Faithfully Yours

                                                                                                                                                             2nd July

A current of purpose caught Granny Smith, and she tore through her fever dreams. Her eyes flew open. The scene before her was almost a year old; a knot of time tugging itself ever tighter to the same spot. The chaise lounge; the antique table; the stove by the window; the sideboard; shelves of jam - a whole home that had been plucked like a web, reverberating with loss.

Big Mac was at the stove stirring dinner, his large, conspicuous shoulder blades gently kneading his course red hair. Applebloom sat at the kitchen table, and appeared to be tending to a paper model with intense concentration. No sooner had she set aside her creation, when she noticed her Grandma had awoken, and hastily approached.

"How are ya feelin' Granny? Dinner'll be ready real soon now. Big Mac's cookin' up chestnut stew." She smiled sheepishly. "Classic, right?"

"Applejack?" It was just a word now, even to Granny Smith, who uttered it on impulse without understanding why, but Applebloom's face fell.

"She's gone, Granny." The filly quickly went to the table and retrieved her model, dangling it before her grandma. "Do ya like the friendship crane I made for Sweetie Belle? I knew I'd get round to it one of these days. I sure am proud of it, but I'll bet I can make a better one once I've got the knack back." The 'diversion' routine was second nature to Applebloom now.

The starved waxy eyes of the elderly mare eclipsed her aging visage as they landed on the ribbon from which the crane was suspended. Applebloom followed her gaze, and her own proud stance was quickly dwarfed by regret. The paper swan fluttered into her grandma's lap, who took it up and proceeded to stroke the hair ribbon.

"This was hers." Granny Smith whispered.

"I know." Applebloom croaked, looking to the ground. Then she swallowed, and added abruptly,  "I don't think she's coming back, Granny." Her voice was hard and intrusive, falling quickly under the weight of stale pain.Big Macintosh stopped stirring and shut his eyes, anticipating an outburst.

Granny Smith's hoof hung in the air halfway along the ribbon. Her granddaughter hadn't wanted to wear her hair in ribbons that night; she'd no interest in looking "frou-frou". Granny had chuckled at her protests, insisting she tame her boyish habits for the occasion, but secretly wondering if Applejack protested because she thought herself a lost cause. She remembered watching her granddaughter squirm in her outdated country frock, lovably disgruntled, and the old mare had smiled warmly through the chill of another feeling; a certain lost sadness; a wandering wonder - would the mare before her be the Applejack she adored if she had married quickly like her cousins? If she had thus far experienced the love and admiration she deserved from stallions, before filling the hole in her heart with loyalty? Now, a year later with the ribbon returned, Granny Smith didn't need to wonder.

"It doesn't matter." She said quietly.

Applebloom stared at her with wide eyes. "What?"

"It doesn't matter!" She snapped violently, alighting from her rocking chair. She swallowed, and continued with a heavy heart. "If she comes back, we're here for her. Because so long as we're Apples, we'll be here, and so long as we're here, we're Apples. If she don't come back, we've still got work to do."

She turned. "And what the hell are you doin' here without Fluttershy?" Her eyes locked sharply with those of an astonished Big Mac.

"Granny I - "

"You love that girl. And she loves you. She's the best thing that ever happened to you. Go get her back!"

Granny didn't wait for Big Mac to follow her orders, before flinging the front door open herself, and stepping out into the yard. She told herself she'd no right to blanche at the sight that met her, because she'd known it all along. The hideous machines that plundered their earth. The swarms of pegasi that formed dark rashes in the sky. The bleak bowed crowns of the unicorns, their uniformly pointed horns sucking hundreds of apples from the weary trees. And the dust that took to the sky in great, indulgent plumes where nothing grew, where workers kicked the ground and animals no longer scurried. It was difficult to behold, even under the feather-light prospect of change that pondered a landing in the sky. It almost wasn't enough, but far more than she'd dare jinx with her suspicions.