’s true, then Apricot was the greatest stallion I’ve ever known. He was the beloved husband of Windstreak Firemane, the mare who led our troops to victory over the griffon invaders. He was the father of Rye Strudel, our most accomplished ambassador, who’s saved our nation from a dozen new threats of war since then.”

Cranberry caught a few faint whispers in the crowd. Someone behind her muttered, “Mutant.”

Her jaw tightened. Could the poor stallion get no respite, even at his father’s funeral? Rye bent his head, his too-small wings drooping just enough for her to notice. Windstreak’s back straightened as one of her ears twitched. Cranberry could see a small flicker of fury in the lines of her face.

Princess Celestia cleared her throat sharply, and the whispers instantly ceased.

Inkpot handled the moment with grace, moving swiftly on. “And Apricot was a dedicated member of our city’s community, using his bakery to turn birthdays and weddings into memories we’ll all treasure forever.” She took a deep breath. “But pastries were not his greatest gifts to me and my sister.” She met Cranberry’s eyes, and the two shared a silent, mental hug.

After a moment to gather herself, Inkpot continued. “Twelve years ago, the vicious blizzard of 317 claimed the lives of our mother and father. We had nowhere to go, until Apricot…” she smiled, eyes glimmering, “Apricot took us both in without a moment’s hesitation. He and Windstreak opened their doors to us and made us part of the family. Whenever Cranberry skinned a knee playing with Rye, Apricot would bandage it up. Whenever I came home late from a long shift at the library, he would tuck me into bed.”

Wiping an eye, she nodded and her smile widened. “The spring I turned eight, I had finally saved up half the money I needed to purchase the deed to my library. I thought it would take another five years of hard work to finish the job, but Apricot matched my funds to help buy it that year, and all in my name. He even helped me with the paperwork, and moving our furniture when my sister and I went to live there.”

Cranberry smiled, remembering how much he’d sweated getting her favorite silly pink bookshelf up the stairs. Oh, Papa…

“And…” Inkpot paused, her eyes focusing on something far away, “that winter wasn’t the only time he saved my life.”

Cranberry blinked, eyebrows furrowing. It wasn’t?

“Six years ago on the day of the red sun, when the griffons rained from the skies and poured into our streets, I went to the bakery to rescue the stallion who’d been a father to me.” Inkpot’s voice cracked. “But he saved me instead. Two griffons broke into the bakery just after I arrived, and before they could—hurt us, he, he—” She paused, rattled, and took a deep breath. “He stopped them, by himself. I owed him my life twice over. And he never said a word about it afterwards.”

Neither did you, thought Cranberry, staring in shock. A quick glance at Windstreak and Rye’s horrified expressions meant this was new to them, too. Cranberry felt her stomach turn. The way Inky had said hurt us…

Inkpot lifted her head again. “And I know that he didn’t save me so that I could waste his gift by mourning him forever. Apricot would want me—us—to remember the good things: those lazy summer evenings at the bakery, helping knead dough; listening to Windstreak’s stories about the Firewings after our lessons, watching my sister and Rye playing by the building without a care in the world, because they knew they were taken care of. Those things will always be with me. And so will Apricot Strudel.”

She placed a hoof on her chest, looking around at the gathered ponies. “So let’s keep him alive in our memories. Let’s always remember the kind, warm stallion who made our lives a little better, one pastry at a time. And the next time you and your loved ones share a fresh loaf of bread, hot from the oven, think of Apricot.” Inkpot bowed her eyes and nodded once. “Now, we return him to the earth, to find peace in the world beyond.”

The crowd suddenly rumbled, murmuring in surprise as Celestia stepped forward. Her horn glowed brightly, and the piled earth beside the grave began to pour down into the pit. In moments, the casket was hidden from view. The earth packed neatly down into the plot, leaving a brown rectangle of dirt beneath the tombstone.

Celestia laid her hoof on the loamy surface. Her horn brightened, and glowing trails of magic curled down her leg like paisley. The radiant tendrils plunged into the soil, and green shoots burst up from the loam around her hoof.

Cranberry looked on in awe. It was easy to forget sometimes that Celestia was fundamentally different from a pegacorn like Rye. She embodied not just the pegasi and the unicorns, but the earth ponies as well. An avatar not just of the sun, but of all three pony races. Reverence stirred in Cranberry’s breast as she realized some of that old earth pony magic ran in her blood, too.

The plants bloomed as they sprouted, revealing roses, tulips, violets, and brilliant orchids all brimming with life. Celestia removed her hoof, and the light faded. Bowing her head once more to the tombstone, she stepped back into the crowd.

Apricot Junior sucked in a tiny breath. He was staring at the princess, transfixed. “Wow…”

The ceremony, brief as it was, had concluded. The mourners began to take their leave, filing past the tombstone to pay their final respects as they departed. Soon, only a few remained with the Sugars, the Strudels, and the princess’s retinue. Cranberry pulled her black cloak tightly around her neck and leaned on Inger, watching the blossoming branches sway in the wind.

As the final few guests gave their condolences, Inkpot joined them by the graveside. “Was the speech good?” she sounded hesitant, looking down at the bed of flowers. “I didn’t think he’d want something long.”

“Inky…” Cranberry wasn’t sure how much to ask, or say, in front of the kids. Throwing caution to the wind, she bolted forward and hugged her sister. Inkpot jolted, then softened and returned the hug. Hushed, Cranberry said, “Inky, you never told me about the griffons.”

Inkpot stepped back, shaking her head. “For good reason.”

“Do you want to talk about it…?”

“No,” she said flatly. “Not now, anyway. Maybe never.” Sighing, she gave Cranberry an apologetic look. “But if I change my mind… I’ll let you know.”

Cranberry nodded, swallowing. “Okay.”

The awkward moment was interrupted by a familiar, too-loud whisper from behind them. “Strawberry, did you see that?” Apricot’s voice was never as quiet as he thought he was. “The princess growing all those plants with magic! You think I could learn how to—”

“Quiet, Pinky,” said Strawberry, boxing his ears. “Be respectful.”

Apricot’s ears drooped. “Sorry,” he muttered, and fell silent.

A rich alto broke the quiet. “Greetings.” Cranberry and Inkpot turned to see Celestia standing before them, almost glowing in the pale morning sunlight. The Sugars all bowed deeply—though Strawberry had to nudge a starstruck Apricot to follow suit.

Celestia dipped her head. “Please, rise.” She focused on Inkpot. “Your words were lovely, Miss Sugar. I’m sure Mr. Strudel would have been grateful.”

“Th-thank you, Princess,” said Inkpot, shifting anxiously. Cranberry restrained a smile. Inky had never had as much exposure to the princess as the rest of the family. “And, um… thank you for the flowers.”

Celestia nodded sadly. She caressed one of the stalks of lavender with a gentle hoof. “Even after six thousand years, the pain of losing someone cuts deep each time. There is no secret to it. Nothing I can say will make the hurt heal faster. Yet…” She cupped a rose’s petals with her hoof. “Healing does come, in time. I promise you that.”

It was true, Cranberry knew—the ache of her blood parents’ loss had long faded to bittersweet memory, but it did nothing to make this pain less fresh. Celestia let the flowers go. “If any of you need someone to talk to, I will always be willing.”

“I couldn’t impose, Princess—”

“I make time for my subjects, Cranberry. Always.” Celestia turned her head. “Including you, Inkpot.”

Inky, her tail tucked unconsciously down at the royal attention, nodded meekly. “Thank you, Princess.”

“And Inger…” Celestia looked at her captain of the guard. “Extend your leave as long as you wish. For your family’s sake, if not your own.”

“My lady,” Inger began, “I couldn’t…”

“You’ve been there for me and Equestria without fail for over a decade, Inger. Now, they need you.” Celestia gestured to Cranberry and the colts. She flashed a dry smile over her shoulder toward Wheatie. “The sergeant can handle matters in your absence.”

Inger grimaced. “So he claims.”

A sudden sob broke the air. All eyes turned to see Windstreak sink to the ground beside the tombstone, shoulders shaking. Rye hugged her tight, covering them both with his wings. Tyria joined the hug, looking helpless.

Celestia frowned. “Excuse me,” she said, stepping away to comfort the Strudels.

As she left, Cranberry exhaled heavily. “I should stay a little longer, honey. If you want to take the kids home now—”

“Wait!” said Apricot. “Can I ask the princess to teach me that flower spell?”

Inger choked. “Apricot, you can’t just ask the princess to be your magic tutor.”

“Why not? She said she’d always have time for—”

Cranberry placed a restraining hoof on Apricot’s shoulder. “The princess was just being polite, Apricot. She’s very busy.” She sighed, focusing on his horn. “We’ll find you a new teacher soon, I promise.”

Apricot’s face fell. “I didn’t mean—I’m not trying to replace—” His eyes darted toward the gravestone, and his shoulders slumped. “I’m sorry.”

“We’ll wait with you here,” said Inger to Cranberry, patting her back. “Take as long as you need.”

Inkpot blew out a breath through pursed lips. “I have to get going, sis, I’m sorry. I’ve got to be back at the library to get some books ready for someone.”

“Shouldn’t you take a break, Inky? You didn’t even close the library for the week…”

“Working helps me cope,” said Inkpot grimly. “Always has, ever since Mom and Dad. I’ve got to stay moving.”

Maybe it would work for Cranberry, too. If she’d spent the last week teaching classes, instead of wandering around the house like a ghost, then maybe she wouldn’t have had all that time to dwell. She gave her sister a little nod. “Okay. Who needs the books so badly?”

“It’s some pony from out of the city. He wants practically every reference I have on elkish spellsinging,” said Inkpot, shaking her head. “Strangest unicorn I’ve ever met. He gives me a bad feeling.”

“Elkish?” Cranberry’s eyes sharpened. “But he’s a unicorn, you said? Not a pegasus?”

“Yes, why?”

“Hmm.” Cranberry bit her lip. “Nothing, I guess. Just a strange coincidence.”

Inkpot bid the rest of the Sugars goodbye, then walked away down the trail. As she left, Cranberry traced a small cross in the dirt, like the ones Papa always made on the top of his bread loaves.

She watched as Celestia spoke quietly with Windstreak and Rye, losing herself in the princess’s mane. It reminded her of the auroras in the Sleipnordic sky, and the legends of the valkyries that carried the valiant dead to the next life. Surely warriors weren’t the only ones to carry on after death. What evergreen fields waited beyond the veil for bakers?

They stayed another hour, long after the Princess had departed. There was little to say to the Strudels, but the two families remained together in silent solidarity. As the sky began to darken, Cranberry at last gave the grave a final press with her hoof and turned away.

She took a deep breath and nodded to Inger. “Let’s go home.”