With Fury
With fury, and with Apple Bloom’s agonized cries in her ears, Applejack pursued the fugitive.
Cultured and soft Twilight would not understand it. Rarity might, for she was a child of the earth—though she was not proud of her upbringing in the countryside. Pinkie would not stop her. Rainbow Dash might even help, though she was a child of clouds. Fluttershy would have rejected it completely.
The ponies in town would understand. Ponyville was an earth pony town, full of ponies with pioneer pasts. They understood the harsh law of the frontier. Ponyville might not be quite as wild, but it still remembered the old ways that lived on more fully in the deserts to the south.
It was a tale as old as the land. Applejack could feel herself taking on a role, becoming some sort of marionette, an archetype. She was a character in the play of ancient vengeance. She could almost hear the narrator singing the introducing Ode, as if this was some high sacred earth pony theatre out of forgotten days. To her ears, in her almost manic anger, the beat of her hooves against the ground was the beat of a drum.
The voice called: Blood falls on the ground. The land cries in sorrow, “Oh my daughters! Your blood cries from the ground! It cries for fulfillment!” She’d heard those words once, when her uncle and aunt had dragged her out to get some culture. The shadows on the masked players and the terrible—almost ecstatic—fury in their wailing had haunted her dreams.
The Colt, shining and filled with death, caught the sun and shone reflected light ahead of her.
Blood in her ears, blood in her mind, dark call of the blood for more blood.
The fugitive had fled without thought. She was grateful for this, grateful that he had not struck out north for Canterlot. Instead, the stallion who she swore with every breath to kill had sought safety in the Everfree. He was trapped, with nowhere to go but deeper or out to be met by the angrily waiting Macintosh. Nowhere to run.
She paused at the edge of the wood, and took a deep breath. It was not yet midday, and the sun was crawling slowly onto its high chair. She shaded her eyes and looked up at the sky.
“Celestia,” her voice was shaking, “I call a witness to what… must be done.”
The sun bore down on her. She didn’t know if it was acceptance or condemnation. She trembled.
For a moment, her resolve wavered. Could she really pull that trigger? Could she pull the big iron from its holster and gun down a pony on purpose, even one as awful as Rocky Shoal? She was just a farmer, a simple pony of the land—she didn’t want any of this trouble. Celestia wouldn’t hold truck with murderers—would this make her a murderer? Would she be like him? She hadn’t stopped and thought about it at all, really. Her legs felt weak, she tasted bile.
With fury, she had seen his evil and been compelled by it. There’d been no time for thought before, when Apple Bloom had bawled beneath the tree.
Anger was a song. It sang in her ears with increasing volume and a sweet, sweet voice. It was easy to dwell on the smell of blood and the song of fury. It was safer than thinking.
She shook herself. Shoal would get away at this rate, and no matter what she was going to do with him, that was an outcome she could not abide.
She did not feel as if she made her own way through the forest. She still felt like the character in a play, or a figure in a painting. It was obscure and half formed tracking skills that led her like she might have led a foal. Where before she had searched for cows and pigs who’d lost themselves in the dangerous wood, now she searched for a thief.
The woods were a different world from the farm or the town. Ponies had cleared the fields and made them safe, but the forest was hostile. She was in his territory now, in a lot of ways—he had a whole forest to hide in, and fear would give him swiftness and caution.
Anger gave her only tenacity, and her sorrow made for poor hunting.
The path below her was rough, but not so much so that it was hard to follow. She was just familiar with it to know that somewhere up ahead a path would branch off towards Zecora. A sudden thought struck her: should she warn Zecora?
No. Shoals was unarmed, as far as she knew. As long as Applejack didn’t chase him towards the Zebra’s home, she’d be fine.
It was untamed country here. Usually it felt unnatural, like the very air rejected her presence. But with the gun in hoof, it felt more welcoming. It was almost like walking up the road to the farm from town; with the gun in its holster the forest had finally recognized her as its own.
Said gun was around her middle, about where she would strap a saddlebag. It was safely within reach of her teeth, and she knew she could draw it rather quickly. It had been her father’s, before he passed away, and she’d been afraid of it all her life.
Shoal’s trail left the path. Perhaps he’d realized that Applejack would be right behind him and that being on the trail would make her hunt easier. Maybe he had just panicked out in the open where the sun could see him. Either way, he’d bolted to the left, into the woods proper.
Applejack followed the hoofprints and broken plants down a slippery slope. Shoals had torn the ground in his panic, and it was not hard to follow him as he careened. Birds and animals in the distance voiced their confusion and disapproval at the intrusion of two loud ponies into their domain.
She came to a rocky stream and cursed, irritated. Would he be smart enough to lose her here? She unholstered the gun and held it high in her mouth to keep it dry. Her father’s voice drifted back to her across the years as the sounds of running water filled her ears.
“Be careful, hon. It’s a gun, yes, that’s the word. You don’t see them much, do ya? It’s a rare thing, in these days. But this one is special. It’s been in the Apple family for generations. Ain’t been shot in a whole mess of years—but she’s still working.”
“I don’t like it. It’s cold.”
“I suppose. My father showed me it when I was about as old as you were, and he told me that it was dangerous. You know why?"
“No,” she had said truthfully. Nor had she really cared. She’d only wanted to leave this cold and terrible artifact behind.
“Well, first off, when you’re older it may be useful—Celestia help it be not so! But also, it’s been a kinda symbol, sugarcube. A teachin’ tool.”
“Of what?”
“Apples are good ponies, Applejack. We have always been neighborly and we’ve always tried to be decent and honest. It ain’t somethin’ that just happens—you gotta be intentional ‘bout it. You gotta… try. A gun don’t hurt nopony unless you shoot it. You gotta choose to do things, or not to do them. They just don’t happen to ya.”
“I don’t understand.”
She reached the other side, and searched for the trail. Her heart rioted, her stomach clenched. She couldn’t lose him, not now.
She found the deep imprint of Shoal’s hoof in the mud and breathed a weary, shaky breath. She’d found him again. He’d meet his maker.
“Applejack,” her father had said, putting away the loathsome thing and shuddering. “I ain’t like my pa. He had a way with words that made everythin’ make sense. I’m just makin' a fool outta myself. Come here, baby.”
She had. He’d wrapped her up in his forehooves.
“You’re gonna be a lady soon, y’know that?”
“Yessir.”
“I ain’t gonna be here forever to tell you what to do, y’know that?”
“Yessir.”
He had kissed her forehead gently. “I want you to remember somethin’, ‘fore your mother and I head south with this shipment. You’re the little lady of the house now, but I know you’re still not old enough to understand. That’s alright. I just want you to remember. I think it may be important.”
“Do you gotta go?” Her voice had cracked, she remembered that.
“I do, sweetie. You’ll be alright. You’re a good girl. But… Applejack, there’s gonna be a day where you have to make some big choices, alright? Like, you’re gonna like some nice colt someday—“
“Ew!”
“Trust me,” he’d said, laughing. It had been hard to keep her father serious for long. “Or you’ll be managin’ the farm or hiring extra hooves for the harvest or trying to help one of your friends. And you’ll have to make a choice, a really big one. Probably lots of really big ones. I ain’t gonna be there to tell ya what’s right, hear me?
“Yessir.”
He had sighed. She’d found the sound a little frightening as a child, with its note of sadness. “Choices are hard, Applejack. I was going to do this when I got back… I don’t know. It's the whole tradition thing... it helped me, but I was... older than ya. A little bit. It’s been plaguing me for a while now and I just felt like it was time. We’ll have a real talk when I get back, alright? You’d like that, huh? I’ll take you into town for some ice cream, even, if you’re good while I’m gone. I’m sorry for scarin’ you. You’re a good girl. I’m just gettin’ old and—“
“Old! You’re not old! You don’t have gray hair yet like Granny!”
He had found this hilarious. “Yeah, ain’t got that yet. I think you’re gonna be fine. C’mon, let’s go find your mama.”
Shoals was getting tired, she figured. His trail was haphazard, no longer quite as straight. He must be looking for a place to hide, she was sure of it.
It worried her. He was an idiot, but even a fool could make the best of a situation if his life depended on it. Any hole Shoal could hide in could probably be easily turned into a trap. He would ambush her, she was sure of it. It was really his only choice. She had a gun and righteous anger and he had no idea where he was and nowhere to run. They both knew that Applejack was faster, more prepared, tougher. Shoals was a big stallion, built for strength but not for speed or true runner’s endurance.
Even the song of anger wanes. The fire in her was replaced by the manic cold of fear. She had forgotten how frightening these woods could be, how tricky they were. They were dark, the canopy above providing an almost unsettling amount of shade for her and Shoals to play the game of death. It was night time here, in a way, and always was. It was unnatural. She feared it.
She imagined what might happen.
Shoals would be waiting under the roots of one of the old trees, or in a rotting, hollow log. He would watch her go by with the gun still in her mouth, and he would tense. She wouldn’t see him at all, wrapped up in her own search. She would lose the trail, and in her confusion, she’d stand stock still in the middle of some clearing. Her back would be to him. He would charge from cover. She would turn, and it would be too late—he would already be upon her. They would struggle, but up close was Shoal’s domain. He would disarm her and break her. He would probably kill her, or do to her what he had done to Apple Bloom. Probably both.
“Stinkin’ thinkin’,” she muttered. The forest paid no heed. It only continued on with its own peculiar ambience.
She was grateful, paradoxically, for the size that gave him advantage over her. His weight had caused his hooves to sink in rather deep in the mud, and her novice skills were not strained.
She paused for a moment to wipe her brow and catch her breath. As she did, she scanned her surroundings. Nowhere for him to hide. No bushes, no tall grass, no rotten logs. She was safe.
Applejack continued on, pushing herself.
She hated these woods. She hated them. She hated being here. She hated Shoal. She hated this gun in her mouth. She hated how well it fit, how perfect the mouthgrip felt, like it had been made for her. She hated how the gun had been waiting for her, as if today had been its day. She hated that it was the gun’s day.
Leaves crunched underneath her hooves.
The trail ended. Her heart began to pound.
Where had he gone? Shoals was an earth pony, he couldn’t fly off. She searched around her frantically, pointing the gun at everything. The only place for him to hide was the bushes to her right. Right? He had… he had to be there. She had him. There was notwhere to run. She reminded herself that it wasn’t he who had her, but she who had him. She was the one with the gun here. She was the one with instrument of choice.
“Shoals! Come out—“
Rustling. Only now did she think to look up in the branches of the trees.
He was in the air, descending with a hateful snarl. She tried to scream but the gun was in her mouth. She felt her mouth spasm around it and then she felt the trigger and then her unprepared neck cracked with the force of two blows as the stallion hit her. She felt his hooves in her gut, kicking. His hot breath was on her neck, in her face. His teeth clacked, he was roaring worldess battle cries. She kicked back. There was no time for fear or for anger. She only knew the tumult.
She found the trigger again. She fired, not even knowing where. He was everywhere. He filled her vision.
And then the gun shattered their ears. The forest erupted with the indignant sounds of startled fauna. Her face felt wet, and Applejack couldn’t fathom why for a confused moment. Shoals was off of her, sprawled in the dust. Shakily, he stood and ran. She gave chase immediately, thought gone completely and replaced with the instinct of battle.
He was easy to follow. With every step he bled onto the forest ground, and his blue coat clashed with the green, setting him apart. It was as if the forest was offering him up.
Finally, he came to a clearing and he collapsed. The vile stallion wept as Applejack approached him. He blubbered, he whined, he begged for life.
She stared down at him. She’d hit him right above where his left foreleg attached to his miserable body. The bullet had torn him up. He’d not be running any longer. This was it.
She saw Apple Bloom, tears running down her bruised face, her coat matted with blood—the look of brokenness in those eyes that had sent her on her violent mission. She thought of the smell, the horrible knowledge of that place.
The sun shone down through the brief hole in the canopy. It was a hot day, and for once she was uncomfortable in the light. Sweat ran down her face like blood ran down Shoal’s legs. The ground swallowed up both greedily; already the blood was beginning to pool. She’d forgotten how powerful the weapon was.
She removed the gun from her mouth and let it rest in her hoof while she spoke.
“We trusted you.”
He whimpered. She didn’t care what he had to say.
“Celestia damn you,” she was too exhausted to put more energy into it. Too torn. “We fed you and paid you and trusted you and what did you? My sister has broken ribs and a broken leg and a broken innocence. It’s gone because you couldn’t keep your damn fifth leg to your damn self!”
He was crying. “I don’ wanna die!”
“She didn’t wanna get raped, you idiot.” She mocked him. It felt good.
The sun was so hot. She only now noticed that she’d lost her hat in the chaos. She put the gun back in place and wiped her brow.
There was silence. The woods waited for her to make a choice.
She was far away from civilization, after all. Twilight couldn’t talk about the law now, he’d attacked her. She could just say that it had been necessary. He’d jumped her and she’d shot him. Simple as that. Only the trees could bear witness against her, only the thirsty ground speak to the blood she had spilled.
“I don’ wanna die! Please! Oh…”
“Shuh hup!” she managed around the handle. She met his eyes. If he moved, he’d die.
She aimed the gun at his head and hesitated.
Could she do this? Could she kill him? Should she?
What was right? He was a monster. He’d done unspeakable things to her sister, he perhaps had done similar things before. Was there any saving such a soul? Was mercy something she could afford? Wouldn’t it be better just to end him now? To see him dead and forgotten in the Everfree?
Did this make her a murderer? She spoke and thought about the justice of the frontier, but did she really believe it? If she pulled that trigger, Shoals would never hurt another pony ever again. Except me. I’ll know how he died. I’ll have watched him snivelin' on the ground, helpless.
She shivered despite the heat of the day.
Oh Celestia, what do I do?
The sun above continued on as it had.
She could kill him now, let it be done with. He deserved it, in her mind. He deserved to die and that was that. But should she be the one pulling the trigger? Was it wrong?
She didn’t know. She groaned in frustration, torn between two futures. The instrument of her choice was hot in her mouth, waiting to be fired. It begged her for fulfillment, to send another bullet down the range. Apple Bloom, her horror and suffering, demanded that she do something. She heard her father say that she was a good girl, and she remembered how he looked down at the gun with fear.
Tears came forth unbidden and she hated them.
“Pick yourself up, bastard. You put one hoof out of line and I shoot ya.”
He crawled and stumbled and she marched him towards the Guard station in Ponyville.
Applejack had no answer. She had only shaking knees and a sick feeling in her stomach. She felt it coming, some consequence. There was no telling if it was good or bad; all she knew was that it was permanent and that it would stay with her until the day she lay cold and breathed her last. Regret or gratitude—that she had let him die like a pony instead of the monster he was, or that she was unsoiled.
She just didn’t know.
