The barn door slams open, the hinges squealing as it smacks loudly against the wall. He storms in, his hooves thundering against the hardened ground as his rage boils. He shoves the haybale aside, not even watching as it skids across the ground, neatly sliding into it's hole amongst the tens of other haybales within the barn. His hoof dives into the haypile. Glass bottles clink, metal clatters, and he retrieves his spigot. He storms over to the oak barrel, deftly spiking it once again and closing his eyes, as he lets out a deep and weary sigh. The cider begins to pour, the rich foam quickly flowing over the brim. It's been one hell of a day.

He rests against the pile of haybales, the sunbeam shining through the window both lighting up the room and darkening his mood. He stares at the photo, his mind drifting as he sips at his second cider, the first already warming his belly. Celestia, he's not sure how the family is gonna survive to Hearth's Warming. Hell, there might not be a Hearth's Warming this year.

He lets out a long, shaky breath, and takes another sip. Pa was one hell of a negotiator, landing that deal with the Riches all those years ago. He takes a long draw off the tankard. Just like everything else. It's all going up in smoke. Ephemeral, slipping through his hooves, and bringing him ever closer to the fire.

He understands. He does. He's not stupid. Filthy is... was a good friend. Never did the Apples wrong. Always gave em a fair shake. Their families had always shared a Hearth's Warming's Eve meal together. He was a good friend. A good stallion. But Rich is a businesspony, first and foremost. He has to keep the Rich name clean. He can't be associated with the Apple homestead right now. It would just send the wrong message to the customers. No, he understands perfectly. This is just the cherry on top of the mountian of shit.

He wishes he hadn't seen Spoiled push Tiara out of the room. He'd pretended not to see Rich gauging his expressions when his daughter wandered in to show off her pretty new dress. He hated how quickly Rich had clammed up. How fast he'd been shown the door, been told not to come back around.

The whispers in the streets as he'd left the Riches doorstep. The guard walking him back to the farm, forcing him to take the long route. The arcane bracelet wrapped around his fetlock, glowing a soft violet. They all buzzed around his head like gnats.

He groans in frustration. He takes another long swig, but it doesn't stop the thoughts. He wants to be out there. He wants to be looking. He wants a dark alley where he can knock out some teeth and leave the bastard bleeding out on the ground and begging for a mercy he'd never shown, and would never be shown.

But the Guard don't have a name yet. Not even a description. A psych had come in. A "professional", they'd said. Some wack from Canterlot. Probably woulda cost a fortune. He raises a toast Applejack, he knows she'll be at the farmhouse by now, doting over her sister. Small miracles, Celestia was looking over the Apple homestead even now. The farm couldn't have taken that hit.

The psych had spoken with Bloom for hours. They'd been there at first, to support her. But the psych had shooed them out when Bloom started fidgeting. He could respect privacy, nothing wrong with that. But when the psych came out, mumbling some medical hogwash about trauma and suppression and the mind... He had zero clue what the doc was rambling about. How do you just forget something like that?!

But Applebloom said she'd been home. She hadn't seen anyone weird at school, her friends hadn't noticed anyone odd following them around, and she was at home the rest of the day. Day in, day out. Week after week. The only other stallion she'd been around, was him.

And there was the rub. He threw his tankard against the wall, storming off as it clattered perfectly upright into his little sink. He huffed, his breath clearing the floor of chaff and debris as he began. Up, Down, Up, Down. One, Two, Three, Four. One, Two, Three, Four.

His muscles burned. His shoulders screamed. His heart ached. Up, Down, Up, Down. One, Two, Three, Four. One, Two, Three, Four.

Sweat poured down his forehead, as he blinked it away. The afternoon sun blazed in his face, feeling for all the world that Celestia, that Equss, was judging him. He ground his teeth, closing his eyes and pushing. Up, Down, Up, Down. One, Two, Three, Four. One, Two, Three, Four.

He shoved himself up, storming back to the haybales. He collapsed into the stack. It wobbled for a moment, but he didn't look. True to form, they teetered and tottered and settled back in place. They wouldn't fall. He thought about getting another drink. Dull the pain. He doesn't. Needs to make it last. Shouldn't drink after exercise anyways.

His mind drifted as he lazily gazed out the open window, the golden light dappling the trees of his orchard. How could anyone believe he'd harm his most precious of Apples? That he'd disgrace Ma and Pa like that?

It didn't matter what he said. All that mattered was what everyone believed. The rumor mill turned the small town into a pigsty, and he was fresh slop. He dug his hoof into the haypile. Glass bottles clinked, metal clattered, and he fished out what he was hunting for.

snicksnick-click

The shells click into place with practiced ease. Fond memories of his Pa, teaching him to shoot, wash over his mind. Warnings never to point it at another pony, not unless you want them to die. He grimaces, envisioning the filthiest, ugliest, meanest son of a bitch he can imagine. He envisions the stallion's guts sprayed across the wall. He imagines standing over the rotten bastard's dying corpse, and slugging him in the jaw.

He can hear metal armor clanking outside. Changing of the guard already? Must be later than he'd thought. Sun's been setting lower every day. Leaves are turnin' orange too. The Runnin' will be soon...

He sinks to his haunches, cradling the gun in his hooves. His thoughts drift to the winter once again. How is he going to feed five mouths? The profits from Rich used to keep the farm afloat through their harshest season. He'd invested their earnings from the Zap Apples and Cider Season months back. Patched up the roof, bought Bloom new school books, and a set of nice farm tools. Did he really need ta git that fancy new shovel...

Maybe only four mouths? Foals don't eat that much, not compared to a hard-working stallion. Maybe Rich would renegotiate, if the public stain was gone? Maybe he'd take pity, on a poor farm trying to feed a newborn foal?

The Autumn season needs ta treat the farm well. It's gotta. He leans back, and places the barrel underneath his chin. The farm will survive if he's out of the equation.

Author's Note

Is this getting darker, or have I proof-read this so many times I've been jaded to it? Who knows?