The barn door swings closed with a soft click. He stands at the door, holding it shut with his hoof. His breath hitches, and he bites his lip, holding his breath as her footsteps fade in the distance. She's being fair, he knows. In fact, she's been quite generous thus far. The primary suspect usually gets far worse than this. She's being fair.

He trods back to the haybales, slumping against his makeshift bed. The cold night air howls outside, and he shivers, thankful for the walls at least. He reaches into the haypile, Glass bottles clink, metal clatters, and he pulls out his ratty blanket. He pulls it tightly around him, and slumps against the haybales.

The investigation is still ongoing. Horseshit. "Not enough evidence." "No strong leads." Fancy way of saying they've got nothing on the fucker who did this.

Or that they just don't have enough evidence to toss him in a cell forever...

They'd searched the town from top to bottom. Checked the logs of all the local inns. No strangers passed through town recently. Ms Cheerlie hadn't seen anypony hanging around the schoolyard. Ms Rarity and Ms Dash couldn't recall anyone actin strange around the Crusaders either. Ms Scootaloo and Ms Sweetie Belle couldn't recall nothing either.

He sighed. It wasn't their fault. He'd noticed the Crusaders had been getting more distant by the day. They only had their marks in common, after all. Nothing wrong with having friends at work, but when you don't share interests, it just... all falls apart. Of course they wouldn't hang out all the time. It's only fair.

He can't imagine how Bloom feels at the moment. Knowin that the Guard is gettin nowhere. She must be distraught...

Music carries through the window shutters, a peppy string rhythm. It's not AJ's though, hers always has a bit more twang to it. This is smooth. Practiced. Solid.

He pulls himself to his hooves, ignoring his cold, aching joints, and pushes himself toward the shuttered window. He leans down, peering through the gaps. A flicker of firelight pierces the night. A billowing bonfire in the distance, just before tonight's snowfall.

He can just make out Pa's college buddy, Burnt Oak, strumming his banjo. AJ, Ms Dash, and Ms Rarity are helping Her Majesty and the kids as they try to make smores. Mr and Mrs Rich are toasting something exotic. Granny and Grand Pear are curled under blankets around the fire, watching Mrs Cake teach Bloom how to dance.

He watches them galavant around the fire, quick and lively springing steps to Oak's beat. The way Bloom's dress spins in the firelight. He can imagine the sparkle in her eye.

He can hear the racous laughter from his small vantage point. How the Princess tosses her snack into the fire, and declares a night of celebration. How she asks Grand Pear to dance, and how everypony springs up to join in the fun. He bites his cheek as they pair off, one by one, dancing circles around the fire. The jubilance, the community, the festival...

And then the light shifts, and they're gone. Replaced by a cold, purple-tinted, intricately designed, iron breastplate. The crescent moon stares him in the face, and his eyes drift up to meet the golden, slitted irises of the Night Guard, glaring down at him.

He mumbles an apology, and steps away from the shutters, shuffling back to the stack of haybales.

He stops, standing in the middle of the barn. He glances back at the window. No light peeks through. Not a spark.

He looks around the barn. The cold, dusty, dark space that has been his home for the past six months. He shuffles over to his haypile, and digs in. Glass bottles clink, metal clatters, and he retieves a myriad of objects. Forelegs full, he hobbles back to the center and carefully sets it all on a crate.

He leans in and strikes a match, carefully lighting his oil lamp. The glass casing slides shut, and he hefts the lantern. With a light, underhoofed toss, the lantern easily catches on a hook, bathing the room in its small, flickering flame.

He sweeps the floor with his ratty blanket, clearing a small area of the dust and debris of the barn. That blanket will be itchy tonight, but right now he doesn't care. He tosses the blanket, watching as it spins in the air and settles perfectly onto a small rocking horse from Bloom's childhood. He steps over, and fastens it into a nice little neckerchief, like Granny has.

He pulls the rocking horse into the center of the room, and reaches to the crate for the last item. He carefully nestles the frayed, yellowed photograph squarely onto the head of the rocking horse.

And slowly, shyly, he begins to dance. He focuses on the picture. He imagines Granny, slower and wobbly, but clearly leading. Her eyes only have forgiveness in them, and he holds her close as they spin in the room.

He imagines Ms Dash, competing to see who can dance faster, who will be the last to fall over. A jovial challenge in her eyes, enjoying the dance in her own special way.

He imagines Ms Rarity, who somehow convinced him to do a Ballroom dance around a bonfire. He imagines her slowly realizing how poorly thought out that idea was, slowly falling into the more relaxed and carefree melody.

He imagines Applejack, bickering with him on who exactly is leading this dance. Stong willed, fast paced, and full of energy, even after a hard day's work. Her eyes have a promise in them, never to abandon him again.

He imagines Mrs Cake, apologizing to him for kicking him out of Sugarcube Corner, swearing he's welcome anytime.

He imagines Ms Cheerilee, spinning in some exotic Zebracian dance she's learning for her upcoming lessons on world history. She asks him to come speak to the class one day, on the subject of farming as the bedrock of the community.

He imagines Pumpkin Cake, stumbling over her hooves as she struggles with the Box Step. Full of giggles and light.

He imagines Berry Punch, stumbling together in a drunken, passionate dance. He imagines dancing her around the bonfire till the dawn rises.

He imagines Applebloom, slow and unsure, overly cautious and yet eager to move faster. Her big, round, amber eyes beg for her big brother to come home.

He shoves the rocking horse away. It slides across the room, landing perfectly in it's little nook. He stumbles off to his haypile, and fishes around within. Metal clatters, and he retrieves Winchester. He ignores the clatter of metal outside. He knows they meant for him to hear it. Knows they're watching him. Knows they want him to know they're watching him. Knows they've probably been watching him this whole time.

He slumps against the haybales, cradling his father's gun in his hooves and clenching his eyes shut.

The voices won't leave him. Promises he can come back for a bagel. Insults and accusations. Well-wishes and light conversation over a sale. Whispers behind his back as he walks down the street. Deep philosophical discussions. Admonishments and stubborn ignorance.

snicksnick-click

And like that, the voices are gone. No, not gone. Waiting. Watching with baited breath. Will he do it? Of course he won't. Won't he do it? He might as well. Might he do it? He really oughta. Should he do it? Such a bother.

Their eyes are on him, from across the town. Watching, waiting, begging him to just die.

He bites his lip, and raises the gun to his chin. In the blink of an eye, everyone he knew was gone, replaced by someone else filled with vitrol and disgust.

Or maybe he's the one who disappeared to them. Maybe he's the one who should.

He squeezes his eyes shut, and prays he won't see the dawn.

Author's Note

This was by far the most difficult chapter to write. Not sure why, the spark of inspiration just wasn't here like it was for the others.

I think it came out alright. Just had to focus on the theme of the chapter.