He staggered in through the open door of the useless mansion, nearly fell through the gap on that summer night deep under Moon, and he couldn't remember how he'd gotten home.
There had been forms, during that last hour in the hospital, the first hour after she'd died. Soft voices, which he'd taken as a sign of ponies who both didn't wish to push him and were yet all too aware that they had to eventually get home. There was still a lingering scent of paper and ink in his snout, when he focused on it, and he wanted that scent because he was home for the first time in...
...there had been forms, and he must have signed them. And after that? Clearly he'd left Canterlot, but -- how? Had he taken the night trot? Ill-advised, even with all the spells which protected the old road, but... it would have been a means of return. He just didn't feel as if he'd galloped that far. His legs would have been far more sore
it's just an ache.
and the few pains which existed as something physical seemed to be far more localized. His barrel still retained a phantom impression of that last cold, cruel bench, the one he'd tucked himself onto at her bedside during the final wait. He'd effectively been living on that bench, because there had been a paid hotel room in the capital, but the bench was next to her and so that was where he'd had to be. The hospital staff had even let him use their showers a few times, he'd gone into the employee cafeteria and been welcomed without a word, but that was after somepony had needed to virtually shove him off that bench and...
...how had he gotten home?
He'd checked out of the hotel. He was certain of that, because he'd just registered the presence of saddlebags on his sides and they were full. Too full, because it was what little he'd brought to the capitol added to everything he was bringing back from the hospital. Everything she'd been carrying, things which were cold on a summer night because they weren't her and she would never come home.
The useless mansion rose up around him, and he could see the paintings she'd brought in to make it feel a little smaller, souvenirs from sojourns of travel and she'd done most of the shopping, because he had real trouble with that part. He could buy gifts for her, but it had felt as if anything else beyond the most basic staples had his mark evaluating the items for potential resale. Geegaws and knickknacks... part of her expertise, to find things which invoked memories, and she had been so good at that because it was exactly what they were doing. He looked at the tiny sculpture and they were in Baltimare again, he tried to get past the framed photograph before it placed him within the shadow cast by Las Pegasus and he was too late...
How long had it taken him to get home? That would be a clue. There was a clock up ahead
she picked out the clock
and he didn't look at it.
He could go into the garden. There was another sort of clock there, her favorite clock, and perhaps the Floslunam's bloom would be on the verge of opening. It would tell him...
But he was sore. Sore at the joints alone.
It's just an ache.
So he'd probably gotten home by air carriage, because it was hard to ride in one without constantly making small, unnatural shifts to keep body mass centered on a surface which wasn't always fully level. It would have been expensive, but... he had money, and there was still a reason to go home. Bits had paid for the trip. Bits had pretended to be good for something, after they'd been good for nothing at all --
-- there was a shadow in front of him, something talking and breathing, and he pulled back for a moment. But then it resolved into a servant, which was followed by more servants, because somepony was almost always awake within the empty spaces and they'd...
...they'd been waiting for him. He'd been sending word back by courier once a day, sometimes more, and that too was an expense but money had to do something. There had just been no courier during the last hours, because hiring one was time spent away from her, during the last hours there would ever be.
There had been no courier. And he was back, he'd entered alone and the servants were around him when he didn't want anypony to be, but some of them had been hired by his father, they'd watched him grow up and so they tried to take the saddlebags but... he said something. He didn't know what the words were: simply that words had emerged and the saddlebags had been left alone, so clearly they'd been the right ones.
A few more words followed, and then the servants gave him space. Still staying fairly close, watching him, but... he could move again.
One of them said a name. He nodded -- he thought he'd done that much -- and staggered forward towards the left branch of the hallway.
An air carriage: that was most likely it. Had he tipped the pegasi? It seemed as if he must have done so. Even now, there were basic courtesies to consider...
...the doorway. Somepony had already opened it for him, but the lighting devices in the room remained dark. The resident was sleeping, and that was a precious thing at this age. Just enough illumination streamed past his body to let him make out the cradle, and the little body resting within.
He could see her. Smell her, if but faintly with paper and disinfectants (there were always disinfectants, they'd rubbed some on the skin of the lost just before) still in his snout. And she was breathing.
All he could do was watch her breathe. He watched until the pain rose, he watched until it hurt too much to continue because watching the rise and fall of breath was so much of what he'd done until it had stopped, but he couldn't seem to go make himself go in. She was sleeping, and sleep was so precious. Just barely old enough to be thinking about sleeping through the night, which meant she was still too young to talk -- although he knew the first word would be soon. Too young to talk, and...
...too young to ever truly remember her mother.
What would she retain? Might she trot through the house as a filly, find an abandoned room with a pocket of undisturbed air, catch the faintest of scents and wonder why she was feeling a sudden longing, that deep ache...
He couldn't go in. He didn't know what time it was, and he didn't understand why time even mattered when he'd been awake for... for however long it had been, because the hours had been the last ones shared, even when he had just been in a room with a body: one that at first simply couldn't wake up, and then never would again. Any time going forward was his alone, and all he could think about was resale of that ultimate commodity. Shipping from the present to the past, shouldn't there be a means of doing that? He would absorb every loss on the procedure, because money was good for nothing else and the past needed the time more.
He couldn't go into the nursery. He couldn't change what had happened, and he'd tried to bargain for that. Offered up everything of himself to still air in a sterile room, only to find nothing listening.
The daughter's natural scent was that of an infant, but it was also so much like her mother's, and so he forced himself towards his own bedroom only to remember that it was their bedroom and more scents awaited him there, so he redirected a slumping form towards where he thought couches might be and
He was outside under Sun, between mansion (the stupid, oversized, useless mansion) and gardens: not within sight of them, not with his current angle on a bench which was trying to be comfortable and yet didn't seem to take any heat from Sun or his own body. He understood why it would be having trouble with the latter, because everything about him felt cold.
It was apparently still summer, and there were so many benches in the grass under the high roof of the open-walled tent. There were ponies on those benches. Some rested quietly, some brought fresh food to the long table, and others tried to bring some of those greens to him because it was shiva and he wasn't supposed to do anything for himself. Earth ponies had created their own traditions of mourning: some public, some hidden, and one of the open aspects was that those survivors trying to carry the cruel burden of breath would have no more requirements than to sit quietly and talk.
He was allowed to talk, if he wished. But for the most part, he was supposed to listen. For up to a week, as everypony who'd known her did everything for him, so that he would be free to do nothing except... listen. Searching for music which could only be heard by the soul, because all magic had its signature and for earth ponies, that magic expressed itself as a song rising from the truest of hearts. It was music which lingered for a time after death, before the final notes faded into the background chorus which energized soil and made the garden possible.
her garden
The most basic aspects of her magic would linger for moons. But the music, the voice of her truespeech...
Ponies looked at him. Approached him.
"-- all right?"
He said something. They moved away again. Some of them, the ones he'd known longest, tried to nuzzle him first: he pulled back. Her family was there and for them he allowed contact, but they cried into his fur and...
...he wasn't crying. It felt as if he'd done almost nothing else in the hospital room, but there didn't seem to be any tears now. And so her parents and sister talked to him -- the brother was due to arrive tomorrow, because at least he could pay for that -- and then moved away, to where a filly was sleeping in a crib.
Ponies looked at him. Some of them were mares, and he felt as if there was evaluation in a few of those regards because he was newly single and of strictly average appearance, but nothing put a shine on plain brown fur like a hint of gold and --
No.
Never again.
-- perhaps he was misinterpreting those expressions. He just knew that there were so many kinds of company being offered during shiva, and he wanted none of them.
One of the shadows had a posture which suggested illness. He sent it home and suggested it see a doctor.
Ponies moved in and out of the tent. Some of them headed into the mansion, others went towards the gardens and for the shadows which occasionally resolved into earth ponies, he could sometimes see their ears twisting, except with the one for whom the view was partially shielded. The outer sign of what was happening within the soul. Listening for the last of her.
But there was no reason to do so, because signatures only lasted so long. The maximum for an earth pony, where the instrument played by their soul could still be identified, was about a week. She'd been in the hospital for a little more than half a moon, and so it was there that her final notes could be found. It was where the last of her was fading, fading and he knew that because over the last few nights --
-- how many nights had it been?
-- he'd found himself outside the building under clouded Moon, freshly sore from what had probably been an air carriage ride. (It was deduction only. He didn't know how he'd gotten there, any more than he remembered getting up that morning or having breakfast -- he'd probably eaten -- or recalled having come out to shiva.) And he'd listened, because the most basic aspect of earth pony magic was continuous unless the illness attacked that and the rarest of infirmities hadn't been what had taken her in the end, so there was still a little music left and...
...she had been a piccolo. (He'd always been able to pick her out of the chorus, from the first moment he'd ever listened.) Quick, lilting, bright, sounding as if she was forever on the verge of running out of breath and
running out of breath
he was listening while standing outside a hospital.
There were so many earth ponies in that hospital. Sick and hurt and dying, their souls trying to play through instruments which had been dented and strained, broken reeds and shattered stops and he could still make her out within the battered orchestra, hear her, the last of her, but every note was stretched across agony which a dying body had still contorted through in sleep unending. It was strained and tortured and begging for release and he was there every night to listen because all too soon, even that would be gone and
It's just an ache.
it was his fault.
He listened because it was the last of her, and it was also the worst thing he could do to himself.
He'd... tried the borders of the garden in a search for the purest music, even knowing he didn't deserve it. But it hadn't worked, because it had been more than half a moon in the hospital, added to a shiva which had been going on for -- some time. It was just that she'd put so much attention into it. Devotion. The best of her...
...it was summer. It felt wrong, for death to come in summer, when the world was warm and her garden was still in bloom. Death should be cold, as cold as she'd been when he'd touched her for the last time. The world should be dead.
There were those who would say that gardening for an earth pony was redundant: after all, the Cornucopia Effect was as automatic as breathing and in their view, all she had to do was just stand there. But she had loved the exotic, had gathered so many flora from across the continent and a little beyond. It meant giving attention to every bloom, making sure all of the disparate needs could cooperate within the same soil. She could focus that finely, where he could not. She wanted to do the same for ponies, because the spouse of a wealthy pony had some time available and charity work had a certain appeal, but then there had been an announcement, a celebration, a birth and so much of her time had been redirected. She had focused finely, and done so on her filly.
But the garden still took its share of the time which had run out. It measured that time. He could trot up to the centerpiece whenever he wished, and it would display how much it had stolen of her life.
It was called a flower clock and even for an earth pony who was willing to put in the work, it was complex. For starters, there was a certain amount of research involved. Anypony who cared to look into the issue would eventually learn that certain blooms opened and closed with defined regularity, each trying to take in its share of Sun. Was it six in the morning, during the summer moons when Sun was brought over the horizon so early? Then the Spotted Cat's Ear would be spreading petals, seeking a few more moments of life. Noon was when Morning Glories took over, with no awareness of the irony. Carnations made their effort about an hour later, Cereus officially ended the summer day shift, and then you moved into those plants which had adapted to drink in Moon...
A flower clock was several body lengths across, a riot of color (which had to be carefully balanced) and species, and it kept time. It wasn't particularly accurate time: you had to know exactly what was planted and when it tried for light in order to get a rough guess, and even an expert would be lucky to get within fifteen minutes. But she'd taught him, and then she'd planted everything, one seed at a time. There was a craft to it, something few ponies ever recognized, and it required working until her neck and legs were sore.
It's just an ache.
It was thriving: he was sure of that. But he hadn't gone to see it, when other ponies were wandering into the gardens to look at the last of what she had wrought. The seasons would change eventually. Autumn would come, then winter. Everything she'd created would be...
...they were trying to do everything for him.
He had servants. Some of the shadows were being paid. Other outlines were unfamiliar. Some of them became ponies for a time. One had removed a hat upon entering the tent, took it up again when departing after... some time. There were words, and there were words spoken back, and none of them mattered.
They were trying to do everything for him, when they could do nothing at all.
There was a mouthwritten document on top of his plain, strictly-functional oversized desk, and that was how he became aware that he was at work.
(It was a clean desk. Every Barnyard Bargains had to be staffed so that it could run itself in an emergency, and he'd been gone for -- some time. Whoever had been in charge during that period had done a good job. He tried to remember who it had been, and then he wondered how he could find out who they were.)
His office door was open. It was just about always open: his father had taught him that. Run a business and you get enough crises that having ponies stop to open a door just slows things down. It meant ponies could come in, and clearly one of them had deposited the document on his desk. Others paused as they trotted by. Looked through the gap, looked at him, and their faces --
-- the document was clearly mouthwritten: even the most careful pony couldn't avoid a little flecking of the paper from inadvertent saliva. Each character was mostly clean and easy to distinguish, but they were also oversized and tended to get a little sloppy at the end. Somepony who was at home with words, but preferred to get the written ones out of the way in a hurry because there were other things to do. And it was just as clearly a contract, because that was the first word written across the top in the largest lettering of all: Contract. Somepony had brought him a contract to sign, because he was at work and that was the sort of thing a businesspony did. It was just that he was a marked businesspony, one whose mark was for nothing except business, and that meant he never signed anything before reading every last word.
His head arced over the desk, lowered until he hooked the paper with his chin. Brought it closer, but he'd chosen a poor angle and
It's just an ache.
it took some adjusting before he could truly begin. Start with the first word...
Contract.
Not that you had to own a business to be familiar with contracts, because every earth pony was said to be part of one. That was how the granting of magic was described: the contract. A pact with the land itself: to emerge, serve as caretakers and, in time, to return...
...return.
It felt like a rather stupid way of saying die.
There was one contract which covered every earth pony, and you didn't get to read it before accepting the terms. The little splash of blood from a severed umbilical cord served as binding signature.
Why sign it at all? A newborn didn't know the full scope of what they were agreeing to. And when you came right down to it, you were signing something where the other party retained all of the power and entertained nothing in the way of a bargain. The world got to call the debt due at any time, and what was the earth pony allowed to say? Who listened to protests? Where were the courts? He'd watched as a contract was called in early, he'd pleaded, he'd offered everything he had and everything he was and...
...contracts were pointless.
He didn't want to deal with the mouthwritten document. Not today. It was his first day back at work (or his second, or his... it didn't matter) and so some things could wait.
The paper had been hooked in with his chin. His right forehoof had a much easier time with shoving it aside.
It's just an ache.
...there were servants going in and out of the nursery, and he saw that because he was standing near the door. He'd been there for...
...he must have gone to see her daughter. He was almost sure of that. Even if she'd done so much of the work in foal-rearing because he was only two years into his granted custody of the franchise stores and still needed so much time in the office in order to smooth the transition, he'd always made time for their child. He'd been told that he had a good voice, something which outclassed his appearance. It was supposed to give him some skill at reading stories to a foal who didn't understand words yet (but words were coming). He wasn't sure that was true...
...had he been in the nursery?
There were servants in there now. It was the wrong time.
He turned, trotted away, went past a shelf of souvenirs and that was Manehattan, they'd left Manehattan three days early because the city was stifling and it had turned out that the little settlements which dotted parts of the eastern shoreline were so much more accommodating. In the end, it had even created the decision to stay in Ponyville. A smaller community allowed you to know ponies: the biggest settled zones had so many faces moving through them that eventually, it felt as if you were watching a procession of shadows.
She'd still been getting used to Ponyville. The travels they'd made during the honeymoon, crossing the continent by private carriage... it had been no secret that the new couple had been looking for an equally-new place to live: he certainly hadn't been able to conceal that from his parents. But the pressure of population... that was what had pushed her back towards the center of the nation. She'd felt it would be easier to make connections in a region where she was one of only a few thousand. But she'd brought back things from Manehattan, as she'd purchased knickknacks from everywhere. Meaningless detritus with price tags attached to anypony else, but for her, they were reminders. A chronicle of their lives.
He looked at the crude statuette, and he thought about Manehattan.
Then he was in the carriage, and she was laughing --
-- he looked away, and there was another settled zone on that shelf, the shell was from the first time he'd ever been to the ocean with her trotting alongside his flank, and that was a ticket stub from the date and that was the movie's poster, he was surrounded by her and she was everywhere he went and he could just tear the whole mansion down, build something new because money could do that much and he had money, he had bits and he didn't have her and he couldn't look at any of it he couldn't look he couldn't look he couldn't
There was an uneven stack of papers on the right corner of the desk top. He could see part of one sticking out, and the mouthwritten flecked characters said Contract.
He looked away, and it left him looking at a fully-even stack on the left. The papers there were identical, unnecessarily ornate, and featured calligraphy which existed because if you had to look at something like this, then maybe you'd be too annoyed by the addition of calligraphy to feel anything else. It didn't work.
They were certified government copies of her death certificate. He still had twenty-three of them. He'd started with...
...he'd been mailing out a lot of copies.
So he was at work. Good. Work wasn't home, so at least it had that going for it: he'd even been having mail sent from the estate to his desk, just so the mansion would be a little more pointless and empty. He could do things at work, and apparently he needed to do a few of them or else the stack wouldn't have been so high. It was time to go through part of it. Just... not that part.
There were distribution sheets, because some of the orders for autumn would be shipped soon and while each franchise largely bore responsibility for their own stock, he was responsible for every last store. It meant reviewing how the divisions would go, and he read down a few columns, shifted some numbers, set a few to zero without thinking about it, and then moved on.
Her favorite gardening magazine needed to have its subscription renewed. He silently placed a copy of the death certificate in the reply envelope, then sealed it and set the results onto the outbound pile. The hospital had told the government, and couriers had notified her parents, but solicitations were effectively forever until stopped.
She didn't need that clothing catalogue any more, either.
She always complained about how there was just nothing good available in town...
There was a preschool recruitment letter, sent from the capital. He considered the hours used to send a filly back and forth every day, thought about her age, decided they were probably mailing out based on a purchased resident income guide, and politely asked them to stop.
This was... a new employee hiring sheet. He just had to sign off on it.
...had he been hiring new employees? It was summer. Sometimes he took on adolescents for a while, just to give them a taste of the retail life. His father had done that. A few stayed...
...he was almost sure it was still summer. There was a calendar on the wall --
-- he looked at the sheet. No, this was an adult. He didn't recognize the name, but it wasn't as if he was the only one who hired. He was just the pony who had to finalize it. If somepony else had decided to bring this pony in, then he had to trust them. Still, it didn't hurt to review the sheet.
Married. And she'd done so at an unusually early age. He'd thought his own union had been --
-- experience looked okay, especially given how young she was. On to the contract portion of the hiring sheet --
-- contracts were pointless --
-- he squinted. Looked more closely at words he'd reviewed a hundred times.
Paid sick leave available after three moons of work.
And, judging from the incredulity which immediately took over his features, had never actually read.
Three moons before somepony could take paid sick leave? Who had written that horror into the contract to begin with? His father? Oh, he could have words with his father, although it would have been just about as effective as all the pleading he'd done in the hospital and shared the same chance of reply. How was a pony supposed to control when they got sick? Were they meant to push their way through three moons of work while coughing and sneezing and
It's just an ache.
so much else, to show how devoted they were to the job, or risk losing income and employment alike? No. That was going to end today. All he had to do was take a few notes, then send them to somepony who could render them into something binding. Start with a fresh sheet of paper...
Sick leave available upon hiring at full normal pay rate.
...wait.
What about the family? This mare was already married. There would probably be foals on the way soon, and...
...say she's too sick for Ponyville, she needs to be moved to the main hospital in Canterlot. Her spouse would need to visit her. That's an expense. Maybe that spouse needs to stay in the capital for a while, and he knew just how much a hotel room which wasn't being used cost, didn't he? Shouldn't a pony get more money when they were ill, because that was going to be when they needed bits most! Even when bits were useless, utterly useless and all they could accomplish was to remind you of how little they could do
(He was writing faster now.)
there was food to consider because you were supposed to eat, you didn't want to eat but everypony kept telling you to do so because you were supposed to live while your spouse was dying and nopony could tell you why, why now, why her, why he was supposed to keep going or HOW, but the point was that cafeteria meals cost money. Bits which needed to be paid to the family, because the ill would be in no shape to collect.
It was just common sense. He didn't understand why nopony had ever seen it before. And so he wrote, and he added up new columns just to give himself fresh numbers to ignore, and he bled bits from every pore while completely ignoring the fact that he had no idea where they were supposed to come from, but lives were important and bits weren't. He told himself that he would find the money somewhere -- it might as well be his own, since that was useless -- and he just kept writing and then he looked down to discover the quill had broken, he'd been dipping into a dry inkwell, and there was still half a ream filled up.
He looked up. Three ponies hastily moved away from the door.
His mouth hurt. It almost felt as if his mark hurt.
But it was just an ache...
...it was a natural conclusion. He was an earth pony. He couldn't teleport. So if there were times when he was at work, and others which found him in a home he no longer wanted to enter, then there had to be periods of transition. Moments which had him within Ponyville, and so one of them registered at the moment when an exceptionally out-of-touch shadow asked why his wife had missed the last club meeting.
He said a few words. They weren't unkind. They were just the words which had to be said.
Then he said a few more.
Sun dipped a little.
He moved on.
There was another shadow...
There was an open door leading into the nursery.
There was an invisible shield, and it was created by the sleeping filly's scent.
He watched her breathe.
There were ponies sitting around the huge table in the central meeting room. He wondered if their benches were comfortable. Then he tried to recognize them, and was surprised to be partially succeeding.
He wondered how long the meeting had been going on.
"-- so there's a problem," somepony timidly said. "And... we're not sure how it happened. But we thought we had to ask if you could resolve it. There's just some very strange paperwork in the system right now, and..."
It was an odd mix of tones, he thought. You didn't often hear helpful desperation, at least outside of a hospital.
"...maybe you could clear it up?"
He politely rotated his ears a little more forward.
"It's the --" and he missed a word "-- store. They're being shorted on merchandise shipments. For the last few --" and another dropped away. "They're trying to compensate, but... they said every time they try to place their own orders, the forms have been coming --"
The pony swallowed.
"-- through us. For approval. And it's all being denied. They need stock. So maybe..."
The next gulp mostly brought down courage.
"...if you could help them?"
"How?" felt like a reasonable question.
"Because..."
He wondered if his employee was ill. Nopony should be sweating that much in a meeting room, even in summer.
(He wondered if it was still summer.)
"...you've been -- blocking their orders?" asked a pony whom he would one day regard as among the bravest in the world.
He blinked.
"I've been what?" The words were calm. They had to be. The disbelief was a little behind, so calm was pretty much the only option.
"That's what they said," the desperate mare continued. "That the first forms they got back were signed by you, so they're guessing everything was." Hastily, "We don't know yet. Even with express couriers, there's transit time. Especially going all the way to --"
It took a few moments of waiting before he realized that everypony around the table was staring at him. All with the same expression, and it was the one which kept going by the open door.
"I think," he calmly told them, "I missed a word. Going where?"
Somehow, "...Vanhoover," reached his ears.
He took a slow breath.
"I know Vanhoover," he placidly told them. "Better than anypony else in this room. I'm the resident expert on that settled zone. So if I was taking merchandise away from the store, it's because I'm familiar enough with the area to recognize what's needed."
"Some... some of the orders were just canceled --"
I don't remember --
"-- then I suppose they had to be," was offered in what he felt to be a perfectly rational voice. "Which I would have decided based on personal experience. I'm the only pony here who's lived in Vanhoover. Some of you might remember that I went to college there --"
-- she was walking across the Gate.
She walked across the Gate three days out of five. I found that out because I remembered when she'd first been there, and I kept checking back. I even figured out which class she was leaving.
It was two minutes, three times a week, and I was trying to think of what to say, when everypony in the world must have said it to her before, and I was just this plain brown stallion whose self-worth began and ended with a bank account which I was afraid to mention to anypony, just in case that was the only thing they saw about me.
I was afraid to tell anypony my name.
Two weeks before she changed course, went into a light gallop before I could move and said one of us had to start this relationship and it clearly wasn't going to be me.
We... before we even finished college, we were...
...if there was ever anything which needed personal tending in Vanhoover, we were supposed to go north together. Because it was easier to solve problems when I talked about them with her, it would be faster, and then there might be some time left over. We could find some of our old friends. There were plans on where to hook up first, if that one hole-in-the-wall hadn't been closed down by the health inspectors at last. I would have sent the summons ahead by courier to a few, surprised others.
The ones she wanted surprised.
As surprised as Dad was when I brought her home.
"Vanhoover's in trouble," the pony told him. "If they don't have stock, they can't sell. The entire franchise might --"
"-- every franchise is supposed to be capable of solving its own problems," he pointed out.
Frantic now, "But the problem is --"
They don't deserve --
"You're sick," he told the mare. "I'm sending you home. Please stop at Pony Resources before you leave and ask about the new illness policy."
...why was he in their bedroom? He'd been avoiding the bedroom for...
...there were boxes. Some full, some empty, and nothing within them still bore her scent.
So clearly he'd been packing. That made sense. It was a huge, mostly empty, and completely pointless mansion, but there was only so much space available in a single bedroom. And maybe it would be easier to sleep in here, once her possessions had been put away. He'd been on the couch for...
...what was he supposed to do with her possessions? Endless storage, until their child could look at adult things and decide if there was anything suitable? There was already one item waiting for the child, assigned while -- her mother had still been awake. A piece of jewelry. Something she was still too young to wear, and he didn't want a foal to be sucking on metal.
He could donate a few of them to charity. She'd liked giving to charity. But that took them away from the foal in the nursery.
Well, regardless of their final fate, they had to be packed. There were a few drawers open and empty already. The master closet was probably next, because the number of empty boxes suggested he hadn't gotten there yet. So he trotted over, opened the door, looked at the first heavy winter garment which would never know another snowfall, and something within the core of his talent instantly figured out base wholesale, likely retail, profit margin, and where to best display it in the store.
...he was twisting, every muscle was pushing against itself, but he couldn't reach it, he couldn't reach his mark and so the bite went into another part of his skin, there was no part of her scent left in the room and all he knew was the blood, it was iron and rust and the disinfectants came flowing back and he was galloping past servants and the nursery and he almost heard the cry from a foal who'd been woken by an odor which her instincts had told her to fear, but he was out of the house and into the garden under Sun when it was still summer, somehow still summer in a living world, and a riot of color and effort and expended time had the Coltsfoot just beginning to open and that meant the time was --
There were two screams, at the moment his body dropped into grass and warm soil. One was muffled at the moment his jaw was pressed into the dirt, allowing what little blood hadn't been absorbed by his fur to be taken by the thieving, uncaring land, and the one which could only be heard by the soul shot past it, reached deep and sent pain and rage and injustice, the injustice into the world and demanded that it be recognized. Turned every bit of twisting inner sickness into something which was moving out, and still kept flowing because no matter how much he pushed into the land, there was always more to give.
One scream failed to make it through a single breath. The second seemed to go on forever.
He looked up when the newest scent somehow pushed its way to him. Something which was almost familiar, and it took him a moment to recognize it because the source was different. Botanical instead of... meat.
He smelled the rot, and looked up in time to see the last of the flower clock fall apart as dead brown petals drifted onto befouled soil.
And then he was vomiting, because the best of her was dead and the hours she'd put into the clock were gone whether it was dead or not and it was time he hadn't spent with her and she was dead she was dead she was
He nearly trotted into the shadow which was taking up so much of the road just outside his front gates. Even as large as it was, he didn't really see it, and a single crucial instant during which his brain identified legs and hooves and saddlebags was the difference between collision and just barely stopping in time.
The shadow resolved, and the big body cleared its throat.
"Mornin'," the stallion declared. An expert brow shift added a tiny tilt of the hat.
Was it? Sun was up, so morning was at least a possibility. He supposed that meant he was heading to work, if it was a day when he had the early shift. Or just out. He was sure he went out sometimes, even if he no longer cared about the destination.
"Don't mean t' detain you," the stallion added. "Not when Ah can see you're in kind of a hurry. But it'll jus' take a second. Ah..." The big head dipped. "...Ah've been tryin' not t' bother you. 'cause..." Which was followed by a sigh. "...'cause of the same reason everypony's been tryin' t' give you a little space, even when..."
The larger pony trailed off. Sheer awkwardness manifested as a hard flick of the red tail.
"Anyway," the stallion continued as he watched, wondering when the farmer was going to move, "the harvest is real close now. An' this is the first one we've had since your dad..." Stopped again, winced. "Wasn't exactly gonna bring it up at shiva, neither. So Ah left it with your staff, 'cause -- Ah thought, with you in charge now, we should probably sign it all over again. Jus' that -- ain't nopony got back t' me. An' if you don't want t' do this no more, Ah guess Ah'll understand. But Ah don't want t' negotiate with anypony else, even with the old contract void. Not until you say no."
What was this about? The stallion clearly felt it was important. Ponies generally thought many things were important, right up until the moment when they had to add up all the hours which had been used --
"-- so Ah figured, maybe it got lost in all the stuff y'had t' catch up on," the stallion generously offered. "So if'fin y'got a minute, Ah wrote up another copy. Brought it with me. Ah'm just askin' for a yes or no, after y'read it, of course. Minute of your time."
Time which could never be replaced --
The stallion tilted his head back along the long left flank, teeth going for the lid of that saddlebag --
-- stopped. Winced again, and did so at the same moment a small grunt escaped from what was now a tight-pressed jaw.
Instantly, "What's wrong?"
"Jus' natural consequences," the big stallion shrugged. "Been workin' more hours than usual, gettin' ready for that harvest. It's jus' an ache --"
He was an earth pony, and that granted him a certain amount of extra strength, well above that suggested by his build. But the farmer was also an earth pony: one of the largest in town. It gave the bigger stallion a certain amount of resistance, and so he reacted to the head which had just started pushing into his right side through staying exactly where he was.
"-- what are you doin'?"
Wasn't it obvious? "I'm taking you to a doctor. Don't worry about the cost: I'll --"
"You're what? Ah don't need no --"
He was pushing harder, but the stallion was so big and nothing was moving "-- yes, you do! You've got a family! You have to think about them! This is for your own good! It'll only take a couple of hours for a full checkup, and once it's done --" he was barely aware of the way his words were accelerating, the same way his hooves were scrabbling faster and faster against the dirt "-- either you go back home because everything is fine, or you're being taken care of! I'll pay for it! Just let me take you, just move --"
The fresh desperation was almost familiar. "-- everypony's been tryin' t' give you some space because of what happened, but Ah can't just let you -- Ah'm jus' a little sore, it's jus' --"
"-- she was sore! I told her it was just an ache because she'd been working in the garden for most of the day, just an ache and she's dead, she's dead and you've got a family, you have to take care of yourself, you've got kids --"
And then he wasn't pushing any more.
He wasn't standing either.
His body was lying on a warm road under Sun, a road which had no right to be warm when he was still breathing, still warm when she'd been so cold...
Then Sun was gone. He'd been waiting for --
No. There was a shadow falling over him.
Then there was a big body pressed against his own. Flank to flank. He could feel the saddlebag. It was just about empty.
"She told me she was sore, and I said it was just an ache," he whispered. "I didn't... I didn't listen. We could have gone to the doctor right then. We..."
He felt the stallion's breath more than he heard it. The gentle, strong pressure of muscles pushing against him.
"Ah'll get y'up," the farmer stated. "Your place is closer. Rather do mine, but... y'shouldn't go too far."
With what he wished to be the last of his breath, "...can go to the doctor. Right now..."
Silence for a moment, and then a long, slow sigh.
"Ah don't think either of us is goin' much of anywhere today."
They were in the mansion's kitchen. Each had taken a turn at cooking, and the fact that they'd been talking long enough for Sun to visibly move had given the farmer the chance to prove he was marginally better at it.
"Word goin' around town is that it was fatal," the stallion said after the last of the improvised fritters had been forced down. "Ah..."
It had been the sort of talk where the big head kept dipping.
"Ah didn't mean t' offend there," the farmer offered from the other side of the smaller, more intimate kitchen table: something which made it easier to talk than the stretched-out joke in the dining room. "Ah meant, it would have been fatal no matter when y'brought her in. No treatment. Jus' --"
"-- don't say 'making her comfortable'," he bitterly cut in. "I feel like she would have been awake for another day if they hadn't made her so comfortable. And she was still twitching and jerking, up until the end. Still in pain, whenever the drugs weren't at their strongest. I --"
He had to force the breath.
"-- still told them to try, because I... I couldn't watch her suffering like that. But then she was asleep, and the pain was still there..."
Had his eyelids always been so heavy? Perhaps not for his entire life, but for -- a while now.
"I couldn't do anything." It was half a whisper. "Every decision I made, every choice... she still died."
"You could be there for her," the farmer pointed out, in a voice which felt oddly gentle in coming from such a large form. "You stayed in Canterlot the whole time. The hospital, from what y'said. Never retreated, never left for any longer than y'had t' for the necessities. Lots of ponies wouldn't have been able t' stay in that room."
"I could afford to stay," he bitterly shot back. "Money did that much. It gave me ponies who could watch my home and the time to see my wife die. That's all money was good for, and I didn't even spend it the right way. I keep thinking --"
Which was where he stopped, because he had been thinking. He just hadn't let himself recognize that thoughts were talking place and seeing them for the first time, truly recognizing --
But the farmer was known to be persistent.
"Keep it goin'," was firm. "If'fin y'can. But there's been ponies watchin' you an' worryin' for a while. Mostly givin' you space, 'cause you've always come across as stronger than y'might know. They thought you'd find your way out of it. Ah understand that. But Ah also think everypony needs help sometimes. An' the only way this helps is if you keep talkin'."
He slumped a little lower on the plain bench.
"I could have done more," he slowly offered to the judging world. "I could have gone to the zebras. Right into Pundamilia Makazi. They've got the best doctors: everypony knows that. New potions could have been commissioned --"
"-- pretty sure potions don't come together that fast," the farmer suggested. "Not that Ah know any zebras. Wouldn't mind meetin' one someday, but --"
"-- maybe they could have found something, even if it wasn't a cure, something which brought her more time --"
"-- which means you've gotta reach them in the first place," the big stallion calmly pointed out. "Ain't exactly a short trip. You would have lost all that time with her --"
"-- the escort network! I could have paid for that! Even with relays, I could have been teleported there in hours!"
Not without faint nausea, "An' sick for a day on both ends, recoverin', because y'would have been uprooted over an' over. And that far, that fast -- ain't never used the network, ain't no earth pony who wants t' unless it's a crisis. But Ah do know ponies who have. Ah can guess at the cost. We're talkin' thousands --"
"-- so what? It was for her! Maybe they could have found something, maybe there was a chance! I talked to the doctors in Canterlot, they said they kept up with the journals and there were no articles about anything recent, but how many zebras work on it when just as few get it as ponies? Maybe they just needed somepony right in front of them, a commission, a chance --"
"As many," the farmer stated, "as know zebras who have loved ones catch it. 'cause everyone who's got that love is gonna ask. Y'know that. You knew it all along. An' what Ah'm hearin' is a pony who needs somethin' to blame 'cause he couldn't do anythin' t' save his wife, in a situation where he did more than most, an' so he's gonna blame himself. That's the truth of it, ain't it? Somepony's gotta be responsible for this, so it's gonna be you. Sound right?"
His mouth opened.
His mouth closed.
His eyes followed.
"It was worthless," he whispered. "Everything I did. Worthless."
"You were there. Y'don't think she knows that, from where she is now? That y'stayed? Y'fought, y'loved her as best y'could?"
"All of this money, and it's worthless..."
He opened his eyes just in time to see the farmer's lips quirk.
"In that case," the big stallion asked, "mind lettin' me have all of it? Jus' t' test out the worthlessness thing for mahself."
And before the businesspony could say anything, the yellow head slowly shook.
"Ah get it, though," the farmer sighed. "We're more alike than Ah might have thought, you an' me. We're both 'bout family at the core, an' -- you jus' lost part of yours. You feel like you're alone. An' Ah've gotta be straight with you: you've got me thinkin'." The tail flicked again. "Got me scared. Ah've been listenin' to all of this, tryin' t' imagine what it would be like if one of us went first. It's the most painful thing Ah've had in mah head since the last birth, 'cause there's always this thought of somethin' goin' wrong." A softer sigh. "Bet you know that one, 'cause ours ain't too far apart, are they?"
"Your third," he pointed out. (He'd sent a gift.) "My --" and stopped.
Immediately, "You were 'bout t' say 'first', right? An' then y'stopped, 'cause it was 'bout t' be 'only'?"
He just barely managed the nod.
"...yeah." The stallion's warm green eyes closed, opened again. "You're young. Ah know it seems like it's gonna be a cold bed forever, but... you're young. Younger than me. There's time, an' she'd want you t' be happy --"
"-- only," he said.
Gently, "Give it time. Ah ain't sayin' this year --"
"I think it's 'only'."
Silence for a while.
"Y'got me scared," the farmer finally continued. "Ah'll admit it. One of us goes first, one left t' take care of 'em... that's comin' t' mah nightscape soon. But you're still here, an' there's somepony who needs you. There's nothin' left you can do for her, except tell her kid about her life. Mr. Rich --"
Quickly, because the farmer had earned it, "You can call me Fil --"
"-- when's the last time you nuzzled your daughter?"
He blinked. He didn't look at the farmer, and he didn't look at the clock, or the little kitchen calendar which was used to mark the days for ordering holiday supplies prior to the truest of family dinners: the ones where all the servants came to the main table and it was finally full.
Then he did.
"...oh, Sun and Moon... it's been..."
He was thinking about his tail. The way it was trying to tuck itself out of sight, brushing against the still-healing wound along the way.
"...I haven't even been in her room for -- she has her mother's eyes, a little of the ear shape, but even in the crib -- I can see the same bearing, the same stance. Her scent is a little like her mother's, and... she reminds me of her mother, every day. I'm afraid to approach her because I'll think about her mother. That's sick --"
"-- it's more normal than y'think," the farmer interjected. "But it's also got t' stop. You're strong. Probably would have gone in on the first night, if'fin the servants weren't there. Maybe that's where the money does more harm than good. Y'got t' stall --"
"-- how can I do this?" It wasn't a whisper. He wished it had been, instead of a question strong enough to reach his soul. "How can I make up for her not having a mother? How am I supposed to do this alone?"
He gave the big stallion full credit for what happened next, and did so for the rest of his life. He watched the farmer's slow-shifting features, realized the other male was truly thinking about it, and waited for the answer.
"Mah first two have been old enough t' help for a while," the farmer eventually said. "An' it scares 'em. The boy more than the girl, at least in the open: filly won't let ponies see when she's afraid, an' -- Ah worry 'bout that, now an' again. He's probably headin' t' college --"
Automatically, "Congratulations --"
"-- an' he's gonna do what he's meant t'. But Ah think she'll stay, an' she's stubborn. Stubborn, usually won't let ponies see when she's afraid or hurt, don't ask for help easy..." He sighed. "Ain't a good combo. But Ah told 'em both -- it's one tree at a time. Don't mean the crop ain't huge, or that the scope of the thing ain't scary. Don't mean y'don't need help. Ah hope she knows how t' ask, that Ah taught her that much. Ah hope you do. But... one tree. Over an' over. Eventually, add it all up, it's a harvest. Or y'call it one day, over an' over, an' then it's a lifetime. Try for one day. Then another. You'll be better at it than y'think: Ah'm sure of that. You've jus' -- gotta go for the first tree, 'cause that's the scariest. Do one. An' you'll do fine."
"And if I don't?"
"Then tell me," came immediately. "It is mah third, y'know." Dryly, "Ah'd hope t' have learned somethin'. Plus -- look, mah wife is real busy right now. Harvest, an' -- well, we did just have the third. But she gets some time now an' again. If you want her t' maybe drop in, check on yours --"
A foal too young to remember her own mother.
A new mare standing next to the cradle.
It's too soon.
"Not just now," he quietly replied. "You're -- busy right now, all of you. Maybe one day."
The farmer momentarily looked uncertain.
"Your family," the big stallion finally said. "Your call."
They both drank some water.
"Ah don't know if y'saw me at shiva. You -- didn't seem t' be seein' much. But we did come, for two of the days. Wanted t' say goodbye t' Sweet --"
"She changed her name, you know."
The farmer's eyebrows arced. "Oh?" Openly impressed, "That's rare. Most ponies think it's playin' with fire. Or destiny, an' that's worse."
"One of the very few," he nodded. "It was one of the first things we had in common, once we started talking -- once she got me talking. When it came to names, we both had some serious questions for our parents. But she was stronger than I was. She actually went and did it."
"If'fin y'don't mind mah asking -- what was the original?"
With a small smile, "Let's just say it didn't go nearly as well with 'Spoiled'..."
He was rewriting the contract, and doing so in front of a rather amused farmer.
"Look, Ah trust you --"
He spat out the quill. "-- good. I don't trust the economy. Automatic cost-of-living increases and inflation elevators: that's all this is. Making sure you get consistent value, no matter how long this goes on for. And I'd like it to be for a lifetime." He looked up. "Or for as long as one pony in our respective families is running a farm, and another has a business. Fair enough?"
It got him a shrug. "Fair enough. Jus' go over it with me before we sign. Ah'm also trustin' you t' translate."
They read. They signed. A copy was arranged, and the farmer got up.
"You're welcome t' dinner sometime. Y'know that. But Ah'll understand if'fin it won't be for a while."
The businesspony nodded. "Thank you --" and then he realized just how weak the words were compared to what he was feeling (because there was some kind of feeling again, something other than pain), how stupid --
"-- you'd do the same," the farmer said. "Ah know that." Started to head for the door --
-- stopped. Spoke without looking back.
"Fil? Line of work you're in... you know a lot of lawyers, right?"
"I have a few on retainer," he admitted. "Why?"
"Can y'recommend one? 'cause it's like Ah said. Everythin' today -- it's made me think. An'... Ah wanna get some papers squared away. Jus' in case."
"I'll pay for it."
"Y'don't have t' --"
"-- I don't have to. I want to. ...please."
"Then thank y'kindly." The big head slowly shook, and the hat slipped a little. Cast green eyes into shadow, and Bright sighed. "Ain't nopony knows how much time they've got..."
There were four things to do on that summer day, and he started the first one quickly. He would have to do his shopping at the specialty store afterwards, and that was going to take a while.
They were used to staff meetings being called, all of them. That could be normal. But he saw their postures as his employees shuffled in to take their benches, finally saw the worry etched across every face, and realized nothing had been normal for some time.
He kept it quick. There was a lot ahead of him.
"I'm not okay," he told them. "You all knew that. I was just the last one to find out."
And then they were breathing. Slowly, steadily, exhaling with something close to collective relief.
"I won't be in for at least a few days," he added. "Personal time, and finding a psychiatrist. Check my work. Everything I've done. Get the shipments to Vanhoover. When I get back, tell me everything I've done wrong over the last three weeks, and what you managed to fix. But see how much of the revised illness policy we can afford to keep, because -- eventually, somepony is going to need it. If it helps, I can give up part of my salary. I'm sorry --"
The herd rose as one.
They surrounded him.
They offered him all the time he needed.
She was sleeping when he came into the nursery (he remembered the trot home, and called it progress), because she was still so young and sleeping during a warm summer day was perfectly natural for her. He didn't want to wake her...
It's an excuse.
He leaned his head into the cradle, nuzzled his daughter. And she shifted, eyes exactly like those of the lost opened to stare at him, her mouth opened and he knew she was about to speak, her first word was going to be "Mama?" and it would break him --
-- but she merely yawned, gurgled a little, and slipped back into dream.
"I'm here," he whispered, once her legs were still again. "I'll be here as much as I can. I'll listen. I'll..."
"It's just an ache."
"...I'll listen to you first. I'll believe you, Diamond. I'll always try to believe you..."
She slept through all of the words, and most of the tears.
"More supplies," Steward announced from behind him, and did so when the squeaking of cart wheels on the garden path had beaten the stallion to it. "Is there much more behind this lot?"
"Yes," sufficed, and he went back to his labors. "I'll unload that one in a few minutes."
The elder servant watched him, under dipping Sun.
"How long will you be at this tonight?"
"Until I'm too tired to go on." He looked at the delicate seedlings arranged on his left. "Or when I see the Catchfly start to open. That's roughly eight in the evening. It'll be a good time for reading to Diamond."
"And -- accepting help?"
"Not yet."
Gently, because the oldest servants had known him as a colt, "Ms. Sweet was more skilled. It's not an insult. I am saying that despite your efforts to restart the flower clock, you may not have the capacity --"
"-- for micromanagement?" It got a little laugh out of him. "Ironic, isn't it? Maybe Diamond will be better at it than I am, if this is even her interest. I may not be able to get it fully going, but -- I killed it, Steward. I'm going to replant it. That much, I can do. If I need help after that stage, I'll ask for it. I promise."
"There isn't much summer left," the servant pointed out. "You may not have time to fully establish it. And in winter..." Stopped, because they both knew what the next word would be.
"It'll die," he finished. "Some of it, anyway. Portions will go into hibernation, but... all things die, Steward, and then if I'm there in the spring, I'll start again. All I can do now is help as much as I can, while there's still some summer to work with."
Starkly, "Alone."
"For now."
He labored. The servant watched.
"Is there nothing I can do to assist?"
"You could send a letter. Restart the gardening magazine... Actually -- you watched her work?"
"...several times. As did you. Sir --"
"But I missed a few. Hours in the store..." The young moonflowers went into the welcoming soil. "Tell me about them."
There was pain, when he finally went to the lonely bed. So many kinds of it, all of which felt as if they might never fade. Still, he thought it might become an ache, in time.
But he slipped into the nightscape in search of two minutes, two minutes three times a week because he couldn't approach her when there was nothing about him which was worthy. Sought out a cool fall day within a warm summer night, and the sheets were cold.
Author's Note
Dedicated to my mother, who died from covid-19 on January 10th, 2021 at 7:04 p.m.
Maybe one day, it'll be an ache.
