Sweet Apple Anthology

Chapters

Year One: Citrus And Libra
Year One: The Fourth Crusader
Year One: Metal Crown, Brass Fork
Year Two: Yellow Eyes
Year Two: Honesty's Burden
Year Two: Namesakes
Year Three: Spark And Hover
Year Three: Taboo
Year Three: Mother's Day
Year Four: King's Knight
Year Four: Hearts And Hooves Day — Revelation
Year Four: Hearts And Hooves Day — Redemption
Year Five: Blue, Black, White
Year Five: Runway And Runaway
Year Five: Out Of The Woodwork
Year Six: A Moment In Time
Year Six: Cloudsdale And Canterlot
Year Six: Beyond The Horizon
Year Seven: Buffalo And Settlers
Year Seven: Into The Wild
Year Seven: Love Is Thicker Than Blood
Year One: Hearth's Warming Eve
Year Three: Merciful Fate
Year Seven: Blood Is Thicker Than Water
Closing Credits And Notes

Year One: Citrus And Libra

A hawk circled in the fire of the heavens, casting a forewarning shadow over any rabbit or mouse who dawdled in the sands below. Desert offering only rows of cactus for shelter, the bird of prey found himself alone, seeking and finding no other creature with bitter silence. The horizon beckoning, the hawk beat his wings with a mighty thrust, rocketing into the sunset and the promises of the west.

A cream-colored mare tapped the window of the locomotive as it barreled towards their destination. “Look, Mother, a hawk. Isn’t he beautiful?”

Her remark fell on deaf, flattened ears, her companion curled up into her hooves in the train-cab beside her. Sighing, the guardian of what remained of the Orange Family clan muttered, “I’m sure he is, Citrus. I’m sure he’s flying off to a better place.”

Citrus Blossom gently ran a forehoof through her mother's tangerine mane. “And so are we, Mother. We should be pulling into Appleloosa soon.”

Eight hours. Four ushered them to Ponyville, the place where her youngest foal had sought her own refuge from a soulless, cruel, sinful city. Ponyville. No place for them there.

If Madhoof sent the hounds of hell after them, Babs Seed would be caught in the crossfire. She’d dare not risk her youngest filly’s life any further, though it broke her heart to be the one to leave the foal this time.

Libra Scales had been a fool. If she’d only paid closer attention to the fall of the cards, the shaking of the dice in the dealer’s hooves, maybe she could have foreseen Bernie Madhoof’s treachery. Maybe she could have scraped together enough bits to keep the family intact. Maybe she could have enough to buy off the corrupted uniforms who surely would have burned her evidence. Maybe she could have saved enough to keep them out of the unrelenting blaze of Celestia’s desert sun.

Maybe, the three of them could be a family, together.

Yet, here they were, Citrus and Libra, steam of their locomotive adding to the distance from their youngest Orange and subtracting their precious funds. Half of the mason jar had been drained from two tickets and a meager lunch. The mare whose cutiemark represented good judgment and rationality failed to account for inflation of ticket prices.

The train pulled into the Appleloosa station at last. The shaking of her voice revealing the chink in her armor, Libra said, “Once we pull in, let’s go find Braeburn, Citrus. I… I don’t think we should waste our bits on a hotel. Probably too expensive, anyway.”

In silent affirmation, too exhausted for a rebuttal, Citrus rose to her hooves and followed her out of the train, their life’s possessions strapped to their backs. They’d had everything as recently as earlier that morning, been blessed with fine foods, beautiful silks, more luxury and leisure than the entire city of Manehatten itself could contain.

All of that became meaningless with a knock at the door, a gruff stallion, and a stack of documents. All of that had been abandoned in their dust. Materialism could not save them. Only their hooves contained that power.

Truly, they were starting over, tabula rasa, blank slate in a strange city.

Well, perhaps city was too generous a term. Appleloosa was barely a charted territory, a tiny dot on a traveler’s map—slightly above the status of the settlements cropping up even further west of here. Many years would pass before it could be rightly known as a city.

Remnants of the life she’d abandoned whispered through Libra Scales’ hooves, magic of the Earth sending her to a simpler time. Home-schooled and raised in these sands, she'd lived out her foalhood in Appleloosa, staying until she could no longer ignore the call of the city life. The settlement had been far different then. Libra, her sisters, and her parents wore their hooves into the ground back then, planting crops that inevitably failed, agonizing under the sun, struggling to just survive, much less thrive.

Appleloosa had been naught but a name in the sand in those times, occupied by only a hoof-full of daring settlers. Within the past few years, Libra had heard whispers of a bustling apple crop and a renewal in the west. For this reason, Appleloosa had been elevated to town status. Stable—no boom, no bust.

Libra Scales trotted with her daughter into the town square, a high clock-tower climbing to the heavens in the center and chiming 2000 hours. Darkness would befall them soon. Libra quickened her pace, near a canter in her exploration.

Braeburn Apple was a beloved a nephew and cousin to the Manehatten exiles. The stallion always sent a faithful letter to the Orange Family Mansion each Hearth’s Warming Eve, weaving splendid tales of life in the desert settlement among the mysterious Buffalo Tribe. (Apparently, relations between the indigenous and the immigrants had smoothed out in recent years, to his delight.)

Unfortunately, Libra Scales hadn’t seen Braeburn since he was a little colt, nearly twelve years ago... since his mother, her beloved sister Barbara, had become one with the stars. She’d been much too busy and full of too much grief to make the trek.

Libra regretted her weakness.

Shaking away her recollection, Libra led Citrus through the bustling settlement. The locals were out in full swing, in celebration of another day lived here in the West and the best.

All around them trotted lively stallions and mares, chattering fillies and colts, cheerful smiles on their faces, Stetsons shielding them from the sun. Beyond the distance, rows of crudely-constructed shacks, covered wagons, and tents offered shelter from the sun and rest for the weary. The mares said nothing at this sight. Safe sleep beat luxurious sleep any day in Equestria. Mansions were too cold, anyway.

A few vendors sold their wares among the dust and desert: mostly carts full of apple-derived products. Somehow, the apple trees here were strong and mighty despite the climate. Perhaps it was a different species, mused Libra Scales, the sight of hundreds of full trees below them leaving her in awe.

Truly, her sister’s work had survived beyond the gap between dimensions. Her hard-working sibling had been among the first to grow fruit under the inferno of the desert sun. That discovery had stabilized the settlement, propelling Appleloosa into the bright future (and an eventual conflict with the Buffalo Tribe, but that is another story). Libra felt a surge of pride as they trotted past the orchards.

By the looks of it, Appleloosa contained a saloon, a schoolhouse, a few stores, a post office, a hotel, and—most helpful of all—a sheriff’s office. Gesturing in the direction of the law, Citrus said, “Hey, Mom, maybe the Sheriff knows where we can find Braeburn?”

Libra replied uneasily, “It’s worth a try. I don’t see him anywhere. It’s been so long since I’ve been out here, Citrus, I don’t know where he could be. He never told me in his letters, either… I hope somepony can find him.” She gulped with the unspoken addendum, We’re bucked if nopony can.

Crossing the sands, Citrus and Libra reached the sheriff’s office. There, a gray stallion with an enormous (and somewhat ridiculous) black mustache leaned back in a rocking chair on the porch, his hindhooves causally strewn over the railing. A silver star pinned to his vest and adorning his flank spoke to his occupation, whereas his closed eyes and snoring snout wouldn’t.

Mother and daughter exchanged worried looks and shrugs. Then, Citrus trotted up the steps, hovered beside the stallion, and muttered, “Um… excuse me… Sheriff?”

Silence.

“Um…Sheriff?” Citrus poked him gently in the shoulder.

“Bwha?! Huh?!” Nearly jumping from his chair, the alerted stallion sighed with relief as he located the source of his interruption. “Oh! Ma apologies, ladies, I was jus’, uh, restin’ ma eyes an’ whatnot—“

“You’re the Sheriff, aren’t you?” Libra barked in irritation. Precious seconds ticked by, the night beckoning, no sign of the yellow stallion and his dusty mane, and with every passing moment, there’d be less room for them in the inn—if it came to that.

He nodded. “Sheriff Silverstar, at yer service, ma’am.” He removed his Stetson and bowed. With a smile, he asked, “What can Ah do ya fer? Haven’t see pretty mares like y’all ‘round these parts in a long time.”

“We’re, um, from Ma—“

“We’re looking for Braeburn Apple,” Libra snapped, cutting her daughter’s unnecessary explanation short. “Can you help us find him? It’s important.”

Sheriff Silverstar smiled brightly. His grin and badge twinkling in the fading sunlight, he mused, “Braeburn Apple, huh? Why, right ol’ hero he is ‘round these parts! Brought peace ‘tween us an’ the Buffalo! O’ course Ah know where ta find him! Follow me, ladies!”

Leaping from the porch, Sheriff Silverstar set his hooves towards the north part of town and its meager shelter. As the mares followed behind him, the Sheriff launched into a brief tour of Appleloosa. He gestured to each tiny establishment, waxing poetic about the town’s history. “An’ then, there was this one real strange mare from Ponyville, dolled up ta bits, singin’ ‘bout sharin’, an’, well, that jus’ done beat all…”

Eyebrow raised, Citrus whispered to her mother, “Are youze sure this is a good idea? We sure stick out here… and these ponies seem… different.”

“It definitely has changed from when I was a filly. But what choice do we have, Citrus?”

“Well, couldn’t we just go to the police, Mom?”

Libra Scales snorted. “Have you forgotten who we are already, Citrus? Or who Bernie is, at least? That document will make fine kindling for the fires he’d light. Hay, he might still light ‘em. He has the P.D. in his pocket; they can’t help us. Get that through your head. We cannot go back.”

“But, Mom—“

“An’ here we are!” Silverstar gestured to a shack waiting before them. The structure was one level, about the height of three stallions standing on each other’s shoulders. It was a grand, clean construction, not a nail out of place.

The wood lacked paint, bearing its grain against the desert sun and sand, but definitely beat some of the more ramshackle buildings and tents pitched nearby. “This is Braeburn’s place. Ah hope y’all find what yer lookin’ fer. An’ if ya need any help, jus’ let me know, okay?” the stallion added with a kind smile.

Citrus Blossom returned the warm gesture. “Thank youze, Sheriff.”

“Yes, thank you very much,” Libra said. She offered a forehoof to the stallion, who promptly shook hooves with her, seeking connection with his new wards. “We will be sure to let you know if we need anything.”

Here, in the descent of Celestia’s sun on the west, Libra Scales found her own roots rising through the sand to meet her. Appleloosa had been so, so long ago, so unimaginably barren and void. So far, this town seemed hospitable, warm, welcoming. Silverstar and the rest may have been members of an alien race for all Libra knew, so vast was the contrast.

For the first time today, the two mares encountered a pleasant surprise.

Silverstar tipped his hat again in respect. Slowly leaving his visitors to their errand, he trotted away, watching them with tired eyes. They seemed innocent enough. Yet, Silverstar made a vow keep them at the forefront of his mind. City ponies were always a gamble.

Citrus Blossom rapped a shaking forehoof on the door to Braeburn Apple’s shack.

Knock, knock, knock.

Citrus joined her mother a few steps from the perimeter, digging for an unseen oasis beneath her hooves. Aching seconds passed on the polished face of her internal clock, and just as she was about to make a second attempt, the door to the shack swung wide open.

There, in the doorway, stood a yellow stallion with a dusty mane, brown vest and Stetson completing him. His eyes were a pair of sparkling emeralds, and in the hasty setting of the desert sun, they were wide with shock. His mouth agape, he managed to sputter, “A-A-Auntie Libra? C-C-Cousin Citrus?”

“Hello, Braeburn,” Libra said.

The stallion hadn’t seen either of them in years. The last time he had seen them, he’d been young, heartbroken, unable to fully process the heap of broken images. Braeburn knew both his aunt and cousin had been at the funeral, though he yearned there hadn’t been one in the first place. Such a first impression, and one he longed to forget.

For all intents and purposes, Braeburn Apple was meeting them now for the first time.

Braeburn grinned so far and wide, his muzzle threatened to split in two. He leapt upon them, embracing them crushingly tight. “Oh, Celestia, it’s been so long! Auntie! Citrus! So good ta see y’all!”

“Good… to… see… you… too...” Citrus squeaked.

“Braeburn… you’re… hurtin’… me…” Libra choked.

Releasing the mares, Braeburn chuckled with a blush, “Oops! Sorry, y’all! Guess Ah jus’ got carried away, heh heh!” He rubbed the back of neck in slight embarrassment.

“So, what brings y’all out here to Aaaaaappleloosa??” he cried, rearing on his hindhooves with a whinny of excitement.

He adored his town second only to his family—having these long-lost Oranges here with him was, well, like Hearth’s Warming Eve. Two presents stood on his porch, unwrapped and expectant.

Hooves meeting sand, Braeburn's pupils suddenly dilated beyond all possibility, drinking in the sight of their saddlebags full to bursting. They were clearly burdened by their possessions. Why would somepony bring so much on just a simple family visit? Additionally, his aunt and cousin looked downright exhausted, their manes undone by velocity and sand. Hadn’t they taken the train?

“I will explain all of that,” Libra answered solemnly. “For now, can we please come inside?”

“Oh! O’ course, Auntie, where are ma manners? Please! Come in!” Gesturing with a forehoof, Braeburn retreated and held the door open wide as they crossed the threshold and secured it behind them. He bothered not with the locks. They were mere decorations in Appleloosa. Small-town folks had no need for thieves or burglars—lacking locks, they created none.

Dropping their saddlebags at the door, both mares marveled once more at the construction of his dwelling—this time, from the interior side. The shack was comfortably small, its square footage matching the smallest bedroom in the Orange Family Mansion. It surpassed the servant’s quarters in size, and hosted only one pony (currently) to boot. It was a marvelous work, ceiling vaulted with expert angles, floorboards and walls sandpapered to a fine, smooth texture. It was clearly the work of a master craftsman.

The shack contained a pair of full-sized bunk beds—a ladder connecting bottom to top—a circular table, three chairs, two storage chests, and a chest of drawers. A lamp on the table and one on the dresser burned brightly, illuminating the dwelling. The walls were decorated with a few photographs of various Apple Family members.

Smiling with pride, Braeburn asked, “You like it? Ah built it myself a few years ago. Now, Ah know Ah’m an Apple, an’ what we do best is grow our namesake, but Ah’d like ta think Ah could’ve done fine wit’ a construction cutiemark, too.” His visitors mumbled in agreement.

Citrus Blossom swept her gaze from wall to wall. There was only one room to speak of in her cousin’s dwelling. Modesty tossed aside, she said nervously, “Um, Braeburn, where is youze, um, youze know, uh—“

“Oh, outhouse is behind the buildin’. Sorry, cuz, Ah forget how things are in big cities sometimes,” he said with a chuckle. “No electricity o’ plumbin’—not yet, at least. We get by without, though. Them chests, there? Storage fer food, but apples don’t need an icebox.”

Nodding, fidgeting with her forehooves, Citrus replied, “I see. Can you please excuse me?”

“Of course, darling. We’ll be waiting,” Libra said. Her daughter scampered out of the abode, nearly barreling down the door in her haste. She turned to her nephew, apologizing, “Sorry, Braeburn. It was a very, very long train ride from Manehatten.”

Chuckling lightly, the stallion dismissed with a forehoof, “Oh, don’t worry ‘bout it, Auntie. Please. Make yerself at home. Take a chair wit’ me.”

Aunt and nephew joined together, taking seats at the tiny table. “Can Ah git ya anythin’?” Braeburn offered, “Apple tart? Apple fritter? Oh, Ah think Ah have some applesauce left, too. Made it maself.”

Growling of her stomach betraying the shake of her mane, Libra relented, “Well, I suppose I could eat. Citrus, too. But, first, Braeburn… there’s something I need to ask you.” She gently took one of his forehooves in between both of hers.

Gazing into his emerald irises, seeing only sincerity shining back at her, Libra asked, “Can… can you keep a secret?”

“O’ course Ah can, Auntie Orange.” He returned the gesture, squeezing her forehoof tight in his grip. “Anythin’ ya tell me will stay ‘tween us.”

She sighed. “Perhaps I should wait for Citrus to join us. I… I don’t know if I can tell you the whole story by myself.”

Braeburn raised a concerned eyebrow. “Somethin’ wrong?”

Libra Scales bit her lip and said, “Only… everything.”

Equestria’s reigning alicorns exchanged their positions in their nightly battle, the white diving deep into the void below the horizon, the violet raising her lantern high against her canvas of stars. Princess Luna painted a particularly wondrous masterpiece on this momentous night in Appleloosa, last echo of civilization before the desert gave way to the wonder and mystery of what lay beyond.

Silver, gold, oil, nothingness. All and none of the above.

Libra Scales told their story to the best of her ability, assisted periodically by Citrus Blossom and her limited perspective. They spoke of Bernie Madhoof, his abusive ways, his greed and addiction, his thirst for power, the iron hooves he held threateningly above Manehatten. They recalled the abuse and departure of Greyhoof, the patriarch's irrational prejudice towards his own foal, his manipulation of the entire household.

They spoke of the grizzled stallion on the porch, his thick accent, his diamond-pommeled cane. Harbinger of doom he was, siren shattering the pieces that remained in the Orange Family Mansion. One member already departed for greener pastures, two more left that day, diving into the sands.

When the mares showed Braeburn Apple the document, the stallion had to call upon every shred of self-control he possessed not to gallop off into the night in pursuit of a mansion and its wicked occupant. He trembled with rage, clenching his forehooves, bracing his hindhooves into his floorboards.

Uncle Orange was a drinker and a fiend—everypony in the extended family knew that. The Apples knew this especially well; Madhoof hated them the most of all. For Bernie Madhoof to even contemplate such a wicked thing set Braeburn’s adrenaline pumping, his blood boiling within his veins.

Libra Scales calmed her nephew. Her explanation was logical and chilling. There was nothing nopony could do. As long as Orange Enterprises reigned its iron hooves over Manehatten, and the corrupt uniforms jumped happily into his pockets, Bernie Madhoof could literally get away with murder if he wanted.

Braeburn Apple vowed never to eat a Manehatten orange again.

“Now, we’re here, Braeburn. We’re here, damn near broke, with nowhere to go,” Libra said. “This is all my fault. If I hadn’t attacked him, he wouldn’t have—“

“Youze attacked him, Mother?” Citrus gasped, incredulous.

Libra nodded shamefully. “Yes, I did. He… he was… forget it. I don’t want to talk about why. It doesn’t matter. Either way, I bucked up. I caused this. I’m the reason we’re homeless.

“I’m the reason our family is broken.” She whimpered, then burst into tears.

Citrus and Braeburn rose from their haunches and threw their forelimbs around the weeping mare. “Shhh… that’s not true, Mother, an’ you know it,” soothed Citrus as she stroked her mane. “Youze couldn’t have known this was gonna happen, an’ even if ya did, how did you know that he wasn’t gonna… do this eventually?”

Libra merely sobbed in response.

Braeburn nuzzled her neck in comfort. “Auntie, don’t blame yerself… ya did the best ya could, gettin’ out o’ there. Citrus got Babs out first, an' then you had enough ta get both o’ ya out here, didn’t ya?”

“Y-yes…”

Braeburn wiped her tears away with an unshorn fetlock. “See? Ya did yer best. Ya made it. An’ now, y’all are here. An’ ya know what?”

Sniffling, Libra muttered, “W-w-what? W-what do I k-know, Braeburn?”

“That y’all can stay here, long as ya like, long as ya need,” Braeburn said. With a slight smile, he continued, “Ma’ told me a long time ‘go that ya had ta leave, Auntie. Ya had ta leave, an’ chase yer dreams, an’ be the mare ya wanted ta be. An’ she respected that. An’ Ah do, too. Ah think we all gotta find where home is. After Ma’ died… Ah wanted ta run ‘way, run ‘way ‘cuz it hurt. But… this is ma home. Her home. Our home.

“An’, Auntie Orange, Ah know Ma’ would spank ma hide red if Ah didn’t open our home ta y’all.” He shook strands of dusty mane from his vision, tears joining his elder’s. They both shared a slight chuckle in the wake of his humor. “Heh. She would! Ah’m serious! She pulled no punches, Auntie!”

“I know, Braeburn,” she said with a grin. “I know.”

Braeburn’s irises sparkled, tears of joy. He finished his proposal, saying, “Ah know Ah don’t have no fancy mansion, no stacks o’ bits, nothin’ but bare bones out here. But… Ah can get y’all work. Ah can give y’all shelter, food, whatever y’all need. An’ maybe, after a while, y’all can go somewhere that’s more home ta ya. Sound fair?”

Two mares nodded their affirmation. Libra said, “Far more than fair. Braeburn, whatever we take, I’ll pay back to you in tenfold. No matter how long it takes.”

Shaking his muzzle, the stallion said, “Bits don’t mean nothin’ ta me, Auntie, Citrus. Love is all we need.” His guests’ bellies rumbling in protest, Braeburn added quickly, “Okay, an’ maybe apples.”

Two Oranges and an Apple shared a gentle laugh. They tucked away their demons beneath the rug of the desert plains, leaving the darkest of their nights for future discussion.

Many questions haunted Braeburn—what would they do with the document, and would they pursue justice when the skies were a bit brighter?—but he silenced them for now. At hoof, he had a first impression to make, two beloved guests to drown in Appleloosa’s reputable hospitality.

In the tiny shack of Braeburn Apple, Citrus and Libra tasted and devoured the finest applesauce in all of Equestria. Manehatten and Appleloosa made up for the miles and years between them, memories of family and friends long gone and times lost to the wind prompting tears of joy and mourning. They spoke late into the dark, until the rising of the moon’s most powerful beams sung them to sleep.

Mother and daughter shared a simple bunk bed that night, sheets and blankets scratchy in the absence of their typical luxury. Neither of the mares cared. It was warm and safe all the same.

Below them, nephew and cousin and newfound savior slumbered, dreaming of a proud mother and new days to come. In dreams, she was there, and she praised him.

Citrus and Libra wrote upon the first page of their tabula rasa, and it went something like this: “Sometimes, it is the smallest spaces which are the most full. And, sometimes, starting over is the bravest thing a pony can do.”

From Appleloosa she came, and to Appleloosa she returned. And Libra Scales was not afraid.

Year One: The Fourth Crusader

Scootaloo sighed and arched her back into the floorboards of the clubhouse, relaxing her developing muscles. She had been interrupted from her weekly flying lessons with the one, the only Rainbow Dash by an overzealous Sweetie Belle.

Normally, Scootaloo would’ve welcomed Sweetie's presence—she was one of her best friends, after all—her idol possessed little free time. After Dash finished her weather duties each Monday, it was their special flying time. Seven days never dragged so achingly slow between sessions. To cease such a joyous occasion, Scootaloo reasoned, better have been as important as promised…

It was Monday afternoon. It was always Monday afternoon within the confines of Scootaloo’s mind. These blessed, sacred days, Ponyville’s main weather-pony would complete her job duties early, making special time for the foal who adored her so much. Keeping her solemn vows, Rainbow Dash met with Scootaloo the beginning of each work-week to instruct her in the ways of the thermals.

Scootaloo learned the simple flying exercises quickly. Delighted at her mastery of the fundamentals, Rainbow Dash held nothing back, increasing the intensity of their lessons as the weeks passed. On this very momentous Monday afternoon, Celestia’s sun beginning to set the sky afire with yellow, orange, and red, the two of them sped through a series of warm-up drills with ease.

Praising Scootaloo for a new hovering record, elder and younger pegasus fillies took a rejuvenating break on the grass. Dash droned about some of the more interesting pegasi she worked with—a certain cross-eyed mare was discussed—but Scootaloo didn't mind. Her hero always had a great story to tell.

From one of the hills below galloped a white unicorn filly with a curly pink-and-purple mane. She charged towards them, hooves streaking through the grass in her haste, eyes wide and wild.

Dash pointed a forehoof in the direction of the charging foal and observed, “Hey, isn’t that—“

“SCOOTALOO!” bellowed their visitor, thundering her hooves up to the steep hill to meet the two fliers.

Concern shone brightly in Scootaloo’s violet irises. “What is it, Sweetie Belle?” she asked. Rainbow Dash shared her ward’s quizzical look, both pegasi stretching their wings in preparation for another round of gliding exercises as they waited for an answer.

Sweetie took deep, gasping breaths, catching her words somewhere in the stirring of the wind. “It’s Apple Bloom! She says to come and meet us at the clubhouse right away!” She practically tripped over her own hooves as she hopped in place. “She says it’s important!”

Sighing, Scootaloo turned to her hero and muttered uneasily, “Uh… well… if it’s important…I guess—“

“Don’t worry, squirt,” Dash assured, ruffling Scootaloo's mane. Eliciting a giggle from her student, Dash added with a grin, “I’ll make some time tomorrow so we can catch up. Just make sure you stretch before you come next time, okay?”

“Heh, heh, yeah, right, stretch.” Scootaloo didn’t have much time to hide her embarrassment, tearing away from Dash's gaze as Sweetie Belle roughly grasped her forehoof and pulled both of them towards Sweet Apple Acres. “Okay! Okay! I’m going! I’m going! Sheesh, Sweetie!”

“She said to hurry!”

“I heard you the first time!”

Rainbow Dash chuckled to her impish self as the two fillies broke into a gallop, unicorn racing pegasus towards farmland and heartland, soon becoming shadows against the horizon. With a quick flap of her wings, Rainbow Dash became one with the sky, and rocketed towards demands of her own—the call of the thermals, the wind in her feathers.

“Arrrgh! You pulled me away from Rainbow Dash’s awesome flying lesson, and Apple Bloom hasn’t even shown up yet!” Stomping her hindhooves into the foundations in frustration, Scootaloo groaned and said, “I was almost starting to get the real hang of long-distance gliding, too!”

Sitting at the Cutie Mark Crusaders' desk (which doubled as a lunch table), Sweetie Belle said with a tilt of her head, “Aw, you heard Rainbow Dash. You’ll make up for it later. I’m sure Apple Bloom is on her way.”

Rolling her eyes, Scootaloo didn’t budge from her skepticism. “Are you sure she said right now? Not like, tomorrow or something?”

“Since when have I lied to you?” Sweetie challenged.

“No! I didn’t say you lied!” Scootaloo looked up from the floorboards with a confused muzzle. “You just… hear things selectively sometimes."

Sweetie gasped and accused, “Have you been hanging out with Rarity lately?! She says that all the time! ‘Selective hearing.’ One time, I thought she said ‘pot roast,’ not ‘hot toast.’ No wonder she was confused when I asked Applejack if we could borrow a pig…”

Before Scootaloo could raise an eyebrow and make a case for animal welfare, the trotting of small hooves on the clubhouse drawbridge silenced her objection. Sitting bolt upright, she turned to Sweetie and exclaimed, “I think that’s her! Come on, capes on!”

In a flash, Sweetie Belle and Scootaloo retrieved their crimson Cutie Mark Crusader capes from the floorboards—both of their prized possessions left behind mistakenly after Thursday’s round of crusading—and secured them around their necks. “I wonder what we’ll be doing today!” Sweetie Belle whispered, mind running amok with ideas.

Winter was slowly beginning its descent upon Ponyville. It was a little too early to be “Cutie Mark Crusader Snow Shovelers,” or “Cutie Mark Crusader Sledders,” but maybe there was still enough time to be “Cutie Mark Crusader Leaf-Jumpers”? Sweetie wasn’t sure, but knew that there would plenty of time for debate, once two became three.

Door to the clubhouse creaking open, their summoner arrived at last… with another foal trotting behind her. Surprisingly, both visitors lacked their counterpart's capes. Apple Bloom strode in first, a familiar face following her inside.

Bobtail filly with a colt’s manecut, orange in coat, red-and-pink in mane, tall and strong. Babs Seed. Their bad seed. Except, there was something… different about her. Quite different.

“Hey Babs!” Scootaloo greeted, two becoming four. “Hey… what’s wrong with your ear?” She gestured to the thick rolls of white bandages wrapped around the middle of Babs's left ear. There were no blood-stains to contrast against the blinding white of the dressings. Still, it surprised both waiting Cutie Mark Crusaders, eying their newest member with concern.

Muttering barely above an inaudible volume, Babs replied, “Oh, um, well, dat’s—“

Apple Bloom, though she was shorter and lighter than her cousin, had entered the clubhouse at an angle, blocking Sweetie and Scoots' view of Bab Seed’s flanks. There, on that orange fur, lay an incredible blessing, one which warranted an entire celebration at the Sweet Apple farmhouse. However, that blessing threatened to potentially curse its bearer as well, bringing with it all sorts of unspoken questions.

Apple Bloom wasn’t sure how Sweetie Belle and Scootaloo would react to the fourth Crusader receiving her cutiemark before everypony else, and in the midst of her worries about that, neglected to think of a hasty explanation for her cousin’s injury.

Now, she took a bold step forward, shielding Babs further. Reluctant to recall the most horrific experience of her young life so soon—even to her best friends—Apple Bloom interjected, “Uh, gals, that’s a long story. Real long story. Heh, heh. But… that’s not why Ah called y’all here. There’s somethin’ else.”

“What is it, Apple Bloom? Is something wrong?” Sweetie Belle asked, her eyes widening.

“Yeah! Do we need to go kick some flank?” Scootaloo asked, her pupils blazing, mental images of Diamond Tiara and Silver Spoon tumbling to their doom (and into a puddle of mud) preceding a wicked sort of smile.

Apple Bloom sighed. “No. Nopony needs their flank kicked. It’s jus’…. well… Babs… are ya ready?”

As ready as I’ll eva be, Babs Seed thought. With an awkward, reluctant grin, she answered, “Yea, I’m ready.”

Suspicion replacing her thirst for vengeance, Scootaloo narrowed her eyes and repeated, “Ready? Ready?? Ready for what?”

Emerald irises turned to fiery-rubies, seeking affirmation in their depths. Cousin nodding and nudging her gently with a forehoof, Babs Seed gulped and trotted fully into the clubhouse, Celestia’s fading sun illuminating the source of two gasps as it glowed in the sunlight.

Sweetie Belle and Scootaloo nearly dislocated their jaws at the sight.

There it was—or, rather, there they were—the cutiemark, the fourth Crusader a blankflank no more, a little purple shield with a red apple slice in its center bearing triumph against orange fur on each haunch. The four of them stood in silence, two fixated on the fourth's flank with unrefined wonder. Babs Seed began to sweat, seconds stretched beyond measure. C’mon, say summat, any o’ youze!

“So, uh, girls, what do youze, uh… think?” Babs mumbled. Her words shattered their stagnation, unable to bear the weight of her anticipation any longer. Is ma first rule true fo’ dem as well as me? “Once a Crusada, always a Crusada”?

“It’s. Beautiful!” Sweetie exclaimed happily. Bounding over to Babs Seed and enveloping the shocked foal in a crushing hug, she praised, “Oh, Babs, good for you! I’m so happy for you! First of us to get your cutiemark! Wow!”

Apple Bloom turned to Scootaloo. “Well…. what do ya think, Scootaloo? Pretty cool, huh?”

“More than just cool.” Scoots grinned. “This is just... totally awesome!” Wings fluttering with excitement, she joined the unicorn in nearly crushing her. Apple Bloom trotted over and completed their group hug, Babs Seed giggling in the center.

“Phew!” Babs sighed with relief as she was released from their embrace. “I thought youze two would be mad.”

Sweetie Belle raised an eyebrow, more confused than usual. “Mad? Why would we be mad?”

Apple Bloom and Scootaloo shared Sweetie's befuddlement. Scootaloo gestured with a wild forehoof and said, “We’re the Cutie Mark Crusaders! That’s what we do, find our cutiemarks! And you did it first! If that's not a reason to be happy, nothing is!”

“Besides, Babs... once a Crusader, always a Crusader. Ain’t that what ya said ta the Manehatten CMC?” added Apple Bloom.

Smiling, Babs remarked, “Heh, dat's true. I guess youze is right.”

“Wait!” Scootaloo focused her full attention on Babs Seed, raising a forehoof in realization. “Babs, how long are you going to be visiting?”

Uh-oh. Turning to her cousin, Babs swept her gaze from the two expectant Crusaders, then to Apple Bloom, and back again. Urging for the silent boon of telepathy to befall Apple Bloom, Babs rambled within the confines of her mind, Didn’t youze tell them 'bout...? Wait! No! Dat’s not what I want! Don't tell 'em! O’... maybe youze can tell ‘em... down the line...

“Yeah, Babs! How much longer until you have to go back to Manehatten?” Sweetie Belle asked, throwing in a loaded question of her own. “Just so, you know, we can try and learn how to get our cutiemarks from the master while she's still here, of course,” she chuckled, nudging her in the ribs.

Across the clubhouse, Babs Seed looked again to Apple Bloom in a silent plea for assistance. Apple Bloom turned to her two best friends and dismissed, “Uh, gals, let’s not worry ‘bout that right now. Let’s jus’ go have some fun! Oh, Ah know! How ‘bout we go try ta be ‘Cutie Mark Crusader Apple Farmers’ again?”

Sweetie countered, “But we tried that already, and—”

“Wait a minute!” Scootaloo trotted over beside their newest member, gazing intensely at Babs's flank.

The hay?! "Uh... Scootaloo... what are youze doin’?”

“It’s an apple slice,” Scootaloo observed flatly.

“Well, duh,” Sweetie said with a roll of her eyes. “Of course it is! Babs is an Apple! Just like Apple Bloom, right?”

Scootaloo tilted her head in confusion. “But... I thought you were an Orange. From Manehatten. And hey, wait! You still didn’t answer my question!”

A single bead of sweat trickled down Babs Seed's nape. It had barely been a full passage of the sun and moon since her arrival, since her enemy—Powerlessness—lay fallen on the ground at her forehooves. Taking control of her destiny and fate, Babs Seed felt strong, powerful, and somehow in the midst of the madness, acquired her cutiemark as well.

Mark of destiny it was, revealing her true self. There was nothing to be ashamed or afraid of, was there? An’ yet, I don’t know iffa I’m ready ta tell ‘em everythin’...

“Scootaloo, drop it,” Apple Bloom ordered, deadpan, her voice only a few octaves above a growl. She repeated, “C’mon, the sun’s still out. Let’s all go crusadin’!”

Sweetie Belle tapped Scootaloo with a forehoof. “She’s right, you know, it’s getting late...” Scootaloo scowled, planting her haunches on the oak. “Scootaloo?”

With a scoff, the pegasus jabbed, “I don’t see why it’s such a difficult question to answer. What? Did you run away or something?”

In an instant, Babs's internal homeostasis shifted, sensing conflict, detecting danger. Neurons fired, adrenaline was released, and an orange forehoof stepped angrily towards its matching counterpart. “Dat’s none o’ youze business.” She sneered.

This time, Apple Bloom was the one to play mediator. Rushing to her cousin’s side, she tugged on her forehoof and muttered, “Uh, Babs, maybe we should jus’ go... Applejack’s gonna have dinner ready soon, an’—”

“Keeping secrets, huh? That’s no way to treat a friend!” Scootaloo met her match, gritting her teeth. “You are our friend, aren’t you, Babs Seed?”

“O’ course I am!” What’s her problem?!

Taking a deep breath, Scootaloo suddenly blurted, “Then, tell us what’s going on! Why are you hurt? How did you get your cutiemark? Why aren’t you in Manehatten?”

Silence rushed in through the ajar door of the clubhouse.

Inside hopped the Truth, as summoned, and that trickster demon took a seat in the corner, munching happily on a bag of freshly popped popcorn with a gleeful grin.

The four foals froze in the aftermath of the pointed questions. Geography failed none of them; it wasn’t fancy, unlike mathematics, and could be easily understood. Manehatten was in the East, where things were meaner, tougher, rougher, grand and significant. Ponyville was in the West, the land of small towns, tight-knit communities, working-class ponies, sweat watering seeds and cultivating the fruit of their labors.

The Oranges were from the East, and here was their foal, cutiemark of an apple slice, in the land of the West and the best. The land where the skies were a little bit brighter. A land so far, far away.

Celestia, Scootaloo...

Emerald irises welled full with tears. At their summoning, Babs Seed took a few hoof-steps backwards, biting down on her lower lip. Don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry, DON’T CRY!

She swallowed the tide that churned in her heart, threatening to drown her in its depths. It was not regret threatening in the windows of her soul; one wound was healing, but another was fresh and bleeding profusely now.

“Babs…” Apple Bloom whispered, reaching out to her with gentle forehooves. “She…she didn’t mean it…” she lied, antagonist sitting stone and statue from the peripheral of her pupils, quiet as Discord in his downfall.

Mustering the last of her courage, Babs Seed turned and mumbled, “I… I need ta go.”

Stronger, taller, faster than the other foals, Babs Seed rocketed out of the clubhouse, through the threshold, down the drawbridge, and into an orchard of apple trees.

The departed’s cousin glared at her so-called friend and fellow Crusader, tossing a jet-black dagger of her own into wide eyes. “See what ya did! What the hay is wrong wit’ ya?! Why are ya bein’ such a… a bully, Scoots?!” Apple Bloom demanded.

Gesturing to her innocent self, Scootaloo repeated, incredulous, “Me?! A bully?! But, but, I was just asking questions!”

“Don’t ya get it?!” Apple Bloom hissed, slamming her muzzle against Scootaloo's in anger.

Standing firm, hooves planted to the floorboards, Scootaloo spat, “No, I don't! Tell me! Tell me what’s going on!”

Before the Sweetie Belle could play mediator for a second, heart-wrenching time, Apple Bloom exclaimed, “That’s NONE o’ yer darn business, Scootaloo!” Blazing with rage, she felt herself rise on her hindhooves, taking a step towards Scootaloo. “Ah was gonna tell ya what it means, what it all means, but not if yer gonna act like this!”

A light bulb beckoned its appearance above Sweetie Belle’s curls as she happened upon a revelation of her own. “Wait! Babs is an Orange, but she has a cutiemark of an apple. So, that means—”

Pivoting on her hooves, urging towards her exit, Apple Bloom said, “No mo’ time fer talk. Ah’ve gotta go find ma cousin. Don’t come runnin’ unless ya apologize,” she added, shooting an antagonizing filly with a glare of her own.

Sweetie rose from her haunches in protest, but Apple Bloom outran her pleas, galloping against oak and ground in pursuit of Babs Seed.

Am I where I'm supposed ta be, doin' the right thing? Was Turner right? Did I listen ta Luna? Or... is dis all a mistake?

Will I eva see Ma, Da', o' Citrus again? If not... it's... all ma fault...

Flasks filled with gnawing fear poured into the cauldron of Babs Seed’s consciousness, where they were stirred and mocked by the sight of the beautiful setting sun. Here, in the West, the horizon didn’t seem as far away.

Mother, sister, and father, however, did.

Sunday night had been a joyous celebration, full of Applejack’s famous apple pie, Granny Smith’s stories of olden days, and Big Macintosh spinning the newest member of the Apple clan in laughing circles. That first night, too, had been wondrous, Babs Seed dreaming of naught but radiance and light, curled safe and sound against yellow forehooves.

Applejack had chuckled, “Hope ya don’t mind, Babs. We only have four rooms here, so Ah guess ya’ll be stayin’ wit’ Apple Bloom most nights.” Applejack feigned obliviousness at the appearance of Babs Seed’s blush, but otherwise didn’t press the issue. There would be plenty of time for those kind of discussions.

Today, in turn, had been a great first day. There’d been no school to attend, Cheerilee holding conferences for her students' guardians (to their foals' fear and loathing). Cousin Macintosh showed her how fields were harvested, gleaming the last of the carrots, turnips, and potatoes before the frost came.

There’d been more than a few teasing chortles when Babs tried on the stallion’s heavy yoke. Strong she was, but the plow barely budged, no matter how hard she tried. Big Mac couldn't halt himself from gentle laughter. “Eeyup, be a long time befo’ ya can help me, lil’ one. But, Ah appreciate ya tryin’,” he'd said, a wide grin shining across his muzzle. Babs Seed unyoked herself and giggled along with him.

Yea, it’s been a good day. Well, up until now...

“Babs?”

Brushing a forehoof against the grass, Babs strained her neck to catch the source of her guest. There, in this thicket of tall, strong, apple trees—bucked of their fruit, straggler leaves falling to the weary Earth below—Scootaloo joined the fourth Crusader.

“What do youze want?” Babs growled, sniffling away her tears as she stared into the sunset.

With a gentle sigh, her visitor whispered in reply, “I… I came to apologize. Apple Bloom was on her way, but Sweetie Belle kinda… sent me flying after her.”

Babs raised an eyebrow. “Youze flew?”

“Yeah. A little.” Scootaloo took a seat next to Babs Seed under the towering apple trees. For a moment, they spoke no words, pondering the fire in the atmosphere. Then, Scootaloo continued, “I’m sorry, Babs. I shouldn’t have asked you something so… personal.”

Babs ran a forehoof through blades of green in distraction, digesting her words. She exhaled after an agonizing pause, releasing tension, and apologized, “I’m sorry, too. It’s... it’s not youze fault.”

Scootaloo looked at her for a second in thought, then divulged, “You know... I haven’t really told anypony about this, but... I think it’s time I told somepony.

“Would you like to be that somepony, Babs?”

Hesitatingly, Babs answered, “I... I guess.”

“Has Apple Bloom told you about Rainbow Dash at all?”

“She says youze is obsessed wit’ her, ta kinda a creepy extent.”

Blushing, Scootaloo muttered, “Heh... that’s... probably true...”

Babs Seed chuckled and replied curiously, “But...what does dat have ta do wit’ me?”

“Well, Babs, um... what I’m trying to say is that I know what it’s like to not have something or somepony to come home to,” Scootaloo finished. Tearing away from her, watching the sky again as it burned bright and radiant, the pegasus paused. From the corner of her gaze, Babs Seed swore upon every one of her lucky stars that she saw a tear escape the other foal's eye.

“I have parents, of course. But... they aren’t... around that much. So, I hang out with Rainbow Dash instead. I know she doesn’t really have the time for it—maybe a little more now than before—but I like to pretend that she’s my big sister. That I belong. She's not my real family, but she feels like it. And I guess that's what matters. I mean... I’m a pegasus, Babs. And I can’t even fully fly yet. I’m still stuck here on the ground. But.... she helps me fly. I guess you know that feeling in a way, don’t you?”

Yes... an’ we’re both the puzzle pieces dat don’t fit nicely in the box. “Youze could say dat, Scootaloo,” said Babs Seed. “But, I don’t really want ta—”

“You don’t have to." Meeting her gaze, Scootaloo said quickly, “It was wrong of me to interrogate you like that. It doesn’t matter, all those questions. All that matters is that we’re friends... if you still want to be, of course." She held out her olive branch, a gentle smile spreading across her muzzle.

Returning the grin, Babs said, “Yea, I think I’d like dat,” and accepted the peace offering and forehooves offered to her. They embraced, all trespasses cast aside and forgiven against the burning of dusk's last light.

“Welcome back, Babs."

"Thank youze, Scoots. It's... it's good ta be back."

"One more thing,” Scootaloo whispered. “If you ever, I mean, ever, hurt Apple Bloom... I’ll kick your flank," she vowed, squeezing the filly tight.

Horseapples! “Eh, heh, heh, I don’t know what youze talkin’ ‘bout, Scoots,” Babs muttered as she pulled away from her friend and fellow Crusader.

Before another awkward (albeit deep) conversation could devolve in the orchard, two became four once more, unicorn and Earth pony joining them. “Hey! So you two made up, right?” Sweetie Belle chipped.

“Eeyup!” Babs answered, teeth sparkling in a wide grin.

“See? Yer becomin’ an Apple already, Babs!” Apple Bloom giggled, nuzzling Babs's neck. Heh. Maybe I am. Chuckling at her counterpart's blush, she for the third and final time, “C’mon, y’all! Let’s go get some cutiemarks! Babs, why don’t ya lead us?”

The fourth Crusader rose from her haunches and beckoned towards the south orchard, decreeing, “Last one there owes me a strawberry milkshake!”

Poor in bits but not in spirit, the three Cutie Mark Crusaders charged in hot pursuit of their newest member, reasoning that if they were going to fall behind, at the very least, they could cross second place together. After all, the check was smaller that way.

There were cutiemarks to be found, stories to be shared, but that would come after dessert.

Year One: Metal Crown, Brass Fork

Applejack always rose with the dawn.

Applejack swam up from the depths of her dreams at the rooster’s summon. Breaching the surface, she yawned and rose from her bed, stretching out the kinks in all four of her aching hooves. Yesterday had been a busy workday. The frosts were well on their way, king of autumn soon to be overthrown by the relentless reign of winter’s command.

Big Macintosh (and Babs Seed, to a much lesser extent) harvested the fields yesterday, freeing the last of the carrots, potatoes, and turnips imprisoned in their soil. Applejack busied herself with assisting Granny Smith in the kitchen, the elder and the younger canning the yields of their labor in preparation for the lean times to come. Apple Bloom tided up the shelves in the basement once canning had been completed—with her big sister's help, of course.

For the most part, the two foals had been spared too much hard work on their little day off from school. It was Tuesday now, however, back to the grindstone, and for two slumbering fillies, back to Cheerilee’s lesson plan.

After running a brush a few quick seconds through her mane and securing her trusty Stetson to her head, satisfied that she was more than ready to greet the day, Applejack trotted slowly to Apple Bloom and Babs Seed’s room, dodging creaking floorboards underhoof. She reached the door and pressed an ear to the oak, the sound of gentle snores—octaves away from each other—made her smile.

Two nights it had been. Two nights without nightmares from Babs, no shrieks or cries in the dark. Her sleep had been easy. Applejack sighed with relief and creaked the bedroom door open.

“Heh, heh, y’all are so cute,” she whispered. She caught herself taking a hoof-step back, unwilling to interrupt their angelic sleep. Orange and yellow foals intertwined in each other’s forehooves, lost to the world, free and wild in dreams.

Regardless, Cheerilee would be waiting, parchment and pencil in hoof. Tuesdays were school days, and Applejack had no tolerance for truants. She strode over to the bed and poked each foal in the shoulder with a rough forehoof. “Wake up, y’all. Time fer school.”

Babs Seed and Apple Bloom continued to snore.

Rolling her eyes, Applejack mumbled, “Fine. We’ll do this the hard way.” The mare grasped their blankets tight in her teeth and yanked, tugging the covers to the floor.

“Huh?! Wha?!” Little sister sat bolt upright, scanning for the source of her interruption. Catching Applejack’s narrowed gaze, Apple Bloom said with a grin, “Oh! It’s jus’ you, Applejack! Ah was worried there fer a second!”

“It’s time fer school, Apple Bloom. C’mon! Get yer cousin up, too. Ah’ll be downstairs, makin’ breakfast. Hurry up!” she called, exiting the fillies’ room in pursuit of her next morning chore.

Wiping sleep from her eyes, Apple Bloom mumbled, “Get Babs up…. right… got it.”

Babs Seed sprawled herself all over their shared bed, forehooves digging at the sheets in search of a now-absent companion. Her eyes were squeezed shut. Babs Seed snored a lazy rhythm, blowing the one strand of red-and-pink mane in front of her vision back in forth in time with her breath.

Apple Bloom leaned down and whispered into her intact right ear, “Psst! Hey! Babs! It’s time ta get up!”

“… Nngh… no...” Babs muttered, smacking her lips, snoozing still.

Groaning, the bloom played her best cards against the seed, raising her volume, muttering absurd phrases, but no success. Minutes dragged on, spent and useless.

Suddenly, a revelation graced the awakener's mind: perhaps Babs Seed was just being plain ol' lazy.

“Hey! Wait a minute! Ya can hear me, can’t ya?!” Apple Bloom snapped.

Her cousin didn’t respond, merely tugging at the bed’s fitted sheet, grasping it between her forehooves.

Apple Bloom sighed. “Ya know, you are pretty cute when ya sleep, but, if ya don’t wake up soon, Applejack’s gonna be—“

“BLOOM! BABS!”

“—Mad.”

Impatient, tapping a hindhoof on the kitchen floorboards, Applejack called up the stairs again,“C’MON, Y’ALL! BREAKFAST IS READY!”

Turning towards the door, Apple Bloom yelled, “IN A MINUTE, SIS!”

She leaned down and nudged the Babs's neck, shoulders, and ribs. Nothing. Whatever dreams that enthralled Babs Seed embraced her with an iron grasp. Apple Bloom was unable to rouse her through gentle means. That, or she was an excellent actress, of the highest Canterlot caliber. “Sheesh, Babs, Ah wish Ah could sleep this good..."

Four hooves stomped up the stairs, bellowing THUD! THUD! THUD! THUD!

“Uh-oh.” Apple Bloom groaned as she caught sight of her sibling’s scowl from her peripherals. Applejack trudged right back in where she began, quick breakfast hot and ready on the table, one lazy foal still sound asleep.

Scowling, Applejack scolded, “Apple Bloom! Ah told ya ta get her up!”

“She won’t get up, Applejack!”

“Ponyfeathers! Yer jus’ bein’ too easy on her, that’s all.” Applejack nudged the snoozing foal in the ribs, poking her repeatedly. “C’mon, Babs, get up!”

“… Nngh… no…” came the response.

Gesturing wildly with her forehooves, Apple Bloom huffed, “Now do ya believe me?! She is out, Applejack! Out! Like a light!”

A freckled face met an orange hoof. “Ah don’t have time fo’ this right now! Ugh… desperate times call fer desperate measures!” Nipping its strands in between her jaws, Applejack tugged on the short red-and-pink tail, eliciting a YIP! of surprise from its owner. Babs Seed was jolted into the land of the real at last.

“'Ey! What gives?!” she grumbled, shielding her muzzle from the burning dawn. Too... damn... early...

“Rise an’ shine, sleepyhead!” Applejack taunted with a grin. “It’s time fer yer first day o’ school in Ponyville! Hurry up an’ come down here, Ah’ve got breakfast waitin’. Oh, an’ Ah need ta change yer bandages again, Babs.”

O’ course. How much longer fo’ dis thing? Babs fidgeted with her left ear, testing its temperament. The injury hissed no more, pain fading in the warm rays of the morning star. Good. Still, where the nick began to scab, new cells replacing their deceased companions, it itched and burned, seeking oxygen and relief. Yeesh. Hopefully not much longer.

Babs stretched in the rays of Celestia’s dawn, sunlight pouring in from the bedroom window. Yawning, she relented, “Okay, Applejack, jus’… give me a minute…”

“One. Minute,” Applejack warned, sharing a knowing glance with her sibling. Elder and younger Apple giggled to themselves, a confused foal merely blinking in response. The older of her two cousins departed, leaving the bloom and the seed to their own devices.

“Sorry ‘bout that, Babs. But, Ah couldn’t wake ya up!” Apple Bloom explained. “What were ya dreamin’ ‘bout, anyway?” she added teasingly, fluttering her eyelids.

“Oh, heh, heh, youze know, um, jus’, stuff,” Babs answered with a blush.

Giggling, Apple Bloom asked further, “What kinda stuff?”

“Actually, I was dreamin’ ‘bout Turner.”

“Turner?”

Jumping from the bed, working out the knots in her own muscles, Babs explained, “Youze know, the bartender. From Manehatten. The one who helped me?”

Joining her cousin on the floorboards, Apple Bloom stood in a thinking spot beyond the four walls of the Cutie Mark Crusaders clubhouse. “Oh! That’s right!” She grinned. “He’s sounds like an awesome stallion! Maybe Ah can meet him someday.”

Her stomach rumbling in its emptiness, Babs Seed strode towards the door, cousin in tow. “Dat would be pretty cool. I’m kinda disappointed dat I didn’t get ta see him ‘gain.” Babs glanced at her shoulders, anticipating the apparition of her savior’s spirit, conscience and guidance made manifest in phantasmal form.

The Turner-angel did not appear.

Maybe he'll come 'round, again. Maybe I have ta do summat first.

Apple Bloom tapped her chin with a forehoof, contemplative. They heeded Applejack’s command, trotting down the stairs, scent of warm oatmeal below quickening their pace.

As they reached the lower level of the farmhouse and pivoted towards the kitchen, Apple Bloom surmised, “Well, sometimes goodbyes ain’t fer forever, Babs. Ah’m sure ya’ll see him someday. Maybe me, too,” she added with a smile.

Grinning, Babs nodded. “I think he woulda liked youze.”

Applejack gestured to the kitchen table. “C’mon, sis, cuz, eat up. Cinnamon oatmeal. Yer favorite, Apple Bloom.”

Two foals scampered to their meal, forgetting their reluctant, morning haze. Younger sister clapped her forehooves together and bothered not with the lazy spoon next to her bowl, slurping down her breakfast. Babs Seed merely blinked.

Hmm. Not pancakes, nothin' fancy, but... it looks good. The first bite of her simple breakfast chucked all Babs's manners carelessly aside. Applejack proved to be a fine chef, rivaling Allspice with her creation. Apple pie first, and, now, oatmeal. What other tricks did she possess under her Stetson?

Sneaking behind Babs Seed, her cousin devouring her bowl down to its ceramic, Applejack began to unroll the bandages around her ear. “Almost healed, Babs,” she said. “Jus’ a few mo’ days, an’ ya should be fine.”

Staccato between greedy bites, Babs replied, “Good. It. Itches!”

“Heh heh, that’s right. That’s what new skin does. Now, jus’ sit tight an’ Ah’ll fix ya right up.”

Within a few minutes, no discomfort following her touch this time, older cousin cared for the younger’s wound, the significance of that injury not lost on her. This would be a permanent disfigurement, prompting questions and stares from many ponies in the foal’s future. Yet, it was not something to mourn. It was a blessing in a way, perhaps even in the same manner as the cutiemarks on the same hero’s flanks.

Applejack retracted from her ward and announced, “All done! Feel better?”

Finished with her absolute destruction of the breakfast bowl, Babs Seed grinned a happy grin. “Much betta! I didn’t feel anythin’!”

A forehoof ruffled a short mane. “That’s what Ah like ta hear! Now, befo’ ya girls take off, Ah have a surprise fer ya, Babs. Close yer eyes.” Apple Bloom met her sister’s gaze, stifling a gleeful giggle, privy to the secret.

A surprise?! But it isn't Hearth's Warming Eve yet... “Okay, Applejack,” Babs complied, burying her muzzle in her forehooves.

She waited, then waited, then waited some more, two ponies poorly hiding their humor, hooves trotting away and then towards her. Unsure of her own expectation, Babs hemmed and hawed within her consciousness, wondering. Maybe it's summat from Manehatten! Maybe Ma, Da', o' Citrus wrote me already...

Somewhere behind her, Applejack said, “Okay, you can open yer eyes now.”

Complying, Babs Seed couldn't suppress a gasp.

There, on the kitchen table, was the crimson Cutie Mark Crusaders cape, awaiting its bearer, expectant. Clean, no red stains other than those of its original fabric. Her most prized possession.

“Ah know it got a lil’… mangled… a few nights ago, so Ah thought Ah’d clean it up fer ya.” Applejack beamed proudly, wrapping a forehoof around the brave little filly. “It’s the least Ah could do, Babs," she soothed, embracing the hero at her hooves.

Nuzzling the mare’s chest, blinking away tears of joy, Babs Seed muttered, “Thank youze, Applejack.”

Apple Bloom joined their hug, completing the circle. The foals would have to canter to the town schoolhouse, a mere trot unable to bridge their lost time, but it would be worth it. Truancy was a charge all would gladly accept, if it were due to this delay.

Soon, Applejack proudly waved a forehoof after two rushing fillies, eager hooves kicking up a cloud of dust in their wake, the first of many wonderful school days beckoning impatiently.

A cold gust of wind caressed Ponyville’s morning mist, whispering of winter’s approach. Hearth’s Warming Eve justified the final season's arrival, the holiday of holidays only six weeks away. Through the sleepy town and towards the schoolhouse cantered Babs Seed and Apple Bloom, exchanging excitement for Babs's first day in Cherilee’s classroom. They continued in their haste, ticking of the clock threatening them with delinquency.

“Don’t worry, Babs,” Apple Bloom said. “Miss Cheerilee is jus’ gonna love havin’ ya here, Ah know it!”

Babs asked, “Youze really think so, Apple Bloom?”

“O’ course! Why wouldn’t she? An’ all the other foals, too. Big city filly wit’ the best cutiemark ever?” Giggling, Apple Bloom nudged her playfully, nearly pushing her into a pegasus colt trotting alongside them. “Oops! Sorry, Featherweight!”

Featherweight shrugged and merely continued in his journey. Behind them, eight eager hooves galloped on their path, a pegasus and unicorn meeting them with glee.

“Hey Babs! Hey Bloom!” Sweetie Belle and Scootaloo greeted in unison.

“Good mornin’, Sweetie, Scoots. Ready fo’ ma first day o’ school, too?”

“You bet!” Scootaloo chipped, fluttering her wings with excitement. “I can’t wait to see the look on Diamond Tiara and Silver Spoon’s faces when they see you here, Babs!”

Concerned, Babs Seed asked, “Dey have been leavin’ youze alone still, right? All o’ youze?”

Sweetie rolled her eyes. “More than that. They’ve actually been kind of nice.” Dodging a quizzical look from the others, Sweetie clarified, “Okay, okay, I guess they haven’t been nice. They haven't said anything, yet, but... they haven’t been mean, either.”

“Hmm. Well, I guess dat works. But if dey do start up,” Babs warned, “I’ll jus’ have ta show ‘em how we take care o’ things, Manehatten style!”

Ringing of the school bell dismissing their idle chat, the four fillies continued to their destination, saddlebags filled with parchment, texts, quills and ink pounding against their backs. Up the stairs they trotted, then broke into a gallop and aimed towards Miss Cheerilee’s classroom. Thankfully, they calculated the sands in their hourglass precisely, beating the final warning bell and slipping inside the classroom door.

A burgundy mare with a pink two-tone mane stood beside her desk, shaking her muzzle in disapproval. “Girls! You were almost late! No more chit-chat next time!”

“Sorry, Miss Cheerliee…” three apologized weakly. The fourth scanned her new classroom.

Cheerilee’s class was far smaller in student size than Manehatten, barely half as full as a typical classroom in the heart of the city. She recognized two scowling fillies in the front row—“Metal Crown" and "Brass Fork," as Citrus Blossom renamed them. Their maws fell agape when their wretched eyes discovered her. The other students followed suit, staring at the newcomer, skepticism surpassing that of Canterlot's finest scientists.

“And who might you be, little filly? Are you visiting?” Cheerilee asked with a kind smile towards her stranger.

“I’m Babs Seed! Nice ta meet youze, Cheerilee,” she said, thick accent igniting a wave of murmurs amongst her newfound classmates. What, youze neva heard Manehatten words befo’? She offered a forehoof to the mare, who gladly accepted the formality, shaking hooves.

“Very nice to meet you too, Babs. Are you a new student? I don’t believe I’ve met your parents.”

Before an excuse could be summoned from the depths of her nimble thoughts, Apple Bloom explained proudly, “Yes, she is a new student, Miss Cheerilee! She's ma cousin, an' she jus’ moved ta Ponyville, an’ she’s gonna be learnin’ wit’ us!”

“Oh, that explains everything, Apple Bloom! But, I am a little concerned that Applejack didn’t tell me about this yesterday. In fact, nopony came yesterday for your conference…”

“We were busy wit’ harvestin’ time,” Apple Bloom deflected, thanking the Most High that neither her siblings nor grandmother attended one of the teacher’s infamous “guardian-teacher meetings." Both Sweetie and Scoots flinched at the word conference, their own scoldings coming to mind. Crusading would be briefly disregarded (at least for a few torturous weeks) in the opposition of new chores and extra-repentant study sessions.

Shrugging, Cheerilee dropped the subject, though she scrolled deep upon her own mental parchment to pay Sweet Apple Acres a special visit when her student least expected it. Three elder farmers were obliged to know just how bright their littlest laborer was. Praise would come in time. “Ah, that explains it. Well, class, let’s all welcome our new student, Babs Seed!” cheered the teacher, gesturing to her.

Clopping of a room full of forehooves rose to a crescendo, sending a blush and proud grin blaring across Babs Seed's countenance. She scraped the floorboards in her gentle embarrassment, smile returning the sea of all (minus two) before her. Welcomed into the fold, Babs Seed chose a seat in the back row, in between Scootaloo and Apple Bloom.

The stern mare at the front of the classroom steadied a piece of chalk between her forehooves and began to scrawl the day’s lesson upon the chalkboard with looping letters. “Alright, my little ponies!” she began, commanding attention. “Today, we shall be discussing the basic foundations of biology. Biology is the study of living things, like plants, animals, and, yes, even ponies like yourselves. Let us start with the origin of life. Canterlot scientists have theorized that, billions of years ago, long before Equestria, the Earth was…”

Filling an entire leaf of parchment with hasty notes, her new instructor droning on and on about abiogenesis and the basic components of a unicellular organism, Babs Seed barely noticed the parchment dropped on her desk. The student in front of her tossed her a nudge at the creased piece of paper, left to wilt on the corner of Babs Seed's desk.

First checking to ensure that Cheerilee was occupied fully by her own wild gesticulations—“Now, I don’t think your parents would like me talking about this, but I think it's fine, class!”—Babs unfolded the message.

In deliberate, careful hoofwriting, the note read:

“What are you doing here in this loser town? You’re too good for this city. My father knows your father. Orange Enterprises, right?

—Diamond Tiara”

Babs Seed sought and found the offender: a pink filly acting nonchalant a few desks ahead of her. Scowling, she scribbled back a reply to Metal Crown. The pen trembled in her forehooves, ink threatening to stain oak and parchment as she replied:

“That’s not your business. Any of it. Stay away from my friends or I’ll show you how ‘big-city’ I am.”

No need ta sign it. Youze know who I am.

A tapping of a forehoof sent the note barreling back towards its sender. Ahead, Crown read the reply over and over, incredulous. There would be no unity from their family ties. Failing to ignore a second crumpled sheet of parchment, Babs verified once more that Cheerilee was oblivious before opening the latest note.

The letters were quite differently penned—delicate, yet devoid of exaggeration or fanfare—akin to the imprints of sparrows' talon in fresh mud:

“I told you it would be okay.”

One lengthy debate later, foals questioning teacher in all of her scientific ignorance, the biology lesson ceased for recess. A gaggle of fillies and colts rushed to the playground, some leaping upon the swing-sets and play-structures, others revealing smuggled cards or dice for quick games of Fate and choice. Still others drummed up hoof-ball teams, squaring off in contests of speed and precision, nimble hooves and acute angles.

What it lacked in perimeter and area, Ponyville's playground more than sufficed in atmosphere, and here, connected to the dew-kissed grass and the source of her strength, Babs Seed couldn’t help but smile. It’s nice not ta be worried ‘bout bullies anymo'.

The Cutie Mark Crusaders trotted into the crisp afternoon and onto a vacant hoof-ball field, mercury dipping and stealing their breath, transforming fur into reptilian scales. “Look! I’m Spike!” Sweetie Belle squealed, creating a cloud of steam. Hoisting her forehooves in mimic of menacing claws, the unicorn growled, “I’m a big, scary dragon! Rawr!”

Three others stumbled in a torrent of laughter. “Aw, Sweetie Belle, Spike ain’t no big, scary dragon! He’s harmless!” Apple Bloom cackled, steadying herself on her hooves.

“Youze all have dragons ‘round heeya, too?” Babs asked.

Her cousin nodded. “But he’s real nice. Everypony ‘round here is. You have a lot o’ meetin’ ta do, Babs. Ah’ll have ta show ya ‘round town sometime!” Two other fillies chimed their agreement.

Excitedly, three Crusaders wove majestic tales to their newest counterpart, four foals huddled in a circle of reminiscence. From their very founding, drawn together by a sneering filly’s cute-cenera and a shared difference, to their latest crusades in Babs Seed's absence, they shared it all. Babs Seed listened intently laughing when appropriate, swept up in the forehooves of a past she’d never been privy to know.

“Oh! And there was this one time that Apple Bloom made a potion and—“

“Sweetie Belle!!” A forehoof silenced Sweetie's muzzle, its owner turning to Babs Seed, fumbling, “Uh, Ah’ll tell ya ‘bout that one later. Heh..."

Before Babs could inquire further—Potion? Dis place jus’ gets stranga!—the sound of chalk squealing its misery against a black writing surface sent waves of pain proliferating through both her ears. The injured one suffered the most, throbbing at the noise.

“Hello, Babs,” squealed the chalk. Its name was Metal Crown.

Beside Metal Crown, Brass Fork chipped, “Yes, hello there, Miss Manehatten. Nice cutiemark, by the way.”

Four sets of irises spun to face their visitors. One of them, emeralds shining through the mist, narrowed their lids, unafraid. Youze are nothin’ compared ta a true city an' its demons. Bring it on. “What do youze want?!” Babs Seed challenged. Strength pulsed through her hooves, wrought by virtue of her own magic, adrenaline a stimulant and weapon in her veins.

“Oh, we want no trouble with you, Miss Manehatten,” Crown mocked. She gestured with a wide forehoof to the three blank-flanked foals before her, their muzzles angry and confused. “But why are you still with these losers? You have your cutiemark now. Come on, join us. We’ll give you a second chance.”

Brass whined to her best (and only) friend and de-facto leader, “But, Diamond Tiara, it took almost this entire week to get all of the mud out of your—“

“Not now, Silver Spoon!”

Standing firm, Babs Seed trotted one powerful step forward and hissed, “Neva. Neva would I betray ma own friends ta stand aside the likes o’ youze. It’s ponies like youze dat I won’t miss, bits an’ marks mean all ta youze, huh?!” She inched closer, steam of her nostrils creating a powerful, hissing smoke.

Metal Crown countered with hoof-steps of her own, unwavering. “So what if that’s true? What would the orange tycoon’s daughter know about bits and marks, other than, oh, I dunno, everything?!” she huffed.

Brass Fork friend did not falter, planting her hooves beside her and staring down their adversary. Brass threw in an insult of her own, braying, "You're not any better than us, Babs!"

Fire within threatening to unleash a blaze of fury onto the playground, Babs Seed clenched every muscle. She held back against her primal instincts; she did not resort to violence. After all, a colt older, stronger, and bigger than Crown knew more than anypony the extent of her ability. Crown was a nuisance and a bully, but not a beast. Not yet.

Knowing that jabs about mothers and bad attitudes wouldn’t suffice, Babs rolled her dice on a new tactic. She asked, “So, who's youze bully, Diamond Tiara? Huh? Who hurt youze so much youze have ta act like dis?"

The three Cutie Mark Crusaders, silent already, devolved to a new level of mute. Brass Fork looked to her metallic counterpart. That counterpart became as unmoving as her namesake, a mere object at Babs Seed’s mercy. Thought so.

“Youze see, I know what dat’s like. But dat’s no excuse ta be treatin’ anypony the way youze do ta dem. I did dat befo’, but I don’t do it now. I’m betta than dat.” Surprising herself, Babs added, “Maybe someday youze can be, too. Maybe. But, fo’ now, leave me an’ ma friends alone.”

Metal Crown and Brass Fork remained steadfast. Then, with a sudden flick of her tail and the spinning of her hooves, one filly of rich heritage dismissed another, her muzzle emotionless in her retreat. Her only friend and assistant sidled alongside her, muttering comfort, only to be disregarded again. “Not now, Silver Spoon!"

Triumphant, blowing a strand of red-and-pink mane away from her eyes, Babs Seed returned to her friends and remarked with a wink, “Iffa dey come back ‘gain… jus’ leave ‘em ta me, okay?”

The recess bell, sounding its siren call on the first day of her new school, couldn’t outshine three exclamations of joy and affirmation. Nor could it silence the grumbling of another foal in her own scheming.

Under the glow of the parish lantern, Apple Bloom weaved her private tale, a cutie pox and a stolen potion her recounted transgressions. Imagery of a stern, suspicious zebra, the most ridiculous of tasks performed by phantoms in her hooves, and the relief of being a blankflank once more danced before two sets of pupils.

Babs Seed laughed. “So… youze had ta eat a whole flower, huh? Did it… taste good? Ke..ke…kekeke!” Unsuccessfully holding back her most embarrassing breed of laughter—a combination of a snort and a giggle—Babs threw back her mane, nearly crying from the sure ridiculousness of it all.

Smacking her playfully on the shoulder, Apple Bloom said, “Ya know, it sure beat havin’ ta do a bunch o' things at once! Be blank any day over that! It’s... how does Sweetie Belle say it? Ironic.”

“’Ironic,’ huh? Sweetie Belle sure is smart.”

“When she wants ta be, Babs.”

Staring up at Apple Bloom’s ceiling—no, at her ceiling, their ceiling—Babs Seed replied, “Well, dat’s true fo’ everypony, I think.” Leaning over to catch her attention, she whispered, “I hope it is.”

“Why? What are ya worryin’ ‘bout, silly filly?”

Babs Seed sighed. “I jus’… I jus' miss Ma an’ Citrus. An’ Da’, too.” I wonda how Ma an’ Da’ reacted ta Citrus lettin’ me come heeya… I hope she’s okay. I hope she's... happy.

Apple Bloom embraced her in the dark. “If ya need ta talk, Ah’m here ta listen, Babs. Always.”

“I know youze are,” came the reply, returning the gesture. “I guess I should jus’ be patient. Hearth’s Warming is comin’ up soon, less than two months. Maybe dey’ll come an’ visit.”

Apple Bloom soothed, “Ah’m sure they will.” Drawing the covers over the both of them, nuzzling her savior, she whispered with a smile, “Don’t worry. Nopony could forget somepony like you.”

In the dark, crimson could hide, but the brilliance of Babs Seed's smile could not.

Outside, the alicorn of the night alighted upon her atmosphere with violet wings, warden of dreams chasing her summons. However, neither of the fillies on the second story of Sweet Apple Acres’ farmhouse required her assistance.

Bullies vanquished, demons conquered, they were safe and sound on this Tuesday night. Metal Crown and Brass Fork seemed to heed the words of the fourth Crusader... for now. If they dared to disobey, and raise hooves or more pointed words, the nick in the foal's ear proved she would stand firm, and strong, and victorious.

The walls soon dissolved and called them both into the comforting black. In dreams, bloom and seed galloped, free and wild, into the horizon. Apples met Oranges there, beyond the stars.

Year Two: Yellow Eyes

The physician examined his patient with gentle forehooves, each move executed with care. The stallion had made his appointment reluctantly, angrily barking at the receptionist for misspelling his legal name and politely asking for a timeframe. Heeding his assistant’s warning, Doctor Triage treated this patient particularly carefully.

The blue stallion with a jet-black mane complained of proliferating pains in his side, random itching, digestive trouble, memory problems and, above all, general malaise. It wasn’t difficult, Doctor Triage observed silently as he ran the patient through the usual barrage of tests, to discern why.

Bernie Madhoof’s eyes were completely yellow.

“Now, please, Mr. Madhoof, if you could just lie down on your back on the table for me,” directed the doctor. He gestured towards a typical physician’s examination table, eliciting a scowl from the patient, his muzzle trembling with poorly masked rage.

Bernie barked, “Why? Can’t you just tell me what’s wrong without fondling me?”

Doctor Triage stifled a laugh. Most stallions beyond their colthood were more than a little apprehensive at another male (even one with a medical license) hovering above them while they laid in such a submissive pose. Modesty, however, needed to be disregarded for this particular office visit.

If Doctor Triage was correct in his assumptions, embarrassment would be the least of his patient’s concerns. The stallion needed to conduct one last test to confirm his fledgling diagnosis.

“Mr. Madhoof, I assure you, this is completely necessary. I need to feel above your internal organs to make sure nothing is enlarged or inflamed. To make sure nothing is damaged in your body. Doing so requires that you lie back, relax, and let me do my work. Okay?”

“Bah! Nothing is wrong with my insides, you pervert!”

Sighing, the doctor countered, “Well, if nothing is wrong, why are you here at my clinic, then, Mr. Madhoof?” Drumming a hoof on the examination table, the stallion waited in silence for his counterpart to muster a good excuse. Patient came to doctor in search of assistance; that fact could not be denied, even if the patient swore upon all below that it was a lie.

Bernie Madhoof’s gaze alighted upon various accolades and degrees adorning Doctor Triage’s office. The Earth pony physician had graduated summa cum laude from the finest medical university in Trottingham. Lacking magic from any source other than the ground, Earth ponies were a gamble in the realm of healing. Surgery was far too complex for clumsy forehooves to tackle. Other specialties, however, remained open to all ponies, and the stallion who stood before him was one of the finest in general practice. His accomplishments in the face of his inherited adversity made him that much more esteemed.

Unable to defy the logic tossed cruelly towards him, Madhoof grudgingly hopped up onto the doctor’s table, staring straight up at the ceiling. “Hurry it up. I have business to attend to,” he said with a scowl.

Nodding, allowing a slight smirk to escape and find his muzzle, the doctor trotted over to his patient. The stallion arched his back into the cold, steel table, breathing deeply through his nostrils. Absolutely disgusted by his vulnerability, Bernie Madhoof let his thoughts wander to present and future dreams of glory and power.

The departure of his “dearly beloved” foals and wife blessed and cursed the founder and owner of Orange Enterprises. His wallet and bank account sighed with relief at the removal of his three burdens. However, there was a strange, haunting void within his soulless form. This void seemed omnipresent, unwilling to retreat from him no matter what solution he sought.

Mares in the night distracted him only so much, unable to kiss away his sorrows. He tried to lose himself in the tango of corporate-speak, attending endless meetings and conferences. He’d hired several assistants and accountants to handle the more technical matters his sniveling wife had deserted. Due to the efforts of Manehatten’s finest financial gurus—falling to his hindhooves in gratitude for the opportunity to serve him—King Orange reigned from on high with exponentially growing power.

Competitors began to fall by the wayside. Others waved their white flags in surrender, quietly acquired by his corporation or folding their cards at the table. Nopony could match his vastness, his influence, his prowess in the game of bits.

Soon, he would control the entire orange industry in Equestria, if Fate smiled upon him once more.

Still, in spite of his victories, the void did not swallow itself and disappear into the darkness. It continued to consume him, gnawing, nibbling, devouring his consciousness. He felt a strange sort of sadness, a feeling that led him to believe he was falling into madness.

Bernie Madhoof drank. He drank twice to three times as much as he had when Libra, Citrus, and that wretched bobtail filly had sullied his floorboards. He lost himself in drink after drink, bottle after bottle, sin after sin, all of them stretching and combining into one endless glass.

It was never enough.

King Orange groaned as the physician prodded his left side with iron-clad forehooves. “Dammit! Stop that!” He pulled up his hindhooves in defense and rolled onto his stomach.

“Mr. Madhoof, I am merely examining your liver,” Doctor Triage said calmly.

Rage beginning to announce its presence by means of his kidneys (those organs aching as the demonic stallion began to stomp on them, too) sending his adrenaline, Madhoof yelled, “No, you’re not! You’re crushing it!!”

Retracting from his patient, Doctor Triage could restrain his glee no more. He grinned, rows and rows of molars white and chuckling.

“What’s so funny, you molesting ingrate?!” King Orange squirmed from his submission and leapt from the torture device. All four hooves meeting the cold tile of the “doctor’s” office, the wealthiest stallion in Manehatten took a menacing step towards his adversary. “I ought to have you arrested for assault, you brute!”

With a knowing smile, Doctor Triage asked, “So, how much do you drink, Mr. Madhoof?”

“That’s none of your business!!”

“Oh, I believe it is,” replied the physician. He grasped a clipboard from a nearby counter top and flipped through several pages of paperwork. “Because,” he began, double-checking his entries on the parchment, “all of our tests so far have pointed to that being the cause of your illness. The last test we could perform to confirm beyond all doubt would be a liver biopsy. But, at this point, I think I can diagnose you without having to go to such extreme—“

“Biopsy?! Nopony is going to lay their filthy magic on me!” The sadism that this white-coated demon displayed defied all reason or rationality. Madhoof couldn’t believe the trickster’s nerve. Steam began to rise from Bernie Madhoof’s hooves—or was that merely a mirage, like so many other broken images had been?

That line between real and unreal increasingly blurred as Doctor Triage snapped back, “And nopony would want to, with a patient like you!”

Pressing his muzzle against the sadist’s, Bernie hissed, “How dare you!”

“How dare I? How dare I?! You are the one who scheduled this appointment, Mr. Madhoof! You are the one who came to me for help! And, here you are, disrespecting me, defiling my office with your nonsense, practically threatening me with arrest because I examined you!”

This doctor, accustomed to patients of all stripes—male, female, young, middle-aged, elderly, friendly or vicious—possessed no more patience for this wreck of a stallion. Breaking their angry connection, the physician decreed, “If you don’t stop drinking, Mr. Madhoof, you will not make it past this year! I guarantee it!”

King Orange felt his jaw unhinge. In pure, utter, sick shock, he retreated as well—reasoning that it was not true submission if the other stallion backed away first—and stammered, “Y-y-you’re out of your mind! I’m fine!”

“No, you aren’t! Mr. Madhoof, the reason it hurt so much when I touched your left side wasn’t because of anything I have done.” Doctor Triage lifted an accusatory forehoof towards his shocked patient.

Ignoring the weak stutters issued from the stallion’s fetid maw, the physician elaborated, “Your liver is enlarged, inflamed. Your itching, digestion problems, fatigue, memory loss, and your eyes all point to one thing: cirrhosis. And unless you happen to have a rare genetic disorder, or caught one of the more gnarly forms of hepatitis from somepony, I bet all my degrees on the wall that it is because of alcohol.

“Isn’t it, Mr. Madhoof?”

Overflowing trash cans of liquor bottles. Bottles in his desk drawers, both in his tower and his mansion. Draughts of beer, tall glasses of cider, shots of whiskey. Liquid flame, fire-water, escape and relief. Bernie Madhoof felt the tile under his hooves begin to shake… or, perhaps, that was the trembling of his own limbs.

Smiling, the doctor hissed, “I thought so.”

The silence went unchallenged.

Doctor Triage pulled up a stool and sat on his haunches. He waited, a minute at first, then two, then three, the sound of his patient’s internal gears whirring and churning with dread music to his ears. Normally, Triage was a kind, compassionate soul, and held many a weeping or frightened stallion, mare, or foal in his hooves with gentle comfort. He directed them all through the thicket of their diagnosis, charting their path to recovery, offering hope and light.

When it came to Bernie Madhoof, Doctor Triage couldn’t bring himself to sympathize. The most well-known stallion in Manehatten was also the most stubborn, irrational, vicious patient he’d ever encountered. He deserved no sympathy, brought to this edge by his own foolishness.

Sweat dripping down his thick nape and dampening his mane, King Orange questioned his smug subject, “What can be done, then? Perhaps a… a transplant?” Sick, weak fear and shame trembled through his words.

The physician shook his muzzle. “No. Not yet, at least. You are going down a dark road, Mr. Madhoof, but you have not quite reached that extent. Liver transplantation, even with our best unicorn surgeons, is an extremely risky procedure. We do not have much medicine for your ill, either. It doesn’t appear as if you’ve developed any infections yet, though your immune system is bound to be compromised. Antibiotics will not be needed. However, I advise that you examine your diet. You will need it. No, the most I can do right now is prescribe an antihistamine for your itching.”

“Allergy medication?! That’s all you can offer me?”

“Well… yes, Mr. Madhoof. I cannot control you. I cannot take the bottle from your forehooves,” the doctor said flatly. “I am merely a physician, not a psychologist or an addiction specialist. I can’t make you stop. Only you can make yourself stop.”

Void. Darkness. Numbness. Emptiness. Bernie Madhoof’s mind protested loudly, screaming within the safety of his consciousness. Stop? The stallion knew not the meaning of the word. He had made friends with the yeast for over twenty years now, though their friendship had become far more involved as of late. To contemplate abandoning that dearly beloved companion sent waves of anxiety proliferating through his veins. He could not comprehend it.

He’d thought his eyes were becoming gold, the color of bits and meaning. Now, he shuddered at the sadistic physician’s revelation—that the yellow was a sign of decay, the beginning of the end. He was King Orange, ruler of all, and here he was… rotting from the inside out.

It just wasn’t fair.

“Doctor… please… forgive me,” he muttered, stumbling over his words as they caressed his tongue. “Please… I’m sorry, I… I had no idea. Please, I can’t be sick. I won’t be sick. Surely, there must be something else you can do! Anything!”

If Doctor Triage had been a lesser stallion, he would have pressed for fine sums, towers of gold, exploiting his pleas to the hilt. Fortunately for Bernie Madhoof, Triage was not that kind of stallion.

All promises Triage could make, however, would be empty. The physician knew not the throes of addiction, and sent prayers from his soul up to the Most High that he never would. He was staring into the abyss now, and it stared back at him, raving and desperate.

“Mr. Madhoof, there is nothing I can do,” he said solemnly. “Your fate is in your hooves now. If you continue to drink alcohol—at all—you risk aggravating your liver and furthering the damage. At this point, it can no longer properly metabolize the poison you send its way. We can do nothing to remove the scar tissue. No doctor can, even a unicorn. A transplant is unnecessary at this point, and even if it weren’t, it’s quite a gamble. Your body doesn’t exactly welcome strange organs without some coaxing, you see.

“Mr. Madhoof, if you hope to live much longer, you must sober up. Now.”

King Orange swallowed the lump in his throat. He never would be as thirsty for the familiar kiss of liquor as he was in that moment.

Gathering his clipboard and paperwork, Doctor Triage finished, “The bill for this visit should arrive in a few weeks, Mr. Madhoof, once it has been processed through your insurance. Your insurance also covers psychological treatment and addiction specialists if I remember correctly, Mr. Madhoof. I suggest you take a look into that.”

“Y-yes… Doctor… thank you…” he said, reduced to shambles.

Doctor Triage nodded somberly and exited the office, leaving Bernie Madhoof to mourn the choice that lay before him.

King Orange flopped down to his haunches and debated the demons within his mind until the rapping of hooves on the door thrust him from the empty office. There was another patient to be seen, another victim of Fate awaiting his punishment.

All of his trash cans were full to the brim. His mansion never felt so empty.

The assistants had their hooves busy and occupied, searching through every possible hiding-place where their master could have stashed a bottle in his intoxication. They’d exchanged worried glances amongst themselves at his edict, but obeyed nonetheless. All liquor in Master Orange’s mansion was to be tossed out, and all alcohol was forbidden forevermore from his dwelling. Bottles upon bottles met their end in the garbage receptacles outside the mansion’s gates.

Though his assistants had families and homes of their own, they could not abandon their employer’s side, and did all that was asked of them. Reduced to servant status, they cursed their task (such worthless manual labor was below them) but not their commander. Master Orange was a wise stallion, and, surely, he acted only in the best interests of all.

Finally, the sun fading its last light, his assistants departed from his iron gates, leaving the stallion all alone. They’d whispered their gratitude, honored to be taking out his trash.

Bernie Madhoof had a pleasant chuckle at that.

The decision had been the most difficult one he’d ever made. Libra’s treachery (and his subsequent handling of that mess) seemed ridiculous in comparison to the trouble that hung over him now. His very body was betraying him, weak and useless.

No matter. Bernie Madhoof—King Orange—was strong and quick of mind. Though it shattered him in all his broken places, he’d decided to leave his best friend and companion for higher ground, higher purpose. Where would Manehatten be without its glorious leader? Not to mention that Orange Enterprises, his pride and joy, would be left to some underling’s filthy hooves if he passed.

No, the king was just beginning his reign, and needed to heal his sick body.

There would be no more. Not one drop, not one sip, not one lick or drink or final toast. There would only be juice, orange juice. Orange juice brought him fame and fortune, and it would heal him now, restoring the vigor of his youth.

King Orange sat in his throne room now, hindhooves on mahogany, a fine cigar hanging lazily from his lips. The doctor hadn’t said a word about smoking, after all. He indulged in the purest tobacco, lighting it with a match until it glowed cherry-red. The king blew smoke rings while he contemplated his next plan of action.

Leaving behind a best friend was always difficult. Liquor would miss him so, and he would agonize over their parting of ways for days, months, years to come. It would never be the same without his old friend.

This urgent lifestyle change, coupled with the team of accountants and assistants who handled his paperwork, left the stallion with significant free time. He pondered the possibilities, considering various hobbies to occupy his hours, as he took deep drag after deep drag, until his cigar was no more.

Suddenly, King Orange’s pupils drifted over to a dusty chess set folded up in a secure carrying case on a bookshelf across the room, and he found his answer.

Chess. The game of all true kings.

Rising from his luxurious, plush chair, Bernie Madhoof closed the distance between himself and the object of his desire, taking the game’s carrying case into his forehooves. He strode back over to the desk, snapping open the case and removing the chessboard. Marveling at the expertly-painted black-and-white-checker-patterned surface, he placed the board on his mahogany and located its pieces. Pawns, knights, bishops, rooks, queens, and kings soon found their rightful spaces.

“It’s been so long since I’ve played,” he said to the empty office. “So long. Perhaps I have lost my expertise.”

Once the game was set and ready for its players, Bernie Madhoof went over to his telegram machine and pounded out a hasty message. Within an hour, his favorite assistant was at his office door—the guest entering the perimeter with a copy of the mansion’s master key—rapping on the oak for permission to enter.

“Come in!”

A fat, short stallion slowly trotted into the office, an envelope in his forehooves. “Youze wanted ta see me, sir?”

“Correct. What are you hiding there?” King Orange asked.

"Aye, sir, dis letta was on the porch fo' youze. From Ponyville, it looks like."

"Bah! Mark it 'Return To Sender,' and throw it back in the mailbox, boy!"

His assistant challenged, "But, sir, it's from Mr. Rich—"

Bernie Madhoof said harshly, "I said, get rid of it! I'll have nothing to do with Dirtville, especially that slimy Filthy Rich. Not since he refused to merge with Orange Enterprises," he added with a growl. "Now, come over here."

The stallion gulped. "Yes, sir. I will dispose of it later."

Tossing the letter aside for the moment, assistant joined master at his station. On the hoof-carved mahogany desk laid a simple, wooden chessboard, pieces intricately designed and cushioned with green felt on their bases. Raising an eyebrow, the assistant asked, “What is dis fo’, sir?”

“It’s a chessboard, nitwit!” barked Madhoof. “Don’t you know how to play?!”

The assistant stammered, “O-o’ c-c-course I do, sir!”

“Good. I’m tired of dice and cards. Too random for me. Too… unbecoming of a stallion of my stature.”

His shining, glistening white teeth exposed, piano keys of Old Scratch’s prized instrument, King Orange declared, “Let’s play chess. I’ll go first.”

He quickly moved a black pawn two spaces forward in front of his queen.

“B-b-but, s-sir,” his assistant objected, “w-white always goes first.”

The most powerful stallion in Manehatten decreed, “Not anymore.”

Year Two: Honesty's Burden

Year Two: Honesty’s Burden

“Ya think Uncle Apple Strudel will like ma card, Granny?”

Apple Bloom held out a hoof-made Father’s Day card to her grandmother, who was busying herself with an apple pie on the kitchen counter. The elderly mare took one glance at the gift, full of prose and exaltation of the filly’s favorite uncle, and answered sincerely, “Ah know he will, Apple Bloom. An Ah’m sure he’ll love the cobbler yer helpin’ me make, too!”

Granddaughter giggled and said, “Well, o’ course he will, Granny! It’s his favorite! Lemme jus’ go put this away an’ Ah’ll come back an’ help ya some more.” At Granny Smith’s nod, Apple Bloom trotted out of the kitchen, heading towards her upstairs bedroom.

In her path, standing in the middle of the corridor, Applejack tapped a forehoof to her chin, her muzzle full of worry. Her sister raised an eyebrow. “Applejack! Somethin’ wrong?”

“Huh?” Finding Apple Bloom looking up at her with a quizzical expression, Applejack said, “Oh! Hey, Apple Bloom! Whatcha got there?”

“A card fer Uncle Apple Strudel!” she exclaimed happily. “Granny says he’s gonna love it!”

Applejack chuckled heartily. “Ah’m sure he will, Apple Bloom! Now, jus’ let me git outta yer way here, an’ Ah’ll—“

“Wait! Ya look like yer confused, big sis. Somethin’ wrong?” Apple Bloom asked once more. Applejack feigned a grin, darting her eyes around the room. “Applejack, yer bad at lyin’… you know this…” she warned, unfazed.

Applejack sighed. “Have ya seen Babs anywhere, hon?”

Shaking her muzzle, Apple Bloom said, “Ah haven’t seen her all day! She was gone when Ah woke up, an’ she weren’t at breakfast neither. It’s almost time fer lunch, too. Why? Ya lookin’ fer her?”

“Ah’m jus’ worried ‘bout her, Apple Bloom. Father’s Day’s tomorrowa, an’ we haven’t gotten anythin’ from Manehatten yet,” she answered. Ponyville’s favorite mailmare brought nothing of interest to Sweet Apple Acres. Nearly seven months had passed since the farmhouse became home to a fifth Apple, and not one sheet of paper or scroll of parchment from Manehatten arrived. In that time, Babs seemed happy enough outside of the holidays.

Mother’s Day, Babs Seed spent the majority of the day asleep. Or, so, she told her cousins. Big Mac, observant as he was, confided in Applejack that he’d heard crying coming from the fillies’ bedroom that morning. Applejack did not doubt her brother. However, Babs Seed perked up the next day, disregarding any lingering sorrow.

Though she was compelled to act, Applejack did not bring up the incident to Babs, waiting for Citrus or Libra to speak the necessary words through ink and parchment. She silently chided her own delay. There were no letters.

There was no more time for silence.

Frown streaking across her muzzle, Apple Bloom asked, “Nothin’ at all?”

“No, Apple Bloom,” Applejack confirmed. “Nothin’. Why, if that city weren’t so darned dangerous, Ah would’ve gone an’ talked ta Citrus o’ Libra maself. Ain’t right, them not writin’.”

“But… Ah read in the papers that it was supposed ta be gettin’ better there. Didn’t Princess Celestia bring the Royal Guard in ta help the police-ponies?”

“Don’t make no difference,” dismissed Applejack. “It’ll be long time comin’ fer Manehatten ta be a good place ta live. In fact, y’all both be outta school by then.” Applejack began to trot towards the farmhouse door. “Ah’m gonna go see if Ah can find Babs. If ya see her befo’ Ah do, lil’ sis, can ya tell her Ah’m out in the fields?”

Apple Bloom nodded. Two Apples parted ways, though their minds were in sync, the absence of another prompting them to formulate wise words in anticipation of her return.

Wisdom, of course, comes with age.

Positioned directly on the thinking spot of the Cutie Mark Crusaders clubhouse, Babs Seed was not blessed with any revelation. Nopony—not a bartender, nor a violet alicorn, nor a phantom of the past—appeared before her as she stretched out on the floorboards, burying her muzzle in her forehooves. It’s nice, sometimes, bein’ alone.

Seven months marked her arrival in Ponyville. Seven months of hushed silence from her first kind of family. The second kind welcomed her with open hooves. All her days hence were, for the majority of their hours, happy.

Metal Crown and Brass Fork occasionally tossed their insults at the other Crusaders, but a few pointed words from their fourth member silenced their opposition. Crown, especially, seemed to hold an unexplained grudge towards Babs. The spoiled brat referenced Orange Enterprises and its owner's exploits with an almost jealous agenda. Questions regarding the size of their mansion or bank accounts went unanswered. Babs Seed disregarded her fortune altogether, and truly didn’t care if there wouldn't be an inheritance.

What the Apple Family lacked in grandiose housing, imported cuisine, and superfluous decoration, it countered in full force with love, acceptance, and compassion. If Babs Seed could add anything more within the cramped square footage of the farmhouse, it would be the three ponies she missed more than anything.

Babs Seed flipped onto her back, staring at the lightbulb hanging from the ceiling. She reached up with a forehoof, falling short of the electric connection. Her thoughts wandered through uncharted territory. Soon, I’ll be gettin’ taller an’ stronger. Applejack says once I turn thirteen in the summer, things will start changin’ on me…

Great. Mo’ change. Change is good, right? The barren treehouse offered no response. “Dat’s what ‘Dey’ say, an’ Dey are always right,” Babs muttered to her audience of none.

Brushing aside recollections of that awkward conversation with Applejack, the foal pondered, “I hope somepony puts ma name on the card Apple Bloom makes… I don’t think I can…”

Her words trailed off into the distance, into the wild blue yonder outside the clubhouse windows.

…I don’t think I can handle Fatha’s Day dis year.

Applejack combed through the orchards, miles and miles of blooming apple trees thick and prosperous through her family’s fields. Babs Seed hadn’t sprouted pegasus wings in some twist of Nature’s creation; nevertheless, she checked the branches above, just in case. No orange foals were to be found, though a certain cyan pegasus napped in a tree in the middle of the south field.

“Rainbow Dash!” Applejack hollered. “Git outta dat tree!”

Yawning, Dash stretched her forelimbs. “What’s the matter, AJ?" she teased. "Isn’t it a little early for harvesting-time?”

Applejack countered, “Maybe, but ya shouldn’t be nappin’ out here, anyhow! Don’t ya have preparations ta make fer Pa’s Day tomorrowa?”

Dismissing her with a forehoof, Rainbow Dash arched her back into the branch and replied, “Got it covered. Sent my dad a few tickets to the next Wonderbolts show. We’ll be going together in the summer, and it’s gonna be awesome!”

“Glad ta hear,” Applejack said flatly. “You seen Babs Seed ‘round here at all?”

Gesturing in the direction of the Cutie Mark Crusaders clubhouse at the far edge of the orchard’s boundary, Dash stated, “Yeah, I think I saw somepony headed up into there. Dunno though. The weather team did such a great job on the clouds today, and I was just laying here, looking at ‘em all, when I found… the most… interesting… shape…”

Face-hoofing as Rainbow Dash devolved into a series of snores, Applejack brushed aside her irritation and set her course towards the treehouse. Across the fields she ran, every hoof-beat against the grass momentous in her anticipation, hoping the lazy flier was correct.

Babs ignored the rapping of hooves on the clubhouse door. Blowing away a stray strand of mane that blocked her vision, she simply groaned in response. “I’m busy.”

Her request disregarded, Babs Seed remained prone on the floorboards, refusing to meet her visitor. A familiar Stetson-clad mare trotted inside and sat on her haunches beside the filly, a gentle grin on her muzzle. “Found ya, Babs.”

“Hey, Applejack,” Babs said, no joy in her greeting.

Applejack mused, “Ceiling’s mighty interestin’ today, huh?”

“Youze could say dat.”

“Mind if Ah watch it wit’ ya?”

Shrugging, Babs relented, “Sure. Why not?”

Applejack removed her Stetson, cradling it in her forehooves. She joined the filly in her observation of the floorboards above, searching for patterns in the wood grain. Applejack said, “This used ta be ma clubhouse when Ah was a little filly. Built it wit’ ma Pa an’ Big Mac. Ah reckon we did a good job, don’t ya think?”

“Eeyup."

Nudging her playfully, Applejack observed, “Yer sure takin’ ta the Apple accent well, Babs.”

Mix o’ Manehatten an’ Ponyville accent. Ain’t dat jus’ great. “Thanks.”

Though they laid there, watching the ceiling with eager intent, it performed no tricks, nor did it spell out the answers either of them sought. Instead, Applejack glanced at Babs and asked, “So, ya gonna tell me what’s on yer mind, o’ am Ah gonna have ta drag it out?”

Mumbling, Babs answered, “Youze know what’s on ma mind. Youze know what day it is tomorrowa. Don’t make me spell it fo’ youze.”

Honesty, true to her namesake, couldn’t repress a chuckle. “Heh, still got that Manehatten snap in ya, too. Well, some things never change, Babs.” Sadly, youze is right. “How ‘bout Ah tell ya a story instead? Hmm?”

She mustered a smile and, turning to Applejack, said for the second time, “Why not?” Only, this time, she spoke with a smidgen of enthusiasm.

A freckled orange filly hopped around the farmhouse in unrefined glee. “Ah’m gonna be a big sister! Ah’m gonna have a lil’ brother o’ sister!” she exclaimed, over and over, her joy never ceasing or dissipating in her repetition. She glanced over to the cherry-red colt sitting by the fireside and added, “An’ yer gonna be a big brother again, Mac! Ain’t it jus’ great?!”

“Eeyup.”

Teasing him with a poke to the ribs, Applejack giggled and said, “Oh, Mac, don’t ya know how ta say anythin’ else?”

The colt shook his head. “Nope.”

“Applejack! Quit buggin’ yer brother!” a gruff stallion scolded. Her strong, proud father—a dark-brown stallion with a long, black mane—trotted over to his children. He ruffled his filly’s mane with a baritone laugh. “Soon, there’ll be another foal in the house, somepony ta give ya all the grief ya give Mac when ya were a youngin’!”

Applejack pouted. “Aww, Pa, Ah was jus’ playin’ wit’ him! Ah don’t give Mac no grief!” Colt warming by the hearth next to her rolled his eyes. “Hey! Ah don’t! Are ya callin’ me a liar, Mac?”

A fourth pony joined her loved ones in the living room. This mare defined the word “beauty,” pure gold in coat, her dusty-orange mane perfectly combed, not one strand out of place. A hardworking apple farmer alongside her best friend and true love, she glowed radiant and brilliant, and ran the household with ease, too. Perfection held no candle to her flame. “Sunshine” was her stallion’s favorite nickname for the mare, joking that the dictionary should speak of her instead of Celestia.

She smiled a knowing grin, her colt and filly engaged now in a battle of short dismissals and long pleas. Turning to her stallion, she said, “They’re jus’ like me an’ ma sisters were when we were fillies. Heh. An’ Ah think it’ll be even more so when the lil’ one is born.”

The mare patted her bulging abdomen, the foal within kicking her forehoof on unspoken cue.

“Come here, Applejack, Big Macintosh,” their mother urged, summoning them both. Sister and brother forgot their argument and joined their mother’s side.

“What is it, Ma?” Applejack asked.

“Come here, baby. Feel Mama’s stomach.” One yellow hoof guided a tiny orange one, and pressed it to the source of the gentle kicks.

Her emerald irises swelled with awe. “Wow! Is that the baby?”

“That’s right, Applejack,” answered the mare, smile threatening to split her muzzle in two. Tears twinkling in her shining eyes—the same shade as those of her daughter’s—she whispered, “That’s yer lil’ sister o’ brother. They can’t wait ta meet ya. Come here, Mac. Come an’ see.”

Macintosh trotted over, felt the stir of life below his forehoof, and broke his own habits. “Wow, Ma. How much longer until we meet our new brother?”

“No, it’s gonna be a filly, Mac! Gonna be a sister!” Applejack said.

“We’ll jus’ have ta see,” their father declared, dispelling a second brewing argument. He nuzzled his mare and cooed, “Yer positively glowin’ today, Sunshine.”

Returning her stallion’s affection, Sunshine blushed. “Thank ya, honey. Doctor says it won’t be too much longer. Maybe a month o’ so. Ah can’t wait.”

An impossibly-small hoof reaching out to hers, Applejack agreed, “Me neither.”

“… Wait. Dat’s... Dat’s Apple Bloom, right?”

Applejack nodded. “Eeyup. That’s right, Babs. That was when Ma’ was pregnant wit’ her. Twelve… no, almost thirteen years ago. Ah remember it like it was yesterday.”

Quietly, Babs remarked, “I would remember it, too.”

Applejack opened her hooves to the foal, beckoning, “Come here, hon. There’s more ta tell. An’ Ah think yer gonna want somepony ta hold ya fer this part.”

If she had been in any other state of mind, Babs Seed would have refused, citing autonomy for an excuse. However, in this moment, she couldn’t deny the mare’s honesty, and curled up beside her. Applejack set her Stetson down and embraced her, slowly continuing her tale.

Two foals and a stallion paced within the waiting room, the rhythm of their hooves against the tile hypnotic, foreboding. Hours passed by with all the haste of molasses. There was no sweetness, however, to be found in this silence.

The unicorn doctor forbid Sunshine’s foals and stallion entry into the operating room. “Please, everypony, remain calm,” he had urged. “My team and I have performed hundreds of these surgeries before, all over Equestria. It’ll only be a few hours before you can see her, and welcome her and the new foal.”

That had been hours ago.

Applejack whimpered to her father for the umpteenth time. “Pa, can we see Ma’ now?”

The stallion shook his muzzle, utilizing every fiber of his rationality to plant his hooves firmly in the waiting room. Mind raced with scenario after impossible scenario. What if the foal was stillborn? What if there were twins—conjoined twins? What if Sunshine… didn’t have the strength?

Remaining strong for his foals, he soothed, “No, darlin’. Not yet. It’ll be jus’ a lil’ while longer. Ah promise.”

Applejack leaned into his shoulder, wrapping both of her forehooves around him. “Promise me, Pa. Promise me everythin’ will be alright,” she begged. Anxiety found a home within her tiny, fluttering heart, each passing second threatening to send her hooves pounding on the operating room door.

Big Mac joined his sister and father, and added, “Promise me, too, Pa.”

He vowed through his doubt, “Ah promise ya both. Everythin’ will be alright.”

The doctor spoke only gibberish.

“… Placenta accreta. It is a very abnormal complication, sir. You see, when the foal is developing, at times, the placenta attaches quite deeply into the uterus. At times, removal of the placenta during the procedure can result in… hemorrhage…”

The two stallions were in a small office within the hospital, its walls blindingly white. He sat on his haunches on the examination table, his eyes drifting towards an assortment of instruments and medical supplies kept in jars on the doctor’s counter. He noted how beautiful they were, in their own twisted symmetry—clean, pristine, sparkling.

Like his mare.

Continuing, the doctor launched into another round of rambling, words he barely processed. “Sir, we did all we could… transfusions… stitches… but there was… cardiac arrest… and our magic cannot—“

Suddenly, he snapped, “What are ya sayin’, Doc?”

Unicorn removed his glasses, securing them within a pocket of his white jacket. He sighed and replied, sorrow sneaking past his professionalism, “Sir, I’m afraid that your wife has passed away.”

“W-w-what?”

“We were able to save the foal. The filly, rather. But, your mare, she—“

“NO!”

He leapt from his haunches onto all four of his hooves, hooves that bucked endless rows of apple trees, hooves that built barns and farmhouses, hooves that pulled wagons and cared for foal’s bumps and bruises and loved his Sunshine. Raising one of those powerful, iron hooves, he jabbed the doctor in the chest, demanding, “Shut yer buckin’ mouth! Yer lyin’! Yer a LIAR!”

“I understand this must be very hard for you, sir. Please, understand, we did all we could—“

“TA TATARUS YA DID!” he screamed, shoving the unicorn against the wall.

Outside the door to the doctor’s office, Applejack and Big Macintosh were brushed aside as two hospital security-ponies rushed past them. The uniformed stallions dragged their father out of the room a second later, the stallion flailing his limbs and screeching in a mixture of outrage and disbelief.

Applejack took to her hooves. “Pa! Where ya goin’, Pa?!” she shrieked, pursuing the three stallions, two of whom locked her father’s forehooves tight in their own grasp.

A glow of magic found her tail, and yanked. “Hey!” Applejack squealed in surprise.

The filly looked up from the tile to find a unicorn physician—his glasses broken in his jacket pocket, a bruise erupting across his muzzle—offering her a hoof up. She accepted, and asked, “Why’d ya do that, sir?”

Big Macintosh joined his sister and the doctor, saying nothing. A few years older than his sibling, he’d comprehended far more of the muffled conversation than he’d wished. His countenance fell to the cold, unrelenting floor, dreading the explanation that was sure to come.

And come it did.

Sitting down on his haunches, the unicorn stallion gently whispered, “Honey… I… I have some very bad news.”

Applejack shoved aside the forehoof steadying her tiny shoulder. “What’s wrong, sir? Why do ya look so sad?” she asked. “Where’s my Ma’? Why did those stallions take Pa away?

“Where’s ma baby sister?”

Applejack’s chest was matted, fur powerless in the rain of Babs Seed’s eyes. She whispered comforting words to the foal, but could not rein in her own sorrow. Though this tale had been repeated a hundred times, a thousand times within so many tormented dreams and mournful recollections, it never ceased to break her.

“Why… why are youze tellin’ me dis?” Babs gasped between sobs.

Applejack placed a forehoof under her chin, two sets of emerald irises meeting. She began, “Darlin’, Ah know Ah don’t show it, but ya an’ Ah both went through some tough things as foals. Terrible, awful things nopony should know.”

Babs sniffed. “Does Apple Bloom… know dis story?”

Applejack nodded.

Calming her breathing, Babs said, her voice trembling, “So… dat was youze motha, ma aunt, huh? But… what ‘bout…”

Silencing her with a forehoof, the mare replied, “Ah’ll tell ya. An’ after Ah’m done, Ah’ll finish tellin’ ya why Ah shared this story wit’ ya, alright?”

Babs Seed’s unspoken affirmation spurred her to continue.

Granny Smith baked treats every day. Rain or shine, day and night, she created delectable down-home goodies for her son and grandfoals. Apple pies, apple tarts, apple fritters, apple cobblers, apple cakes.

Most of them went to the hound, or the pigs.

One month passed. Then, two. Then, three. Or was it four? Granny Smith didn’t remember. During the latter half of Sunshine’s pregnancy, she’d taken to traveling, sharing pictures and her famous apple pie with the rest of the Apple Family. Timing her journey to match with the new foal’s birth, the mare reckoned all would be well and right and perfect.

Then, the telegram, the funeral, the decay.

Her son—a pillar of strength, falling by nopony but himself in his recklessness and workaholic ethic—barely existed. Care of his youngest foal fell to the elderly mare, or to the newborn's siblings. Most days, the stallion laid in bed, or wandered aimlessly over their land.

Granny Smith sighed and lost herself in her mindless task. As she mixed a bowl full of cake batter, Applejack strode over to her and asked, “Granny, have ya seen Pa anywhere?”

“No, youngin’, Ah haven’t,” she answered.

Applejack whined, “But he was s’posed ta take me inta town today. Are ya sure ya haven’t seen him anywhere?”

Granny Smith repeated, “No, Ah haven’t, Applejack.”

Applejack rolled her eyes and mumbled, “Ah’ll go an’ find him, then. He’s probably in him an’ Ma’s room again.”

“Big Mac! Have ya seen Pa?”

The colt tossed a stick to Winona, watching with a faint smile as the hounded rocketed after her quarry. Turning to his sibling, he said simply, “Nope.”

Applejack stomped a forehoof into the dew-kissed grass. Sun barely hung at high noon in its crisp, clean sky, and still her father—a stallion of an unyielding work ethic—couldn’t be found in the farmhouse, nor in the orchards. “Dang it! He ain’t in the house, neither. Ah’m gonna go find him,” she declared, galloping quickly towards the far fields.

Through a thicket of apple trees, Applejack sought the stallion, finding nopony amongst their livelihood. She did, however, find a curious sight: somepony had left one of the barn doors wide-open, exposing their animal friends to timberwolves and other uninvited guests.

Quite sure that she’d solved the mystery, Applejack trotted into the barn, calling, “Pa? Pa? Hey, there ya—“

The Stetson laid expectant on the floorboards, its owner hanging from the rafters.

Celestia…

She could articulate no language. She could only sob. Babs Seed buried her muzzle in Applejack’s chest. Ashamed of her own insecurities and tribulations—a mere pittance in the presence of Honesty’s burden—she clung to the mare, finding no words to illustrate the depth of her sympathy, empathy, sorrow, and pain.

“It’s alright, Ah’m here,” Applejack soothed, stroking the foal’s mane.

“A-A-Applejack…” Babs whispered, “Dat was ma aunt an’ uncle… youze parents… why…?”

Applejack quietly replied, “Ah don’t know, Babs. Nopony knows. Nopony knows why things like this happen ta ponies like ya o’ me. But they do. They do, an’ they hurt, an’ they break us.

“But ya know what, hon?”

Rubbing her bloodshot eyes, capillaries agonizing with her soul, Babs muttered, “What, Applejack?”

Wisdom of her years finished, “We become strong in the broken places. The wounds become scars, an’ the scars never heal. Hurt never fully leaves us, darlin’. It’s somethin’ we carry ‘round, in our hearts. In our minds. But… over time, it’s not as bad. Ya see, if ya would’ve asked me when Ah was yer age ‘bout this… Ah woulda jus’ ran away. An’ Ah did, fer a while.”

“Where did youze run ta?”

Applejack chuckled. “Auntie Orange never told ya?” At the shake of her head, she explained, “Ah went ta Manehatten once. Ya weren’t even a foal in yer mama’s belly then. Ah went ta see what Ah could find. An’ Ah didn’t find what Ah was lookin' fer.”

Makes two o’ us. Babs Seed smiled. “Heh. Guess I wasn’t the only one.”

Ruffling her mane, Applejack said, “Ah’m proud o’ ya, Babs. We all are. Ya made a hard decision. An’ Ah think ya made the right one to leave home, jus’ like Ah think Ah made the right one ta come home.”

“But, what ‘bout—“

“Give it time, hon. Ah know Citrus an’ Libra mean well. They couldn’t make this choice fer ya, but not because they don’t love ya. An’ Ah’m sure there’s a reason ya haven’t heard from ‘em yet.”

The foal sighed, skeptical, but relented, “I guess youze is right.”

Plucking her Stetson from the floor and placing it on Babs's head, her uncle’s attire too comically large, Applejack offered, “How ‘bout Ah try an’ get a hold o’ ‘em fer ya? Would that help?”

“Youze would do dat fo’ me?!”

“O’ course Ah would.” Applejack chuckled. “Yer family, after all, an’ on top o’ that, yer a hero, Babs.”

Blushing, Babs mumbled, “I don’t know ‘bout dat.”

“Ya’ll know in time. Fer now, Ah think it’s gettin’ close ta suppertime.”

Still wearing her uncle’s Stetson, Babs Seed followed Applejack out of the clubhouse and towards the farmhouse, letting her thoughts wander as they pleased. "Hero," huh?

No. Youze is ma hero, Applejack. Always.

She remembered a train ticket, and knew that, despite the distance, there was a bridge-builder striding alongside her, hatless but not hopeless.

Year Two: Namesakes

Applejack turned to the server-pony and asked, “Do y’all have any strawberry milkshakes available on board?”

The server shook her muzzle. “I’m sorry, ma’am, we don’t.”

Next to Applejack, two fillies groaned in unison. “Awwww!”

“Applejack, youze promised me I’d have one!” Babs Seed protested, crossing her forehooves.

“An’ Ah want one too!” Apple Bloom agreed, mimicking her cousin’s displeasure.

Flustered, Applejack dismissed the confused service-mare, waving her off with a forehoof. “Thank ya kindly, ma’am. We won’t be needin’ anythin’.” She scolded the fillies, “Now, y’all behave! It’s a long ride ta Appleloosa. Don’t be harassin’ the help.”

Youze said there’d be milkshakes. “Element of Honesty”? Pffft. Babs Seed harrumphed her irritation, watching out the window as the steam of the locomotive rocketed them towards the desert plains. School rang its last bell several weeks ago, ushering in the most beautiful season of all. The Cutie Mark Crusaders took full advantage of their freedom.

Just last week, the four adventurers celebrated a joint birthday party—Apple Bloom and Babs Seed were born within mere days of each other. The two crossed the threshold between the continents of foalhood and marehood, meeting in that treacherous connector.

They were thirteen now. Teenagers.

Applejack sighed, ignoring her wards’ pouting, and buried her muzzle in a free newspaper provided by the train line.

The letter had been vague. Applejack, it’s Braeburn. I need you to come out here and visit as soon as you can. His hoof-writing, like always, bordered on illegible. I can’t explain this very well through writing, but there’s a few ponies you need to meet. Please bring Apple Bloom and Babs with you. Curious, his knowledge of Babs's new home. Perhaps that signified the end of her search.

Applejack had sent her own letters to Manehatten: angry, demanding scrolls, parchment soaked in her outraged ink. Aunt Orange, Uncle Orange, and Citrus Blossom possessed immeasurable gall. "Return To Sender" marred every envelope. Applejack swore she’d never hit an innocent pony, but once she got her hooves on those Manehatten mares, some vows could be broken.

Braeburn's letter arrived just a few weeks before her own planned trip to Manehatten. Wondering if he possessed any leads of her own, Applejack switched her ticket from the East to the West.

Applejack had told nopony beyond her closest friends about Babs Seed's choice. How, then, could Braeburn possibly have known?

Unless…

Applejack sighed, disregarding such a possibility. False hope is always a false friend, though it tries its best to charm away its lies. Losing her train of thought in an enthralling article about a new shop opening in Ponyville—offering quills, sofas, and parchment this time, in the spirit of competition—Applejack read the same paragraph over and over, until the words lost all meaning.

For six months, Libra Scales laid in the bottom bunk bed of Braeburn’s shack, unable to work. Her paralysis was provoked by a combination of physical exhaustion, throbbing injury, and despondence. Fate pulled no punches towards her.

First, after the worst Hearth’s Warming she'd ever experienced, Braeburn caught a nasty case of pneumonia, ill for weeks. Citrus and Libra repaid his hospitality with caring hooves and enough vegetable stew to choke the poor stallion.

Next, both mares’ income streams dried up in their riverbeds. Citrus and Libra felt the iron hoof of poverty bear upon them once more. Apples dormant under the frost, Appleloosa’s economy ceased to churn its fledgling wheels, leaving the three to cabin fever. Again, the mason jar drained, stallion sick, mares restless, broke and bored.

She had all the time in Equestria to write, but Libra Scales mustered no words to parchment. Eloquence failed her once more. It was impossible. However, Libra didn’t despair; Babs Seed surely was surely safe and sound in Ponyville, and, soon, they would meet again.

Once the train lines returned to their full capabilities after the snows melted three months after Hearth’s Warming Eve, she, Citrus, and Braeburn returned to the orchards and the general store.

Libra Scales drove herself into the sands, necessity disregarded in her quest. One afternoon, she didn’t notice the cracking of bark, the splintering of heartwood, lost in her thoughts as she wandered through rows of apple trees. When the tree landed across her spine, everything went black.

She awoke what must have been days later in the cramped cabin, Citrus hovering over her with worry on her muzzle.

Every inch of her burned in throbbing pain. She craned her neck and muttered thickly, “Cit… Citrus…”

Citrus whispered, “Mom, are you alright?”

“That depends. What… what happened?”

Her daughter frowned as she answered, “One of the trees fell on you when you were working in the orchards. One of the Buffalo found you, and brought you back here.”

Libra Scales raised an eyebrow. “The Buffalo did?” At Citrus’s nod, Libra continued, “Wow. I’ll have to find a way to repay them. In the meantime, let me—“

Citrus Blossom pushed the injured mare back into her bunk. “No, Mom. Please, lay down and rest."

Libra, ever the slave to rationality and reason, argued, “Citrus, I can’t miss work.”

Citrus countered with wisdom of her own. “Mom, it’s alright. Me and Braeburn will make up for it. You’re hurt. You’ll just make this worse. You just need your rest for now, and—“

Scrambling to her hooves for a second time, Libra Scales barely took one hoof-step forwards before collapsing to the chilled floorboards. Splayed across the surface, four hooves failing to support her weight, she groaned and cursed, “Celestia dammit! Ahh! My back…”

Citrus slipped under her, strong from her labors, and gently laid her back onto the mattress. Libra Scales realized through her pain that her daughter—once a glamorous, budding fashionista, poised to follow in her parents’ hoof-steps—was delicate no more.

Adjusting her mother’s bedding, role of parent and child swapped in necessity, Citrus soothed, “Please, Mom, get some rest. Please. You’re hurting yourself. We’ll get through this slump. For now, just take it easy. I’ll make up for the bits. I promise.”

Though her skepticism screamed otherwise, bickering against the better angels of her nature, Libra nodded slowly. “Alright, Citrus.”

Libra Scales spent the six months of her recuperation on that bottom bunk, refusing doctors or transport to a true city with a true hospital. There were no bits to spare. Time promised to heal her wounds. She prayed in her agnosticism that this was something more than a mere proverb, that she would be well again, that she could work again.

That she could see Babs Seed again, soon, and, maybe, be forgiven for her silence.

Babs's birthday came and went, and the three of them sang, anyway.

Spring turned to summer while Citrus Blossom toiled through her own torn muscles and aching bones, true to her vow. By the time her mother could rise from the mattress unassisted, new muscles tensed and flexed beneath her coat, and her mane bleached a shade lighter from the sun. She didn’t mind.

In her dreams, she still was in Canterlot, modeling fine threads for everypony to gaze upon in awe of her beauty. Hoity Toity and Photo Finish joined her there, night after exhausting night, with their contracts and cameras.

In reality, she came to see herself as less of an exile and more as a native, laboring alongside Braeburn and the other Appleloosians. Manehatten and its cobblestone belonged to another Citrus, a Citrus whom she’d cast aside for higher things.

A Citrus who anticipated a hard day’s work, the pleasant tinkling of gold against glass, another gentle dawn and whispering dusk. A Citrus who didn’t shy away from a scratch, a pulled muscle, an aching back. A Citrus who yearned not for silks and rhinestones or praise and admiration, but reunion and rejoicing.

Earth pony she truly became, fulfilling the promises of their magic, strong and resilient. Citrus Blossom began to forget the taste of an orange.

“So, have youze ever met Cousin Braeburn, Bloom?” Babs Seed asked, finding nothing of interest beyond the locomotive’s window. I forgot a book or anythin’. Buck. Dis gonna be good.

Apple Bloom shook her head. “Nope! We’ll be meetin’ him fer the first time togetha, Babsy!” she declared with a giggle, nudging her in the shoulder.

Babsy?!

“Did youze jus’…”

“Yes, Ah did.” Apple Bloom chuckled, the faint hint of a demonic smile streaking across her muzzle.

Blushing, Babs Seed looked over to Applejack, who was oblivious to their little exchange. Reading the latest edition of the tabloid rag The Ponyville Enquirer, her elder cousin was lost in tales of scandal and shame.

Truthfully, Babs Seed knew she had nothing to fear. Applejack never explicitly mentioned it—though it was heavily implied in the same “When yer thirteen, things get a lil’ different, Babs,” conversation—but Babs was certain that the mare wasn’t blind (though deafness was another story). Big Macintosh, Scootaloo, and Sweetie Belle also read between their lines.

Apple Bloom and Babs Seed never spoke of it outright. No necessity demanded it to be so. Classmates either didn’t know, or didn’t care. Metal Crown and Brass Fork occupied the dark, it seemed, spreading no stereotypes about farmers and cousins.

Babs refrained from violence, but promised herself, Now, there’s some lines I can’t let ‘em cross, an’ iffa dey do… dey’ll see. ‘Specially Tiara. What’s dat filly’s problem wit’ me, anyhow? Yeesh.

“Oh, did Ah make ya blush?” Apple Bloom teased, wrestling Babs from the depths of her scheming and plotting of the best way to show a spoiled brat what big city life was really like.

Babs replied uneasily, “Ah heh, heh, heh… maybe.” Gesturing to Applejack, she whispered, “Uh, Apple Bloom, has Applejack eva—“

“Ever what?”

Stuttering, Babs said, “Um, talked ‘bout, uh, youze know, um…”

“C’mon, Babs. They’re jus’ words. You can do it. First, one syllable, then another, then—“

Face-hoofing, Babs muttered, “What are youze, a dictionary?”

Apple Bloom leaned over and stared at Babs's shoulders with a quizzical expression. This, of course, ignited and fueled the crimson across her cousin’s cheeks. “What are youze doin’ now, Bloom?!”

“That’s funny. Ah don’t see any pegasus wings."

“W-what?!”

“Well, if yer gonna keep actin’ like Scootaloo, Ah’m gonna check an’ see if yer sproutin’ wings, too!” Apple Bloom tried only slightly to stifle her laughter behind her forehooves, while Babs just sighed, thoroughly unimpressed and confused beyond measure.

Narrowing her gaze, Babs mumbled, “I still don’t get it.”

Applejack exclaimed, “Will y'all hush?! Ah’m tryin’ ta read here! Tarnation!”

Braeburn Apple, akin to others of his namesake and heritage, despised liars. Nevertheless, he chose hypocrisy over inaction, and wrote to Applejack himself. He kept, however, the promise he’d made to Auntie Orange nine long months ago. Mentioning neither Citrus nor Libra, Braeburn simply urged Applejack to visit the settlement he adored so much.

After the “pie incident,” (as he cataloged it within his own mental library) Braeburn corresponded with the Sweet Apple Acres clan in letters alone. He’d been silent lately, leaving room for Citrus or Libra to pen their own parchment first. To both his empathy and outrage, they wrote not one jot or tittle.

He understood their intentions—some things are better left to muzzle-to-muzzle discussion, after all—but couldn’t delay any longer. Under the guise of a general-store run, Braeburn delivered his letter to the town’s post office.

That was three weeks ago. Two weeks later, he checked his mail in secret, overjoyed to find a scroll from Ponyville. Braeburn nearly tore the parchment in his excitement.

There, Applejack replied, curtly:

“See you next week, Braeburn.

Babs and Bloom will be coming with me.

P.S. Hope the trees are doing good.”

Today marked the first day that his beloved aunt could rise from the bottom bunk without howling in agony. Today also marked the seventh day since Applejack’s response. Today, the stallion hoped, would go down in his history as a joyous occasion, a time to dance on newly-healed hooves and make things right again.

Braeburn Apple paced on the train platform, fidgeting with his Stetson, summer skies coming afire in the distance with shades of yellow, red, and orange.

Apple Bloom was asleep on her shoulder, but Babs Seed didn’t mind. Applejack urged her to sleep, but she found no refuge in slumber. Applejack matched her sibling’s snore, curled up in the train cab beside her.

Surely it must be twelve hours by now. The train barreled into the West and the best, two of its passengers heading towards a new adventure. None of the other three Cutie Mark Crusaders had their cutiemarks just yet, and, even if they did, none of them would’ve passed up such a grand opportunity. Their fourth member was no different, particularly interested in what laid beyond the sands.

Remembering the destination of a weathered Earth pony stallion, Babs Seed wrapped a forehoof around Apple Bloom and wondered, Maybe dis is where Greyhoof went. I wonder iffa Allspice an’ the othas ever got out heeya, too. I think dey would’ve.

Apple Bloom smiled but didn’t wake, smacking her lips and mumbling, “Cutie… Mark… Crusader… lion tamers? … Nnngh…. Ah don’t think so…”

Babs silenced a chuckle and waited, watching Celestia began to give way to Luna, lighting the atmosphere with a sea of holy fire in her abdication.

A grand, colorful locomotive pulled into the Appleloosa train station, wheels ceasing to a grinding halt, engine billowing clouds of steam into the dusk. Locking its brakes in place, the station’s guards-ponies trotted over to the vehicle and unlocked its doors. Swinging them wide open for passengers to exit, they called, “Arriving at Appleloosa Station!”

Within the train, Applejack yawned and stretched her forehooves. “Already?” Casting a glance at the slumbering fillies, entangled in their own hooves, she chuckled and said, “Heh, heh, ain’t that sweet. Well, no mo' naptime.”

Applejack tapped them on the shoulder. “C’mon, y’all, we’re here.”

This time, Babs Seed was the first to break the surface, and grumbled, “Five mo’ minutes, Applejack,” before closing her eyes again.

Mimicking Big Mac's monotone, Applejack snapped back, “Nope. Git up. NOW.”

Sighing, Babs huffed, “Fine,” and prodded Apple Bloom in the ribs.

“What?!” Apple Bloom gasped, bolting upright on her haunches in surprise. “Oh, it’s jus’ you doin’ that, Babs. Ah thought Ah was—“

“We gotta go, Bloom." Babs Seed practically dragged the other foal behind her as they followed Applejack out of the cab.

Outside the train, Braeburn studied each muzzle of each passenger exiting the vehicle, ponies swarming out of steel and steam into sand and heat. He searched frantically, seeking a familiar face amongst the horde, ears pricked for a familiar drawl ringing through the clamor of voices.

Finally, he heard, “An’ Ah know y’all are teenagers now, but ya got ta start wakin’ up when Ah say so!”

“APPLEJACK!”

Galloping across the platform, crushing the weak boards beneath his hooves, almost tripping over his woefully-long unshorn fetlocks, Braeburn shouted again, “APPLEJACK?!”

“BRAEBURN!”

There is was. The word held no accent, no dialect, no indistinguishable location from any other corner of Equestria. Its speaker could have been a Canterlot elite, a Manehatten tough, a Cloudsdale daredevil. He could never forget that voice, and recognized it immediately.

Snaking past gaggles of excited visitors, reunions of all kinds commencing around him, Braeburn found the his visitors, one mare and two fillies.

Braeburn threw his forehooves around Applejack’s neck. “Oh, cuz! It’s so good ta see ya! After all these years! How long has it been?!”

“Two, Ah think,” Applejack answered, returning his gesture by squeezing him tight. “It’s been far too long, that’s all Ah know. Good ta see ya, too, Braeburn.”

Releasing the mare, Braeburn leaned down, a wide smile on his muzzle. “Howdy, girls! Why, Ah haven’t see you since ya were a lil’ foal, Apple Bloom!”

Apple Bloom trotted up to him, nuzzling his shoulder, the other awaiting his acknowledgment. The stallion hugged Apple Bloom gently, and then locked gazes with the other filly—her eyes as emerald as his own, if only more intense.

"An’ you must be Babs Seed, cuz. Now… Ah must ask, on accounta ya bein’ a city-filly originally, but are ya a hoof-shake pony o’ a hug pony?”

“City-filly originally”? How does he know dat? With a grin, Babs answered, “Hug-pony, o’ course.”

Libra Scales set the round table for three while Citrus Blossom sliced up a fresh apple pie. Filling each plate with a heaping serving, Citrus asked, “Shouldn’t Braeburn be gettin’ home soon, Mom?”

Libra nodded and said, “I believe so, Citrus. Don’t worry. Sun hasn’t gone down yet. If it does, and he’s still not back, I’ll go take a look for him.” Cracking her back, spine limber now after six months of rest and relaxation, she added with a smile, “I need a good walk, anyway.”

Placing the dessert back into one of the storage chests, Citrus stated, “I’m glad you healed up so well. I was afraid I was going to have to drag you to Canterlot or something. Have one of those unicorn doctors look at you.”

“I would’ve fought you with all my might, Citrus.”

“Do you have something against unicorns, Mother?”

“Pish-posh. Of course not. I have something against wasting money,” Libra said with a smirk. “All I needed was a little bit of rest, and here we are. I’m fine.”

Citrus Blossom countered, “But, six months is hardly—“

Knock, knock.

Citrus turned towards the door, but Libra Scales dismissed her with a forehoof, assuring, “Oh, no, I’ve got it, Citrus. You finish with packing dinner away now. Maybe Braeburn's hooves are full with some things from the market.”

Wandering over to the entryway, she mumbled, “Stupid stallion, so reckless with bits sometimes...”

Libra Scales opened the door.

There, instead of one lone stallion, his brow dripping from a full day’s work under an unrelenting sun, stood four ponies—one stallion, one mare, and two foals.

One of them, bobtailed, orange, taller than she remembered. Both fillies were beautiful, grinning, looking up into her muzzle, irises shining with excitement. One, in particular, seemed to glow and shine, no darkness visible even within her pupils.

Her foal.

Libra Scales fell mute, and spoke with her forehooves instead, sweeping up Babs Seed and spinning her around and around, laughing, crying, all joy, no sorrow.

Libra’s healing seemed to be perfect in its timing. She danced and hopped and galloped and let Apple Bloom and Babs Seed ride on her back, no discomfort in her vertebrae. The appearance of her niece was a momentous occasion and another celebration in itself.

Not since that dreadful night in Manehatten—the night the Reaper had come in search of two fillies, and left empty-hooved—had Libra Scales seen Apple Bloom. She held her tight, and her daughter as well, bloom and seed united with her under Braeburn’s roof.

The six of them squeezed around the tiny table in the tiny shack, to the laughter of all and discomfort of none. They shared simple stories of both farms and fields, schoolfoals and cutiemarks. Libra beamed with pride. It was an apple that adorned her daughter's flank, instead of an orange.

In a way she couldn’t articulate or comprehend, Libra Scales believed that this was no accident of Nature, no twist of Fate, no curse of a demon. Her Babs Seed was as she should be.

After apple pie fell victim to six hungry mouths, Babs Seed released the elephant rampant in her mind.

“Mom?”

“Yes, honey?” Libra asked.

“Where’s Da’?” Babs Seed asked innocently.

Braeburn stopped in mid-rise from the table. Applejack and Apple Bloom exchanged worried glances. Citrus Blossom hastily finished clearing a plate, setting the platter down and rushing over to her sibling’s side. “Babs, dear, um, well, he’s—“

“No, Citrus, it’s alright,” Libra said quietly. She swept the room, looking at all but Babs, and requested, “Does anypony mind if Babs and I go for a walk?”

Go for a walk? Alone? Oh… horseapples. Babs squirmed in her seat with anticipation. She’d never known her mother to be much of a secretive mare. Such reluctance to speak freely could only signify a difficult answer to the simple question she’d posed.

Nopony objected. Libra Scales rose from her haunches, taking to all four of her hooves, beckoning Babs Seed to follow her.

Looking to Applejack for an answer, who merely nodded in urging, Babs Seed left after her mother.

Rows and rows of apple trees, growing far beyond their native roots. By countless rounds of experimentation, cross-breeding, soil re-introduction, fertilizer mixtures, and, above all, the determination of a mare’s spirit in opposition to the elements, the apples grew. Appleloosa grew along with the harvest.

Libra held her daughter close, explaining the history of the town. Above them, the evening star reigned supreme, a brilliant galaxy illuminating the orchard below. “You see, Babs, it was your aunt who learned first how to successfully plant and grow apples out here, out in this desert,” she finished, unable to contain her pride. “She was a special mare. My favorite sister.”

“Sure sounds like it,” Babs agreed. “Wait. Favorite sista?”

Nodding, Libra said, “I had two sisters, darling. One of them was your Aunt Barbara. She was Braeburn’s mother. The other was your Aunt Sunshine. Mother to Applejack, Big Mac, and Apple Bloom. Well… that wasn’t her real name. She was kinda embarrassed by her legal name,” she added with a giggle.

“Oh. So… kinda like Da’, right?” Babs asked, steering the conversation back into a deep, dark thicket of woods, more twisted than the apple trees below them.

Her mother sighed, closing her eyes. “Yes, Babs. Like your father.”

The foal leaned back against her mother, patiently awaiting a response. Maybe I should ask her again. Maybe she’s tired, an’ she forgot the question. I mean, it’s nice hearin’ ‘bout Appleloosa an’ all, but—

“Babs?”

“Yea?”

Libra released Babs Seed from her embrace, taking one hoof-step back. She was correct in her assumptions; the filly had grown at least a few inches taller since she’d seen her last, bandaged and bloodied. That gap in her left ear remained, but seemed to have healed perfectly. Her daughter soon would soon be swept by the winds of change, surpassing her in height and strength.

She sat on her haunches, and looked the foal straight in eye, knowing that soon, mother would look up to daughter. Or, perhaps, she did already.

“Babs… I love you. I love you more than I can describe. I love you no matter who you become, who you turn out to be. Who you love. What you do. You know this, don’t you?”

Confused, Babs answered, “O’ course I do, Ma. An’ I love youze. I missed youze so much, I… I’m sorry I ran away…”

“No.” Libra raised the filly’s chin to meet her gaze evenly. “You didn’t run away. You made the right choice, sweetie. You did the right thing.”

“Iffa dat’s true, why didn’t youze o’ Citrus o’ Da’ write?”

“I can’t tell you the entire story now, Babs. Not until you’re older. There’ve been some things you’ve dealt with that I can’t even imagine. Things no foal should have to endure. As far as this goes, well… I… I can’t burden you with it.”

Babs paused to take a breath before she asked further, “Well… what can youze tell me?”

Libra took a deep breath of her own, her exhalation dragon’s-smoke in the night, and began.

“Babs, honey, when you love somepony, sometimes you become blind to who they really are. Love is a tricky thing. It wills us to find the best in each other. It calls us to look beyond our flaws. It asks us to forgive—sometimes more than we should.

“Your father and I were married for twenty years before I truly began to see him as he was. And I didn’t like what I saw. I had enough. I gave him an ultimatum. And he countered with a solution of his own.”

A chill crept down Babs's spine. Her consciousness brought forth a mental image of a blood-red colt with a mane black as night, bent on achieving his own “solution” to the problem of her own existence. No, it can’t be… no. He’s ma fatha. Dat’s ridiculous. “What… what kind o’ solution?”

Quick on her hooves, Libra sputtered, “That doesn’t matter. The details don’t matter, hon, at least for now.”

Skeptical, Babs Seed stashed away her dismissal, seeking to ponder it someday when the skies were a little brighter, and fewer questions remained.

Noting the filly’s silence, her mother finished, blunt against her own wishes, “Babs… your father and I are no longer together. The three of us are not welcome at the Mansion.

“Manehatten is no longer our home.”

Babs Seed began to dig at the sand with a forehoof, searching for a spring below.

“Darling, I love you. I always will love you. Citrus loves you, and, I think, somewhere, deep down, your father loves you, too,” she said, disbelieving her own final words. Bernie Madhoof did not know love. Stallions of his stature forgot it long ago, replacing it with figures and ventures.

Beneath Babs Seed's fetlock, there was no water.

“Citrus and I came here after… the divorce. Braeburn is a great nephew to me, and a great cousin to you. What will we do next? I’m not sure, Babs, but I know that we’re in a better place now.

“And… from the sound of things, I think you are, too.”

She dug deeper. The sand gave way to clay.

Libra Scales grasped the muddy forehoof with one of her own, and nudged Babs Seed to face her.

“What?!” Babs barked, gritting her teeth, fighting a spring of her own rising in her eyes.

Libra said nothing in reply. She only embraced her again, tighter this time, letting them both find their peace through salty tears.

Sometime later, Babs Seed said, “I am.”

“You’re what, sweetheart?” Libra Scales whispered.

Sincere, she declared, “I am in a betta place now.”

Pulling away from the mare, only enough so that her guardian could see the smile on her muzzle, Babs Seed’s peripherals caught a comet streaking from above.

Thanks ta youze, Aunt Barbara. The light the guided me then.

The light dat watches us now.

Year Three: Spark And Hover

Ponyville possessed no literal book of every single possible occupation or hobby. If there was one to be found within the town, Twilight Sparkle would’ve loaned it without reservation to the Cutie Mark Crusaders. They pestered her enough to justify it.

Alas, no such tome existed. Instead, the three remaining blankflanks, with the assistance and camaraderie of their fourth member, wrote the book themselves. Metaphorically speaking.

“Cutie Mark Crusader Floral Assistants”? Check. Roseluck never asked for helpers at her stand again. “Cutie Mark Crusader Fan-Sales-Ponies?” Tried. Mr. Breezy was thoroughly unimpressed. It took the poor stallion weeks to repair those fans. And the concept of “Cutie Mark Crusader Security Guards” was a disaster from the start.

The evening after that particular failure, the four fillies returned to the clubhouse, tails both long and short tucked low between their flanks. “Mayor Mare’s gonna tell Applejack ‘bout dis, ain’t she, Bloom?” Babs sighed.

Apple Bloom sighed heavily. “Ah sure hope not… How we’re we s’posed ta know that we weren’t s’posed ta use those batons on ponies who forget their backstage passes?”

Closing the door behind them as they reached the top of their treehouse, Scootaloo rolled her eyes. “I know, right? And c’mon, we didn’t hit them that hard!”

All four of them sat in a circle, pondering their next move. It had been over two years (and the third calendar year) since Babs moved to Ponyville, sporting a cutiemark of her own. In that time, none of the other Crusaders appeared to discover their special talent. If they did, Fate mocked them, leaving them blank and bare.

With three despondent fillies stretched across the floorboards from her, Babs Seed willed a myriad of solutions into her mental tally. Hmm. What iffa dey tried… no, we did dat last week. Maybe sewin’? Nah. Rarity ain’t gonna fly wit’ dat. Been ova there only once, an’ she positively guarded dat sewin’ machine. Doubtful she’d let us try it out...

“We’ve tried everything, and we still don’t have our cutiemarks!” Sweetie Belle jolted Babs Seed back into the present. “Everything! Literally everything!”

The unicorn stomped over to the thinking spot and furrowed her brow. Sitting on her haunches with a deadpan THUD! she whined, “We’ve been crusading for over five years and nothing! This is hopeless!”

Apple Bloom offered, “Aww, c’mon, Sweetie Belle, we can’t be too far off by now. We’ve gotta be close ta findin’ our special talents. Am Ah right?”

Scootaloo shrugged. “I dunno. We’ve tried practically everything in Ponyville. Maybe even in Equestria! But…”

Her eyes suddenly grew wide with glee. “Rainbow Dash is taking me to a Wonderbolts show next week in Cloudsdale! Maybe that’ll give me some new ideas we can try!”

“Takin’ youze ta see the Wonderbolts, eh? Sounds like a date ta me.” Babs snickered.

The pegasus struggled to keep her wings glued to her side, feathers thoroughly ruffled. “It is not!” she huffed, blushing hotly. Her crimson only ignited Babs's laughter, chuckles reaching new heights. Babs began rolling on the floor.

Scootaloo countered, “Talking about dating, huh?! How about 'youze,' bad seed? When are you gonna—“

Silenced by a forehoof, Scootaloo mumbled the remainder of her protest. Stifled by a blushing filly, it was of no use.

“Annnyway, Scoots,” Apple Bloom muttered, avoiding Babs Seed's wary gaze and keeping Scootaloo silent. “Ah hope ya have fun wit’ Rainbow Dash! Hey, Sweetie, didn’t ya say Rarity’s takin’ you ta Canterlot wit’ her soon, too?”

“Yup!” Forgetting her discouragement, the unicorn grinned, hopping across the floorboards in excitement. Although she was nearly fifteen now, Sweetie relinquished none of her foalish charm. “There’s a concert she wants me to see!” she chipped. “Some sort of opera, I think. Not sure. But it’s in Canterlot, so it should be fun!”

“Sure sounds like it,” agreed Apple Bloom. She glared daggers at Scootaloo before releasing her captive at last. Scootaloo shook her muzzle and plopped back down on her haunches, muttering inaudibly to herself in annoyance.

“See! There youze go!” Babs said. “Youze all jus’ gotta think outside o’ the box. O’, outside o’ Ponyville, I betcha. By day way… how’s flyin’ an’ magic goin’ fo’ youze two?”

“I can levitate objects now! Not too big yet, though. Rarity says that’ll come later when I discover my own brand of unicorn magic,” Sweetie Belle explained.

Fluttering her wings proudly, Scootaloo bragged, “I can stay up in the air for a few minutes now without stopping! Dash tells me I should be flying behind her soon. I can’t wait to race her!”

“Youze see? Things ain’t so bad. No need ta feel down.”

Unicorn and pegasus cheered their agreement, but, across from Babs Seed, the other Earth pony wasn’t so easily swept up in the optimism.

Babs Seed surmised through her own breed of internal logic that her cutiemark appeared only when she arrived in Ponyville because that is where she belonged. Manehatten, even in its best moments, never felt like home. Sweet Apple Acres, conversely, felt peaceful, safe, loving, accepting. There were bad days, of course, but, in the end, she belonged there, among the orchards and fields. She didn’t miss the concrete or the cobblestone.

Though she was positive the shield on her flank symbolized strength and the will to defend--and the apple slice spoke of the same sacrifice that marred her left ear forever—the meaning behind the color purple was a mystery to her. In fact, she once pestered the town librarian for a book regarding coats of arms, eager to find her answer. Twilight possessed such a book and lent it to her gladly.

Within that tome, Babs Seed discovered that purple was traditionally the color of royalty. Only certain noble or wealthy ponies throughout Equestria’s history were permitted to wear the sacred shade. Rich in heritage and of name, this explanation seemed plausible in her instance. Comin’ out o’ royalty, inta summat new. Perhaps it was the contrast of simple red apple slice against rich purple that spoke of her true and sacred heart. Maybe.

Nevertheless, Babs Seed encouraged others she loved to find their own ways, even if that meant leaving the ties of “home” behind. Home is where the heart is. An’ ma heart is heeya. An, I think, Ma’ an’ Citrus belong ta the desert. Dey sure seem ta like it there, o’, at least, dat’s what dey say in their letters.

A week after the four Crusaders vented their frustrations, Babs and Apple Bloom waved forehooves goodbye to their friends, both promising to crusade as soon as they returned from their adventures in Cloudsdale and Canterlot.

The night after the joint departure, Babs Seed turned to Apple Bloom beneath the sheets, whispering, “Youze know what would be funny?”

“What, Babs?” Apple Bloom asked.

“Iffa Sweetie an’ Scoots come back wit’ their cutiemarks.”

Narrowing her eyes, Apple Bloom rolled over and muttered, “Yeah… real funny.”

Pulling her close, Babs teased, “Aw, c’mon, Bloom, I was jus’ jokin’. Don’t be sore.”

“Ah’m not,” she lied. “Ah’m not sore. Ah jus’ don’t think that’ll happen, that’s all.” Apple Bloom turned further away from Babs Seed, soon pretending to be asleep, even as the other began waxing poetic about home and meaning and destiny.

Apple Bloom never gambled, never tossed dice or played cards, but if she did, she would’ve bet all her bits on Babs Seed’s hushed predictions. Beyond being physically taller, larger, and stronger than her, Babs proved to be smarter than her, as well. Or, perhaps, just luckier.

Scootaloo returned from the Wonderbolts show with Rainbow Dash a few days before Sweetie Belle’s journey home. Upon her arrival and reunion with her friends, she proudly sported her cutiemark. A violet-and-blue comet streaked across her flank, a testament to the end (or was it the beginning?) of her own adventures in self-discovery.

“Isn’t it great?!” Scootaloo exclaimed. “I finally flew with Rainbow Dash! And on our way back, I learned I could do stunts in the air, barrel rolls and dives and stuff, SUPER easy! We even had a contest of it! There’s no way I could beat the Rainbow Dash, of course,” she said, eyes sparkling with admiration, “but I came real close! And when we landed, I had my cutiemark!”

They rejoiced and planned a cute-ceañera at Sugar Cube Corner.

Soon afterwards, Sweetie Belle and Rarity caught the midnight train from Canterlot to Ponyville. The other three Crusaders patiently waited for her at the train station. Their reward was an elated filly hopping excitedly, flashing a cutiemark of her own. A musical note next to a microphone decorated Sweetie’s flank. The mark appeared after she performed a private duet with one of the Canterlot singers. The performance was heard by nopony, but demonstrated her musical talent—her special talent.

“The opera-pony said I had an amazing voice! And then, POOF! the cutiemark appeared!” Sweetie gushed. “Nopony even heard me sing, except for her and Rarity, because we were in her dressing room! But now I’m gonna start practicing more, and there’s even a special school in Canterlot that might help!”

Quickly, before Pinkie Pie completed her party preparations, the Crusaders clarified that it would be a dual cute-ceañera. Pinkie Pie, of course, nearly rocketed through the ceiling in elation, and stocked up on party favors and cupcakes.

Apple Bloom asked Babs Seed the evening before the party if she’d ever considered playing the lottery. Her question was met with several of Babs’ own, to which she mumbled, “Ah, forget it,” and feigned sleep once more.

Everypony in Cherilee’s class was invited to the dual cute-ceañera, with the exception of two high-society fillies with metallic cutiemarks. A gaggle of teenage fillies and colts filed into Sugar Cube Corner that evening for punch, cookies, and cake.

Unfortunately, nopony bothered to warn Snails that Pinkie Pie was hiding in the cake this time around. The dim-witted colt took an enormous bite of the tempting dessert…

Snails never galloped so fast in his life. Pinkie chased him through the streets, shouting, “Come back here, you fiend!”

Other than attempted cannibalism, the party went off without a hitch. Scootaloo and Sweetie Belle both received hordes of presents. Many of their classmates were just as happy to see the two Crusaders receive their marks as much as their own.

In addition to the gifts and treats, the guests played an assortment of games: “Pin The Tail On The Pony”; “Truth Or Dare”; and, for the friskier among them, “Seven Minutes In Heaven.” And some, like one filly hanging by the punch table, opted out of them entirely.

Babs Seed wandered over to the punch bowl, huge smile on her muzzle and empty cup in her forehoof. “Great party, eh, Apple Bloom?” she commented, nudging her as she retrieved a fresh scoop of punch. “I jus’ finished a game o’ pin the tail on the pony… I guess ma pony was a stallion.”

Apple Bloom giggled. “Sounds like yer havin’ fun!”

“O’ course! An’ youze?”

Stalling, Apple Bloom poured a glass of punch and chased her thirst. Not one drop of alcohol clouded the punchbowl or her judgment. She lied anyway. “Oh, yeah! Havin’ a great time! Good ta see everypony here an’ all!”

Across the room, a blindfolded Scootaloo stumbled and pinned Featherweight’s nose with the pony’s tail. Pointing and laughing, Babs said, “Guess I’m not the only one who can’t play dat game worth a horseapple!”

“Heh… yeah… Ah guess…” Apple Bloom played with the empty cup in her forehooves.

“'Ey… youze sure youze is alright?”

“Yea, Ah’m fine! Ah’m jus’ lookin’ at the time is all.” Fast on her hooves, Apple Bloom gestured to the ticking of a clock on the wall. “Applejack said befo’ we left that we should be home befo’ eleven, an’ it’s nearly ten now.”

“Oh. Alright,” Babs said, a little disappointed. “Let’s jus’ play a few mo’ games, an’ then we’ll go, alright?” An’ then maybe youze can tell me what’s really on youze mind. Youze ain’t no good liar like me, Apple Bloom.

Trotting after her, Apple Bloom forced a grin. “Okay, Babsy.”

Testing their curfew, Apple Bloom and Babs Seed left Sugar Cube Corner a few rounds of party games later, full of enough sugar to strike fear into the hearts of Equestria’s finest dentists. Disregarding the maladies of excessive carbohydrates, they munched on one last cookie on their journey out of town’s center. Finishing her treat, Babs Seed mused, “Horseapples, dat was a good party!”

“Babsy, don’t curse,” Apple Bloom teased, nudging her playfully in the ribs. “Yer smarter than that!”

“Pfft. No. Youze is the smarter one,” she taunted back, returning the gesture. “I see youze test papers, youze know. Top o’ the class at school. Always have been, haven’t youze? … Oh? Am I makin’ youze blush, now?”

The only reply was the nuzzling of a cheek against her neck. Striding closer to her savior, stars above the only lights guiding them towards the orchards in the distance, Apple Bloom silently pondered a question.

A simple inquiry, it was, though had bore a weight upon her mind the entire evening, threatening to dampen their celebration. She’d suppressed that thought through the endless parade of cake and streamers. She refused to be the raincloud casting down judgment. She refused to be the thorn in everypony's side. She’d kept the question to herself, hoping it would lessen its sting throughout the night.

She was wrong. In Sugar Cube Corner that night, surrounded by friends and classmates, she felt like an outcast.

Up a steep hill the two journeyed, grass underhoof wet with dew in the caress of the night. By this time, both knew they’d broken their curfew beyond measure. Applejack would not be pleased. Reasoning that they would be in deep excrement regardless, they slowed their pace as the rounded the crest of the hill, enjoying the whisper of the wind, the voice of the night in their ears.

They approached the farthest corner of the orchards. Tucked away among rows of apple trees laid the Cutie Mark Crusaders clubhouse. True to their vows, the four Crusaders would continue their adventures, though its purpose was obsolete.

Mostly so.

“It’s beautiful out heeya ta-night,” Babs muttered, gesturing to the canvas of stars above, beacons against the blackness.

“Heh, yeah. It sure is,” Apple Bloom said quietly.

Not as beautiful as youze. “Youze know summat I liked ta do when I was in Manehatten?”

“What?”

“Watch the stars. An’ the skies. An… ceilings, too.” Still do dat a lot. Chuckling, Babs explained, “It’s weird, but what I used ta do. Ta get thinkin’. It’s how I still think. I believe, sometimes, iffa youze do dat, it makes youze… closer ta some. Ta some up there.”

“Interestin’.” Apple Bloom proposed coyly, “Do ya want ta do some thinkin’ wit’ me tonight?”

“Sure,” replied Babs Seed, grinning.

They laid on the grass, stretching and arching their backs into the carpet of green. In the heavens, a galaxy of stars and a full moon shone bright and beautiful. Cassiopeia, Draco, Orion and his belt, and the rest of the holy constellations peeked through the overwhelming black blanket of the night.

Never one for astronomy and sans telescope, Babs Seed nevertheless did her best, recalling patterns in the sky. She spelled them out to Apple Bloom, who identified Big and Little Dipper but none else. Once she’d traced all those she could remember, Babs went silent, choosing to think of higher things instead.

A thousand points o’ light. Do dey always guide home? Is dat why dey pointed me heeya, those years ago? Will dey always? I wonda what dis is like in the desert. Citrus, Brae, an’ Ma say ta visit anytime… I should take ‘em up on dat…

Soon, through their peace came a murmur. “Babs…”

Crickets chirped their accompaniment to the pause that followed. She took a deep breath, anticipating the question that was to come. “What is it, Bloom?”

Apple Bloom whispered, “Babs… why don’t Ah have ma cutiemark yet?”

Heeya it comes at last. “I don’t know, Bloom. But,” Babs began, taking a yellow forehoof between two of her orange ones, “I know youze are special. I know youze’ll find youze talent, an’ soon.”

Apple Bloom scooted closer to her. “Thanks, but…”

“But… what?”

Sighing, Apple Bloom stared straight into those emerald irises, feeling them pierce past and beyond her own. They looked unwaveringly into her own gemstones, fiery rubies this time, shining in the moonlight. A concerned, uneasy smile crept across Babs Seed’s muzzle, unspoken words ushering her to continue. In that gaze, Apple Bloom felt no need to hold back any longer.

The force of her own fears threatened to unleash a torrent and tempest of their own. She’d hidden her doubts from Sweetie Belle and Scootaloo through all their crusades. She’d hidden them from Applejack and the rest of her family, too, including Babs. Now, in this moment, delinquent and daring, she chose to confide in the filly next to her, just as that filly had done so before, nearly three years ago.

Before Apple Bloom could request it, Babs Seed wrapped her forehooves around her, pulling her close. Much too close. Muzzle-to-muzzle close. In the darkness, atmosphere lit only by the beacons above, she blushed, whispering, “Ah… Ah don’t know if Ah’m—“

Shushing her, Babs Seed countered, “Yes, youze are. Youze are special. Youze are special ta me. Always have been.”

“How can Ah be, though?” She ran a forehoof through Babs's mane, ruffling it in her distraction. “Ah’ve tried everythin’, Babs. Even on ma own, without Sweetie o’ Scoots, an’ nothin’. An’ everypony tells me, over an’ over, that Ah just hafta wait. That it takes time. Applejack told me, Twilight told me, Zecora told me… Ah never learn. Ah don’t listen.”

Mindless in her movements, Apple Bloom moved the one strand of mane in front of Babs Seed’s eyes back and forth out of her vision. “Ah don’t know why. It’s not ‘cuz Ah don’t trust ‘em. It’s jus’… Ah guess…. Ah guess Ah jus’ worry that Ah’m not special. That ponies like Diamond Tiara are right.”

“Don’t worry ‘bout her, Ap—“

“It’s not jus’ her, Babs!” she huffed. “There's a bunch o' ponies who think that way. That Ah shoulda gotten it by now. What if Ah never do? What if Ah grow up an’ Ah’m not good at anythin’? What if Ah jus’ live here on Sweet Apple Acres, gettin’ fed by Applejack an’ Big Mac until they move on? What if Ah have ta leave? Nopony would hire a blankflank… nopony would… even…”

Her forehooves froze, releasing Babs Seed’s mane.

Babs stared at her. “Nopony would even…?”

Stammering, Apple Bloom replied, “A-Ah don’t… it’s s-s-stupid…”

“No, I’m the stupid one, rememba?”

“No, yer not!”

“Oh, I’m not? Well, maybe, I’m the silly one,” Babs shot back. She ruffled Apple Bloom's mane and began to nibble on her ear, prompting a wave of giggles from her victim.

“Babs! Stop it!”

“Not until youze take it back!”

“T-t-take what b-back?” Apple Bloom stuttered, fighting her laughter. Babs Seed continued to tickle her ear, unrelenting, muzzle split with an enormous grin.

“Don’t call youzeself stupid,” she ordered, breathing hotly into her victim’s ear before continuing her onslaught.

“Okay! Okay! Ah t-take it b-back! Jus’ stop ticklin’ me!”

Laughing, Babs Seed finally obeyed, releasing her. Once she caught her breath, she asked, “So... what were youze gonna say? ‘Nopony would even’…?”

Apple Bloom dismissed her with a forehoof. “Oh, forget it. It’s nothin’.”

“Where I come from, ‘nothin’ is a whole lot o’ summat, Apple Bloom. No. Please tell me.”

“… Maybe when yer older.”

“We’re the same age!”

Apple Bloom laughed. “Alright, maybe when we’re older, Ah'll tell ya.”

“Deal. Hey,” Babs said, smiling, “youze know what I think ‘bout all dis?”

“What, Babs?”

Locking eyes with Apple Bloom, Babs Seed said, “I think dat when we hafta wait fo’ our marks, it makes ‘em mo’ special. Like we really earned ‘em. An’ youze? Youze is smart, kind, funny, creative. Talented. The things youze can do, an’ the things youze tried ta do, dey outnumba mine. Youze can build things, an’ fix things, an’ take care o’ things. Youze is talented in youze own right. Me? I jus’ kick flanks. I’m jus’ a brute, youze see." She laughed.

“No,” Apple Bloom said softly. “No, yer not a brute. Yer a hero. Ma hero.”

Apple Bloom gestured to the nick in the Babs's left ear, gently caressing the cartilage with a forehoof. Apple Bloom, don’t… Her touch sent a chill down Babs Seed’s spine.

“See this?” she muttered, voice sultry and smooth. She lowered her gaze as she declared, “This, here, is you. This is you savin’ me.”

Smiling back, Babs said, “An’ this is how youze saved me,” and kissed her.

It was not their first kiss since Manehatten gave way to Ponyville, Orange becoming an Apple. It would not be their last. But, here, under the stars and moonlight, in the dew-covered grass, it was their first that felt electric, a tango of fire and ice, a surge of one soul passing through another.

I… I think…

Breaking their connection with a small smile, Apple Bloom asked gently, “An’ how did Ah save you?”

“Youze were the first pony I told the truth ta,” Babs replied, nuzzling her. “An’ dat made me a lil’ braver. Like I could do bigger things. Scarier things. An’ I did. Took me a while, but… I did. An’ youze are partially ta thank fo’ dat.

“An’ anotha thing… Because o’ youze tellin’ Applejack what happened ta me, she told Citrus an’ Ma. Because I was weak, an' couldn't tell 'em maself. An’ it’s because youze told her, dat I’m heeya. Iffa youze didn’t? Probably wouldn’t be.

“So, youze is ma hero, Apple Bloom, an’ iffa I know anythin’—an’ I don’t know much—it’s dat I know youze will get youze mark, an’ it’ll be beautiful.”

Both lost for words, they could only smile and watch the stars for seconds, minutes, hours. They laid there, tangled in the forehooves of the other, extending their sentence in their truancy. Applejack would be furious once they rose to their hooves and trotted home. It would be worth it.

When they finally ended their stargazing and turned in for the night, Apple Bloom felt her foalish optimism return. She knew that, at the very least, one pony would accept her, no matter how long or arduous her own journey. The destination, whether it was tomorrow or a year from today, waited patiently, Babs Seed by her side in her conquest.

Maybe, Apple Bloom was wrong, and somepony could love a blankflank.

“Can you believe it, Silver Spoon?!” Diamond Tiara scowled. “Those Cutie Mark Crusaders invited everypony but us to their cute-ceañera! Everypony but us! And we even invited them to ours!”

Silver Spoon said with a roll of her eyes, “They’re sooooo lame.”

Both fillies trotted through the streets, grumbling as they passed Sugar Cube Corner. Obscenely loud music blared through the bakery’s windows. The scent of countless fresh pies, cakes, and cookies wafted through the streets, teasing their nostrils.

“This is ridiculous! Just wait until Daddy hears about this.” Tiara groaned. “Ooh, Sugar Cube Corner won’t be getting our business for a while!”

Suddenly, the clip-clop of hooves against the unpaved roads silenced their complaints. Silver Spoon hissed, pointing a ways up the dimly lit street, “Look, over there!”

Beyond them, the last blankflank in their class and a bully from the East strode towards Sweet Apple Acres. The two fillies walked closely together, tails swishing and entwining their strands.

Yet, these were not only two fillies behaving in such an intimate manner (which was strange enough). Compounding the confusion, they were two cousins, one-eighth of the other reflecting in themselves. And their companionship went far beyond the boundaries of friendship, the tension between them palpable even at a distance.

Diamond Tiara yanked Silver Spoon’s braid, dragging them both into an alleyway. “Ow! Diamond Tiara!” she yelped, only to be shushed by a rough forehoof.

“Quiet! They’ll see us!”

Gently removing the hoof, Silver said, “Yes, I know, but... why are we—“

“Not now, Silver Spoon!” Diamond snarled. Clasping her hooves together in excitement, a wicked grin spreading across her muzzle, she said, “This is just… too perfect.”

Silver Spoon raised a confused eyebrow. “I… I don’t understand. I thought you hated them. Don’t you?”

“Of course I do!” Diamond snapped, keeping her voice low. “And this is the perfect opportunity to get back at that bad seed! Daddy’s sent letter after letter to that awful filly’s father, but still she doesn’t get it! She still doesn’t respect me!”

Diamond Tiara and Silver Spoon kept a wary distance from the Cutie Mark Crusaders, especially when Babs was guarding them. Babs Seed never returned their favor by bullying them directly. However, Diamond Tiara still held a grudge against the filly who humiliated her, cast aside her friendship, and refused her peace offering.

Watching as Apple Bloom and Babs Seed interacted in this twisted way, despicable, defiling, nauseating, she knew she found the upper hoof at last. “Oh, this is too good, just too good.”

“… I thought they were cousins…” Silver Spoon mumbled, her eyes wide in utter disbelief.

“They are. Which makes it so much better,” replied her best and only friend. “Not just fillyfoolers… incestuous fillyfoolers.”

Both fillies were amazed at their fortune, rolling in the alley in waves of laughter, plans resurrected. Diamond Tiara long wished to put that wretched filly in her place. Thorns in her side, the both of them would soon be plucked, and cast before the fold, exposed for the filth they were.

Then, and only then, would she have her revenge, pushing her tormentor down into the mud with the pigs, where she belonged.

Year Three: Taboo

Diamond Tiara awoke the morning after the dual cute-ceañera with less reluctance than usual. She stretched her forehooves and threw back her covers—thick, hoof-stitched wool quilts and imported cotton sheets from Saddle Arabia—and hopped out of her canopy bed. The perfectly polished silver tiara waited for her delicate touch as always. One of her father’s numerous servants dedicated his duties solely to caring for this treasure.

She quickly ran a brush through her thick mane before donning her trademark. A beautiful young mare—barely fifteen and attracting the attention of some of the most worthy colt suitors in this town—found it quite fitting that her cutiemark matched her most prized possession. She’d made this tiara herself years ago, and found her special talent in the same day.

Though, Diamond reasoned, she was far above a mere jeweler. Although the trade required careful and dainty hooves (something she could more than manage), it was still a refuge of trades-ponies. Those who couldn’t hold their own in the spirited competition and topsy-turvy nature of the corporate world were delegated to working with their mere hooves.

No, Diamond Tiara was far above such simplicity. Her father’s business boomed in Ponyville and far beyond. When his blessed time came, she would inherit his wealth and power. Barnyard Bargains would flourish in her worthy grasp.

As she trotted down the stairs, scent of the chef’s wondrous cuisine mocking her hunger, Diamond vowed that, someday, she’d find a replacement supplier for Zap Apple Jam. Surely the mysterious fruit must grow somewhere beyond the borders of Sweet Apple Acres. Somewhere in Ponyville, Equestria, or Earth itself, respectable, fine, sane ponies must cultivate the crop.

“Good morning, Madame Diamond Tiara,” a servant greeted, bowing low to his mistress as she strode into the kitchen. “The chef has prepared your favorite this morning. Buckwheat pancakes.”

She merely nodded a sliver of acknowledgment. Pulling up a stool, the filly spread her cloth napkin across her lap and took a careful first bite of her breakfast, utensils balanced perfectly and professionally. She’d learned only the finest from her father. The wealthiest stallion in Ponyville expected nothing less.

The lowly stallion brought a fine glass of orange juice to complement his employer’s meal. Setting it down carefully, he attempted, as he always did, to engage her in conversation. “Madame Diamond Tiara, I hope you enjoy this juice. It is freshly squeezed and imported from only the finest fields.”

“Whatever,” she said with a growl, taking another bite of syrup-drenched pancakes.

Restraining the urge to sigh, the servant tried a different tactic. “M’lady, your father wanted me to pass onto you that he has signed your permission slip for today’s class. He wanted to speak with you face-to-face regarding this, er, interesting topic, but unfortunately was not able to do so. There was a very important early-morning meeting he could not miss at the office.”

Diamond Tiara stopped her fork mid-bite. Permission slip.

But, of course. Today was going to be an interesting day in Cheerilee’s class. Diamond Tiara, along with her lesser classmates, would be discussing reproduction, sexuality, and the basics of parenthood.

To his baffled ears, Diamond Tiara chuckled and replied, “Oh, that is more than alright. I’m sure we’ll all be learning some very important things in class today. Father will hear all about it once he gets home.”

Wealthy enough to afford only the most extensive and expensive dental care, she smiled, wide and bright, towards a pale stallion.

Apple Bloom and Babs Seed found the school bell, once again, to be a worthy savior. Barely rushing inside before it chimed for the final time, the two fillies filed into the classroom and took their seats at the back of the class. They could only blame themselves for their delinquency. Applejack, predictably, was less than amused by their tardiness the evening earlier, and retaliated with a stern lecture over breakfast.

Opening her saddlebag, Babs retrieved a sheet of parchment and a pencil. Apple Bloom mimicked her cousin and busied herself with the same, avoiding the teacher’s glare. Woulda been fine iffa AJ jus’ woulda let it go! How’s dat fo’ irony? Complain’ ‘bout us bein’ late an’ nearly makin’ us tardy ‘gain. Horseapples!

Cheerilee shook her muzzle disapprovingly at the two Apples tucked into a corner (both fillies doing their best to act nonchalant) and began to scribble out her lesson plan on the chalkboard. “SEX ED 101.”

The words elicited a wave of giggles from her students. With a quick snap of her neck and flared nostrils, Cheerilee silenced the jesters. Well, most of them. Snips and Snails appeared to be fairing the worst of them all, cackling under their forehooves.

“What’s so funny?” Cheerilee stared straight at the offenders.

Snips quickly swallowed his laughter and blurted, “Nothing, Miss Cheerilee!”

“Yeah! Not… a… thing,” Snails hiccuped.

“Hmph.” Cheerilee turned back to the chalkboard and continued to highlight the main points of today’s lesson. The mare had kept her small class mostly intact throughout the years, losing only a few students to transfers. Other teachers in the tiny schoolhouse bothered themselves with only one grade, rehashing the same subject matter season after season. Cheerilee, however, preferred to see her students grow, blossom, and bloom, and kept the same group of pupils.

“Alright, class. Today, we shall begin discussing the basics of reproduction and sexuality. It is my understanding that all of your guardians have signed off on this lesson?” A room full of expectant fillies and colts slowly nodded. “Great! Let us begin.”

Cheerilee launched into a complex discussion regarding gametes, meiosis, fertilization, and gestation of foals. Through this scientific portion of the lecture, the classroom remained mostly silent. Pens and pencils scratched out hasty notes, jotting down the best they could manage. Most terms went misspelled.

Babs Seed muttered to herself, “Dis is ridiculous…”

“Quiet, Babs!” Apple Bloom shushed.

“What? We know dis junk already,” Babs hissed back. Apple Bloom rolled her eyes and face-hoofed. At least I know. Twilight’s got a lot o’ books. Heh. Heh. “C’mon, Bloom, I know—“

“Quiet back there!” Cheerilee shouted. Slapping a yardstick between her forehooves, she warned, “This is a serious discussion! Any sort of trouble-making will not be tolerated, and that goes for you two as much as anypony!”

Sinking into her seat, Apple Bloom glared at her cousin and shook her muzzle. Raising an eyebrow, Babs stared back at her, yearning for the blessing of telepathy. Oh, c’mon, not like we can get in much mo’ trouble at dis point. AJ’s already gonna run me inta the ground wit’ chores once we get home.

Continuing her lesson, Cheerilee cleared the chalkboard and began to write down a host of (mostly) unfamiliar terms. Once she’d finished her litany, she turned to the class. “Anypony have any questions?”

Near the front of the class, a forehoof shot towards the ceiling.

“Yes, Diamond Tiara?”

“Miss Cheerilee, so far, you’ve discussed mares and stallions being together, correct? How foals are made and born?”

“Yes, Diamond Tiara, that’s right.”

“Well… my question is about something a little different.”

Babs Seed stopped writing. So did the three fillies sitting near here. Four Cutie Mark Crusaders willed Diamond Tiara to shut her foul muzzle, anticipating her next words. She’d never uttered them to the Crusaders, but, somehow, they knew she’d longed to say them.

And when she did, none of them could believe their ears—along with the rest of the class.

“What about mares being together?” Diamond asked innocently.

Cheerilee almost dropped her chalk.

Diamond continued, “I mean, it’s not unheard of around here, isn’t it? My father personally knows a few mares who are… like that. What about that, Miss Cheerilee? Are we going to talk about that today?”

“W-well, Diamond Tiara,” the teacher slowly replied, “that isn’t exactly what today’s lesson is a-about. But, since you asked, I can go ahead and explain it the best I can…”

“Good. I know there are some ponies in our class who would love to know.”

Diamond Tiara turned in her seat and winked at Babs Seed and Apple Bloom, both fillies blushing furiously and gritting their teeth in the corner. Of the pair, it was Babs Seed one who felt her heart begin to thunder its anger, temperature rising, blood rushing, molecules spurred in the wake of the obvious. Youze lil’ bitch.

Cheerilee clasped her forehooves together nervously. Though Equestria had come into an enlightened age a few decades ago, granting the privilege of marriage to couples of all genders, the topic remained a point of contention—especially among those of old bits and blood. Tradition was of paramount importance to some, insignificant among the rest. As a public schoolteacher, it was the mare’s duty to balance these opposites and meet (somehow) in the middle.

With a deep breath, Cheerilee answered, “Well... sometimes…ponies fall in love with the same sex, Diamond Tiara. We can’t control who we love. Sure, it might seem strange, but, it’s just what happens to—“

“What about ponies who are related?”

SNAP!

The classroom and Cheerilee snapped towards the noise. On one filly’s desk, a pencil laid in halves, graphite and wood broken with little effort. Ears completely flattened, Babs Seed glared daggers, knives, swords, and bullets at the smug filly. Metal Crown merely grinned and winked once more.

A mental line was violated with a simple question.

Cheerliee furrowed her brow. “Diamond Tiara, you and I both know the answer to that.”

Giggling, Crown said, “I thought so. But I was just checking. Some of us might be confused.”

Apple Bloom poked her Babs Seed in the ribs. She did not respond and began to exhale slow, deep breaths, counting down to zero. “Babs… don’t… don’t let her—“

BRRRRRRRRRRRRRING!

“Class, let’s break for recess, and when we return, we’ll continue our lecture.”

One of the last to exit the classroom, Babs Seed stomped all four of her hooves with each step, watching Metal Crown and Brass Fork murmur excitedly to themselves. On both sides of her, Sweetie Belle and Scootaloo muttered insults and dismissals towards her agitator.

“Don’t let her get to you!”

“She’s just trying to get back at us for not inviting her!”

“I don’t think it’s bad if… if you’re like that…”

“You either, Apple Bloom…”

Apple Bloom stared at the floorboards first and, next, the grass, four fillies reaching the fields and playground at last. Far too old for games of four-square or hoofball, most of the teenage fillies and colts opted instead to play solitaire, chess, dice, or (for the toughs) poker on the blacktop. Others played catch or arranged simple team games. Still others sat on their haunches and gossiped, sharing secrets, giggling about crushes, cursing their enemies.

Babs Seed strode towards two fillies sitting on the grass. Crown and Fork laughed amongst themselves, practically rolling from their humor. What was so funny, of course, was nothing more than the sight of an enraged bully and a blushing blankflank. Nopony had said it, though everypony surely knew.

And soon would.

“Babs! Let it go!” Scootaloo urged. The pegasus snaked one of her forelimbs around the taller filly’s shoulders. It was of no use. Brushing her off, Babs continued, taking slow, thundering hoof-steps.

Sweetie Belle added, “It’s not worth it! You’ll get in huge trouble!” She tried to slow the bullet train marching its way towards its antagonists, but failed just as badly as her pegasus friend. Exchanging worried glances, two Crusaders pulled Babs back again. “Come on, Apple Bloom, help us! She’s going to—“

Apple Bloom couldn’t respond. Her words were cut short by the laughter and challenge of another filly. “Going to what?”

Metal Crown rose from her haunches and trotted up towards the filthy, rotten Orange. “What are you going to do, Babs? Defend your fillyfriend? Or your cousin? Oh, wait, I forgot, they’re the same pony.”

Now, Apple Bloom took to her hooves, pulled from her haze and joining Babs’ side. “Leave us alone, Diamond Tiara! We didn’t do anythin’ ta ya!”

“That’s funny. That’s really funny,” she jabbed. “But, not as funny as this is going to be…”

Before any of the three Crusaders could demand an explanation, or the fourth could let loose the growl burning through her muzzle, Diamond Tiara shouted, “HEY EVERYPONY!”

Dice slowed their roll, cards halted in mid-flip, and the entirety of Cheerilee’s classroom froze and stared at her. Diamond Tiara pointed to the bully and the blankflank and decreed, “GUESS WHAT WE SAW BABS AND APPLE BLOOM DOING LAST NIGHT?”

Silver Spoon began to giggle uncontrollably, watching the spectacle with delight. Her best and only friend joined her mirth, laughing as she hissed, “Oh, that’s right, we were watching you, you sick, twisted fillyfoolers.”

All blood and color drained from one muzzle. Another compensated, countenance crimson with rage, adrenaline demanding fight-or-flight. She chose fight.

“EVERYPONY, THEY WERE—“

With a spring off her hindhooves, Babs Seed freed herself from her restraints, Scootaloo and Sweetie Belle unable to contain her. Ripped from their hooves, she charged, rocketing towards insanity. Babs Seed leapt towards Metal Crown, iron forehooves raised, and tackled her to the grass. “Youze bitch!”

Metal Crown proved to be much more than just talk. Flat on her back, she reached up and punched the bad seed straight in the snout. Babs flinched but remained, towering over her, reckless and wild. “Get off me, you dyke!”

Blood gushing from her nose, Babs Seed coughed and snarled “Gladly.” She pulled the filly off the grass by her forehooves. She steadied her opponent, raising Crown to meet her, then striking back with a forehoof of her own. Crown caught the blow in her muzzle and flew backwards, landing on the unforgiving ground once more.

All around them, fillies and colts circled and began a chant. “FIGHT! FIGHT! FIGHT!”

Scootaloo and Sweetie Belle struggled to push through the circle and sweep up their fourth member. Snips, Snails, and a few others pushed them away, keeping one eye on the most entertaining thing many had or ever would see. Apple Bloom galloped around the huddle, seeking to breach the other side.

Brass Fork rushed to her leader, pulling her off the ground. Stomping towards the bleeding bad seed, she screamed, “DON’T YOU HURT HER!” and swung a punch of her own. Babs Seed dodged and returned fire. Fork collapsed next to Crown, stuck in the throat, catching her breath somewhere between the cool, green grass dotted with blood and the blue skies above.

“Youze want some mo’?! HUH?!” Mind blank of any comprehensible thought, Babs Seed only knew the fire and the fury, burning through her chest, compelling her to stomp back towards her antagonists once more. Within her irises, Crown flashed red, her mane as black as night.

Weakly, Crown tilted her neck, spitting in Babs's face. She missed her target, far too dainty for such a disgusting gesture. “At least I don’t buck my cousin,” she challenged, stumbling to her hooves.

A yellow blur slipped past two cheering colts and their wagers. This blur reached out with its forehooves but proved too slow. The orange blur charged and connected, pummeling the pink filly over and over again. It was a sea of colors and hooves and shrieks.

Finally, Cheerilee rushed from the schoolhouse, drawn by the shouts and chants and speeding through the circle. Barely only a few inches taller than Babs Seed—who was in complete control of everything but her own emotions, Diamond Tiara a nail now, and she was the hammer—the schoolteacher grabbed Babs by her mane. “STOP IT! STOP FIGHTING!”

Yipping in pain, the tug of her roots more discomforting than her nosebleed, Babs halted her forehooves and laughed. “She started it, Miss Cheerilee! Why don’t youze yell at her?!”

“Miss Cheerilee, that’s a lie!” Fork whined. Assisting her bloody, bruised friend to her hooves, she continued in her hypocrisy, “Babs attacked us!”

“No, she didn’t! Miss Cheerilee, Diamond Tiara started it!” Scootaloo said.

Sweetie Belle added, “Yes, it was her, Miss Cheerilee! Babs was just defending herself!”

Apple Bloom refraining from audibly adding, An’ me. Instead, she steadied her cousin, who trembled in her stance. Cheerliee looked to the crowd—antagonists, allies, and bystanders alike—and ordered, “Everypony but Babs Seed and Diamond Tiara, back inside! NOW!”

The crowd dispersed immediately. The schoolteacher pointed at Apple Bloom and Silver Spoon, neither fillies obeying, glued to their best friend’s side. “You both take them home. Now. You two are excused for the rest of the day. Babs, Diamond, your guardians will be hearing about this.”

Cheerilee offered them all one last piercing glare and took to her hooves after her students, herding them back inside the schoolhouse.

The door slammed shut once the last of the innocents were secured. Left to their own devices, the four turned to each other, two within the group refusing to break their staring contest.

“C’mon, Babs, let’s go,” Apple Bloom whispered, leaning against her and urging her towards town.

Babs Seed shook in all four of her limbs from an aftershock of the adrenaline, but felt no pain. From deep within came the call of something primal, something natural selection should have erased in its disuse. When Apple Bloom heard it, she instinctively pricked her ears, searching for timberwolves.

“Grrrrr.”

“Did you just growl at Diamond Tiara?!” Fork demanded. Shorter and smaller than the fillyfooler, she nevertheless shielded her friend, and took a hoof-step towards her opponent. “What the hay is wrong with you?!”

Between her jaws, the wolf in pony’s clothing said, “I should ask youze the same question.”

“Jus’ leave us alone, Silver Spoon!” Apple Bloom snapped. “We didn’t do anythin’ ta you, an’ we’re goin’ home!”

Crown brushed past Fork dismissively. There was still fight flowing through her, and required no assistance from her little follower. Ignoring Fork's crestfallen expression, Crown taunted to her opponent, “Have fun! Maybe you can get your dim-witted brother to provide the extra chromosomes for your incestuous love child! Then your family can be completely messed up! Oh, wait, that’s—“

THUD!

Apple Bloom looked down at her forehoof.

Diamond Tiara looked back up at the sky.

Babs Seed smiled at Apple Bloom.

Silver Spoon looked down at Diamond Tiara.

“Good job, Apple Bloom.” Babs Seed chuckled, and, before Crown or Fork could reply or throw up their own opposition, wrapped a forehoof around her cousin’s neck. “Let’s go.”

They galloped to Sweet Apple Acres, never looking back, ignoring the cries behind them.

Upon their arrival, Applejack tended to Babs Seed’s wounds first. Thankfully, there was no need for iodine this time. Apple Bloom suffered no injuries, pronounced fit as a fiddle after a quick once-over.

The nosebleed ceased, the bruises were iced, and once everything seemed in good, working order, Applejack pointed Babs towards the fields and ordered, “Go help Big Mac an’ think ‘bout what ya did.”

“Youze ain’t ma motha!” she protested.

“Auntie Orange’d be worse than me right now if she was here. You should be thankful fer that. Now, go outside an’ help Mac finish his chores befo’ Ah pop ya one.”

Grumbling under her breath, Babs Seed stomped out of the farmhouse, slamming the front door as she left. Apple Bloom turned to Applejack and began, “Applejack, it ain’t—“

“Ah don’t wanna hear it, Bloom.” Applejack hopped off the couch and motioned towards the corridor and stairs to the fillies’ bedroom. “Go in yer room. Ah’ll come back an’ talk ta ya in a while ‘bout this. Ah gotta go make peace wit’ Filthy Rich first.”

“But… but… ya don’t understand, Applejack! Diamond Tiara, she—“

“Ah said NOW.”

Apple Bloom leapt to her hooves, glared at her unwavering sister, sighed overdramatically, and slipped out of the living room. Up the stairs she went, cursing Diamond Tiara, Silver Spoon, the day, and her own foolishness.

On the first level, Applejack face-hoofed and mumbled, “Teenagers.”

“Hello, Applejack.”

“Evenin’, sir.”

“I assume you are here because of that fight between my daughter, your sibling, and your cousin.”

“That’s right.”

“Before I speak on that, I have a question. Something I hope you can help me with. You know, I’ve been sending letters to Manehatten for a few years now. Bernie Madhoof—your uncle—was once a great business partner and friend of mine. He has not responded to a single letter.”

“… Ain’t that a surprise.”

“Hmph. It sure was. Considering he nearly has a monopoly on the entire orange fruit industry in Manehatten, Ponyville, Trottingham, and Appleloosa, one would think he would have bits to hire a secretary. I’ve had half a mind to pay him a visit, but such an arrangement cannot be made if one party will not respond.”

“Nope.”

“I assume you have no other address or contacts for him?”

“Nope.”

“Ah.”

“Anyway, Mister Filthy, Ah’m so sorr—“

“Mister Rich.”

“Heh. Yes. Mister Rich. Well, again, Ah’m so sorry fer—“

“For your sister and cousin beating up my daughter? I’d certainly hope so.”

“Well, yes. But, ya’ll see that—“

“That you’re lucky I haven’t decided to cut my contract with your precious farm? That I haven’t completely dropped you as a supplier? Applejack, do you believe in luck?”

“Now listen here! Yer precious lil’ daughter has been tormentin’ ma sister an’ her friends fer years! Years, Fil—”

“MISTER RICH!”

“Mister Rich! Tarnation! No need ta scream! Anyway, she had it comin’. Attackin’ Babs an’ Bloom like that, fer no damn good—”

“I will NOT tolerate you using profanity in my presence.”

“Ah’m sorry. But it calls fer it. What Diamond Tiara did was outrageous. Why Cheerilee ain’t suspendin’ her fer mo’ than a day, Ah have no idea. An’ Tiara hit Babs, too. Now don’t get me wrong—Babs an’ Bloom are gonna be punished good fer this, too—but it’s yer daughter’s fault in the end.”

“I beg to differ, especially if what my daughter says is true about that sibling and that cousin of yours.”

“… That’s irrelevant, an’ none o’ yer business ta be discussin’.”

“Fair enough.”

“Good. Now, either you o' yer filly apologize ta ma sis an’ ma cousin, o’ we’re done.”

“How dare you! You are in no position to bargain with me! That is my specialty, Applejack. You are nothing but a mere farmer, a working-class stooge.”

“Is that so?! Ha! We’ve got plenty mo’ customers than yer Barnyard Bargains stores, an’ we won’t be missin’ ya if Ah drop ya. An’ drop ya, Ah want ta. Like a brick. Like the slime ya are.”

“... You!!”

“Ah think we’re done here, seein’ as ya ain’t apologizin’.”

Celestia damn it all ta the gates o’ Tartarus. Motherbuckin’, no good, haughty, ugly, bratty, bitchy, motherbuckin'—

“Evening, Babs,” Big Macintosh greeted with a smile. The stallion stood beside his plow, collar expectant around his neck. A fresh patch of land waited, ripe for the tilling. Several bags of seed and fertilizer lay strewn about the soil, promises of carrots, potatoes, and turnips to come. The equinox had arrived, bringing with it the time to plant. “Do ya wanna help me wit’ plantin’ tonight?”

Blowing a single strand of mane from her eyes, Babs Seed shrugged, replying, “Sure, why not?”

He chuckled. “Looks like yer mane’s gettin’ long ‘gain.”

“I know. Can youze cut it fo’ me soon?”

“Eeyup.”

“Thanks.”

“Somethin’ wrong? Ya look pretty bruised-up.”

She deflected, “I’ll tell youze ‘bout it later. Fo’ now, can I try pullin’ the plow, Mac?”

Big Macintosh hesitated. This particular task had always been assigned to him: a chore he’d learned from his father, who learned it from his father before him… It was stallion’s work, plain and simple. Most mares didn’t possess the strength or desire to challenge the stereotype. Fillies even less so.

Regardless, he turned to the frowning filly, noting the spark flashing through her eyes. Something was indeed wrong. Something very troubling. If anypony knew the consolation and peace that could be found in grueling physical labor, it was Big Macintosh. And he wasn’t about to deny such an escape to somepony who needed it.

Big Macintosh removed his heavy collar and trotted over to her. “Ya sure ya wanna try this? It’s not as easy as it looks. This one’s pretty new, so ya shouldn't have too much trouble, but—“

“Yea, I want ta."

“Alright.”

Babs Seed lowered her head and allowed the stallion to slip the collar over her neck. It was heavy against her neck and shoulders, but not overwhelmingly so. More uncomfortable was the coarse surface of the wood. Iffa I get splintas from dis thing, there’ll be hay ta pay.

Big Mac strode over to the plow next and stretched out the two connecting ropes. He tied careful, tight knots on either side of the collar, testing to ensure that the lines were strong and taut. The stallion noted that Babs Seed nearly matched his eldest sister in height. A little over three more years would pass before she crossed the threshold until adulthood and, surely then, she would surpass Applejack in stature.

Like most thoughts, he kept this one to himself: Babs Seed was built like a farm-pony. City life, in both nature and nurture, did not seem to suit her.

“Is it ready?” she asked.

“Eeyup. Jus’ go ‘head an’ start pullin’ it through the soil. Ah’ll be followin’ behind ya ta plant the seeds. If ya need a break o' somethin’, jus’ lemme know, alright, Babs?”

Babs Seed nodded. The moment of truth arrived as she took one hoof-step forward, then a second, and then began to find her pace. At first, the plow resisted, refusing to budge. Cursing enough to rival a Royal Guard, she tried again, inching forward with all her might. Big Macintosh watched in silence, choosing to disregard her profanity.

Finally, she trudged forward, the plow following behind her, cutting deep into the rich, thick soil. Muscles rippled and flexed under her coat. Her hooves burned their lactic acid, crying out for relief. Babs ignored them. How she’d managed to remain conscious throughout her battle with Metal Crown, she’d never understand. How she managed to (literally) plow through her haze and pain, only the Most High could know.

Keeping a steady pace, Babs Seed let her mind gallop wild and reckless. What is she gonna do now, dat awful filly? Is she gonna pull dis shit again? O’ did I teach her enough not ta mess wit’ me an’ Bloom? There’s nothin’ wrong wit’ us. Is there? But iffa there wasn’t, why would she—

“Slow down a bit, Babs. Yer gonna want ta turn right soon.”

“Oh. Thanks, Mac.”

“Eeyup.” The stallion tossed seeds into the tilled soil as fast as he could, surprised at her speed. She began to sweat under the setting sun, but didn’t slow in her rhythm, dragging her hooves and the blade through the mud.

What’s her damn problem? Her dad’s got enough bits ta buy Ponyville iffa he wanted. An’ she seems ta be a material filly. Stupid tiara an’ all. Maybe it don’t make her happy. It didn’t make me happy, havin’ all dem things. Glad I gave a bunch away befo’ I left.

Turning on a bit, Babs tilled the next row with ease. Her muscles began to scream beneath her fur, urging her to halt, but she ignored their cries. In the mindless, mundane motion, she found freedom. Anger dissipated from her hooves into the ground, steam and iron fading with row after row, seed after seed.

Finally, about halfway through the task, Big Macintosh broke the silence. “Are ya gonna tell me what’s wrong?”

“What do youze mean?”

“Why yer so quiet.”

“Dat’s pretty funny fo’ youze ta be worried ‘bout,” she huffed.

Big Mac glared at her.

“I’m sorry.” Babs sighed, frowning. “I’m jus’ takin’ it out on youze, an dat ain’t fair.”

“Takin’ what out?”

Babs Seed stopped in her tracks. Once he was beside her, clutching a half-empty bag of seeds, she spoke, staring at the ground. “I got in a fight at school, Big Mac.”

“Oh. What ‘bout?”

“Um…”

Setting the bag down, Big Macintosh lifted the filly’s chin with a forehoof, forcing her to look him straight in the eye. “Ya can tell me, Babs. Ah won’t be mad.”

“I know… it’s not dat…”

“What is it, then?”

Babs stammered, “I… um… well… somepony called me an’ Bloom…e r…”

Mac encouraged, “Called y’all… what, exactly?”

Blushing, she finished, “Fillyfoolers.”

She squeezed her eyes shut, waiting for the onslaught, the tempest, the torrent, the wave of accusation and insults and questions. She waited to be condemned to the bowels of the Underworld and banished to a land far beyond Sweet Apple Acres. She waited for Big Macintosh to say something, anything.

A pair of unshorn fetlocks were embracing her torso and pulling her up on her hindhooves.

“Big Mac?”

The stallion hugged her tightly. “Yes, Babs?”

“Youze… youze aren’t mad?”

“Why would Ah be mad?”

“Well isn’t it wrong ta—“

He shook his muzzle and smiled. “Babs, Ah love ya. Ah’ll love ya no matter what ya are. Ah might not understand it, but Ah’ll still love ya. Same fer Bloom.”

Babs Seed returned his gesture, and knew, as the sky came afire with red, orange, and yellow, that, despite her protests to the contrary, Metal Crown was wrong. The strongest stallion she knew proved this truth, his words few and wise.

Knock, knock.

“Come in, sis.”

Applejack strode into the fillies’ bedroom sans Stetson, her mane wind-swept and frazzled. Apple Bloom sat on the bed’s edge, twiddling her forehooves in a hypnotic circle. Applejack plopped down on her haunches next to her and watched her distraction. “That sure looks like fun, Apple Bloom. Have ya been sittin’ like this since Ah sent ya up here?”

“Eeyup,” she answered, mimicking her brother.

Applejack sighed. “Well, Ah suppose Ah’d better ask ya this first. You must know how much we depend on everypony’s business by now, don’t ya?”

“Yes, Applejack, Ah do.”

“Good. Now listen here. Ah don’t wanna worry ya, but there’s some things ya need ta know. Yer gettin’ older, an’ soon yer gonna be helpin’ wit’ the business side of things on the farm. Ya understand that, right?”

Apple Bloom again said, “Yes, Applejack, Ah do.”

“Alright. Now. We fall on good times an’ hard times here, Bloom. It all depends on how the crops do. Both the regular ol' apples, the Zap Apples, an’ our own crops ta eat. Simple enough. But there’s mo’ than that. It’s also ‘bout how we conduct ourselves an’ how we treat other ponies. Ya understand?”

Irritated, Apple Bloom repeated, “Yes, Applejack.”

Applejack sighed. “Ah know yer a teenager, an’ don’t like ta be lectured, so—”

“So why are ya doin’ it?!” Apple Bloom slumped on her haunches and crossed her forehooves. “Ya don’t get it, Applejack. Ah know that what we did wasn’t right. Ah know that. It doesn’t change that Diamond came after us first, an’ we didn’t do a thing ta her!”

“Yer absolutely right,” Applejack said.

Apple Bloom's eyes widened. “W-what?”

“Ah said, yer absolutely right. Diamond Tiara’s been a bully ta you an’ yer friends fer how long now?”

“... Nearly five years, Applejack...”

“Right. An’ ya know what?”

“What, Applejack?”

For years, Applejack had acted as both Babs Seed’s and Apple Bloom’s substitute mother, guiding them, correcting them, punishing them. Both fillies—especially Babs—would soon be able to stand muzzle-to-muzzle to her, metaphorically and physically. Babs would tower over her. Bloom would come close.

They were saplings now, and, in time, would become full-grown trees, branches outstretched towards the skies beyond. Maybe, they would reach into the wild, and follow their own dreams. Applejack didn’t know. All she knew, in spite of her own admonitions towards violence, was that, today, she was proud.

“Ah think ya both did the right thing. An’ don’t worry ‘bout that Filthy Rich, neither. We don’t need him anymo'.”

“Really?! Ya really mean that?!” Apple Bloom exclaimed.

Chuckling, Applejack replied, “O’ course Ah do. He refused ta apologize fer what his filly said, o’ what she’s done over these years, so Ah’m done wit’ him. She did say somethin’ ‘bout ya an’ Babs, didn’t she?”

Apple Bloom froze, speechless.

Applejack seized her opportunity and continued, “Look, lil’ sis. Ah’ll save most o’ ma thoughts on this later, fer when yer older. Fer now,” she said with a slight smile, “Ah jus’ want ya ta know that Ah’m alright wit’ it, an’ Ah love ya both. Ponies like Diamond Tiara are wrong.”

Apple Bloom chuckled and took her sibling’s forehoof in sincerity. “Ah know, Applejack. Ya know how Ah know?”

“How, lil’ sis?”

“Because, after all this time, Diamond Tiara never seems happy. She jus’ tears everypony else down. Ah don’t think she knows what love is, Applejack.”

“Do ya know what love is, Bloom?” Applejack asked.

Hopeful, Apple Bloom answered, “Maybe, someday, Ah will. Maybe... we both will.”

Year Three: Mother's Day

Year Three: Mother’s Day

Filthy Rich stooped over the priceless, hoof-carved coffee table in his living room. He busied himself with a small telegram machine and a list of Equestrian apple vendors. With a few harsh, uncouth words from Applejack, his irritation quickly churned into desperation. Zap Apple Jam season was but a few months away. A replacement was needed, and soon.

The stallion ignored the knock at his door. He kept his gaze glued to his machine, printing up multiple copies of his announcement and quickly going down his list. Surely, there must be somepony else who could grow Zap Apples, he thought. He barely registered a filly slowly trotting into his living room.

“Mister… Mister Rich?” a filly's voice asked.

“Yes?” he grunted, tapping his plea on the keys.

“Is Diamond Tiara alright?”

Filthy Rich looked up and found Silver Spoon watching him intently, her muzzle taut with worry. He answered, “Yes, she is fine. Grounded, but fine. Apparently, Applejack decided that the Apples were too good to be my supplier.”

Hissing through his gritted teeth, the stallion added, “Apparently, there were some ponies who teased her precious little sister and cousin enough to justify terminating our contract.”

Silver Spoon twirled her braid in her forehooves and stared at the floor.

“That’s right. Deviants or no deviants, those fillies just cost me a lot of sleep—all four of them. For now, I have no time for silly games. I’ve got business to attend to. Why don’t you two juvenile delinquents converse upstairs?” Filthy snarled.

He flared his nostrils and dismissed her with his disregard. The stallion furiously pounded out additional telegrams. Silver Spoon excused herself from the living room.

Trotting up the stairs, Silver Spoon let his words sink and drown into their depths. Sweet Apple Acres’ specialty crop provided a bulk of Rich’s sales. Diamond Tiara spoke highly of her father, practically falling to his hindhooves in worship. Now, it seemed that the princess had angered her king. No peace would be found in the castle tonight.

The princess’s hoof-maiden knocked on the door to her chambers, whispering, “D-Diamond Tiara?”

Diamond Tiara, her mane in disarray, her eyes bruised and bloodshot, angrily opened the door. “What do you want, Silver Spoon?!”

Surprised by her venom, she stumbled, “I… I was just wanting to make sure you were alright… your dad sent me away when I brought you home, don’t you remember?”

Diamond Tiara huffed. “Of course I remember! What kind of pony do you take me for?! An idiot?!”

“No! No! Of course not!” Silver took a tentative hoof-step backwards. “I was just making sure—oh, forget it. I’m just glad you’re alright.”

“Hmph. Whatever.”

“Can I please come in?”

With an eye-roll and a bellows-sigh, Diamond relented, “I suppose so.” She backed away from the door and allowed Silver Spoon to enter.

Diamond's room was perfectly circular, generously decorated, and contained far more treasures than anypony could dream to possess. The walls were painted shades of pink, purple, blue, and silver—the gentle tones of an overcast sunset. Silver Spoon had spent many a night here with her best and only friend throughout the years. The two alone kept the entire tabloid industry employed. Gabby Gums may have retired, but she reigned queen in the Rich household.

Both fillies sat on their haunches on the edge of Diamond’s plush, luxurious poster bed. On the nightstand rested Diamond's most prized possession. Thankfully, the bully from the East hadn’t taken her savage hooves to that as well. Though Silver Spoon abhorred herself for being so cowardly—even Apple Bloom managed to get a hoof in their tussle—she was grateful nothing was broken.

Diamond Tiara scowled, crossing her forehooves across her bruised chest. “I still can’t believe Daddy is grounding me!” she whined. “Me! And I didn’t even start this whole mess!”

“You’re right, Diamond Tiara,” Spoon soothed. “That is sooooooooooo not fair. How long is he going to do it this time?”

She flopped a forehoof in annoyance. “I have no idea. I’m hoping not too much longer than last time.”

“How long was last time?”

“A week, before he forgot. That was when we went and saw that concert in Canterlot.”

“Oh… right.”

“That could’ve been such a great concert if it wasn’t for… ugh… Could you believe those fillyfoolers in front of us?” Diamond scowled and rolled her eyes at the twisted recollection. Tiara and Spoon had mustered the finest tickets from the scalper they found find. Second row, dead and center. With two fillies all over each other in the front and best row. Of course.

Silver Spoon played with her braid again. “Heh… yeah. That was pretty… gross.”

“Pfft. Whatever. I just can’t believe the nerve of those two. Babs and Apple Bloom. Being like that. How can they…” Diamond Tiara paused.

Silver asked, “How can they…?”

“How can they find a special somepony—even if it’s each other--when I can’t?!” Diamond burst up from her haunches and down to her hooves. Stomping around her room, kicking discarded clothes or magazines carelessly to the side, she demanded, “What’s so special about them? Huh? Tell me that, Silver Spoon!”

Diamond Tiara spun around to face her friend. Her mane flowed behind her, waves of lavender and pink, perfectly styled. In spite of Babs's assault, she was lovely and radiant. A small smirk spread across her muzzle, rows of sparkling molars.

Silver Spoon suppressed her most immediate thoughts. Truthfully, she thought Diamond Tiara was beautiful. Beyond beautiful. It was a fact nopony could deny, no matter their evidence. Silver brushed aside her trickster consciousness, its whisperings threatening to venture into the land of the taboo and the unknown. Silver cried a mental, Hi-ho, and yanked the reins.

Diamond urged, “Well, Silver Spoon?”

Silver gasped. “Huh?”

“Were you even paying attention to what I said?!”

“Of course! S-s-sorry, Diamond!” Immediately, she blurted, “I don’t know! All I know is that you’re much more special than those two fillyfoolers.”

There it was, that word again. It rolled over her tongue and landed on the carpet. It curled up there, stuck, and pleaded to Silver Spoon, begging her not to abandon it.

It was different this time. It changed. Perhaps it was the way she pronounced it. More emphasis on the”fi” or the “ool” changed the whole course of its meaning. No. That couldn’t be it.

“Hey! Equestria to Silver Spoon!” Diamond pressed her muzzle against hers, barreling down upon her, blue eyes striking violet with fury. “What the hay is wrong with you?”

Blushing, Silver retreated, nearly falling off the bed. “S-s-sorry, Diamond!” Her repetition betrayed her, this utterance more trembling than its predecessor.

Diamond Tiara rolled her eyes. “I swear… it’s like you have somepony else on your mind half the time. You’ve been soooo spacey lately. It’s one of the colts in class, isn’t it?”

“Oh! Yes! One of the colts,” Silver Spoon agreed.

Silver realized with horror that she barely knew the names of their male classmates. Wishing to snap her own spine and send her head rolling somewhere beyond the desert of Diamond’s room—Celestia, just kill me now—she steered the conversation elsewhere. “Diamond Tiara… I was wondering something earlier today. After your dad sent me home.”

Diamond strode over to her nightstand and retrieved her tiara. She carefully ran a forehoof over its edges, delicate and smooth. Observing its craftsmanship, praising the brevity and intricacy of her design, Diamond smiled. One ear pricked and one closed, she said, “Go on, Silver Spoon.”

Silver asked, “Well… why exactly do you hate Babs Seed so much?”

The tiara slipped from her forehooves, landing safely on the nightstand.

Silver Spoon scrambled, her words slipping away, grains of sand in this blazing desert. “I mean! Don’t get me wrong! I understand hating on Apple Bloom and all. She’s a blankflank, for Celestia’s sake. Almost fifteen and still a blankflank? It’s unheard of. But Babs has her cutiemark , and she’s—“

Diamond snapped, “I just don’t like her, alright?”

Around the princess’s castle, the drawbridge snapped shut. The moat rose, thick, churning waters. Several guards-ponies drew their blades in challenge to anypony who’d dare to lay siege. The princess turned away from her hoof-maiden and said, “That’s good as enough reason as any, Silver Spoon. And don’t you forget it.”

Applejack’s word was her own law. She vowed competence and consistency in all her rulings. The Element of Honesty, after all, could speak nothing but the truth, lest she fade into gray and black. She knew that Babs Seed and Apple Bloom were right for standing on all four hooves against that awful filly and her little follower. She also understood the demands of the farm in the light of springtime. Finally, she recognized two fillies with far too much time on their hooves. Applejack utilized the fanciest of mathematics and solved two problems at once.

“Now, Ah talked ta Cheerilee, an’ ya won’t be suspended on Monday, Babs,” Applejack assured over breakfast the next morning. “Jus’ ta-day. Apple Bloom, yer fine fer school this morn. Once ya get off, however, Ah’m gonna put ya ta work. In the meantime, Babs, why don’t ya go help Big Mac plow some mo’?”

Babs grumbled into her bowl of oats, “What?! Am I the only workhorse ‘round heeya o’ summat?”

“Bite yer tongue, missy!” Applejack scolded. “Ah told ya already. Ah think ya did the right thing, both o’ ya, but yer still suspended from school. An’ Ah’ll be darned if ya jus’ laze ‘round all day.” She cleared the table of two plates, leaving the third to the scowling filly.

Apple Bloom reached across the table and patted her forehoof. “Don’t worry, Babsy! Ah’ll be home soon, an Ah’ll help ya.”

Dammit. Dat nickname ‘gain. “I-I’m fine,” Babs dismissed. The bowl of cold, soggy oats became the epicenter of her universe. Oats no good no mo’. Too cold. Room’s not hot enough ta warm ‘em. Yeesh.

“Sure ya are. An’ don’t worry,” said Apple Bloom. “Ah’ll take care o’ Silver Spoon if she gives me a hard time. After all, Ah punched a tiara—Ah think Ah can punch a spoon, too.”

“Nopony’s punchin’ anythin’—even utensils!” Applejack called from the kitchen. “Scoot yer boot, Apple Bloom! School’s gonna start soon!”

Giggling, she gathered her schoolbags and trotted out the door. Not, of course, before winking to Babs Seed, saying, “Ah’ll make ya proud, Babsy.”

Though her hunger dissipated in the wake of a strange tension and queasiness in her abdomen, Babsy ate her oats anyway. She’d reckoned she needed the strength. Room and cheeks loaning no heat, they were cold, thick, sawdust swimming in a bowl. She reluctantly finished them.

Applejack soon banished Babs Seed the juvenile delinquent to the fields. There, Big Macintosh waited, with his bags of seeds and his plow.

The school day flew by with enough force to rival the most daring of Wonderbolts. Apple Bloom caught Silver Spoon glaring at her several times from the corner of her eyeglasses, but otherwise was left alone. Cheeriliee’s class exchanged excited whispers behind the schoolteacher’s back. Yesterday’s fight had been the most action they’d seen all year, and they hungered for more. The majority agreed that Babs Seed had been the victor; the dissenters, of course, chose the minority for far more superficial reasons. Diamond Tiara was a beautiful filly.

Scootaloo and Sweetie Belle offered their spark and hover to assist Apple Bloom in the war against Diamond and Silver. Apple Bloom declined. Her savior made her point vocal and violent. She doubted that there would be much more to come. Nopony could be that foalish.

As promised, Applejack transitioned her sibling from one form of torture to the next. Physical trumped mental. Apple Bloom wished to be back in Cheerilee’s classroom, listening the mare drone into infinity about chromosomes and codons—“And this, class, is why every pony is so unique, just like everypony else!”—instead of under the spring sun, hauling dirt.

Dirt. Mounds and mounds of it. Mountains and molehills. Applejack assigned her cousin the plow, her brother the seeds, and her sister the cart. Applejack troubled herself with cleaning the farmhouse. No good deed went unpunished on Sweet Apple Acres.

“Youze alright, Apple Bloom?” Babs asked. Apple Bloom was soaked to her marrow, panting with exertion. Back and forth she went, one side of the farm to the other, cart full of fresh earth.

Apple Bloom snorted. “O’ course Ah am! Don’t ya worry ‘bout me, silly filly! Worry ‘bout yerself! Ya’ve been pullin’ the plow all day.”

Big Mac nodded in agreement. “Want me ta take over, Babs? Ain’t much mo’ ta do.”

“I’m fine. Youze two worry mo’ than Ma does!”

“Oh! That reminds me!” Apple Bloom exclaimed. “Applejack wanted me ta ask ya. Did ya want ta go visit Auntie Orange, Citrus, an’ Braeburn Sunday by yerself, o’ did ya want somepony ta come wit’ ya?”

“… Sunday? What’s Sunday?”

“Ma’s Day,” Apple Bloom answered.

“… Ma’s Day?” Babs repeated.

“Oh, c’mon! Ya really forgot?”

A stallion, gifted with seeming telepathy, replied for her. “Eeyup.”

Saturday came and went. Babs Seed served the remainder of her sentence. She’d become accustomed to the weight of the horse collar and the tug of the plow behind her. Like a bullet train, she rocketed through her labor, sunup until sundown. Mother’s Day looming on the horizon, she found plenty of time for quiet contemplation. In that haze, she made her choice. She would go to Appleloosa alone Sunday morning.

That Sunday morning, an iron forehoof stabbed her back, pulling her from dreams of endless rows of untitled soil. “Aah! Horseapples, dat hurts!”

“Babs! Are ya alright?” Apple Bloom pulled away from Babs, staring down at her hoof in shock. She’d merely nudged her… hadn’t she?

Babs Seed pushed up on all four of her hooves. Strong, powerful, she rose, feeling muscles ripple and tense, sinew and ligaments intact. Then, she stretched her back, and fell down to the mattress in pain. “Aaah! Apple Bloom, go get—“

Fetlocks tickled her spine and pressed down against her shoulders. Slowly, they traversed in slow circles around her withers and back. “… Applejack,” Babs finished, exhaling.

Apple Bloom leaned over her and whispered into her intact right ear, “Shh. It’s okay. Ah’ve had ta do this fer Applejack an’ Big Mac befo’. Does it hurt when Ah do this?”

Feverish, Babs closed her eyes and sighed. “No… Aah! Yes! Jus’… ugh. I thought I was doin’ fine… but I guess I overworked maself.”

“Silly filly. Ah asked ya if you needed ma help.”

“I didn’t wanna hurt youze. Dat was heavy.”

Apple Bloom giggled. “Aww, protectin’ me again? An’ gettin’ in trouble fer it, too. Ya must like me o’ somethin’.”

Babs deflected, “Heh. Speakin’ o’ protectin’, did Fork say anythin’ ta youze?”

Apple Bloom stopped mid-massage. “Fork?” she repeated, confused.

Gotta keep youze names straight. Not everypony gets a glimpse inside dis twisted mind o’ youze. “Uh, I meant, Spoon! Silver Spoon!”

“Oh.” Apple Bloom shook her muzzle and dug her a forehoof into a particularly nasty knot in Babs's shoulder. Chuckling, she assured, “Nope! She didn’t say a word. Guess she figured it out, finally.”

“Figured what out?”

“Don’t mess wit’ Apples.” Apple Bloom released Babs Seed from her grasp. “Try standin’ up now.”

Four hooves pushed back up and did not falter. Jumping from the bed and joining her on the floor, Babs Seed stretched and popped the kinks out of her joints. “Youze a miracle worker, Apple Bloom," she said, blood rushing to her face as well as her freed back and shoulder muscles.

Nuzzling her neck, Apple Bloom replied, “Not as much as ya are, hero.”

Applejack rushed up the stairs and crossed the threshold into the fillies’ room. “C’mon, Babs! We’re gonna be late if ya keep dawdlin’! Apple Bloom, can ya go start the mornin’ chores? Mac’s still sleepin’, lazy stallion,” she grumbled.

Babs Seed turned to follow a fleeing, irritated Applejack. A forehoof on her shoulder halted her. “Wait!”

“What is it, Bloom?” Babs asked, facing her.

“Say hi ta Auntie Orange fer me, alright?”

Babs confirmed her request with a nod and kept it at the forefront of her mind. Throughout the trek out of the farmhouse, to the Ponyville train station, and alone on the locomotive, she realized a curious thing. It made her shudder, thankful that she’d forsaken breakfast in her haste.

The morning of Mother’s Day, Babs Seed rocketed towards Appleloosa, debating the best way to tell “Auntie Orange” something more than hello.

Diamond Tiara slept late Sunday mornings. Today was no exception. Celestia’s sun rose to high noon and punished her laziness. Light blared through her window, prying her eyelids open without sympathy.

She yawned and rolled back into the covers. Below, she heard the telltale stomp of hooves against floorboards, the casual SLAM! of a heavy perimeter door. Her father memorized the calendar, his mind far surpassing hers in organization and recall. Someday, she hoped, she would reign over Barnyard Bargains and the Rich Family household with finesse that awed the stallion.

He’d barely spoken to her Friday or Saturday. Diamond Tiara doubted that this was due to her trespasses. For years, he’d been distant, aloof, burying himself in voluntary overtime and an endless string of meetings.

When she was younger, Diamond Tiara wished upon every star two things. The first was that her father would spend less time at the office. This was a worthless, throwaway yearning. The stallion knew bits like Pinkie Pie knew cupcakes, or like that bobtailed filly and her worthless cousin knew apples.

Diamond Tiara’s second wish was far more hollow and pointless. On this Sunday morning, she struggled not to remember it, nor the day the newest Cutie Mark Crusader sent her and Silver Spoon flying into the mud.

Nearly three years ago, Diamond Tiara began to hate Babs Seed. It was not the mud, nor the pig, nor the dirtying of her precious jewelry that prompted her disdain. No. That was far too superficial, even for a precocious liar such as she.

It was what Babs said.

“Ma!”

Babs Seed disembarked the train, dusk looming on the horizon. Quickly, she caught the sight of her mother impatiently waiting near the station’s ticket-booth. Crying out her name, she galloped straight into the mare's open forehooves.

“Babs! Honey, it’s been so long!” Libra exclaimed. She barely had to crouch on her hindhooves to see eye-to-eye with her youngest. Laughing, she nuzzled the filly, explaining, “Oh, I’m so glad to see you! I sent Applejack a letter asking if everypony would be coming down to see us last week, but I didn’t get a reply.”

“Heh. Sorry, Ma. Applejack gave me the option, an’, well… I guess… I jus’ wanted ta see youze by maself,” Babs answered with a smile. “Nothin’ ‘gainst AJ, Mac, o’ Bloom, ‘course. I jus’ wanted ta see youze an’ Citrus an’ Brae.” An’ talk ta youze… privately.

“That’s alright, sweetheart. This is the best Mother’s Day gift you could’ve given me,” Libra said, holding the filly tight.

Babs Seed returned the gesture. “Happy Ma’ s Day.”

“So, you’re leaving, huh?”

Diamond Tiara and Silver Spoon trotted around the corner of the station platform. There, their newest and second friend, Babs Seed, waited for the Manehatten train to arrive. She was not alone. The three obnoxious blankflanks and the yellow one’s older sister accompanied the bobtail filly. All four were dressed in those obnoxious crimson Cutie Mark Crusader capes.

“Great!” Diamond exclaimed sarcastically. “Now we’re stuck here with these LAME blankflanks!” She gestured to the three fillies cowering at the mare’s hooves. One of their capes lost its patch, floating fittingly to the ground.

“HEY! Dat is NOT how youze talk ta ma friends!”

Babs Seed slipped in front of the three timid Crusaders and stomped towards Diamond and Silver. The two fillies turned to each other, incredulous. “F-friends?” stuttered Silver Spoon.

“Yea. Youze got a problem wit’ dat?” Babs challenged, narrowing her gaze.

Diamond Tiara countered as she lunged at her, “Well, what if I DO? What are YOU going to do about it?”

Babs Seed glanced back at her friends. Suddenly, she smiled, impish and scheming, and declared, “Tell youze mothas ‘bout youze bad attitudes!”

Diamond felt time grind to a halt.

Silver Spoon clasped her forehooves together, begging her antagonist, pleading for mercy. Her companion remained silent, words failing beyond measure. Somehow, somewhere, time started again.

Diamond Tiara wanted to wanted to snap back, countering the traitor with her most secret truth, her heaviest burden. She wanted the bully to feel every inch and ounce and second of her anguish. She wanted to howl with the emptiness that wracked through her soul at at the thickly-accented word. Mothas. Mother.

Babs's threat was hollow. Diamond Tiara had no mother.

Not anymore. Never again.

Her throat just as closed as her heart, Diamond Tiara couldn't speak. Instead, she rapidly shook her head, eyes wide and apologetic. Her unspoken request fell on blind eyes and deaf ears. Babs Seed lurched forward towards them, a wicked grin across her countenance.

Surprised, Silver Spoon and Diamond Tiara fell backwards into the mud, to the high-hoof of three foals.

Libra guided her filly out of the bustling station, reunions of all joys occurring beside them. She noted that Babs came sans saddlebags or gifts, but didn’t mind. Applejack surely hadn’t mentioned it to her daughter and niece, but times had been tough in Appleloosa recently. The general store closed permanently, leaving Citrus and Libra to the mercy of the orchards. The Buffalo took their tribute soon afterwards, leaving branches bare for the foreseeable next few weeks.

Libra Scales vowed to pay back her elder niece, once she was back on her hooves. She led Babs Seed towards the orchards, the two of them quickly catching up on their lost time. Parchment flowed more frequently between Ponyville and Appleloosa, though it’d never be enough.

“An’ Big Mac says I’m real good wit’ the plow… becomin’ a right ol’ Apple, I guess, heh,” Babs said, trotting alongside her mother with a grin.

Libra ruffled her filly's mane, strands a little too long, but soft nonetheless. “Yes, you are, Babs. You really are.”

The two of them arrived at the highest point in Appleloosa above the orchards below. A small group of Buffalo stampeded through Aunt Barbara’s orchard, twisting and turning and galloping around the barren trees. Though dusk called, warning of coyotes to come, the Buffalo tribe chased their tradition. The herd traversed through their sacred stampeding grounds to an audience of two.

“They’re amazing, aren’t they?” Libra whispered.

“Yea. Dey sure are. Reckless, wild, an’ free,” Babs mused. Kinda what I want ta be. Maybe, iffa an’ when, I grow up. Not bound ta anypony o’ anythin’, jus’ followin’ the road. Dust an’ diamonds, no concrete o’ cobblestone. “Hey… Ma?”

“Yes, Babs?”

“Where’s Citrus an’ Brae?”

“They’re at the cabin. Making Mother’s Day dinner for me,” she answered with a chuckle. “Homemade apple pie. Citrus is learning how to cook.”

Babs snorted. “Citrus? Cook?”

“She is learning,” repeated Libra. “Remember that, in case it doesn’t taste so well.”

“Heh, I will.”

Babs Seed leaned against her mother, watching the desert sun disappear into the void below the horizon. The skies afire with flames of sunset cast perfect light on the apple trees and stampeding silhouettes below. Been nearly a year since I was heeya. Shoulda come mo’ often. Sure is beautiful. Gotta write mo’. Gotta ride mo’. Maybe I should get a job, earn some bits…

Libra asked, “Babs, honey?”

“Yea, Ma?”

“This might sound like a strange question, but… I’ve just been wondering about it. You’re nearly fifteen now. In a few years, you’ll be a mare, and there’ll be a lot we’ll need to discuss,” Libra said. “But, for now, I’ve just been wondering…

“Babs… is there somepony special in your life right now?”

Shit.

Babs Seed gulped, then swallowed. A stone caught in her throat and plummeted into her stomach, sending waves of sickening acid into the liner. Tthough she’d refused breakfast and packed no snacks for the long ride to Appleloosa, she felt no stirrings of hunger. Just the opposite. Desert night rolling in with the spreading dark above provided no relief. A single drop of sweat trailed down her nape.

Libra raised an eyebrow. “I guess… that’s a no?”

I’m a good liar. I’m a good liar. I’m a good liar. Babs closed her eyes, willing the mantra back under the rug. No. Youze don’t lie ta ponies who love youze. Even iffa the truth hurts. It’s lies what got me in the mess I was in…

Crimson from snout to throat, Babs stammered, “N-n-no. I mean! Y-yes. There’s somepony, Ma.”

Smiling softly, Libra teased, “Oh? So some lucky colt has captured my daughter’s heart?” Throwing her mane back to the gentle breeze, she chuckled and said, “Oh, Babs, please, tell me all about him.”

Silence.

“Babs?”

“Ma…”

“Yes?”

“What iffa… what iffa it’s not a colt?"

Libra blinked. The silence struck again, thick and nauseating in the waning of sand’s scorch below their hooves. Then, the mare pulled her filly close and whispered, “That’s alright, too, darling. I’ll always love you, even if you love fillies.”

Baffled, Babs gasped and cried, “Really?!”

“Of course.” Holding her tight, Libra explained, “Your Aunt Barbara was like that, Babs. She couldn’t help it. Some ponies are just that way. She tried to suppress her feelings, and was married for a while to Braeburn’s father. When she finally… came out about it… it was messy. Much more messy than if she’d been honest in the first place.

“I’m a little surprised, Babs, but I’m not mad. You’re growing up. You’re realizing who you are. It’s around this time that you start figuring those sort of things out.”

Babs exhaled an enormous sigh of relief.

Not for long.

Pulling away from her daughter, Libra jabbed her filly in the shoulder and taunted, “Alright, who’s the lucky filly, then?”

Babs Seed rubbed the back of her neck with a forehoof. “Youze said dat youze love me know matta how I…. feel ‘bout somepony, right, Ma?” Libra nodded. “Well… I think I like, um…”

A servant came in around 1500 sharp, offering her a daisy and daffodil sandwich. She refused. Hunger on days like this was defiling, mocking, superfluous. Her mouth was too dry, anyway. Cells cried out in agonizing dehydration, urging her to get up, to drink a glass of water, a gallon of it. She’d lost everything in her tears.

She deafened to their molecular voices. She could take a little pain. There was no reason to flee from it, to bury it in haughtiness and confidence and projection and punches. There was no reason to hold her head high, gazing down her snout at everypony else. She was the weakling, the crybaby, blank and bare of soul if not flank.

Mother’s Day.

Five years hence, with no recipient for her meager gifts. The tiara, the first thing she’d made with her own hooves, was intended for the mare she’d loved above all others. She’d been too late, too slow, too stupid, too everything.

One day, she was there, and the next, gone. Five letters. Five years. Cancer.

Diamond Tiara buried her muzzle in her pillow, willing Babs Seed’s words away. “Tell youze mothas, tell youze mothas, tell youze mothas…”

She hated her. Bully, brute, jerk. She loathed her. Beast from the East. Mare-chaser of Manehatten. Fillyfooler from the farm. She despised her. Babs Seed. Bad Seed. Babs. The fourth Crusader. Her worst enemy.

“… Why does she get to have a mom, too?” Diamond Tiara asked her pillow, who merely shrugged and greedily drank the remnants of her final tears.

Her words, two simple nouns, brought forth a chill in the wind, a darkening of storm clouds, thick and heavy above. She felt those forehooves release her, and a mare take a few hoof-steps back in shock.

Lip quivering, Babs whispered through their eternity, “… Ma?”

“Your… your cousin?”

Unable to speak, Babs Seed merely nodded. She dug a forehoof for clay, avoiding the piercing gaze of her mother, who sat on her haunches in silence across from her. The sand was easy to overcome, and soon the tip of her forehoof struck the cold Earth below. Orange fetlock became matted with dark-brown mud before one of them spoke again.

By now, Luna was beginning to raise her moon in the heavens.

Mother ceased daughter’s escape, taking the offending forehoof between her own. “Babs… look. I love you. I will always love you. Nothing you could do could stop that from being the case,” Libra soothed. However, she couldn’t silence her opposition. Rationality and reason her special talent, and both of them called for fairness, balance. “But…”

“But… what, Ma?”

“Babs, are you sure this is what you want? That… she… is who you want?”

Blushing, Babs said, “Well… I… I dunno iffa I mean it dat way, Ma’. I mean—“

“Exactly. Babs, this isn’t as simple as having a crush on a classmate,” Libra said firmly. “If you have a crush on some random filly or colt at school, well, you only have to deal with them a few hours each weekday. Maybe more if you see them outside of school, on a sports team or something. And, let’s suppose you date that filly or colt. And it doesn’t work out. You can just break up with them, hon, and let them go. Do you understand that much?”

Babs Seed nodded.

“Alright. But… let’s say that you do decide you like Apple Bloom in this way. Or, maybe Citrus likes Braeburn like… that. Alright? Equestria has long had these kind of relationships among both the royal and the common. It was a way to keep bloodlines and inheritance pure and within the family’s crest and name.”

“But we aren’t—“

Libra interrupted, “I know, Babs. I know you aren’t a filly and a colt. That’s not the problem. The problem is two-fold. The first is that, well, outside of settlements like this—“ she gestured at bustling Appleloosa below—“where there aren’t very many emigrants, there aren’t these kind of relationships much anymore in Equestria. They are not illegal, per se. Cousins share one-eighth their genes. Celestia and the law-ponies beneath her have determined this to be an acceptable boundary for marriage, though it does have some genetic risks.”

“Genetic risks?” Babs asked, raising an eyebrow.

Libra shook her muzzle, dismissing a thousand Punnett Squares with one measly gesture. “Forget it. That’s not important to the situation at hoof.”

“Well… what is, Ma?”

Sighing, Libra explained, “The second problem is that, no matter how hard you try, Babs, you cannot break up with family. Assuming that such a relationship—whether it’s between you and Bloom, or Citrus and Brae, or anypony else—doesn’t work out, think of the lines that would be drawn. If Citrus and Braeburn were together, and he broke her heart, who would you side with?”

Immediately, Babs answered, “Citrus.”

“Exactly,” Libra affirmed. “See? But isn’t Braeburn family, too? Doesn’t he deserve your love and support as much as your sister? Why is he in the wrong and she in the right?”

“Well, I’m not exactly sure,” Babs muttered, staring at the sand. “I guess it’s jus’ ‘cuz—“

“Because you are closer to one over the other. That’s understandable, especially with extended family. But when you pit family members against each other… it becomes a problem. Families can split and fracture over things less divisive than love. Money, property, children’s partners... hay, even smaller things than that.

“So, you see, Babs… unless you are absolutely certain that you do feel this way, and you are certain that it will or most likely can work, you should not pursue this any further.”

Silence again.

Libra Scales forced her daughter to stare back at her. “Sweetie, even if you do feel that it is right, that you do feel love… there will be those who will not see eye-to-eye with you on the matter. They will be vocal. They will be angry. They will feel threatened. It was that way for Aunt Barbara. She hid herself for the majority of her life. She didn’t even admit she was into mares until after Braeburn was born, Babs! It was very difficult for her. Things are better for mares like her—and you, if you're certain—now, but when it comes to such an unusual relationship, that same sort of acceptance isn’t common.”

Remembering a screeching Crown and snickering Fork, Babs Seed chuckled darkly. “Yea, I noticed.”

Libra Scales asked, “Does Applejack know about this?”

“Pretty sure.”

“And Big Mac? And Granny Smith? And your friends?”

“I… I think so.”

“What do they think?”

“Dey seem pretty alright wit’ it, even iffa dey don’t understand it, o’ think it’s weird,” Babs said. She sighed and offered a slight smile to the wise mare, her own mother barely towering over her anymore. Soon, their roles would be reversed, and, perhaps then, she would have some advice of her own to give.

“Ma… it’s alright iffa youze don’t…. like it. It’s not fair o’ me ta expect youze ta. Heh.”

Libra Scales turned once more towards the orchards below, watching the last few Buffalo stampede through her sister’s livelihood. Babs Seed joined her, mother and daughter gazing in wonder. The Buffalo lived out their traditions through hoof-steps and heartbeats, carving out a twisted path among the trees. They ceased for nopony. Their culture was preserved in spite of the winds of change.

In the same vein, Libra reasoned, perhaps other things could be. “Babs…”

“Yea?”

“If… when you become a mare, if you still feel this way, and you and Apple Bloom are… partnered… my thoughts might change. Does that help?”

"I guess,” Babs answered, shrugging.

“I’m sorry, dear. It wouldn’t be fair of me to lie to you.”

Babs buried her frown, resurrecting instead the faintest of smiles. “I know.”

Offering one last piece of advice, Libra said, “Whatever you do, Babs, follow your heart, but be sure to let your mind have its say, too. Love can make us blind.”

Watching with perfect, piercing vision as the last Buffalo careened over the horizon and into their heartland beyond, Babs agreed, “Yes, it can. But, maybe, I’ll be one o’ the lucky ones. Get the best o’ both worlds. An’ youze, too. Youze deserve it, Ma.” Youze deserve summat betta than... Da.

A beige stallion galloped through the mare’s memory, his soul reckless, wild, vagabond dreams. He galloped beyond the stars, beyond the horizon, out of the desert, out of Equestria. Out of reach.

“I hope so."

Year Four: King's Knight

Year Four: King’s Knight

Two colts waited at the iron gates of the Orange Family Mansion. Storm clouds above spoke their reckless hearts and released their floodgates, soaking both of the visitors as they suffered. Shaking rain from his muzzle, one colt groaned and snarled to the other. “Youze said dey would come an’ let us in, Boone.”

Boone flailed his forehooves in surrender. “Dat’s what dey said, Slinga! Jus’ give it some time. Maybe dey are on their way down. I mean... look at dis place.”

Card Slinger had never been inside the Orange Family Mansion, though he’d watched it many nights before. Once he’d ascertained the identity of his worst enemy four years prior, he’d slowed on more than one walk to Manehatten Lake. On Manehatten Hill, the tallest, most grandiose real estate housed the most powerful stallion in the city. Perhaps, now, one of the most powerful in all of Equestria.

Slinger heard the whispers in the ghetto, tales of the mysterious Master, the King Orange. While most of the gossipers had no inkling of the Master's identity, Card Slinger was no fool. He utilized his meager logic and put a name and brand to a legend: Bernie Madhoof and Orange Enterprises.

Slinger cursed the rain and paced in front of the gates. Back and forth, back and forth. Still nothing. He stretched on his hindhooves, thrusting his forehooves through the bars. “Hey! Let us in! We have a meetin’ wit’ youze!” he shouted over the downpour.

Boone dragged his comrade down to all-fours. “Slinga! Jus’ give it a minute! The others say youze jus’ have ta be patient an'—”

“Have ta what? An’ what othas, Boone?”

His right-hoof colt laughed as he said, “Who do youze think? Othas in the street. Otha gang-ponies.”

“An’ why, exactly, are youze conversin’ wit’ the othas?”

“As dey say, 'Keep youze friends close, an’ youze enemies closa,' Slinga,” Boone said. “Besides, at dis point, we the top pones in Manehatten. Gang city. It’s ours, Slinga. Talkin’ wit’ the riffraff ain’t hurt nopony.”

Upon their reunion with the concrete and cobblestone, Card Slinger and Boone reformed their old gang. Unfortunately, Fencer joined Lucky Toss in his betrayal, leaving only Switch behind. The trio quickly gathered several street toughs and wayward foals into their herd. Manehatten Kings was their name, chaos and corruption their game. Several recruits soon grew into several more, and, on this rainy evening, Card Slinger counted his Manehatten Kings as twenty strong.

Not enough. There would always be room for more, bits and bodies alike.

Card Slinger raised a forehoof to his companion, ears flattened and lips drawn back in a snarl, but ceased at the CREAK! of iron gates opening. Crying out for oil, the gates to the Orange Family Mansion swung wide. A tall, thick stallion clad in pure black from neck to hindhooves towered above them. In his forehooves, he held the unmistakable barrel and butt of an assault rifle.

Guns. Card Slinger and Boone never owned any. Far too rich for their blood, they’d sought refuge in steel and iron instead. Knives and hooves were the law and language of the ghetto. But this one, who stared soulless back at them, possessed a far more powerful weapon.

Slinger licked his lips, tasting the energy and magic that flowed from the gun. The weapon winked at him from his master's grasp, whispering promises of glory. From the streets he'd come, and to the streets he would return. And Card Slinger would rule them all, if he could just cross the greatest distance and seize his destiny.

“Who are youze?!” barked the stallion, keeping a forehoof close to the trigger.

“We’re heeya ta see King Orange!” Boone shot back, unflinching. The cold steel of a barrel against his temple, however, brought him to his hindhooves. He cowered on ground in surrender, pleading, “Alright! Alright! Don’t shoot!”

Again, the guard demanded, “Who are youze?! Dis is private property! Reveal youzeselves o’ be shot on sight!”

Card Slinger rushed to his comrade’s side. “Card Slinga an’ Boone! We was told by some othas on the streets dat King Orange can help us. We are Kings. Manehatten Kings," he explained.

Boone gasped with relief, steel removing its cold caress from his forehead. Stallion clad in black chuckled and muttered, “Oh, lil’ gangsta pones, are youze? Well, we’ll see ‘bout dat. Follow me, an’ keep youze hooves where I can see ‘em.”

Keeping his weapon trained on the two scoundrels trotting behind, the guard escorted both colts to the interior perimeter of his Master’s mansion. Rain dripped off his muzzle and off his rifle, neither fazing the stallion. For two years, he’d kept his patrol steady and keen, chasing ruffians and rubbish off his King’s property. More times than he could count, he’d escorted visitors and allies to this very door.

There was nothing to be feared in this mundane task. However, he felt keyed-up, on edge. Something about these two colts didn’t seem quite right.

“Knock three times on the door. Once it opens, youze’ll be searched fo’ weapons an’ escorted up,” the stallion explained. He slowly backed away from the colts, though his rifle did not lower from his line of sight. Criminal scum were never to be trusted, even by those of the same caliber.

Card Slinger’s soulless pupils widened in horror. “Searched?! We ain’t got no saddlebags, youze bastard!”

His laugh sent a chill down the Manehatten King’s spine. “But youze have manes an’ tails. An’... otha things. King Orange ain’t no king by trustin’ everypony."

“Dat’s ridiculous! I ain’t gonna let no guard grope me!” objected Boone.

Loading a fresh round into his weapon, the guard growled low and warned, “Suit youzeselves. Youze got ten seconds ta either start knockin’ o’ start leavin’. Iffa youze don’t, I call trespass, an’ I’ll defend ma Master’s land.”

Slinger smacked Boone in the ribs. “Hurry up an’ knock!”

Boone complied, gun behind his mane spurring him onward. THUD! THUD! THUD! He slammed his forehoof onto the oak, hindhooves frozen on the porch.

Slowly, this door opened, revealing a squat Griffon with a fat cigar hanging from his beak. He stared down at both teenage colts. A pistol was strapped in a holster around his torso on one side. A dagger beckoned in a sheath to the left.

Smiling, his toothless maw a spectacle to behold, the Griffon bellowed, “You must be the fresh Knights.”

“K-Knights?” Boone stammered.

“‘Ey! We ain’t nopony’s knight! We’re Kings!” Slinger shot back.

Dismissing the stallion guard with a nod, the Griffon hastily ushered the two colts inside from the rain. They complied and strode into the Mansion. The Griffon slammed the door behind him, securing it immediately with several strikes and chain. Awestruck, the two colts remained silent, frozen in place, wonders of King Orange’s castle stripping them of all coherence.

The ceilings had been restructured, vaulted and supported with strong, steel beams. The Mansion would resist any tornado, earthquake, or windstorm that dared to topple it. Nature itself held no candle to the Master's flame. Once his foundations were secure, King Orange furnished his foyer with the finest art, sleekest couches and chairs, and, strangely enough, chess boards. Chess sets of stone, steel, glass, and wood littered the living room. From the corner of his eye, Card Slinger spotted a sparkling brass set waiting in the kitchen.

The Griffon chuckled heartily, scratching his belly with a gnarled talon. He outstretched a wing and gestured to the central room. “As you can see here, the King quite enjoys a game of chess. I hope you two are familiar with the game. That is, if you want to become Knights.”

Card Slinger spun around. “Fo’ the last time, bird-boy, we ain’t gonna be nopony’s—”

THUD!

From his back, King Orange’s ceiling looked truly majestic.

“Please forgive me. I do not take to being called ‘bird-boy’ very nicely. I find it quite uncouth. And even a bastard such as yourself can do better, adjective-wise. Now,” said the Griffon with a wicked grin, “let us conduct our search, little Knights, before you see your King.”

Bernie Madhoof chugged the seventh glass of orange juice. The ritual sustained him. Seven glasses before noon. Seven glasses before dusk. Seven more before the dawn. Twenty-one triple-doses of Vitamin C. Each dose healed his cirrhosis, making him young and spry and powerful again.

In his fetid, twisted, rotten brain, he reasoned that his life’s work saved him. Orange Enterprises spread far and wide under his sole proprietorship. An army of assistants, accountants, tax preparers, and public-relations-ponies handled the nitty-gritty work. King Orange saved his special talent—risk, daring, venture—for more important matters. All the bits were his.

Only two things mattered. His father instilled these values in him as a little colt, whereas his brother never listened. How fitting. His brother was a worthless tramp, transient and reckless. He hadn't seen him in years. Suitable.

Back to the matters at hoof... the only things of value. Bits and blood. Quantity and quality. The stallion fulfilled the first mission. He had enough riches to rival the finest Canterlot elite—perhaps even the Princess herself. The second mission, however, required yet another army to be executed properly. A different variety of army. One that spoke their truths with smoke and lead, steel and flame, rather than numbers and back-door dealings.

Bernie Madhoof leaned back in his plush chair and placed his hindhooves on his mahogany. Healed and strengthened once more, he searched through the drawers of his desk and located his reward. A fine cigar soon lit cherry-red, room filling with smoke. On both sides of his threshold, his guards, one Earth pony stallion disguised in black and one battered Zebra male clad in piercings and chains, stood stone, statue, silent.

King Orange took a deep drag of his tobacco. Exhaling through his nostrils, he mused, “I have a treat for you two today. Today, I am meeting with two more worthless brats. Street urchins. Typical garbage. However, not is without merit." He sighed. "Perhaps... I shall make them my Knights. What say you, guards?”

The guards, quick on their hooves, said nothing. Staring off into the distance, they only gripped their carbines tighter. King played the jester in his boredom and restlessness. Those foolish enough to trot into his trap soon found themselves playing a much more harrowing game than King’s Knight.

Knock, knock.

King Orange nodded his acknowledgment. He pointed to his oak. The zebra steadied his weapon in one forehoof and opened the door with the other. Two colts, one beige-and-cream palomino, the other blood-red, cautiously entered.

“Welcome,” greeted King Orange. Leaning forward in his desk, the stallion exhaled a thick cloud of smoke towards his visitors and smiled. “You two look like you’ve never seen a king before.”

Card Slinger took a deep, slow breath through his nostrils. Beneath his crimson coat, his heart thundered its recognition. There, among mahogany and velvet, sat the source of his misery. In less than two years, he would become a stallion, and receive the trust funds of his family gravestones. The accounts meant nothing to him. The stallion smoking in front of him meant far less. He would exchange all the bits to undo the past, to breathe life into the nostrils of the dead.

Card Slinger was no necromancer. But, he would be a willing murderer, once the time came again. This time, he wouldn't bother with anypony but the Orange King himself.

From his peripherals, Slinger noted the firepower of the strange-looking rifles in the forehooves of foreigner and local. He knew nothing of weaponry, but knew the power of lead, the speed of gunsmoke. He shuddered. If the guards were armed only with blades, he and Boone could disarm them easily, and, maybe, in this cramped room...

“King? We are Kings, old brute. Manehatten Kings,” Boone announced, puffing out his chest. “Maybe youze have us confused wit’ somepony else!”

King Orange roared, his laughter echoing through his throne room. “Ha! Ha! You think you are a king, little colt? Barely old enough to buy his own tobacco, and look at this jester! Ha! Ha! IDIOT!”

Striking his desk with a forehoof, the King spat out his cigar, letting it die in the ashtray. “You will respect me, if you want my help, worm. I will not tolerate such antics.”

Slinger pulled Boone off his hindhooves and down onto his haunches. “C’mon. It ain’t worth it. ‘Memba?” he whispered, joining his comrade, both lying prone before the desk.

“What was that, boy?” barked the king.

Smug, Card Slinger assured, “Nothin’, sir.”

“Hmph. Well, then. Explain to me what you seek. I am a busy stallion, you see. As you probably know, I am the head of Orange Enterprises, sole distributor, vendor, and merchant of all orange-derived products in all of Earth ponydom. Our sales reach far and wide, creeping into the lands of the Griffons and the Zebras, as well as the unicorns and pegasi.

“You may call me 'King Orange,' or 'Master.' My true name is none of your concern. You will acknowledge me with respect at all times. If not...” He clapped his blue fetlocks together, springing both golem guards to life.

Two carbines aimed, steady and loaded, at two colts’ muzzles. Boone swallowed a whimper. Card Slinger focused his mind on a smiling mare and stallion. He’d never been a good son. He would continue to fail, unless he sacrificed today for tomorrow, and made his enemy his ally.

The Master snickered. “You. Red one. You seem focused, unyielding. Far more controlled than your coltfriend here. Tell me why that is.”

Ignoring his implications, Slinger muttered, “I... I am heeya simply fo’ a job, sir."

“A job? Ha! This one wants a job from me!” roared the Master. He picked up his empty juice glass and pounded it on his desk with a sadistic, mocking rhythm. “Job! Job! Job! JOB! Just how stupid are you?! Do you think I’d really have a use for a worthless sack of flesh such as yourself?”

Slinger averted his gaze, staring at the mahogany before him. He began, “Maybe youze is right... Masta. Maybe I am worthless ta youze. But ma gang is not. Whateva youze want, o’ don’t want, we can take care o’ fo’ youze.”

King Orange challenged, “How vast is your armory? What caliber are your weapons? How many are within your gang? Surely, you don’t think I can just throw my bits at any little side-project.”

“‘Side-project’?” Boone questioned.

The Master narrowed his eyelids and hissed at him, “Fool! Do you not understand? Is it not clear to you? Look at my Mansion. Look at my world.”

King Orange opened his forehooves wide, sweeping the office and gesturing to the window. He pointed down below, towards his luscious gardens, impenetrable iron fences, and armed patrol officers outside. “I have everything a stallion could want. Money. Security. Followers. Notoriety. Mares. No foals to hold me down, no wife to nag me. Nothing to keep me bound and chained. In my mere forty-two years of existence upon this great Earth, I have accomplished it all.

“And that, little colts, gets boring after a while."

He chuckled, his muzzle parting with the sickening spread of a smile. His teeth were alarmingly, perfectly, achingly white: demonic in their contradiction. The mere sight of it sent two colts silent, halting their objection. The guards maintained their composure but held their weapons tighter. The Master was not without his eccentricities.

King Orange jumped from his throne to his hooves, trotting over to his visitors. He began his inquisition, voice low and haughty. “Do you brats know how to play chess? Do you know how to turn pawns into kings? Do you know how to make the king into the most powerful piece—instead of the weakest one?”

Boone and Slinger shook their muzzles.

The Master whispered, “I do. Manehatten is my chessboard, little colts. Manehatten is my side-project. This city is mine. Do you understand? Not one gang-pony falls on the concrete and cobblestone without me knowing. Not one police-pony makes an arrest without my consent. Not one journalist puts pen to parchment without my approval.

“I am the king on the chessboard. I play my games. I wage my wars. And, to do so, I require pawns, bishops, rooks, and... Knights.”

The colts remained silent.

“I know of your little gang,” King Orange growled. “For a year now, you’ve struggled, merely twenty in your number. You fight for street-corners over weed and meth. You go hoof-to-hoof with rivals for petty theft and graffiti disrespect. You are but an ember, not a fire, easy to stamp out. You are weak. You will die out, like the others, at the hooves of Celestia’s pithy Royal Guard.

“Unless...”

Bernie Madhoof placed a cold, uncaring forehoof under Slinger's chin, raising his muzzle to meet his. Four pupils, devoid of soul crashed into each other. The stallion and the colt wrestled in their gaze, and, as always, King Orange stood triumphant, master of them all. He smiled.

“You become my King’s Knight. You move, forwards or backwards or side-to-side, on the chessboard as I direct. You work for me. You answer to me. You wage war when I say. You make peace when I say. In exchange, I shall provide you with the bits to grow and flourish. You want guns like they have?” he asked, pointing towards his guards.

Card Slinger stammered, burying his anger deep and dark, “Y-y-yes, s-sir.”

“Good. Ask, and you shall receive. Seek, and you will find. Knock, and the door will be opened to you. On two conditions.

“First, your unwavering loyalty. You are King’s Knights forever. Manehatten Kings, Manehatten Mafia, little street-gang on the corner, whatever you are, it does not trump my importance. You are a Knight above all else. The second condition is your tight-lipped secrecy. You will speak of me to nopony—not even under force of death. And, if pressed, you will reveal nothing that can be traced back to me. Violation of either of these conditions shall result in... termination of your contract.

"Do you understand, worm?”

Slinger nodded. So did his comrade.

King Orange grinned. “Good. Now. If you wish to be my Knight, you must receive my Mark. Do you fear pain, little colts?”

They answered, in unison, “No, sir.”

“Good. You!” Madhoof beckoned his zebra guard.

The zebra trotted forward, eyes steel and searching for any spot but his Master’s gaze. “Tattoo them both,” ordered his Master. The zebra found their fear, pupils shining below him, and smiled.

A seeming thousand cuts and hundred inkpots later, Card Slinger and Boone never knew such misery. They galloped out of the Orange Family Mansion several hours later, bleeding and burning near their tails. There, above that last vertebrae within their spine, was tattooed a tiny black orange bearing the initials KK.

The rain hissed and aggravated their misery. Their tattoos swelled and burned despite the chill. Master's zebra guard assured them that the pain would pass in a few days. It was of little consolation. They were marred forevermore. The marks were small, but the Master knew they’d always be there. King Orange would be watching. His eyes were many and vast.

Slinger and Boone were not just Manehatten Kings. They were now Knight's Knights. Free they were in a sense, far beyond the reach of Clyde Pie and his endless stone sea. In another still, they were enslaved, bound by debts of bits and blood.

But, only for a while. The time would come.

“Youze think dis was a bad idea?” Boone asked. They turned their hooves down Manehatten Hill, deep into the heart of the ghetto. Card Slinger’s old hideout beckoned, fine liquors and fine cigars promising a reprise from their pain.

Card Slinger shook his muzzle. “Fo’ a hundred thousand bits? Up front? Fuck no! Dis stallion’s crazy! All dis cash, an’ all he wants is loyalty? Kings gonna rise, Boone. Kings gonna rise. We’ll get our lead, an’ our steel, an’ we’ll rise.”

Clash of the thunderheads, lighting riding wild and reckless, agreed. The King's Knights bumped their hooves and galloped towards their hideout. For a time, they would wait and bide, heal and scheme. Then, with Madhoof's gold, they would take to the streets and bring Manehatten to its hooves.

Card Slinger may have made a pact with King Orange, sealing it in the flesh, but the stallion made a more permanent error. He failed to realize that Card Slinger was no mere fool. He was no jester, no commoner, no tramp in the desert. He was a king, too.

And, on this rainy night, King Crazy rose from the ashes once more, phoenix in the dark.

Year Four: Hearts And Hooves Day — Revelation

Sugarcube Corner, in spite of its high-calorie offerings and rambunctious assistant, was usually a calm place of business. Most days, the store was stocked to the brim with cookies, cakes, pies, and, of, course, cupcakes of every color and variety. Inventory remained in perfect balance. The Cakes and their bubbly helper could handle operations between their three sets of hooves nearly any day of the calendar year.

Hearts and Hooves Day, of course, was a different story.

The line stretched from the counter all the way to the entrance of the sweets shop, ponies of all genders and ages clamoring for an opportunity to purchase Ponyville’s finest confections. Every stallion, mare, and foal in line flashed their bits, disregarding the prices. Price tags didn’t matter when the items in question were meant for a priceless special somepony.

Babs Seed busied herself by watching the customers in front of her. Towards the head of the line, a chubby gray colt munched absentmindedly on a cookie. Looks like he already got his. Back fo’ seconds? O’ fo’ somepony else? Towards the end of the line, a pegasus filly fidgeted with her forehooves beside her.

“Remind me again why we’re waitin’ in dis line?” Babs groaned. “It’s been at least twenty minutes, an’ we still haven’t even made it halfway!”

Scootaloo shushed her, darting her gaze to ensure they hadn’t drawn attention to themselves. “Hush, Babs! I told you already! I’m getting something for Featherweight!”

“Featherweight?! Youze hasn’t even talked ta the colt fo’ mo’ than a few minutes, Scoo—“

“So why not start now? And, besides,” Scoots added with a wink, “the way to a colt’s heart is through his stomach.”

Rolling her eyes, Babs grumbled, “I would try his chest, first.”

Wings unfurling in irritation, Scootaloo face-hoofed and scowled. “Look! You don’t have to stand in line with me if you don’t want to. I thought you were getting something, too. That’s why I invited you to come along!”

Babs Seed resisted the urge to smack her own scowling muzzle with her forehooves. The love-struck pegasus had practically dragged her to Sugarcube Corner. Rambling about her latest crush, delving into excruciating detail about his “adorable” manecut and “enchanting” ways, Scootaloo refused to take no for an answer. There’d been nothing consensual about this at all.

So, here they stood in an endless bakery line. One nervously hopped on her hindhooves, constantly peering past the crowd to reassure herself that there were at least a few treats left for sale. The other sighed and tried to make the best of her very boring situation.

“No, I came along ‘cuz youze wanted me ta come along,” Babs argued. “I’m not gonna be buyin’ summat. Not hungry, either.”

Suddenly, an impish thought announced its presence in Scootaloo's mind. Nudging Babs in the ribs, Scootaloo replied, “Well… I guess that means you aren’t getting Apple Bloom anything for Hearts and Hooves Day, huh?”

Horseapples!

Now the floorboards seemed to be the most interesting thing in Ponyville, Equestria, or the Earth itself. “I don’t know what youze talkin’ ‘bout, Scootaloo,” Babs muttered, searching for patterns among the wood grain below. Distraction proved to be an insufficient coping mechanism, orange cheeks rivaling the shade of the mane that preceded them.

“That’s what I thought!” Slapping a forehoof on her shoulders, Scootaloo laughed and said cheekily, “I knew it! No wonder you came with me here! Last-minute gift ideas, much? Almost forgot Hearts and Hooves Day, didn’t you?”

Shoving her hoof away, Babs Seed hissed, “Quiet, Scoots!” Arggh! knew I shouldn’t have come along! Now she’s jus’ gonna have her fun, at ma expense, o’ course. Dammit.

Several ponies in front of them glanced their way with disapproving gazes. Arguments on Hearts and Hooves Day always drew attention—and the two in the back of the line were beginning to inch in that direction.

“Aww, c’mon, Babs, I’m just kidding.”

“No youze weren’t!”

“… Okay, fine, maybe not. But you should get her something. Anything. Did you bring any money with you today?”

Shaking her head in the negative, Babs Seed explained, “I neva carry bits on me. Not unless I’m gonna buy summat outright. Planned purchases, dat is. City habit.”

Scootaloo raised an eyebrow.

“Don’t ask.” Babs huffed. “Long story.”

“Alright, then… Well… maybe I can loan you some then?” Scootaloo offered. She rustled through her saddlebags, retrieving a small jar of golden coins. Shaking the jar in estimation of their contents, she said, “I think I have enough in here for at least an extra cupcake or two.”

Forcing a grin to match her counterpart’s, Babs lightly chucked. “Heh, dat’s mighty nice o’ youze, Scoots. But I dunno. I mean, maybe Apple Bloom forgot, too?” O’ maybe I’m jus’ an idiot? Yea. Let’s go wit’ dat.

Snorting, Scootaloo covered her muzzle with a forehoof, stifling her laughter.

“What?! What’s so damn funny?!” Babs exclaimed.

This only aggravated the situation. Scootaloo shushed herself with both forehooves, hindhooves stomping on the floorboards.

Blushing furiously, Babs repeated, “What?! What’s gotten inta youze, Scoots? Fo’ Celestia’s sake—“

“Hey!” A blue Earth pony filly behind them gestured to the new gap in the line. “The line's moved, you know!”

Grumbling, Babs Seed took a few hoof-steps forward, accompanied by a snickering Scootaloo. Pinkie Pie fumbled with the cash register at the front counter, sending bits flying everywhere.

“Oopsy! Sorry everypony, this’ll just take a second!” Pinkie giggled merrily as she gathered the change. Customers groaned and shook their muzzles, while the Cakes decided this would be a great time for a break.

Dis is takin’ foreva… an’ DIS one heeya is still laughin’ at me…

Scootaloo gasped for breath, dizzy from her outburst. Finally, she steadied herself against an irritated Babs Seed and spoke between laughing breaths. “Babs, there’s no way Apple Bloom forgot about today. She’s been talking about Hearts and Hooves Day all week!”

Babs countered, “Dat’s funny. I live wit’ her, an’ she hasn’t said a word ta me ‘bout it!”

“Of course she hasn’t said anything to you.” Scootaloo rolled her eyes. “You really are clueless, aren’t you?”

Swallowing the urge to smack her cheeky muzzle, Babs merely snorted her discontent.

“Well, anyway,” Scoots continued, “she’s been telling Sweetie Belle and me all week that she has a surprise planned for her ‘special somepony.’ You know how we’ve been having those Crusader meetings when Big Mac or Applejack’s having you help them around the farm?”

Acknowledging her cautious nod, Scootaloo gestured with a forehoof as she added, “Well, theeere you go. She never explicitly said it was you, but you should see the way she talks about you when you’re not around.”

To Babs Seed’s knowledge, Apple Bloom never recounted the tale of their first and second kiss (or any hence) to the others. Both were private matters—one for a much darker reason. Around their two best friends, Apple Bloom and Babs Seed were affectionate to a point. When it came to matters of the heart, unlike those of hooves, Babs was far less bold than her counterpart.

Courage came to her on the gray cobblestone, but was quickly cast aside in the quickening of her heartbeat, the rush of adrenaline, the swimming of her thoughts in the radiance of Apple Bloom's presence. Eloquent in her own thick, accented ways, her words became staccato and treacherous when asked the simplest of questions. The bloom followed the seed in Nature, but in this case, it preceded its blossom.

Nearly four years after that last night in Ponyville, Babs Seed had never uttered the three most difficult words in all of known language. The mere possibility of their pronunciation sapped her of all strength and intelligence. In that possibility, she found a fear she could not articulate.

Get ahold o’ youzeself, Babs scolded her treacherous consciousness. She redirected her train of thought, steering it into a Manehatten station. She recalled a violet alicorn falling alongside her into a black sea.

Powerlessness. Dat’s what I feared then, an’ what I fear now. Ta some point, at least. Guess I’m kinda bein’ a coward iffa I don’t... iffa I run ‘gain. An’ I know where runnin’ got us.

But, Ma said I should make sure dat dis... is summat I'm absolutely sure o'. But what iffa it isn't?

“Something on your mind, Babs?” Scootaloo smirked and nudged her again.

Babs blushed and looked away as she mumbled, “Can... can I borrow some bits from youze?”

“I thought you’d never ask.”

Apple Bloom paced in her room. No. In their room. She rustled through the closet over and over, spilling garments everywhere, cursing herself. She’d hadn’t been able to locate a proper outfit over four years ago—the first time she’d met Babs Seed—and she hadn’t been a fashionista since. How foolish of her to think that she’d find her answer now.

Sweetie Belle and Scootaloo, despite their same level of inexperience, managed to provide at least some assistance in these delicate matters. The previous few years, the Crusaders—Babs Seed included—tried to nudge a few of their friends towards romantic pursuits. Albeit, they chose a more gentle approach these last attempts, sans love potions or love poisons.

Their second attempt was an utter disaster. Fluttershy was mortified and Rainbow Dash thoroughly enraged. However, they’d never seen the shy pegasus fly away so quickly. That, in itself, made the mishap worth their trouble. Scootaloo missed several flying lessons afterwards in punishment.

The next year, Applejack mustered all of her self-restraint to stop herself from beating two hides red. Rarity forbade Sweetie Belle from her boutique for over a month. Scootaloo squeaked by this time. Apple Bloom and Babs Seed weren’t as lucky. Hell hath no fury like a mare forced into an awkward date with her best friend.

The third Hearts and Hooves Day, they’d stuck to simple cards exchanged between friends, family, and classmates. Sweetie and Scoots had no love interests then. The other two were a different matter, but there had never been anything official. There had never been anything… binding.

This time around, three of them agreed to go their separate ways with their plans. Scootaloo seemed bent on having somepony, anypony, to be hers, while Sweetie Belle appeared completely indifferent. She seemed happy nonetheless.

A week ago, while Babs Seed was busy tending the fields with Big Mac and Applejack, the three remaining Crusaders hashed their holiday plans in the clubhouse.

After spilling their own beans (or lack thereof), Apple Bloom was asked if she had any plans for a special somepony. She giggled and replied, “Ah guess ya could say Ah do. An’ Ah have a surprise fer that special somepony.”

Sweetie Belle and Scootaloo exchanged knowing grins. “What is it, Apple Bloom? And who’s it for?” Scootaloo teased.

“Yeah. Tell us!” Sweetie urged.

“Oh… Ah think ya know… her.”

“Ooh, I think I know who it is!” Sweetie started hopping up and down excitedly.

Scootaloo poked Apple Bloom in the shoulder, rhetorical in her question: “What are you going to do for this mysterious filly?”

Apple Bloom blushed, shaking her muzzle. “Ah can’t tell ya. It’ll spoil the surprise.”

“Surprise? Ooh. Everypony loves surprises!” Sweetie Belle clapped her forehooves together. “Can you at least give us a hint about what you’re planning?”

“Well, no,” Apple Bloom began, “not exactly. But, Ah was hopin’ you gals could give me yer opinion on somethin’…”

Applejack once acknowledged that ponies typically didn’t wear clothes. Being blunt wasn’t exactly a synonym for being honest, but it suited her. This thought meandered its way through her prying consciousness as she trotted past Apple Bloom and Babs Seed’s room, watching her sister tear through her closet. Clothes of all shapes, sizes and colors littered the floorboards.

Sighing, the Element of Bluntness scolded, “Apple Bloom, yer wastin’ yer time. Pick up those clothes an’ put ‘em away already!”

“’Wastin’ ma time’? Ah ain’t doin’ no such thing!” the filly scoffed. She cast aside a comically oversized dress, only to pick up a scuba-diving mask in exchange.

Between unsuitable article after unsuitable article—disregarding each and every one of them after some contemplation—she explained, “Ah’m… tryin’… ta… find… somethin’… nice… ta… wear…”

“Babs ain’t gonna care, Bloom,” Applejack deadpanned.

Apple Bloom dropped the set of fins she held in her forehooves. After a slight, awkward pause, she mumbled, “Heh, heh, yer probably right, sis.” She busied her hooves with gathering the strewn accessories and outfits, packing them away while her sibling trotted in and plopped her haunches onto their bed.

Patting the mattress next to her once the mess was completely cleaned, Applejack said, “Come here, Bloom. Ah have some things Ah want ta talk ta ya ‘bout.”

After some bargaining with a stubborn Pinkie Pie, Scootaloo purchased two large cupcakes. One she stashed away in her saddlebags, saving the treat for a scrawny pegasus colt. The other she presented to Babs Seed, who tucked it away with her own belongings, murmuring her thanks.

“Don’t mention it, Babs. You do remember what I told you when you first moved to Ponyville, though, right?”

“Yea, iffa I eva hurt—“

“That’s right,” Scoots interrupted. She grinned. “I still mean it, but I don’t think I’ll need to threaten you anymore about it, do I?”

Babs laughed. “O’ course not! Sheesh, Scoots!”

Scoots's pupils caught sight of a cream-colored colt with legs much too long and lanky for his scrawny body. Obliviously, he strode past the two fillies, exited the bakery, and trotted towards a nearby park.

Scootaloo leaned close to Babs Seed and whispered, “I’ve gotta go! Good luck!” Darting after him, Scootaloo called, “Hey! Featherweight! Wait up!”

Babs Seed rolled her eyes. She brushed past the growing bakery line and continued her journey out of Ponyville’s town square. Through the streets, couples of all varieties—mostly mares with stallions, though there were a few birds of the same feather flocking together—blocked her path, nuzzling each other, sneaking kisses, sharing lunch and exchanging gifts. The filly snuck around them, muttering, “’Cuse me, ‘cuse me, excuse me,” in irritation.

Yeesh. Am I gonna be like these fools someday, blockin’ the whole street ‘cuz I’m… I’m in... love? Snorting, another voice within her mind countered, Nah, youze ain’t like these fools. Youze is smarter than dat. Look at ‘em. “Snoopy-do.” “Snuggle-bunny.” Pfft.

“Babsy…”

From snout to tip of her bobtail, Babs Seed’s fur flushed red. Taunted by her own inner dialogue, she argued silently, Hey! Dat’s different. Dat’s special. Nopony can call me dat. Jus’ she does…

Though she knew she couldn’t outrun her fears, Babs galloped anyway, barreling towards Sweet Apple Acres. She took a long, twisted route instead of the main road, extending her journey.

On the way, she discovered a huge field of wildflowers. Spring brought them all into full bloom, hues of yellow, red, and orange burning bright in the sunlight.

Unable to choose, Babs Seed plucked one of each color and added them to her saddlebag. Pointing her forehooves towards the farmhouse in the distance, she continued in her quest. Hoof-steps and heartbeats escalated in their tempo, thoughts running wild deep into uncharted territory.

Do I… Does she?

“Darlin’… do ya remember the conversation we had on the train back ta Ponyville four years 'go? When we went ta Manehatten?”

“… Yes, Applejack…”

“Good. An’ do ya remember what Ah said a few years ago ‘bout growin’ up?”

Again came the awkward, mumbled response to the floorboards. “Yes, Applejack…”

Applejack lifted her sibling’s chin with a forehoof, forcing Apple Bloom to look at her. “Ah love ya,” she began with a gentle smile. “Ah love Babs, too. Ah love ya both. Ta be truthful, Ah was a lil’ surprised at first when Ah figured y’all out. But, considerin’ how things happened—what ya both been through—Ah’m not surprised that yer still… fond o’ each other.

“Ma warning then still applies now, Bloom. When yer under ma roof, there’ll be no—“

Blushing furiously, Apple Bloom exclaimed as she threw up her forehooves in surrender, “Ah get it, sis! Do ya really have ta make this so embarassin’?”

Ruffling the filly's mane, Applejack said plainly, “Yes. Ah’m yer big sister. O’ course Ah have ta!” She chuckled, squeezing a few tears from her eyes in humor, while the filly beneath her crossed her forehooves in annoyance.

“It’s not funny! Ah was hopin’ ya would have some advice fer me o’ somethin’, an now yer jus’ teasin’ me, Applejack!”

Applejack calmed herself with a few shallow breaths. “Heh… heh… Sorry, hon. Ah jus’ have ta have a little fun. Ya know that.”

“Hmph. Fine. But, Applejack…”

“Yes, sugarcube?”

“Is this really... alright?”

No need for clarification, Applejack messed her sibling's mane once more. She no longer had to lean down or lower her forehoof to do so; she could stretch straight across to meet Apple Bloom's gaze as well. Less than two years from now, Apple Bloom and Babs Seed would graduate from Cheerilee’s final class, left to their own destinies. The sapling was beginning to outstretch its branches towards the skies, and, soon, would find its freedom.

Her inquiry had arrived at last. Applejack had mentally rehearsed a thousand answers to the simplest of questions, all prose and promise jumbled haphazardly together within her mind. It would be so simple to just say, “Yes,” and be done with it.

However, the Element of Honesty knew that such simplicity was not the whole story. Not when the filly would soon be a mare, and she could shield her sister no more.

“… Applejack…?”

“Apple Bloom, that answer depends on which pony ya ask,” Applejack said. “If ya ask me, Ah’m fine wit’ it. Why? Well, there’s ponies in our extended family who are like that. Inta the same gender, Ah mean. Auntie Barbara was one o’ ‘em. There’s others, too. Ah don’t know if ya like colts too, but—“

Apple Bloom interjected, “Ah don’t have anythin’ against ‘em. Ah jus’ like somepony who’s a filly. But that’s not what Ah mean, Applejack. Ah wasn’t worried ‘bout that. Ah mean… because we’re…”

Applejack removed her Stetson, grasping it tightly in her forehooves. “Sugar, look. Most o’ the time… family grows up together. Braeburn an’ Ah grew up together, fer example. Mac an’ Ah? Side-by-side since Ah can remember. Ya followin’ me?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Alright. Well, ya see, sugarcube, when we grow up wit’ family, we don’t look at ‘em that way. An’ Ah mean family not jus’ like ya an’ me, o’ Mac, o’ Granny Smith. Ah mean family like Auntie Orange, an’ Cousin Braeburn, an’ distant cousins too.”

“Oh…” Crestfallen, Apple Bloom muttered, “So… why do Ah—”

“Let me finish, Bloom.”

“Okay, sis.”

“But… sometimes… it’s different, Ah guess. There some ponies in our extended family who married their cousins, too. It used ta be a very common thing. ‘Specially among royalty an’ early settlers. It’s looked down at nowadays, Bloom, fer a lot o’ reasons—a lot o’ ‘em, not good reasons—but there is one very good reason. An’ ya need ta listen very carefully.”

Fiery rubies gazed into emeralds, locking gemstones. That same shade of green found in the eyes of Big Macintosh, Applejack, and Braeburn could be discovered in the windows of the soul Apple Bloom adored above all others. She’d wondered through it all if, in spite of everything she’d said, Applejack harbored disharmony, concealing the truth. Her most true and secret heart thundered in anticipation of this revelation.

“Apple Bloom… You can leave a filly o’ a colt if things don’t work out. You can leave town if ya want ta. But if they’re yer cousin? Ya can’t leave them behind. Ya can’t repair that damage, if things go wrong. Families fight an’ fracture over things like that. Seen it happen ta others. An’ if foals are involved, it can’t be even stickier.”

Silencing her fledgling objection, Applejack added, “An’ Ah know yer both fillies, so that’s not an issue. Not unless ya got older an’ wanted ta adopt o’ somethin’. Heh. That’s another discussion.

“So, sugarcube, Ah love ya, an’ Ah’ll support you if this is how ya feel. Nopony’s gonna be hurt by it, provided it goes well. But…”

“But, what, Applejack?”

Smiling, Applejack answered, “Ah’m not worried much ‘bout that between y’all. Ah think, seein’ how old ya both are now, it’s somethin’ mo’. But ya know what ya need ta do, Bloom? Last piece o’ advice Ah’ll give.”

Apple Bloom breathed a sigh of relief. Quietly, she ushered Applejack to finish, and when she did, found an answer of her own.

“Argh! Hurry it up, Silver Spoon! You were supposed to be here almost fifteen minutes ago!”

Diamond Tiara stomped her forehooves in irritation. For some mysterious, strange reason of the utmost importance, she’d agreed to this clandestine meeting. At 1500 hours, she would meet Silver Spoon behind Sugar Cube Corner.

Why? She didn’t know. Lately, her best and only friend had become increasingly distant. Gone were their nightly gossip sessions, their weekly sleepovers, their monthly trips to Trottingham or Canterlot.

Given the significance of today’s date, Diamond Tiara reasoned that Silver Spoon would be bringing somepony special to meet her. The poor filly never had the confidence to so much as purchase a new pair of eyeglass frames without her approval. Doubtlessly, she would need to hear Diamond’s two bits about her new coltfriend. There would be a coltfriend. Of course there would be, one for every filly but the most beautiful one in town.

Jealousy was a friend she welcomed just as much—if not more—than Silver Spoon. This friend convinced her, after some mental gymnastics, that her lack of a suitor signified more about Ponyville than herself. Her father searched tirelessly for a suitable companion, a counterpart to court and woo the princess of the Rich castle. He’d come up empty-hooved after a year of fruitless searching.

Diamond Tiara didn’t despair; Ponyville was but one insignificant dot on the Equestrian map. Once she graduated school, she would be free of this wretched place and find her destiny among the stars in Canterlot.

Finally, once her patience had been completely starved, anorexic in Silver Spoon’s delay, Diamond Tiara’s efforts were rewarded. “A-ha! There you are! Thought you could just blow me off, didn’t you?”

Silver Spoon joined her behind the bakery, resting on her haunches. She set down her saddlebag and began to rustle through its contents. The container seemed bottomless, her forehoof pointless in its search. She ignored the inquiry and doubled her attempts, sticking both of her forehooves in this time.

Diamond Tiara raised a curious eyebrow. “So, where is he?”

“He?” Silver repeated, looking up from the bottomless pit.

“Yes. He. Your coltfriend. I assume that’s what this is all about?”

Silver swallowed. Again, she ignored Diamond’s question and peered into her saddlebag. There, buried underneath a mound of school papers and assorted candy wrappers laid the most terrifying thing in Equestria. No monster in the deep or the dark held a candle to the flame that flickered between her forehooves. Silver Spoon gathered every ounce of strength within her and pulled the object free.

“Silver Spoon? Didn’t you hear me?” Diamond barked. No response. Silver started to tremble and began to mutter inaudibly, far below her hyperventilating breath. Her friend took a cautious hoof-step towards her, repeating, “Silver Spoon? Are you alright? Silver Spoon?”

Silver Spoon slammed her eyes shut, and before she could stop herself, thrust the gift towards Diamond Tiara. “For you!” She gasped, immediately regretting the decision.

In her forehooves, she held a simple heart-shaped box of chocolates. There was no declaration of love, no fancy glitter or looping letters. Just a plain box of chocolates, purchased at Sugar Cube Corner a few hours beforehoof. Silver creaked open an eyelid and peered from her peripherals. The box was still in her grasp. Diamond stood on all four hooves in front of it, but did not take the gift.

Through her haze, Silver Spoon heard Diamond Tiara hiss, “What is this?”

Silver felt her hooves grow heavy. Her vocal cords strangled in her throat, neurons firing and demanding a response but unable to articulate anything but a whimper.

WHACK!

The box fell into the dirt.

Diamond Tiara grabbed Silver Spoon, forcing her muzzle against hers. “What is this, Silver Spoon?!”

Weakly, Silver Spoon stammered, “A-a g-g-gift for you, T-Tiara.”

A gift. A Hearts and Hooves Day gift. Diamond Tiara never received one like this before. Especially not from a filly. Especially not from her best friend.

“Is this some kind of cruel joke?!”

“No! No! I—“

“Is this because I can’t get a coltfriend? Huh?! You think this is funny, do you?”

“No! Diamond Tiara, I just… I…”

“You what?”

There it was. That word again. No, many of them. Years full of them. Syllables and sentences, combined and jumbled and blended together within her mind. Words that kept her up in the night, that went bump in the night, that spoke of something she couldn’t imagine or accept or understand. Those were the words that led her to this purchase, this moment.

Silver Spoon couldn’t hide it anymore.

“I like you, alright?!”

She pushed away from Diamond Tiara out of fear, not anger. In her mind’s eye, she saw a forehoof raised against her—against yet another fillyfooler. Yes, that’s what she was. There was no other word for it.

Silver Spoon stared at the ground and the discarded box of chocolates. “I… I… I really like you, Diamond Tiara. As more than a friend,” she confessed, crestfallen and ashamed.

The heat of Silver’s blush was but a mere upwards tick on the mercury. Speechless, Diamond Tiara felt white-hot rage proliferate and spread. Her best and only friend was a fillyfooler. Not only that, but she wanted to fool her of all fillies. It wasn’t just lame.

It was disgusting.

Diamond Tiara’s kidneys kicked into high gear, adrenaline activated and dispersed. Fire pulsated through her veins, ready for action. The only matter at hoof was that age-old debate of survival: fight, or flight.

She chose flight, pivoting on her hindhooves and kicking up dust as she galloped away. No destination in mind, Diamond Tiara barreled through town center and towards farmland and heartland, Silver Spoon hot on her hindhooves.

“I’m home!”

Babs Seed strode through threshold of the farmhouse. Inside, Big Macintosh and Granny Smith were relaxing in the living room, reading newspapers. The stallion greeted his visitor with a grin and set down his paper, quickly joining her in the entryway. “Hey there, Babs. Whatcha got in yer saddlebags?”

“Uh, nothin’,” she muttered, avoiding his gaze. “’Ey, have youze seen Apple Bloom anywhere?”

“She’s in her clubhouse!” Granny Smith peered over the top of her newspaper. With a wink, she added, “Ah think she was wantin’ ya ta go see her, youngin’.”

Oh, horseapples, not now. Forcing an awkward smile, fighting the surge of crimson once more, Babs chuckled awkwardly and said, “Oh, really? Heh, heh. Well then, uh, I’d best be goin’ ta—“

“Y'all play nice, ya hear?” Granny said.

What?!

Big Mac looked curiously to his cousin and back to his grandmother. “Uh, Granny, what are ya—“

“Oh, aren’t ya jus’ the slow one!” Granny scoffed. “Babs, run along. Ah’ve got some family history ta share wit’ Big Mac here. Apparently, he’s a might slow.”

“Granny, Ah’m not—“

Disregarding the brewing debate, calling upon the last sliver of her courage, Babs Seed turned and galloped towards the far orchards, saddlebags heavy despite their contents.

First Applejack an’ Citrus, then Ma, now Mac an’ Granny. Everypony knows. Nopony’s kicked me ta the curb yet. Ma still ain’t dat happy wit’ it, but she ain’t dat bad wit’ it, either.

But, what she said... Am I... sure?

The journey from farmhouse porch to Cutie Mark Crusaders treehouse proved to be the longest trek she’d made in years. Though it neared obsolescence, the structure remained—even if it truly suited only one solitary Crusader. The four friends kept their weekly meetings and went on all possible adventures, seeking the one cutiemark that awaited.

Since their stargazing, Apple Bloom kept light and optimistic about her destiny. Whenever she seemed close to despair, one of her friends inevitably found something else to try. Babs assured her that the time would come, and it would be beautiful, and she would be proud. That helped, too.

Two more years remained until graduation and adulthood. Then, perhaps, there would be no more crusades. Scootaloo and Sweetie Belle spoke of Cloudsdale and Canterlot far too much to discount the possibility.

For now, Babs Seed shook the future from her brow, the present looming and arriving at the drawbridge to her destination. She hecked her saddlebags, ensuring her meager gifts were still in her possession. Suddenly, she realized she'd made a crucial error.

Horseapples! I didn’t get a card! Youze are supposed ta get cards fo’ ponies youze like, right? Like we gave cards ta Cheerilee an’ Applejack an’ such? Buck.

The sky was a pristine cyan, the grass a gorgeous green, and the sun illuminated everything in between with perfect radiance. The pegasi worked overtime bringing this Hearts and Hooves Day to fruition—no clouds darkened this sky, and the wind was pleasant, rather than overwhelming.

Babs Seed groaned in annoyance. Even the scenery mocked her.

Well, iffa I blow dis one, I’ve got nopony ta blame but maself.

Taking a deep breath, Babs put one hoof in front of the other, time and time again, an entirety of hoof-steps passing until she finally reached the clubhouse door.

Knock, knock.

From within came the gentle reply: “Come in.”

Babs didn’t remember the door being this heavy. Nor did she remember it being so hard to breathe. Her heart, strengthened by both leisure and labor, thundered in its acceleration, as if she’d never exercised in her nearly sixteen years of life.

Babs Seed slowly entered the clubhouse. There, casually resting on her haunches, Apple Bloom greeted her with a grin and a, “Hello, Babsy.”

Babs swallowed. “H-h-hey.”

“Whatcha got in yer saddlebags?”

Apple Bloom rose to her hooves and trotted over. In the sunlight, her red-orange irises sparkled, rubies rivaling any Diamond Dog’s trophy. Her mane, normally braided back and adorned with her bow, flowed behind her. Long, wavy locks of red mane they were, crimson as a Crusader’s cape, brushed with no strand out of place. Her trademark bow was strangely absent. As she approached, Babs Seed caught the scent of cinnamon and apples—her scent—along with something else. Something pleasant and intoxicating. Something that reminded her of Rarity's boutique.

Babs shuddered, recalling its name. Perfume.

“Oh! Ah! I jus’ got, er, some things f-f-fo’…”

Babs Seed trailed off, letting her sentence fragment. The tiny treehouse began to compress and shrink around her. At the same time, mercury shot through its thermometer, practically boiling the air. “Eh, heh, it’s pretty hot in heeya… Maybe I should, uh… open a window…”

Babs gently dropped her saddlebags to the floor and rushed over to the window, thrusting it open. The breeze offered no relief. From tip of her snout to her hindhooves, she burned, lit aflame and left to ember on the surface of the sun. She stared intently into the cloudless sky, breathing deep and slow.

Behind her, a set of hooves slowly approached. “You alright, Babsy?”

Would be, iffa youze stop usin’… dat term… “Y-y-yup! I’m fine!”

Giggling, Apple Bloom said teasingly, “Yer as red as ma mane.”

“It’s jus’ hot in heeya!” Babs protested, her eyes glued to the horizon. Not as hot as—

“Oh, is it?” Apple Bloom giggled. “It feels fine ta me. Are ya sure there’s nothin’ else wrong?” She joined Babs Seed by the windowsill and nuzzled her neck. “Yer pretty sweaty, too… Are ya sure yer feelin’ alright?”

Spinning on a bit, Babs Seed turned, feeling those eyes staring expectantly into hers. Their owner grinned from cheek to cheek, her molars perfectly polished and brushed. In their distance—inches, if one was generous—she could practically taste the mint on her breath.

Apple Bloom was beautiful. Babs Seed had always thought so. Whether she was smiling at her across from the breakfast table, or passing notes to her in class, or curled up beside her as she slumbered, she was beautiful. No. She was far more than that.

Though their first had impression had been far less than positive, Apple Bloom had never faltered from her since. They were more than just cousins or friends. They were something more, something that made Babs Seed’s heart both accelerate and arrest in the same breath. In her hooves, she felt no fear. She felt strong. Invincible.

When she was a foal, the last night in Ponyville had been her first release from the nightmares. Apple Bloom drove her demons away, parting the blackness and granting her the most peaceful night she'd had in years. Since she’d made her choice, she’d had no nightmares since, though she hadn’t forgotten her roots. She would always have them. But, with Apple Bloom, they didn’t seem as painful.

Babs Seed may have been strong, but Apple Bloom was stronger.

Apple Bloom leaned against her, nuzzling her cheek. She was radiant and brilliant, practically glowing in the sunlight. Her eyes, coat, and mane matched the colors of sunset. The sunset that enchanted her so, that enthralled her since her foalhood, smiled back at her now, muzzle-to-muzzle with her.

Ridiculous a premise it was, Babs Seed couldn’t stop herself from thinking, She’s at her most beautiful right now. Mo’ beautiful, iffa dat’s possible.

Apple Bloom whispered, voice smooth and sultry, “Cat got yer tongue?”

No, but maybe—

Shoving that particular thought aside, Babs laughed, looking at everything but the filly leaning against her. “Heh, youze is pretty funny, Apple Bloom. I—“

A pair of forehooves wrapped around her neck, and a kiss silenced her.

Babs found her breath somewhere between a black sea and an electric current. Her heart skipped a few beats, cardiac looming, as she simply asked, “What’s…w hat’s gotten inta youze?”

“Ya’ll see. It’s Hearts an’ Hooves Day, Babsy. An’ Ah have a present fer ya. But first… why don’t ya show me what’s in yer saddlebag?”

Releasing her, Apple Bloom took a few cautious hoof-steps backward. Her captive quickly strode over and rustled through her saddlebag.

Flowers in one hoof, cupcake in the other, Babs Seed offered them to the sunshine watching her. “These are fo’ youze. Happy Hearts an’ Hooves Day,” she mumbled, blushing.

Celestia, get a grip! She’s jus’ Apple Bloom. Youze been feelin’ dis way fo’ years. What makes it so different now?

“Oh, wow! Thank ya, Babsy, they’re beautiful. An’ this cupcake looks great, too! Pinkie did a good job,” Apple Bloom gushed.

Gently placing both items on the lunch table in the corner of the clubhouse, Apple Bloom trotted over to Babs Seed and took her forehooves in her own.

Chuckling, relieved that her last-minute gifts were a success, Babs replied, “She sure did! Glad youze liked ‘em, Bloom.”

“O’ course Ah would. They’re from you.”

“Heh, right.”

Apple Bloom leaned against Babs Seed's chest, listening to her heart quicken its rhythm in her presence. She looked up into her eyes, smiling softly. Babs smiled back and wrapped her forehooves around her waist, holding her close.

Babs Seed towered over her in multiple ways. She was six inches taller and at least thirty pounds of pure muscle and steam heavier than her. In her embrace, Apple Bloom was safe, secure, invincible. She could do anything with Babs Seed by her side.

Though she’d fared far better at containing her nerves than her counterpart, Apple Bloom was just as nervous, if not moreso, and laid there for a few torturous minutes. In the silence, they simply sat, birds chirping outside the clubhouse their only interruption.

Once she’d gathered all her meaningless, meager courage, Apple Bloom tilted her head back to meet Babs Seed’s gaze and whispered, “Ah guess yer wonderin’ why Ah’m all… like this?”

Slowly, Babs answered, “Well… I’d be lyin’ iffa I said I wasn’t. Not dat I don’t… like it…”

She blushed, cursing herself. Dammit! Why don’t youze jus’ put youze hoof in youze mouth right now?!

“Yer so cute when yer nervous, ya know that?”

“Ah, heh... I didn't know dat..."

Apple Bloom giggled. She twirled a forehoof through her mane as she said, “Sweetie Belle helped me wit’ ma mane earlier this mornin'. Went over ta Rarity's. She did good, don't ya think?”

Babs nodded slowly, swallowing. “Y-yea, she really… d-did.”

“Listen, Babs…”

“Yea?”

Sighing, Apple Bloom dug a forehoof at the floorboards. “Ah think… Ah’m…”

Her turn to be bold, Babs urged, “Youze?”

Apple Bloom tried again. “Well, Ah’m… Ah…”

“What is it, Apple Bloom?” Babs Seed leaned down. “C’mon, youze can tell me anythi—“

“Ah love you."

Babs Seed’s heart stopped.

Liba Scales explained, "So, you see, Babs… unless you are absolutely certain that you do feel this way, and you are certain that it will or most likely can work, you should not pursue this any further."

“Ah love you.”

Once she felt her heart beat again, Babs knew.

Apple Bloom reached up and pressed her muzzle to Babs Seed's. She let herself ramble, forgetting to breathe. Four years flowed through her words, thick, dark rivers of the heart brought to light.

“Ah think Ah’ve always loved ya. Ah love how strong ya are, how ya protect me, how ya smile, how ya laugh. Yer accent. Yer mane. Yer… everythin’.

"An’ at first, Ah thought it was jus’ a crush, when we were foals…. Ah thought that Ah’d grow out o’ it. But when we went ta Manehatten, an’… this happened...”

Apple Bloom gently touched Babs’ left ear. In spite of the heat, Babs shivered, catching the chill in her spine. Ahh, Bloom, don’t—

Apple Bloom continued with a smile, “When that happened Ah… Ah knew, Ah think, then, that it was mo’. Mo’ than that. On that night, Ah think Ah… felt somethin’ stronger. An’ all through these years, it hasn’t changed. It’s only grown.

“Ah’ve talked wit’ Applejack, an’ Sweetie an’ Scoots, an’ it’s… It’s strange, you an’ Ah, ain’t it? Some even say it’s wrong… But…

"Ah… Ah can’t stop what Ah feel. Ah don’t know when exactly, but Ah jus’ know…

“Ah jus’ know, Ah love ya, Babs.”

Silence.

“Babs?”

The bully from the East, the hero in the clearing, the fourth Crusader, and Babs Seed whispered back, taking Apple Bloom’s forehooves in her own, “I love youze, too.”

There they were. The three words. Powerful.

True.

This time, it was Apple Bloom's turn to stutter. “Y-y-ya do?”

“Yea. I do. I’m… I’m not good wit’ words, Bloom, but iffa there’s anythin’ I know, it’s dat I love youze.”

Babs kissed her on the snout, and then, asked, sincere and stuttering, “Will… w-will youze be m-ma f-f-filly?”

Please, please, please—

Nuzzling her neck, Apple Bloom declared, “Ah always have been.”

Relieved, Babs Seed nuzzled her back. “An’ I’ve always been youze.”

Apple Bloom sighed. Sweetie Belle and Scootaloo were right. It was an excellent gift, one that couldn't be wrapped or boxed or purchased. She'd fumbled with her bits for weeks, finding everything else inadequate. She'd decided on this, and with the blessing of two Crusaders and one sibling, knew that it was a perfect gift.

It was her heart, beating in time against Babs Seed's.

Finding that she fit perfectly against her filly’s chest and in her forehooves, one Apple muttered to another, “Happy Hearts and Hooves Day, sugarcube,” and soon drifted off to sleep.

Babs Seed held her close and waited for her to wake. What’s dat youze said once, Bloom? Iffa youze could wait all dis time ta meet me, youze could wait a lil’ longer fo’ me ta wake up? Well… I’ve got all the time in Equestria fo’ youze. She quietly watched Apple Bloom stir, eyelids twitching with R.E.M. sleep.

In Apple Bloom’s dreams, the pair ran together down a field of perfect, rolling hills, endless and vast. Soon, the green gave way to gold, desert plains and sands stretching far into the west. They continued, trotting together into the horizon. Apple Bloom was not afraid of what waited in the distance. She was not alone. She was loved.

Despite her blankflank, she was complete. She was whole.

In spite of her ear, Babs Seed felt the same.

“Tiara, wait! Please!”

Silver Spoon thundered her hooves against the ground, sending clumps of dirt and grass flying in her wake. Her quarry galloped beyond her reach, faster and faster, past the boundary of town’s center and towards rows of apple trees.

Diamond Tiara stayed straight on course, charging into Sweet Apple Acres. Apples or no Apples, she would lose the fillyfooler scrambling behind her. She was quite sure Silver Spoon enjoyed being in second place (the pervert), but hurried along anyway.

“Leave me alone, Silver Spoon! Just go away!”

“P-p-please!” Silver cried. “P-please just let me e-explain!”

Glancing over her shoulder, Diamond shouted, “Explain what? That my best friend wants to buck me?!”

Diamond turned to the left just in time, almost careening into an apple tree in her haste. She dove straight into the heart of the orchards, the trees surrounding them growing thicker and thicker by the passing second. Silver Spoon huffed and puffed at her hindhooves. Soon, the fillyfooler would lose her steam, leaving Diamond Tiara alone to escape.

There was much work to be done. So many photographs, notes, and gifts would make fine kindling for the Rich Family home’s fireplace. There would be no trace of Silver Spoon in her life, as if she’d never existed. It was for the better. Fillies of fine heritage such as herself could not be tainted by the poisonous influence of deviants. Her father was correct. He always had been.

Unfortunately, Diamond Tiara’s locomotive ceased its steam first, skidding to a halt before a tree trunk. She leaned against the bark and took deep, heaving breaths, ignoring the sound and sight of the despicable filly coming to a stop beside her.

Silver Spoon reached over to her with a forehoof. Diamond Tiara jumped aside. “Don’t you touch me! What is wrong with—“

“Grrrrrr.”

Two fillies turned in unison, forgetting their bickering. This time, it wasn't Babs Seed growling at them.

From the trees came a strange creature, its eyes a pair of glowing emeralds, its jaws revealing sharp, jagged teeth. The strangest part of all was the creature’s structure. The monster appeared to be constructed entirely out of wood. No puppet strings guided its limbs; the beast moved of its own accord.

Though Diamond Tiara didn’t know its identity, Silver Spoon did. Even with knowledge of its name, the filly possessed no power over the monstrosity.

Trembling, Silver Spoon muttered, “Timberwolf.”

Year Four: Hearts And Hooves Day — Redemption

Year Four: Hearts And Hooves Day – Redemption

The beast stomped its claws towards the fillies, growling deep and low with primal aggression. Any worthy timberwolf would not suffer an intruder to live. Cast beyond the protection of his pack, this omega would show no mercy to the trembling ponies before him. He was the lower in the eyes of the others, but would soon prove them incorrect.

His victims quickly buried their hatchet and clung to each other, frozen in fear. The timberwolf licked his gnarled lips with a scratchy, sapling tongue, a cloud of fetid breath issued from his maw. This sent his quarry into coughing fits, struggling not to vomit. Fear amplified and pulsated within their veins. He could smell it all. Delicious. For days he’d scavenged, unable to locate an end to his relentless hunger.

Now, the timberwolf knew his search would soon be over.

Silver Spoon felt her heart clenching in her chest, threatening to arrest. An untimely heart attack would be far more suitable a demise, she reasoned, part of her willing it to continue and end her terror. Her hindhooves cemented to the grass, and her forehooves clung to her object of desire—but their union was far from welcome.

Diamond Tiara’s cowardice compelled her to run, to leave Silver behind as tribute to the dark god of the forest. She resisted it.

In spite of everything—even today’s fiasco—Diamond would not leave her one and only friend. Not at the claws of this beast. If anypony would destroy Silver Spoon, it would be her, and her alone.

As the timberwolf approached, Silver Spoon slammed her eyelids shut and began to whimper. Spurred by the sweet, intoxicating aroma of adrenaline, the timberwolf inched closer, closer, snorting sickening waves of fetid breath through his nostrils. Across the beast’s maw, rows and rows of sharp, splinter-like teeth declared their victory.

Diamond Tiara backed up into a tree trunk and pulled the shivering filly beside her. Driven purely by instinct, she flailed her forehooves widely into the bark, seeking a hoof-hold. The weathered trunk gave no relief.

Diamond littered the orchard ground with the tree’s bark, but could not climb up it. Never one for “outdoor sports,” her chances were slim with the fairest of conditions.

Today just wasn’t her day.

Silver Spoon buried her muzzle in Diamond's chest, her pitiful cries providing a joyous accompaniment to the steady stomp of the monstrosity’s paws. Once a proud and intelligent filly, she found no words in all known language to soothe, to comfort, to precede what was sure to come. It was over.

She’d told Diamond how she’d felt, and, just as expected, it was over. Silver never fathomed it would all be over because of her.

Trembling in the shadow of Death stalking them and growling just a few yards away, Diamond Tiara forgot her father’s words and embraced Silver Spoon. She swept her gaze across the orchard, finding no trace of the bully or the blankflank. In an instant, she forgave one and repented to another, willing them to save them.

Finding her vocal cords strong still (unlike the rest of her), Diamond Tiara arched her back into the bark and screamed.

The timberwolf inched closer and closer, mere feet away from them now. Reptilian in mammalian form, the beast flicked his tongue and tasted their fear in the air. Nutritious. Equine flesh would be even more delectable. His jaws salivated, anticipating his meal.

Omega transformed into alpha in his dominion. Triumphant, the timberwolf roared his success, decreeing his power to the empty heavens above.

Apple Bloom jolted awake. Pricking her ears, she asked, “Babs, did ya hear that? … Babs?”

“H-huh?” Blinking, Babs lied, “I wasn’t sleepin’! I was jus’ restin’ ma eyes.” Hard not ta sleep when youze look so peaceful. Heh. An’ a nap’s always nice.

Apple Bloom squirmed from her forehooves and trotted over to the clubhouse window on the opposite side of the room.

“Summat wrong, Bloom?” Babs Seed joined her at the windowsill.

“Yea… Ah could’ve sworn Ah heard somepony screamin’.”

“Screamin’? But there’s nopony out heeya—“

“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!”

All along her spine, Babs Seed felt tiny, individual follicles of fur stand straight and at attention. A cold wave of recognition passed down that same spinal cord, making her weak in her limbs.

Every Zap Apple season, Babs would lie awake at night, listening to that demonic chorus with her heart’s thundering tempo as accompaniment. Apple Bloom never seemed affected by their cries. Perhaps it took more than a few years to habituate to their howls.

“T-timberwolf?! But it’s not Zap Apple Jam season, an’ it’s so…”

“… Close,” Babs finished. She peered through the glass in search of the beast. The trees surrounding their fort seemed to be free of monsters.

Squinting past the sunlight and the distance, she found the farther orchards closer to the farmhouse to be similarly clear. “I can’t see ‘em, Bloom, maybe it—“

From a thicket of apple trees behind them came the indistinguishable scream of a frightened filly.

Apple Bloom quickly grabbed Babs Seed by the forehoof and pulled her from the windowsill. She was prepared to ignore a cry of protest, but none came.

Once their hooves hit the floorboards, they burst from the clubhouse, nearly breaking down the door on their exit, and galloped down the drawbridge. Once wood gave way to grass, both pricked their ears and listened for the growl and the scream, the sound and the fury of a wayward wolf’s howl.

From the corner of her eye, Babs detected a rush of movement to the south. “C’mon, dis way!” This time, she tugged Apple Bloom in the direction of the disturbance.

Through apple tree after apple tree, they steered their steam, skillfully, expertly. Iffa there’s anythin’ I’m good at afta all these years, it’s runnin’. Babs Seed whipped around the trees and streamlined her gallop, approaching, encroaching, faster, faster. Gotta be heeya somewhere…

Apple Bloom, after almost seven years of crusading, possessed similar precision. Round and through the thicket they galloped. She couldn’t match Babs’s speed, and trailed behind her despite the effort.

Soon, the timberwolf howled once more, and his quarry shrieked, begging for mercy in tone if not words. C’mon, youze! Almost, almost!

Playtime no longer interested him. Long past puppyhood, he regulated such activity to a mere minimum of his energy. Lately, he had no time or ability to waste on entertainment. The fillies cowering before him, scratching bark off trees with their worthless hooves, screaming and crying and begging for their lives, were an exception to this rule. The beast had all the time in Equestria for this spectacle.

Even monsters have limits. The scent of their fear, the subtle sound of their blood accelerating within their veins, and their sheer delightful terror eventually overpowered his minimal restraint.

The timberwolf closed the distance between him and his prey, and rocked back on his haunches, ready to pounce.

Suddenly, a pair of hooves rocketed into his side, crashing him to the cold, unforgiving Earth. The timberwolf landed with a THUD! Several of his rib-twigs shattered from the impact. The pair of hooves kicked him on his opposite side, doubling his injuries.

A large filly hovered above him and screeched into his sensitive predator’s ears, “GET OUT!”

The timberwolf scrambled to his claws, shaking his muzzle. His sides ached, but only momentarily. With a flash of his soulless emerald eyes, his missing branches rushed and rejoined their fellows in his ribcage.

Babs Seed took one hoof-step backwards, staring straight into the eyes of the monster. The beast parted its jaws and exhaled a cloud of pure, airborne bile into her nostrils. Celestia, didn’t anypony tell these brutes ‘bout brushin’?!

Gagging, she challenged, “Is dat the best youze got?”

Rearing up on his hindlimbs, the timberwolf roared his negative.

I was afraid o’ dat.

Babs snapped her head around. Apple Bloom had joined the side of their antagonists, pulling on Diamond’s forehoof. Silver clung to Diamond, possibly unconscious. Babs shouted, “Bloom! Get ‘em ‘way from—“

Apple Bloom yelled,“BABS, WATCH OUT!”

She ducked in the nick of time, an angry claw swiping at her mane. Catching her second wind, Babs leapt forward again, brandishing her forehooves. Again she pounced the timberwolf, careening into his chest.

A tango and flurry of forehooves, scrambling wooden claws, and volumes high and low echoed throughout the orchard. Filly pummeled wolf over and over, snapping timber ribcage repeatedly. Each injury resulted in immediate regeneration. The timberwolf gnashed his jaws and lunged towards his adversary. Babs pulled away, leaving him to chomp at the air.

Behind her, two fillies watched, and a third charged into the beast. Yellow blur dove into the timberwolf, sending him to the ground. Orange blur had enough.

While the enemy was still stunned, Babs Seed grabbed Apple Bloom’s tail with her teeth and yanked. “C’mon! Get outta heeya wit’ dem two!”

“But Babs, Ah know if—“

The beast stirred and began to rise once more.

Shoving Apple Bloom away, Babs ordered, “GO! GO! Get Tiara an’ Spoon outta heeya, an’ I’ll take care o’ dis one!” She stood firm, unyielding, dismissing a thousand arguments raised in Apple Bloom’s eyes with one nudge towards the clubhouse.

Apple Bloom galloped over to her bullies, her tormentors, her antagonists and her wards, grabbing Diamond Tiara by the forehoof. “We need ta get outta here, Tiara! Hold on ta Silver Spoon an’ follow me!”

Diamond Tiara betrayed her upbringing and obeyed, submitting to the whims of a lowly, incestuous fillyfooler. Silver Spoon, long lost to the overwhelming tide of monstrous reality, fit far better on Diamond’s back than in her forehooves.

Hastily, Diamond Tiara followed Apple Bloom through the twisting maze of apple trees and towards the clubhouse in the distance.

Behind her, Babs Seed took up hooves against her monster.

Strengthened by his ancient magic, drawing strength from the Everfree Forest far beyond its boundaries, he stumbled to his limbs and snarled. The insolent, foolish filly was still here, the biggest and strongest of them all. Useless still, she held no purpose beyond sustenance.

The timberwolf licked at the air. Nothing. His adversary lowered her gaze and crouched low on her forehooves, growling a primal warning. Soon, she would strike. In her blood, he detected no telltale tremors, no flood and rush of fear. Adrenaline escalated to the highest heights in her veins. Only fight triggered in her consciousness.

Truly, this pony wasn’t so willing to fall, candle in the wind as the others.

Beast without burden roared, throwing back his throat to the skies. His fellows ignored his cries once more. Omega exile he was, lone starving wolf in the orchard. Mournfully he howled, seeking refuge in numbers against this strange enemy.

“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!”

The beast howled at the moonless daytime sky, foolishly exposing his neck. Babs Seed seized this opportunity and pounced on his chest. This time, she clung to his form instead of toppling it. With both her forehooves and her own gnashing jaws, she tore at the timberwolf’s throat, tearing branches and twigs where a trachea would be.

Ignoring the awful, bitter taste of his bark and the more dreadful stench of his frantic breath, Babs ripped into the beast. Separated from his oxygen supply, the monster began to panic, clawing at her. The host scratched at its parasite, raking its claws across her treacherous fur. She winced and bled but hung tight, biting through his gnarled vertebrae.

Babs growled through her teeth, “C’mon, give it up, youze bastard!”

Opening and closing its jaws in a desperate scramble for breath, the monstrosity realized within its twisted, primitive mind that it lacked control in all four of its limbs. The timberwolf willed its claws to gouge the eyes and maw of the filly clinging to its chest. They did not respond. He urged his hindlimbs to kick upwards and pry off the scum draining the life and magic from his timber. They remained still.

Grinning, Babs Seed slid down the body of the timberwolf and watched the downfall with perverse glee. The beast gasped for breath, dilated its empty eyes, and with one final shudder, tumbled to the grass. She sprang on its final spinal connection without hesitation, separating the head from the rest of the wooden body.

Babs waited. A minute, then two, then maybe five. The timberwolf did not stir. The breeze arrived, and played with its gnarled bark and branch-bones, but did not summon a survivor or an avenger.

Lone filly conquered lone wolf.

“Nice place you have here,” Diamond Tiara said. She took in the meager trappings of the treehouse, noting the lack of interior décor or pristine furniture. Or… furniture at all. It seemed they hadn’t upgraded the clubhouse since she’d first set hoof in it, over four years ago. Every insignificant and inane detail—from the sparse lunch table to the ludicrous lantern and “thinking spot”—from her memory found a home here.

She trotted inside the structure, following Apple Bloom through the threshold. Gently, Apple Bloom removed Silver Spoon from her back and leaned her against one of the clubhouse walls. Acknowledging her statement, Apple Bloom turned and glared at Diamond, scowling in response.

“Hey! I was actually being nice for a change. It was a compliment!”

“Sure it was,” Apple Bloom snarled. She leaned down to Silver Spoon’s level and waved a forehoof in front of her eyes. “Silver Spoon? Equestria ta Silver Spoon?”

Diamond strode over and pushed her aside. “You’re doing it wrong. Move over!

Apple Bloom raised an eyebrow. “Since when do ya actually—“

Sighing, Diamond began, “Look, I might not be the nicest pony, but—“

“But what?”

Babs Seed trotted inside, her fur dotted with spots of blood and marred by scratches and scrapes.

Apple Bloom charged over and embraced her tightly, nuzzling her neck. “Babs! Are ya alright? Ah think yer bleedin’ a bit, maybe Ah should go get—mmph…”

Diamond Tiara rolled her eyes and face-hoofed. “Ugh. Do you really have to do that right here? In front of me?”

Breaking their kiss, Babs Seed stomped over to Metal Crown, her hackles raised once more. “Yea, I do. Youze know what? I jus’ saved youze an’ youze lil’ lackey’s lives right heeya, so I’d expect a bit mo’ respect.”

Pointing to Silver Spoon, Babs continued, “An’ speakin’ o’ which, looks like dis poor filly’s out cold. What did youze do ta her, anyway?”

Crown met her, muzzle against muzzle. “Oh! So of course you think it’s me doing something to her. Poor little Silver Spoon, all wrapped around Diamond Tiara’s forehooves! Is that what you think? Huh?! Because you’re wrong. This is all Silver Spoon’s fault! She chased after me—“

“Chased afta youze?! “ Snickering, Babs jabbed, “What kinda dumb pony chases afta a brat like youze?!”

Apple Bloom joined her side and whispered, “Um, sugarcube, maybe ya should—“

“At least I don’t have to resort to shacking up with my own cousin,” Crown countered with a grin. Before her adversary could fire a ready retort, she added, “Though, unfortunately, it appears you two have infected Silver Spoon with your disease.”

In her pupils, Crown transformed, hooves morphing into claws and fur dissolving into rows and rows of branch and bark. Flattening her ears, Babs Seed leaned back on her hindhooves, ready to strike. Youze rotten little bitch! First I go save youze pansy ass, an’ now youze have the stones ta tell me—

“That’s right! Silver is a fillyfooler too! Maybe you can invite her to your twisted little slumber parties!” Diamond scowled, huffing. Twirling a strand of mane with a forehoof, she rolled her eyes and mused, “They say three’s a crowd, but I’m sure you two of all ponies can manage—“

“SHUT YOUZE BUCKIN’ MOUTH, TIARA!”

“Why? What are you going to do about it?!”

“How dare ya! She jus’ gone an’ saved yer hide an’ now ya—“

From the corner of the clubhouse came an inquiry: “Where am I?”

Three ponies dropped their feud. Babs Seeed trotted over and offered a forehoof to the confused filly. She accepted, blinking, rubbing sleep from her eyes under her eyeglasses. “B-Babs?”

Smiling, Babs said, “Ahh, youze awake, now. Dat’s good.”

Silver repeated, “’Awake’? When was I asleep? What happened?”

“Why don’t you tell them, Silver Spoon?” Diamond snapped curtly, glaring at her fallen friend.

Timberwolf slain, mortality disregarded, Diamond returned to the comfort of her snide and sarcasm. The only real monster she faced looked quizzically back at her, eyes wide and myopic. The fillyfooler had been on her back—on her back—mere minutes ago. She shuddered. “Why don’t you tell them about your little confession, huh? I’m sure they’ll be quite interested to hear.”

Apple Bloom shook her muzzle. “That’s enough, Diamond Tiara! Ah’ve had enough o’ ya fer today! Now, get off ma property an’ don’t come back ‘till ya apologize!”

“Apologize?! Apologize to whom?!”

“Ta me, fo’ one." Babs growled. “An’ ta Silva, fo’ two, it’s lookin’ like. Now, I dunno why youze both were heeya, o’ why there was a timberwolf in dem orchards, but I took care o’ it anyway. Not because youze anythin’ special. It’s the right thing. But youze don’t know anythin’ ‘bout dat, do youze, Diamond Tiara?”

Metal Crown flipped her snout at the common farm-ponies below her grandiose stature, ignoring the insult. With a quick flick of her tail, she turned towards the clubhouse door, but not before hissing to Brass Fork, “I am through with you. And to think I let you sleep in the same bed as me!”

SLAM!

Four became three. Two exchanged confused glances. The remaining filly buried her face in her forehooves and closed her eyes, counting backwards from ten.

Ten. Diamond Tiara was waiting for her behind the bakery. Nine. She met with her and demanded to know where her new coltfriend was. Eight. He was nowhere to be found; the only one she desired had been waiting for her all along. Seven…

“Are ya alright, Silver Spoon? Are ya hurt?”

Silver Spoon shook her head, returning to her numbers. Seven. A simple box of chocolates and a few stuttered words. Six. Galloping, charging, barreling from Ponyville towards Sweet Apple Acres, hot on her hindhooves. Five. Rows and rows of apple trees, a maze of bark and branch. Four. Catching up to her at last, only to find that they were not alone. Three…

“Youze told her, didn’t youze?”

Silver Spoon sniffed and nodded. She bit down on her bottom lip, suppressing the tide churning within. There was no rational reason to cry. Diamond Tiara was just but one filly, one drop in an ocean of limitless soul. Why, then, did it hurt so?

Two Crusaders sat on their haunches beside their bully. Their enemy posed no more threat. She, too, was a victim in a way. She was worthy of their empathy, and had always been. They sat in silence for a moment, choosing not to comment on Silver Spoon’s poorly hidden tears.

Babs Seed stared at the floorboards, digging a hoof into the wood grain. Finally, she muttered, “Youze know… it’s betta youze found dis out now. Imagine iffa youze tried ta run ‘way togetha wit’ her o’ summat. Ta Canterlot o’ summat.” O’ Manehatten. But I might actually stop youze iffa youze did dat, bully o’ no…

Two. A timberwolf, eyes hungry and wild.

Apple Bloom stretched a forehoof over Silver’s shoulders. “Aw, don’t worry ‘bout her, Silver Spoon. Ya deserve somepony better anyhow. Somepony who sees ya fer who ya are. Not as jus’ a… crony, or somethin’."

One. Diamond Tiara was holding her close. They were trembling, frozen in fear, unable to speak or fight or gallop. But… she was there. That would’ve been her last memory. Would have been a magnificent last memory. She could accept that peace.

Before Silver reached zero, she remembered an orange blur, a streak of greased lightning, a bullet train rocketing into the hunk of wayward wolf. And then, she knew why she’d never reached the countdown to zero.

That reason sat quietly on its haunches beside her.

Silver Spoon looked up from her forehooves. "Babs?"

“Yea?”

“Thank you,” Silver Spoon whispered. “You saved my life.” A small smile crept its way across her crestfallen muzzle. “But…why?”

“’Why’?” Babs tilted her head.

“Yes. Why? Why did you do that? Why didn’t you just leave us?” Silver asked.

She played mindlessly with her braid, staring across the clubhouse and out the window beyond. “After all we’ve done to you—I’ve done to you—what we did at school that day of… sex ed class… And you just…. you just up and fight for us? For me?”

Shrugging, Babs Seed answered, “It’s the right thing ta do. Sometimes, youze jus’ know what the right thing is, ta do o’ ta say. Isn’t dat right, Bloom?”

Apple Bloom giggled. “It sure is, Babsy.”

A blush appeared across an orange muzzle, to the notice of the third wheel. Grinning, Silver said, “So that’s why you two were out here. Happy Hearts and Hooves Day.”

“An’ ta ya too, Silver Spoon,” Apple Bloom said with a smile. “Don’t worry ‘bout her. Plenty mo’ fillies out there.”

“Sometimes, dey’re right in front o’ youze, so keep youze eyes open,” Babs advised, eliciting another wave of giggles. “What? It’s good advice!”

“Thanks Babs, Apple Bloom. For everything. I’m really sorry about everything I or Diamond Tiara said to you… I don’t understand her, why she is the way she is. Why she is such a….” A bitch? “A bully.” Close enough.

“Maybe Babs can answer that question. She was a bully once, too, ya know.”

Not answerin’ anythin’ fo’ a pony like dat. Babs sighed. “Yea, yea, don’t remind me.”

Apple Bloom said, “But… it’s true. Maybe there’s a lot mo’ you an’ Diamond have in common? Maybe she jus’ ended up one way an’ you the other?”

Nope.

Silver Spoon scoffed. “I doubt that. Diamond Tiara is the most spoiled filly in all of Ponyville. Her dad practically owns half the town! She can get away with everything and can have whatever she wants. I doubt anypony has anything in common with her… even I really didn’t. My family is… shall we say… middle-class?”

The three of them shared a laugh. Soon, they shared far more than that, exchanging stories from their foalhood until Silver Spoon was ready to face the world beyond the clubhouse walls once more.

A world without Diamond Tiara. A world that, in spite of its near-dusk chill, was still bright, sun above the fog.

Applejack hovered above Babs Seed, dotting the filly’s scratches with a rag full of soapy water. Babs flinched at each touch, grumbling and cursing under her breath.

O’ course I jus’ get a few cuts an’ bruises an’ Applejack thinks I’m gonna get flesh-eatin’ bacteria o’ summat… Horseapples! “Youze done yet?!”

“Hold still, Babs! Yer jus’ gonna make it worse!” Applejack scolded. “Tarnation! First few Hearts an’ Hooves Days, y’all try an’ set up Fluttershy an’ Dash, then me an’ Rarity! An’ now, ya nearly get mauled by a timberwolf! Can’t ya have a normal holiday fer once?!”

Apple Bloom and Babs Seed exchanged a knowing glance.

To her sister, Apple Bloom answered, “Applejack, Ah think we Apples are a bit mo’ than jus’ normal, don’t ya think?”

To her elder cousin, Babs Seed remarked, “An’ what’s so fun ‘bout bein’ normal, anyways? Whateva dat means.”

Applejack chuckled. “Heh. Heh. Y'all both are grounded.”

“… Fo’ what?!” Babs shrieked.

“… Ah still don’t forgive y’all fer that date wit’ Rarity.”

Year Five: Blue, Black, White

King Orange shrieked, “What is the meaning of this?!”

The lowly journalist cowered before his royal throne, pressing his muzzle to the carpet. Oh, how the King adored it when they groveled so, sniveling and begging for his mercy. This one was no exception to his rule. King Orange possessed influence far beyond citrus and cobblestone. The Manehatten Times found a place on his chessboard just as well. Journalist’s salaries were meager, leaving their recipients wanting for far more.

His current visitor was one of the luckier Knights. Unlike the others, he waged no war of steel and lead. The trembling stallion was a warrior of words. Pen indeed was mightier than the sword. After all, if it weren’t for this coward and legions of others like him, some ponies might see through his smoke and mirrors.

Crumbling the latest edition of the Times between his forehooves, King Orange stomped towards the sniveling stallion. He towered over him, exhaling hot, wild breath onto the subject’s quivering muzzle. The Master stood in silence, the only noise the rapid rhythm of his enraged breathing.

The journalist willed himself to cease his shivering, making an utter foal of himself. He failed. Though he was one of the top writers on the newspaper staff, securing leads and interviews with wretches and kings easily, in the presence of his true King, he amounted to naught.

Above him, King Orange finally snarled, “Explain this horseshit!”

With a few quick motions, he unfurled the front page of the Times. The newspaper blared these despicable headlines:

“INFILTRATION: CRIME RATE SKYROCKETS IN MANEHATTEN, FIVE YEARS AFTER ROYAL GUARD TAKEOVER”;

“TOURISTS STAYING HOME; CITY’S BEST ATTRACTIONS REPORT RECORD LOW PROFITS”;

“MANEHATTEN YOUTH TURNING TO GANG LIFE AS UNEMPLOYMENT RISES”.

Again, his Master bellowed, “What is the meaning of this?!”

“S-s-sir, I can ex-explain—“

WHAP!

Groaning, the journalist recoiled from the blow, clenching his teeth and keeping his gaze glued to the ground. Across his cheek, a bruise erupted and taunted the lowly writer, mocking his failure. The tattoo near the stallion’s tail testified to his sin. Here he was, a King’s Knight, failing his ruler.

Kings of citrus, cobblestone, and chess do not take too kindly to missed marks and unmet expectations. Neither do they welcome muckrakers, yellow journalists, or a single printed piece of parchment that defies them. Bernie Madhoof was no different.

“Insolent fool! Do you not remember the deal we made, just a few months ago? Do you not remember the terms and conditions of our agreement?!”

“Yes, Masta, yes, I do!”

“Likely story, Mister Journalist!" The King trotted in circles around his desk, a pair of armed guards keeping a close watch on the failed sack of pony-flesh shaking below him. He quickly located a cigar and a box of matches in a desk drawer and lit one aflame. Taking a deep drag of his escape, King Orange looked out his bay window.

The light-tenders awakened to the call of duty and Luna, lighting the street-lamps with haste. The facade of day was beginning to falter and cease, revealing the truth, black as night. Bernie Madhoof’s pawns began to trot, canter, and gallop through the cobblestone, kicking up dust and spurring mischief.

Three years. Three years, and his tattooed pieces amounted to several hundred. Not all of them were mere street-rats. He was the true and ultimate puppetmaster, the stallion behind the curtain. Nopony saw through his smoke and mirrors. Not yet.

The journalist, however, was threatening to bring down the walls, with little more than one trumpeter. Smoke filled his office, choking the least among them. Madhoof smirked, taking great revelry in the stallion’s pitiful coughing. “Do you know, little worm, why your words are so damaging?” Madhoof mocked. “Do you know why I am so angry?”

Stumbling, the stallion mustered, “It’s because—uh! Ah! Masta, I’m so sorry… I’ve been able ta keep the majority o’ dis stuff off the presses, but, it’s startin’ ta get real bad out there! Ponies been hearin’ gunshots every night, an’—“

His Master spun on a bit to face him. He grinned, wicked and vile, the sight of his glistening molars haunting in the rapid fading of Celestia. Cloaked by Luna, the Master possessed no fear. By the light of the moon, his Knights did their work. Their deeds would not come to light under the blanket of stars. Not unless somepony broke his contract.

“You fool. Do you not understand?”

“Understand what, ma King?”

Bernie Madhoof narrowed his eyelids. “All of it is mine.”

The journalist began, “All o’ what is youze, Mas—“

“That is quite enough questioning for today. Guards, seize him.”

Before he could scream for help, two pairs of forehooves engulfed him, one around his mouth, one around his waist. Always a scrawny colt, the journalist was easily lifted by the guards.

The stallion squirmed, kicking his hindhooves desperately, uselessly. A quick unslinging of rifles later, and two black steel barrels caressed his temples, threatening to send him to Tartarus. And to Tartarus he would go, he reasoned, a fool and a sinner both.

His eyes bulged from his skull, shaking his muzzle, pleading urgently and silently for his King’s mercy. A cold blue forehoof raised his chin. A colder snout pressed against his. “You are nothing to me, little Knight. I have hundreds of you, including many on your own staff. You have failed me. You have failed your King.

“Now, it is time for you to pay the King’s Ransom. You, being a stallion, will not get off as easily as the mares. Their fate is quite more… interesting,” King Orange hissed. He backed a few careful hoof-steps away from the prisoner and nodded his command.

The last thing the journalist saw was Bernie Madhoof taking another drag of his cigar.

BANG!

“Slinga, get down!”

Boone sought cover behind an overflowing trash can. His timing was perfect, the enemy’s bullet whizzing past his mane. Pressing his back into the garbage can's rain-drenched surface, Boone fumbled with a magazine. After reloading his rifle, he ducked up from his refuge and fired another round.

The bullet ricocheted off a graffiti-painted wall of the alley, widely missing its target. Across from Boone, Card Slinger crouched behind a garbage bin of his own and steadied his pistol in his forehooves. The weapons were among the finest in Equestria, purchased from the deep underground of Manehatten’s black market. The Master’s gold, however, could only bring them so far.

No sum of bits could make them better shots.

“Dammit, Boone! Watch youze back first!” Slinger cursed.

The two Manehatten Kings gritted their teeth and grasped their weapons tightly between their forehooves. Their antagonists—two Manehatten Mafia members—continued their onslaught. Night blanketed and obscured them, sealing the two warring factions away from any bystander’s interruption. Nopony went out in Manehatten at night. Nopony without a loyalty of their own, Kings or Mafia.

Not anymore. Those days of peace were long bygone, replaced with a pure haze of changing alliances and begrudging memberships. Both warring gangs were growing fast in number. Unemployment and poverty forced stallions, mares, and foals to seek other methods of survival. Open sets of forehooves welcomed them—after beating them senselessly in.

Usually, Slinger and Boone would be accompanied by a myriad of their followers. Tonight, however, they’d been caught off-guard, forced to battle their pursuers alone. Left to their own defense, they learned their weaknesses and cursed them both.

Once his gun was reloaded, Card Slinger took a leap of fledgling faith and jumped into the open. He squeezed off two rounds in rapid succession—BOOM! BOOM!—and found Fate fortunate and forgiving.

A Mafia colt crumpled to the cobblestone, freed from his bounds forever by the perfect cylinder between his eyes. Boone whooped and, driven by the small victory, took a shot at the remaining opponent.

He missed. Again.

“Buck!”

Their enemy chuckled, throwing back his mane and returning fire. The Mafia member proved to be a far better shot than his adversaries, sending several shots their way. Boone and Slinger barely dodged the latest rounds. A few coal-black strands of Slinger’s mane fell to the concrete, spurring him to retaliate.

Disregarding all rationality, Slinger stood up on his hindhooves, leaving his cover, and aimed at his opponent. “Dat’s enough o’ youze shit!”

He fired. Again. So did his opponent.

When the haze of gunsmoke cleared, two scumbags lay fallen on the street, crimson staining the gray. They both bore the title of Mafia and black orange tattoos near their tails. Knights fell by Knights, in the sea of gray and red.

Two Manehatten Kings emerged from the shadows and claimed the enemy’s weapons. Two pistols joined their own arsenals, holster secured to their shoulders. Card Slinger scowled, recognizing both of the bastards who’d dared to set sights upon him.

“Dem dirty traitors! These were our colts not too long ‘go, Boone." Slinger shook his muzzle, stomping into the forever-smiling face of one traitor for good measure. Beneath his hindhoof, skull crunched and cracked, sweet music to his pricked ears.

Boone kicked the other colt in the ribs. Like most of his opposition, it crumbled easily in his presence, to his smug, cackling satisfaction. “Heh. Dey ain’t nopony’s colts now, Slinga! Two bastards down! Celestia knows how many mo’ ta go.”

“No matta. Soon, we’ll be the only game in town,” Card Slinger assured. He swept the scene, ensuring that they were alone. No Mafia leapt from the shadows, though a rat scampered from an overturned garbage can. The vermin sniffed the air and scurried towards one of the fallen colts. The rat began to greedily drink up the Mafia member’s blood.

Card Slinger laughed. “Heh, look at dat, Boone. Jus’ what scum like dem deserve. Becomin’ feast fo’ vermin.”

“Haha! What tools! Buck!”

“Indeed. C’mon, ma right-hoof stallion. Let’s go befo’ anypony else comes afta us,” Slinger ordered, beckoning with a wave of his forehooves.

Complying, Boone followed his leader out of the dark, cramped alleyway. He ran a forehoof across the cold walls of the adjacent businesses, noting with glee that most of their gang-tags still remained. Their spray-paint marked their territory, and anypony who dared to cross out their drawings or cover them with their own graffiti made a grave mistake.

This evening’s firefight was preceded by a Mafia slimeball crossing out one of their marks. Slinger and Boone heard the news and sought to investigate. In this alleyway, the scumbags waited—and not just with lead paints. Lead bullets welcomed them.

Slinger’s foalhood signal carried into his adulthood ventures—an Ace and King crossed signified both his presence and Manehatten King territory. Big Slick. Ace and King, crossed. His cutiemark. Him.

Big Slick could never be dishonored. To do so was to invite the wrath of King Crazy himself. His foalhood nickname stuck with him throughout these years along with his tag. Only Boone was privileged enough to know his King’s true name. To everypony else within their growing enterprise, the King of Manehatten Kings was simply “King Crazy.”

While Celestia reigned from on high, the ringleader cozied up in his hideout. Under the blessing of night, he would carve his paths and pick his battles, faithful palomino colt beside him. Then, and only then, did Manehatten know how crazy he’d become.

The two colts continued through the maze of gray and black alleys and buildings. They counted their breaths, listening for the telltale clip-clop of hooves against cobblestone. Minutes stretched into hours as they journeyed, occasionally ducking around trash cans or other cover to peer into the darkness. The Mafia, unlike the Kings, required sleep, it seemed.

Finally, once he could bear the silence no longer, Boone whispered, “Youze think we should do mo’ checks ‘round our turf ta-night? See iffa any mo’ o’ ‘em tried ta—“

Shaking his muzzle in the negative, Slinger said, “Nah. I think we scared ‘em off fo’ now. Only two o’ ‘em dared, an’ dey won’t dare no mo’. No tellin’ what tomorrowa will bring, though. Scum o’ Equestria keeps risin’! Buckin’ Mafia. Don’t dey know enough not ta mess wit’ us?”

Boone scoffed. “I guess not.”

“Whateva. Buck ‘em all. Soon enough, Boone. Soon enough, an’ the city will be ours. No Mafia ta stand in our way,” he declared, puffing out his chest.

His heart contradicted him, still thundering from their firefight in the alleyway. Secretly, Card Slinger’s instincts pointed to everything but certain victory. This would be the third clash of hooves and holsters in a week.

Two years passed since their return to the East and the beast, two years since they’d dove into the ventricles of the city’s icy heart, and a year since they’d been marked as servants of the Master, with no resolution. The Manehatten Mafia countered strong as ever, seizing opportunity and weakness whenever it was found. They battled for bits and boundaries, profit and property. If they were going, they were doing so with a roar and a thunder, a hiss and a howl. War waged and beckoned for further battle.

Another voice within Card Slinger’s mind silenced his fear. Its words brushed away his anxieties, sweeping them under the rug of the past. Despite his past failures, he was still a force to be reckoned with, full of promise and potential and power.

He was Card Slinger, after all, the first to get his cutiemark, the first to be feared on the streets, the first-born Manehatten King. He was a leader. He was a warrior. He was a phoenix rising from the ashes. He was a force of Nature, of Equestria itself. He was judge and jury of Manehatten, sentencing and condemning to his pleasure.

He was a King. The only true King.

As they rounded a corner and journeyed deeper into the maze of high-rise apartment buildings and boarded-up shops, Boone hissed back, “What ‘bout… Madhoof?”

Bernie Madhoof. That name seemed forgotten on the lips of most ponies. Orange Enterprises was barely mentioned in the papers anymore. If it was, it was referred to only by its corporate name—no references to its owner and operator. Bernie Madhoof had become a ghost in the machine of his own creation.

But Card Slinger was no foal. He remembered. He would always remember. And, someday, when his hooves were fast and skillful on the trigger, when he was a strong stallion commandeering a vast empire of his own, he would wage war. In his dreams, he’d achieved victory. In his reality, he chanted this mantra: wait and bide.

Wait and bide. Days, months, years. None of it mattered. In time, he would cross the greatest distance in Manehatten, and trudge back to the Orange Family Mansion. And he would burn it all to the ground. And Madhoof, too.

Reaching their destination at last, both stopped in front of a decrepit shack. Their hideout remained intact and unmarred, untouched by Mafia hooves. Both suppressed cowardly sighs of relief. It was the same hideout of Slinger’s foalhood; to lose it would be to lose a friend more significant than any they would ever know. Luckily, the Mafia either did not know of it, or did not care to attack it. Yet.

Card Slinger ran a forehoof through his mane, easily locating the silver key tucked among his coal-black strands. A few quick rotations of tumbler and strike later, they entered the dim structure and secured the door behind them.

Once inside, Card Slinger turned to his fellow King and best friend, eyebrow raised. “What ‘bout him, Boone?”

Lighting a lamp in the center of the room, its flame slowly illuminating the hideout, Boone danced around his leader’s question. “Well, uh, Slinga… It’s jus’… it’s been almost a year now, an’ youze haven’t done anythin’ ta him. Ain’t we supposed ta be gettin’ him back? Fo’… summat o’ the otha?”

In his ignorance, Boone simply assumed that Madhoof owed Slinger a few favors. The truth was lifetimes away.

Plopping down into a beanbag chair, Slinger first ignored the fool's inquiry, choosing instead to disassemble and clean his weapon. Through the silence, Boone merely sat beside him, fiddling with his own firearm.

After his rifle was clean and intact once more, Slinger snapped back, “We are, Boone! Don’t youze think I would forget summat important like dat. But, we ain’t strong enough yet. We’ll need an entire army ta take him down. An’ besides waitin’ fo’ dat, I’ll be goin’ afta him once I’ve had enough o’ his bits first.”

Boone tore his pupils up from his weapon, meeting his leader’s sight with a smile. “Oh, dat’s right. Didn’t youze say youze got mo’ from him recently?”

“Dat’s right. Lil’ King Orange is quite pleased wit’ us, Boone. An’ he gladly gave me a loan.”

“… Fo’ how much?!”

“Enough,” Slinger assured. “Enough ta light these streets up, enough ta reclaim the drug trade from dem schemin’ Mafia. Enough ta fill our armories an’ arm our membas ta the teeth.

“Enough, fo’ him ta rue the day he marked us.”

Casually, King Orange propped his hindhooves on his mahogany, finishing the last of his cigar. A fresh pair of guards replaced those who were “indisposed,” those who were “escorting” his last visitor off his property. This time, two Griffons kept vigilant by his grand doors, carbines crossed and ready.

Soon, there was a gentle knock at those doors. Irritated, the King barked, “Come in!” Under his breath, he muttered, “Motherbucker, when will these petty little interruptions ever stop? I have games to play…”

A tall, white Earth pony stallion with a thick, coal-black mane strode into his throne room. His neck was thick and scarred, testifying to a thousand battles. Muscles rippled and flexed beneath his thick, weathered coat, commanding the attention of the guards. The Griffons tightened their talons around their rifles, eyes darting and wary.

The visitor stared at Bernie Madhoof, unblinking, unwavering.

“And who the hell are you?!” Madhoof snarled, already insulted. The stallion did not fall to his hooves in worship. He merely grinned.

“Do you know who you are smiling at, fool? Do you know who I am?!” Madhoof struck his mahogany with iron forehooves, sending ashes from his ashtray spilling all over the desk.

Snickering, the visitor answered, “I’m surprised youze didn’t recognize me. Surely, youze must see me in the papers—“ he gestured to the crinkled copy of the Times lying on the floor nearby—“o’ at least read ma name.”

“Enough of your riddles! Reveal yourself to me! You surely have said enough to get past my guards, haven’t you? Don’t be such a little pussy and hide your name from me.”

Shaking out his mane, the stallion revealed a hidden object within it. He cradled the item in a forehoof and held it out to the scowling King. Within his grasp, all questions were answered.

“… Chief. To what do I owe this pleasure?” Bernie Madhoof’s scowl morphed into a smirk.

Many of his own Knights donned the Manehatten blue and silver. Now, it appeared that the biggest pawn on that particular side of the chessboard was here in his royal chambers to seek the same honor. With great pleasure, he would mark this one, drilling ink into his deceptively snow-white flesh.

No Chief of Manehatten Police was truly honorable, Madhoof knew. Celestia could only placate and command her guard for so long. Stationed in faraway Canterlot, both the Princess and the Captain of the Royal Guard were blind to many of Manehatten’s day-to-day operations. Their ignorance only amplified and accelerated his game, his victory.

The Chief plopped down on his haunches but did not lower his gaze. King Orange scowled at this disrespect, although he chose not to address it. His guards looked cautiously on, ready to strike if the visitor contained more than just a silver badge within his mane.

Fidgeting with his badge, the Chief replied, “I am heeya ta ask fo’ youze help.”

“Help? Help? HELP?! Ha!” A tidal wave of laughter crashed upon Bernie’s shore, making his sides ache and his jaw throb. He kicked his hindhooves and flailed his hindhooves, knocking paperwork to and ‘fro, filling the office with his cruel chortles.

The Chief repeated, “Yes, help, youze see—“

“Silence!” King Orange held up a forehoof and nudged towards his guards. The Griffons brought their arms to bear, keeping the stallion within their sights. The visitor shut his muzzle and lifted his forehooves in surrender.

Once he had calmed, the King observed, “Ha. You are learning quickly, Chief. Just stay like that.”

The Chief nodded, swallowing his pride.

Bernie Madhoof clasped his forehooves together and leaned across his desk. “So. You want my help. I am suspicious, you must understand. And for good reason. No doubt you have some inkling of who I am, little Chief, and what I do. Surely, you know this, don't you? Speak!”

The Chief nodded and muttered carefully, “Youze are the wealthiest stallion in Manehatten. Youze are the most powerful o’ dem all. Youze offa loans ta those who know, an’ turn away those who don’t, youze glory an’ respect it.”

Each word weighed heavily on his mind, cautiously plucked and spoken, knowing that a single utterance out of line would send him plummeting down to meet his Fate. To a place where his desperation would not matter anymore. He came here reluctantly, though he would not grovel before the Orange King if he could help it.

He feared he had no other option.

“Good. You are not as dense as I would have believed. Tell me, Chief. Tell me. What brings a stallion of your stature to my fine castle? What brings you here, upholder of the law? Defender of the low? One who protects and serves this fine city we inhabit? What brings you here for a loan? Go ahead. Speak.”

The stallion cleared his throat. “Well, sir, uh—“

Bernie barked, “Call me ‘King’ or ‘Master'!"

“Yes, si—I mean, Masta! Yes, Masta. Uh, well, youze see, a few months ago, Princess Celestia started makin' budget cuts ta our department, an'…”

A lengthy discussion later, one stallion departed the Orange Family Mansion with a fresh tattoo near his tail and a sack full of golden coins in his forehooves. He knew, in the depths of his heart, that he should have felt naught but guilt, shame, anger, disdain for himself. Instead, all he could think of was the joy and elation of fine threads, fine wine, and fine mares that awaited him. He could trade a little bit of loyalty for those luxuries.

After all, the “Master” spoke only in riddles, waxing poetic about chessboards and puppets. The Chief of Manehatten Police digested very little of his spiel. He reasoned that it must be nothing but philosopher's talk, pretty words and petty meaning. His ears, however, did detect the affirmation of payment, and agreed with haste.

Princess Celestia turned her back on the Manehatten Police Department, choosing instead to finance her own ventures in Canterlot. Her disregard sent the Chief scrambling in panic. Many a fine officer had to be cut from the force, to his dismay. Many more found their hours slashed. An entire department—the Anti-Gang Unit—was reduced to only one detective. He’d had no choice.

However, with this most gracious and generous loan, the Chief believed, soon, the streets would be clean once more. Soon, peace would return to this city he loved so.

But what was this talk of chessboards and puppets?

Bernie Madhoof snickered and clapped his forehooves. In an instant, his throne room was secure once more and a fresh glass of orange juice appeared on his mahogany. His twenty-first glass of the day. The final. The ultimate.

He smiled into his glass. There would be no more visitors today. The Chief had been his final clown, his penultimate jester. A long day of business behind him, Bernie Madhoof welcomed relaxation, reveling in today’s successes.

Swiveling in his plush chair, the stallion looked back out his window and to the streets of his city below. Manehatten’s roads, despite their gray shade, made for a perfect chessboard. Over the past three years, he’d acquired great skill in his movements.

His Knights of blood and bullets waged war among the concrete and cobblestone. His Knights of pen and praise ensured that his schemes were kept silent and secret. His Knights of blue and batons watched his streets, only losing them to capture or chaos if needed. Pawns had no necessity for a category of their own. All the pieces were Pawns in the end, small or large, brains or brawn.

Blue, black, white. Three shades in perfect harmony. Both sides of the chessboard were his. There was no opposition; only a few stumbling blocks here and there, pieces that didn’t capture properly or who stood in the way of the others. But they were simple enough to overcome.

No wife or foals to pin him down, King Orange was free. Free to be all that he had dreamt of becoming, since his days in the cabin and his colthood. His father would’ve once been ashamed of him; now, he would be beaming with pride.

Perhaps from above, but there was no “above” or “below”. The only plane of existence that mattered was his, to rule and shape as he saw fit.

Bernie Madhoof grinned, mumbling into his orange juice, “Black goes first.”

Year Five: Runway And Runaway

Citrus Blossom held up a fragment of her mirror, tilting it in the glow of the desert dawn. Her only mirror had broken ages ago, leaving only a sliver of polished glass behind. Most of their days in Appleloosa, this was merely an inconvenience. However, she reasoned, running a forehoof through her mane, today was a far different matter. Today, she longed for the polished silver of her old life, of her old home. Things would be much easier if for that one artifact.

On the other side of the shack, her mother and cousin slept peacefully, exhausted from another long day of orchard work. Citrus had been careful not to wake them once she rose. Their gentle snores indicated she had succeeded.

Once she’d determined her long mane was sufficiently hoof-brushed, Citrus set the pan down and began to quietly pack an overnight bag. Babs Seed would be arriving at the Appleloosa station soon. She could barely contain her excitement, suppressing gleeful giggles beneath a wide grin.

Where Babs had obtained the two tickets to the annual Canterlot Fashion Show, Citrus had no clue. Her sister's letter had left out many major details, sent post-haste to the settlements only a few days ago. Libra and Braeburn had hid the letter from Citrus at first, choosing to surprise her with its contents after she’d returned from work. And surprised she had been, skipping and hopping all through the cramped shack.

All Citrus knew was that Babs Seed would be here at first light this morning, staying just long enough for a quick hug and catch-up before the pair had to board another train towards the East. Barring any mechanical failure, Babs and Citrus would arrive in Canterlot an hour or so before the show. There would be enough time, Citrus thought, to explore the city of her dreams.

Canterlot. Citrus regulated this particular pipe-dream to the very back of her mind. Dreams of both day and night offered no assistance among the sweat and toil of Appleloosa. Throughout the years, Citrus had strengthened in both mind, body, and soul, her previous anxieties dissipating into the dust and wind. The desert was an unforgiving mistress.

Somehow, she, Libra, and Braeburn remained, strong and steady, mighty apple trees under the blazing inferno. Citrus double-checked her saddlebags and hoisted them across her shoulders. She slowly trotted over to her sleeping mother on the bottom bunk and nuzzled her cheek. Libra Scales stirred but did not wake.

“Goodbye, Mother. I will be home tomorrow morning. I promise,” she whispered. Her mother nuzzled her cheek back, transfixed by the Sandmare’s spell. Citrus smiled and took a few careful hoof-steps back.

Braeburn rolled over and opened one eye.

“Oh, sorry, Brae. I didn’t mean to wake you,” muttered Citrus, heading towards the door.

He yawned and smacked his lips. “Hah… no worries, Citrus. Ah’ll need ta be gettin’ up soon, anyways. Sheriff’s wantin’ me ta come talk ta him today.”

“Oh, that’s right. You have your eyes on Silverstar’s job, don’t you, Braeburn?”

Braeburn snorted and shook his muzzle. “Me? Do ya forget who yer talkin’ ta, Citrus? Why, Ah couldn’t hurt a flea if Ah tried,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper, mindful of his slumbering aunt.

Citrus chuckled. “I think you should give yourself some more credit, Braeburn. But we’ll talk about that later. Babs’s train is going to be pulling in soon.”

“Say hi ta her fer me, alright?”

Citrus Blossom nodded. Braeburn climbed down from his bunk bed and began to stretch, shaking out his mane. With a final, hopeful smile, Citrus quietly exited the shack, shutting the door behind her.

Tumbleweeds accompanied her on her journey to the train station. All around was silence, dawn peeking under the cover of night above. Today’s road would be a long one. It would be worth every minute, every second.

Soon, Citrus would be muzzle-to-muzzle with the city of her dreams, face-to-face with the teenage hopes she hadn’t yet abandoned to the toil and sweat of monotonous existence. She would soon see what glory awaited her beyond the train tracks.

Babs Seed leaned against the sleeper cab, back to the seat, hindhooves stretched all the way across. She peeked one eye partially open, blinded and awakened by Celestia’s dawn. She slept through the majority of this ride, departing in the twilight towards the West and the best.

Her timing couldn’t have been more perfect. Applejack would be leaving for Dodge Junction in the morning for a rodeo, and Big Mac and Granny Smith would be departing for Hollow Shades in the afternoon to visit some extended family. Apple Bloom didn’t seem too eager to partake in either activity, nor was there a third ticket available to this Canterlot excursion.

In fact, Babs noted, Apple Bloom hadn’t seemed too eager for much lately. Babs couldn’t blame her. Her fifth year as an Apple passed, and while the first had granted the seed a cutiemark, time hadn’t been so kind to the bloom.

Babs relented in the wake of the sun, opening her eyes and stretching her forehooves. She yawned and arched her back, staring out the window. Hopefully, Apple Bloom will have some fun while everypony’s gone… maybe hang wit’ Scoots o’ Sweetie. She worries ‘bout the cutiemark thing far too much. But maybe dat’s selfish o’ me ta say. I love her, an’ I try, but I dunno how she’s gonna get it… but she has ta, at some point, right?

Her fifth summer in Ponyville brought another wave of Crusading opportunities. However, the clubhouse and its Crusaders utilized these possibilities less and less as time wore on.

Sweetie Belle spent most of her free time practicing her art, occasionally trekking to Canterlot or Trottingham for professional voice coaching. Scootaloo practiced her stunt flying with Rainbow Dash most days and went on dates with Featherweight the remainder of the time. Scoots had been correct; the best way to a colt’s heart had been through his stomach.

Apple Bloom and Babs Seed spent their first month of summer working their hooves into the dirt, commanded by Applejack to “pull their weight a little more”. Appljeack pulled no punches when it came to chores and harvests. Only a year of school separated them from adulthood. From one continent to another they would cross, beginning as fillies and ending as mares.

Thankfully, the additional work brought bits with it. Applejack began to pay her sibling and cousin (overdue, Babs Seed thought). Due to this "allowance," Babs was able to afford two round-trip tickets to Appleloosa, Canterlot, and back to Ponyville.

Babs sighed and watched a hawk snatch up an unsuspecting field mouse in the sands beyond the window. “Heh. Too slow, lil’ mouse.” She laughed.

A train guards-pony trotted up and down the center aisle, calling out in his baritone, “Next stop, Appleloosa! Ten minutes until our arrival, everypony! Rise and shine!”

Compartments surrounding her filled with the groans and yawns of reluctantly awaken ponies. Babs Seed counted the minutes, enthralled by the proliferating sunrise outside. Soon, she would see Citrus again, and lead her beloved sister to the city and experience of her dreams.

Fighting the urge to fall back asleep, Babs muttered, “I’ll have ta find a way ta repay Rarity fo’ dem tickets…”

Citrus paced from one side of the platform to the other. A few trains pulled into the station, billowing steam and smoke into the morning mist, but none of them were from Ponyville. A half-hour passed, bringing with it an empty train. A conductor-pony hopped out of the latest arrival and declared, “Train bound for Canterlot! Leaving in ten minutes!”

“Oh, come on.” Citrus groaned, face-hoofing. “Babs, you better get here soon, or we’ll miss our chance!”

In her letter, Babs Seed had somehow been able to purchase both train tickets, along with the two for the fashion show. This led Citrus to wonder how exactly her sibling was earning bits. She made a mental reminder to ask that question among her myriad of inquiries. None of that would matter if the Ponyville train didn’t arrive, and soon.

Finally, a few minutes before the clock would steal Canterlot away from them, another train pulled into the station. The locomotive halted, squealing on its brakes, and released its contents. Within a steady stream of passengers came a bolting filly calling, “CITRUS!”

“BABS!”

Citrus Blossom opened her forehooves to her sister, who met her with ease and haste. Babs Seed was now taller and stronger than her, thick muscles rippling under coat, and nearly tackled Citrus to the ground.

“Babs… hon… we… need… to… go,” Citrus choked, a pair of forehooves squeezing her tight.

“Oh! Heh, heh, sorry, sis,” Babs mumbled, releasing the mare. “Sorry. It’s been too long! Since last Hearth’s Warmin’ Eve, right?”

“I think so. We have a lot of catching up to do. Let’s get on the next train first. You have the tickets, right?” Citrus asked.

Fumbling through her saddlebags, Babs retrieved her prize. “Eeyup! Right heeya!”

“Good. Let’s get going.”

A weathered conductor-pony gladly accepted their tickets. They quickly boarded the train, choosing a sleeper cab near the back. Barely a few seconds after they sat on their haunches, the locomotive sprang to life, its wheels churning and rocketing them towards the East and the beast.

Braeburn left a pot of hot coffee and a plateful of apple fritters for Aunt Orange’s breakfast before leaving the shack. The mare snoozed away the dawn, drooling all over her pillow. Braeburn couldn’t help but smile.

The stallion glanced over his shoulder once he was outside, gazing upon his abode. Auntie Orange, Cousin Citrus, and Braeburn called this little structure home for the past five years. They’d managed, only bumping into one another or tripping over sprawled hooves just a few times a day (as opposed to their beginning ten or so). They’d grown accustomed to the dwelling and the hardships that came with settlement life.

Looking up at his creation, Braeburn scolded himself. He’d let this go on for far too long. This was no way for them to live. Maybe the lone stallion suited this sort of life, but Auntie and Citrus deserved far better.

Shaking his muzzle, Braeburn continued into the heart of Appleloosa, passing tumbleweeds and his mother’s orchard. The three of them were more stable now, in constant communications with Babs Seed and the Apples, suffering no more injuries or nights of hunger. Nevertheless, Citrus and Auntie Orange deserved far more than he could offer them.

And now, Citrus was heading towards Canterlot. It would only be for a night of fun, of course, but it would be enough to make her wonder. It would be enough to make her choose.

Braeburn knew, and was prepared for what would surely come after this trip. He would keep his tone steady, his volume low, and his smile bright, in spite of its arrival. He would be strong.

Adjusting his Stetson, Braeburn cast his thoughts aside, breaking into a gallop to meet Sheriff Silverstar.

Storing their saddlebags in the overhead compartment, Babs Seed called down to her sister as she cursed and fumbled with the small space provided, “So! How’s Appleloosa been?”

“Just fine. You sure you got that up there, Babs?” Citrus asked with concern.

Babs slammed Citrus’s bag into the compartment and shut the door. Climbing back down into the cab, she dismissed her sibling with a forehoof. “O’ course I do! Youze jus’ packed too much, as always…” She snickered and shook her muzzle, a playful grin streaking across her face.

Citrus giggled. “Oh, hush. How could you not expect me to overpack for a trip to Canterlot of all places?!”

“Heh, heh. Well, dat’s true. Even if it's jus' fo' one day, it's youze dream, isn’t it? Ta go be a model in Canterlot?”

Citrus fidgeted with her forehooves. “Well, yes, it is,” she began, “but I’m not sure if it would ever be a reality. Not after working in those orchards for five years.”

“Why would youze say dat?” Babs asked.

“Well… look at me, Babs. I don’t exactly look…delicate anymore.”

Babs paused. Though she had both height and weight on her sibling, Citrus had also grown stronger since their days in Manehatten. Her features sharpened, emboldened and tempered by the harsh desert sun and the unrelenting wind of the deep. Muscles contracted and flexed under coat with no effort on Citrus’ part. Her fetlocks had grown long and unshorn over her weathered hooves. Though it was obviously brushed, her mane was sprinkled with sand and a few shades lighter than it had been in the city.

Yes, the desert had transformed Citrus, evolving her from a worrisome fashionista into a full-fledged Appleloosian. Manehatten was but a bad dream now. The Orange Family Mansion belonged to another Citrus Blossom, one she would never be again. Evolution, as it always is, was bittersweet.

Citrus sighed. “You see? You see it, don’t you? There’s no way somepony like me could become a model, Babs. I’m far too… rough now. Not that I’m complaining. I mean… Appleloosa is great. It really is. What Braeburn’s done for me and Mother, it just… I just love him for it.”

Babs grinned. “Youze know what, Citrus?”

“What, Babs?”

“I think youze are more beautiful now,” Babs Seed said, sincere.

“… You’re just saying that.”

“Would I lie ta youze?”

“You have before.”

“Well,” Babs Seed countered, “I’m not the same pony anymo’. An’ youze aren’t eitha. An’ dat’s a good thing. Don’t youze think?”

After a moment, Citrus Blossom answered, “Yes, Babs. Yes, it’s a good thing.”

“Well, howdy partner!” Silverstar greeted, hopping down off the porch of his office. “How are ya doin’ this fine mornin’, Braeburn?”

Braeburn replied, “Jus’ fine, Sheriff. Now, what can Ah do fer ya?”

“Ah was wantin’ ta talk ta ya ‘bout some things. Why don’t ya walk wit’ me ta the orchards?”

Braeburn nodded and walked besidehim. They trotted in silence, occasionally tightening their Stetsons against their manes. The morning breeze had arrived, playing with the sand, sending it flying into their faces.

Squeezing his eyes shut, Braeburn asked over the wind, “So, what’s wrong, Sheriff?”

Silverstar spat a mouthful of sand from his muzzle. “Tarnation! It’s summer! We ain’t s’posed ta be havin’ wind like this until winter! What the hay?!”

“Sheriff, it gets like this sometimes,” Braeburn explained.

Silverstar stared at him.

“Ah’ve lived here ma whole life, ya know,” he remarked with a chuckle. “Don’t ya remember?”

“O’ course Ah do!” dismissed Silverstar. “Ah, here we are.”

They reached the highest point in Appleloosa, a cliff overlooking orchards of apple trees below. Their branches were heavy with red, ripe fruit, promises of sustenance and economy to follow. No Buffalo scampered at this hour. The nomadic tribe lived cyclical lives, returning to their native stampeding grounds around spring. For now, the bounty of the harvest belonged to the settler-ponies, and the settler-ponies alone.

Finding nothing out of the ordinary, Braeburn turned to Silverstar. “What did ya want ta show me, Sheriff? Everythin’ looks fine as it is.”

“It ain’t nothin’ wit’ the orchards, Brae.” Silverstar pointed towards the horizon. “Everythin’ looks as it should be. At least, from what Ah see. The Buffalo won’t be back until late spring. Not that it has anythin’ ta do wit’ ‘em anyway.”

“Then, what—“

“Lemme ask ya a question, Brae.”

“Sure, Sheriff. Shoot.”

Silverstar removed his Stetson, wiping sand from its brim. “Have ya ever thought ‘bout bein’ somethin’ other than a simple farm-pony?”

Taken aback, Braeburn stuttered, “Well, heh, Ah don’t really know what ya mean, Sheriff. Appleloosa’s always been ma home.”

“Ah didn’t say nothin’ ‘bout leavin’." Silverstar scowled. Securing his Stetson back on his mane, fresh and clean, he clarified, “Ah mean… have ya been thinkin’ ‘bout gettin’ mo’ fer yerself? Mo’ fer yer family?”

Braeburn shook his head. “Bits don’t mean nothin’ ta me, Sheriff.”

“Well, then… have ya thought ‘bout gettin’ a bigger home fer y’all? You an’ the Manehatten mares, Ah mean?”

Cautiously, Braeburn answered, “Well… it would be nice. Poor Auntie an’ Citrus been sleepin’ on them bunks fer five years now. An’ Ah do feel right awful ‘bout havin’ them stuck in such a small lil’ place, ya know. But Ah don’t know what ta do, Sheriff!”

Braeburn dug at the sand, searching for an oasis within, a place that would hold his answers. “Sometimes, Ah think ‘bout tryin’ ta find 'em work in Dodge Junction, o’ Hollow Shades, o’ somethin’. Somethin’ not as hard as here. They deserve better, Sheriff.”

Silverstar draped a forehoof around Braeburn's shoulders. “C’mon, now. Yer doin’ the best ya can. Appleloosa owes ya everythin’, Braeburn. Yer a right ol’ hero ‘round these parts. Ya know that, don’t ya?”

“Ah do, but Ah don’t see why that matters.”

“Well… ya know, Braeburn, if ya wanted somethin’ like that—a bigger home, a better one, somethin’ fer them—maybe Ah can help ya.”

He spun to face the Sheriff, irises lit aflame. Perhaps somepony had been listening to his inner monologue, after all. “Really, Sheriff? Ya would do that fer me?”

“Ah would do ma best,” Silverstar affirmed with a smile. “But, Ah must warn ya. Ah can get ya the materials quite easily. Workers? Not so much so. Times are tough, an’ Ah only got so much ta spare.”

Braeburn shook his head. “Leave that ta me, Sheriff. Ah can do any work that needs ta be done, an’ anythin’ ya need ta help pay fer it.”

“Ah could always use a Deputy,” said Silverstar with a grin.

Braeburn spat on a forehoof and held it out to the stallion. “Ya got yerself a deal.”

Citrus Blossom and Babs Seed passed the hours laughing, reminiscing, trading tales of past and present. While Ponyville was far more exciting in its day-to-day operations, and Sweet Apple Acres itself held a treasure trove of stories, Appleloosa proved to be intriguing in its own right. Babs listened, fascinated, to stories of survival and toil, sweat under the desert sun, fledgling friendships with the Buffalo tribe and encounters with coyotes.

In the same vein, Citrus listened intently to Babs’s own tales, recollections of schoolyard bullies and Crusader meetings, lessons learned and timberwolves slain. Citrus, with more than a little teasing and prodding, even managed a Hearts and Hooves Day story from Babs Seed, who told it with a blush and a glare that could slay the most powerful of foes.

“Oh, c’mon, Babs! It’s not like I already knew.” Citrus giggled, covering her muzzle with a forehoof. “I knew all those years ago that you two liked each other.”

“Whateva!” Babs dismissed, crossing her forehooves. “Consida youzeself lucky youze know dat story. Not many do. An’ don’t go tellin’ Ma an’ Brae ‘bout it, neitha!”

“Don’t worry, hon. I won’t,” Citrus answered seriously. “I know Mother doesn’t think too highly of you two.”

“An’ I don’t need her to,” Babs shot back, honesty and deception waging war within her words. Unsure of her own intent, she chose to change the subject. “So. Youze find any stallions youze like in Appleloosa?”

Citrus stuck out her tongue and gagged.

“I guess dat’s a no?”

Braeburn crept inside the shack, setting his Stetson on a hook on the wall. Auntie Orange was still asleep, sprawled out all over the sheets, dead to Appleloosa, Equestria, and Earth itself. Stifling a chuckle, the stallion served himself a cup of coffee and an apple fritter and plopped down on a stool.

Deputy. The word echoed throughout his mind. Braeburn never planned to be much more than a simple farm-pony, carrying his mother’s legacy into the future. He’d risen from a stranger among strangers to the most well-known stallion in Appleloosa (next to Silverstar, of course) due to the “Buffalo Incident”. The settler-ponies respected him, looked to him for guidance and assistance, and spoke highly of his name. All of it was far more than he’d ever imagined or desired.

Braeburn sipped his coffee. He’d never planned on sharing his humble abode with two city mares, either, but Fate never reveals her tricks early. Time and toil had made them all strong, resilient. They’d survived through the barren winters and the blazing summers. Perhaps they weren’t “city mares” anymore. Perhaps.

The stallion greedily gulped down his fritter. The finest apples this side of Equestria drove him to reach for another. Deputy. Braeburn would become a Deputy, and, in exchange, would construct something fine and fitting for his aunt and cousin.

Canterlot came again to his mind, and he wondered if it would be a shack for two, instead of three.

A shout of, “Next stop, Canterlot! Arriving in ten minutes!” woke Babs and Citrus from their slumber.

Babs Seed scrambled to her hooves and checked a clock hanging above the sleeper cab. 1700. The Canterlot Fashion Show was an hour away. Mo’ than enough time ta wanda ‘round an’ get some food, she thought, her stomach protesting its neglect.

She reached up and opened the overhead compartment, gathering their saddlebags and setting them on the sleeper cab beside her. Once she’d secured her own belongings, she nudged a sleeping mare in the shoulder and hissed, “C’mon, Citrus. We’re almost heeya.”

“Huh? … Oh. It’s just you.” Citrus rose to her hooves and said with a yawn, “You aren’t Hoity Toity.”

Babs snorted. “O’ course I’m not! Citrus, what have dey been feedin’ youze in Appleloosa lately? Haha!”

“Oh, hush,” jabbed the mare, poking her sister in the ribs. “It’s far better than what Applejack makes, I bet.”

Highly unlikely. Dat mare should’ve been a pastry chef. Oh, wait. She ain’t crazy enough. Nevamind. “Hold up. Didn’t Ma say youze were learnin’ how ta cook a while back?”

Citrus strapped her saddlebags over her shoulder and stretched. “Yes. And I’ve become quite good at it,” she replied, smirking.

“So, how many fires has Braeburn had ta put out in his poor shack?”

Babs ducked beneath a forehoof flung her way, steadying herself as the train pulled into the station. She scampered out of the aisle and towards the door, laughing, dodging playful punches from Citrus Blossom.

Her hooves met the concrete and, immediately, Babs shivered.

Citrus exclaimed, “Ha! Got ya!”

The mare froze her forehoof, all other three hooves touching the cold streets, sending a chill down her spine.

They exchanged worried glances. “Babs… do you feel that?”

Babs murmured, “Yea, I do. What is dat?”

“I don’t know.”

It’s so… cold heeya.

Shrugging, Citrus Blossom lowered her forehoof and began to trot towards the city’s center. Babs followed closely, cutting through a large crowd of finely dressed mares and stallions. Many of the ponies here wore expensive clothing and accessories—monocles, glasses, hats, headdresses, necklaces, hoof-bands and bracelets. Not much o’ dat in Ponyville. Threads of silk, cotton, and wool passed them by, garments dyed and decorated in all shades.

More noticeable than their attire, however, was the contrast between certain breeds of Canterlot citizens. While the unicorns seemed positively delighted, murmuring excitedly amongst themselves of nighttime plans and possibilities, the Earth ponies seemed, frankly, depressed. The scowls and frowns on their muzzles alarmed the fillies; such appearances were a rarity to both Citrus and Babs in their respective homes.

Appleloosa, despite its hardships, whispered of hope, new beginnings, promise in sweat and toil. Ponyville was far more diverse, opportunities tucked within its mane, pleading to be found. Every valley had its mountain, and every bad day in the West (town or settlement) met its match with a better one to come. Optimism became the default. No such declaration could be made here.

Canterlot, at first glance, seemed to be little more than Manehatten for unicorns. The concrete beneath their hooves acted as a vacuum, sapping the two of their strength and vigor. Nopony else seemed to be affected.

Ears flattened in worry, Citrus Blossom turned to her sister and said, “I swear, Babs, something doesn’t feel right here.”

“I know. Maybe it’s jus’ ‘cuz it’s dark,” Babs offered. Indeed, though Celestia hadn’t yet lowered her star, the streets were dim, lit by a path of street-lamps and glowing shop-windows. But I like the dark back in Ponyville, o’ Appleloosa. Hay, I even liked it in Manehatten. Fo' a while. But dat was so long ago…

“Yeah, that must be it,” Citrus conceded. “Are you hungry? Do you want to go get something to eat before we hit the show?”

Hunger forgotten in the wake of this strange, hollow ice spreading up from her hooves, Babs Seed shook her muzzle. “Naw. Let’s jus’ go get our seats fo’ the show early. Be less crowded dat way.”

Citrus agreed and set off with her sibling towards into the heart of Canterlot. Each step they trotted or cantered, twisting and turning through a maze of passerby and vendors’ carts, stole an ember of their flame. When they located the venue at last, Babs Seed wondered with dread if this dream would soon become a nightmare.

A crowd of Canterlot elites clamored around the stage, hoisting cameras with their hooves or magic. Only the most powerful and wealthy possessed the best seats in this house. Rows and rows of other noble-ponies occupied the next tier of seats, close enough to the stage to render binoculars useless. One level behind them were the “general admission” seats, reserved for those lucky enough to simply obtain tickets.

Rarity seemed to be one of those lucky ponies. The two tickets she’d purchased for Babs Seed—after much pleading and bargaining from Babs—landed their bearers far behind the rows of noble-ponies. Citrus Blossom squinted through a pair of binoculars. “I can barely see anything! I don’t think they’ve started yet, though…”

Babs face-hoofed. Dammit, Rarity! Youze said youze had connections heeya. Sweetie Belle’s singin’ wit’ the best o’ the best, an’ all youze can get is THESE seats? Aye, horseapples. “I’m sorry, Citrus… I thought dey would be closer than dis…”

Citrus patted her sister on the shoulder. “Now, now, Babs, it’s quite alright,” she soothed, mustering a smile. “We haven’t missed anything yet. I’m sure once it starts—“

The lights suddenly dimmed, darkening the venue. A pair of blue spotlights appeared on stage, circling over the runway. Near the runway, a unicorn mare with a wild two-tone blue mane cast a simple spell and flipped on a vinyl record. The hall quickly filled with classical music, and the curtains on the runway parted, revealing the first model.

Citrus stood on her hindhooves, leaning from side to side, peering over rows and rows of awed audience. Babs sighed. No way she can see ova everypony. Unless…

A pair of forehooves grabbed Citrus Blossom near her torso. She gasped and quickly located her assailant. “Babs! What are you doing?!”

“Shh! Youze gonna get us kicked out!” Babs scolded. “Jus’ give me a sec!”

Carefully, Babs Seed side-stepped and maneuvered under her sibling, placing the mare on her back. “Now sit up an’ youze should be able ta see!”

Balancing herself, Citrus sat upright on her haunches, holding the scruff of her sister's neck tightly. “Babs, I don’t think this is such a good idea. One, now you can’t see. And two, aren’t I a bit…” She paused, blushing. “Heavy?”

Shaking her muzzle, Babs assured, “Don’t worry ‘bout me. Jus’ enjoy the show. Dis is fo’ youze, Citrus.”

Babs leaned back and looked into the mare’s eyes, beaming as she said, “Dis is youze dream. Ta be heeya. Ta be one o’ dem. So, go ‘head an’ watch. I’ll be fine.”

Citrus Blossom relented and relaxed, releasing her grip on her sibling.

Across the runway, a beautiful unicorn mare posed for the cameras, showing off rows of sparkling molars and a pair of irises that could melt the heart of any desert coyote. The model twirled her dress, billows of rhinestone-speckled cloth trailing behind her. Constant camera flashes and whoops of encouragement accompanied the classical music.

Another model followed the first, this one a pegasus stallion. The annual Canterlot Fashion Show was gender-inclusive, and for good reason. The stallion strutted down the runway, powerful wings flared to proud, full length, sporting a hoof-stitched tuxedo and a dazzling tie.

Below her, Babs Seed teased, “Youze like dat one, don’t youze?”

“Babs!” Citrus protested. “I’m your big sister! I’m supposed to be the one making fun of you and your crushes, not the other way around.”

“Heh, well, guess I’ve got a hoof up on dat one,” Babs taunted, winking. “But since we’re heeya, youze might as well find youzeself a stallion.”

“Hush. Now you are going to get us kicked out.”

A few hours later, around the same time Babs Seed felt her back begin to ache, the last model crossed the runway for the final time. A sea of applause ignited and spread throughout the audience, the disc jockey’s final notes echoing throughout the crowded venue. Citrus Blossom clapped her forehooves together excitedly, crying, “Encore! Encore!”

Dismounting from Babs's back, Citrus enveloped her sibling in a crushing embrace. “Oh, Babs, thank you so much for taking me here! That was amazing! Those ponies! Those outfits! And I can’t thank you enough for giving me a literal hoof-up so I could—oh, are you alright?! You’re wincing…”

“I’m fine.” Babs groaned, cracking her back. “C’mon, let’s get goin’. I promised Applejack I’d be back by midnight. Four hours back ta Ponyville, youze know.”

“Of course, sweetie. Let me just go take care of one thing first, alright?”

“Sure.”

Cutting through an ocean of elites, nearly stomping on more than a few hooves, Citrus Blossom aimed for the stage. There, the runway stars and the elite of elites, including household names like Hoity Toity and Photo Finish, hung about, striking a few more poses for a few more privileged cameras.

A few hoof-steps before reaching them, Citrus dug through her saddlebags and retrieved a copy of Fashion Weekly magazine. It was an old copy with Hoity Toity on the cover, the last one she’d received in the mail while living in Manehatten. Citrus had never renewed the subscription.

Whether this was due to poverty or the past, Citrus wasn’t sure. She’d saved it, regardless, and brought it here, muzzle-to-muzzle with her dreams.

Clutching the magazine in her forehooves, Citrus crossed over to the runway and stuttered, “M-M-Mister H-H-Hoity T-Toity, sir?”

The stallion spun around and peered over his sunglasses. “Ehh, yes?”

“C-can I g-get your a-autograph?” she stammered, reduced to a shivering foal in the presence of one of her fillyhood heroes. Hoity Toity was a legend in the fashion industry, sparking the careers of models, designers, and photographers alike. To obtain his autograph would be a small shred of hope, a small spark of possibility, a reminder that her dreams were not dead.

Citrus forced a grin, silently commanding herself to cease her anxiety, to hold fast in this moment in time.

Hoity Toity flared his nostrils and crossed his forehooves. “And who just might you be?”

“I’m C-Citrus B-Blossom!” she squeaked. “I’ve been a f-fan of y-y-yours for s-so long, Mister H-Hoity T-Toit—“

“That’s enough.” Hoity held up a forehoof. “I’ve never heard of you.”

“Oh! Well, maybe you will, s-someday,” she nervously replied, running a forehoof through her mane. “I’ve always w-wanted to be a model, and—“

“A model? You?!” The pegasus stallion, clad in a fine tuxedo, laughed at her from above. “Look at you! Why, you’ve got more muscle than me, mare! Modeling is a delicate career, you know! And you look about as delicate as a timberwolf!”

Another model piped, “Yeah! Let me guess, you just blew in from the desert, didn’t you? I can see the sand in your mane!”

Citrus slowly began to back away, stashing her magazine in her saddlebags. Biting her lip, flattening her ears, and willing her tears to halt, she muttered, “I’m… I’m sorry for wasting your time… I’ll be going…”

“Good!” Hoity Toity exclaimed. Turning to one of his models, he asked, “How did a ruffian like her even get tickets to this event?” A shrug was his reply.

Citrus Blossom galloped out of the venue, speeding past her waiting sibling. “Citrus?! Where youze goin’?! Citrus?!”

Babs Seed took to her hooves, barreling through the door and out into the cold Canterlot night.

Again, once her keratin met the cobblestone, she felt an instantaneous shiver, her strength sapped from the street, ice traveling up her limbs. Ignoring the strange, haunting sensation, Babs searched for her sister. “Citrus! Citrus!” She brushed through gaggles of unicorn elites, who scowled at the juvenile delinquent.

Finally, from the corner of her eye, she found Citrus Blossom cantering towards the train station. Taking a deep breath, Babs galloped after her, calling her name.

Babs landed on her forehooves, bracing herself as she dug them into the ground, almost crashing into the mare. Citrus Blossom sat on her haunches, hanging her muzzle low to the street. Tears flowed freely from her eyes, forming a small puddle in the dust below.

It had been over five years since Babs Seed had seen her sister weep. Their meetings since Manehatten days had been too few and infrequent, but they’d always been happy ones. She’d hoped this one would be the happiest one of all. But, o’ course, I had ta go an’ buck it up.

Babs wrapped a forehoof around her sister and nuzzled her neck. “I’m sorry, Citrus. I shoulda got betta seats. I’m sorry youze didn’t—“

“No!” Citrus snapped. Quieter this time, she said, “It’s not your fault, Babs.”

“Then, what’s wrong? What happened?” Babs asked, confused.

Citrus Blossom sighed and turned to her. “I was an idiot.”

“Youze ain’t an idiot, Citrus…”

“Yes. Yes I am, Babs. I thought somepony like me could be somepony like them,” Citrus said, pointing towards the venue in the distance.

“I thought I could be somepony sophisticated and cultured and beautiful and famous and… and important. That’s what I’ve always thought, even when we lived in the mansion. I thought that, someday, I’d be old enough or beautiful enough or smart enough to reach my dream.”

Babs nuzzled her neck again. “But youze can do anythin’ youze wanna do, Citrus. Youze are a good pony. A great pony. A beautiful pony.”

Citrus deadpanned, “They don’t think so, Babs.”

“Who don’t think so?!” Babs demanded. “I’ll kick their flanks!”

Citrus shook her head and chuckled softly. “Babs, hon, it’s not that simple.”

“I know, but I got youze ta laugh a lil’, didn’t I?”

Nuzzling her back, Citrus relented, “I guess you did.”

Babs Seed grasped Citrus Blossom’s forehooves in her own. “I’m sorry dis didn’t go so well, Citrus. I thought youze would like it. I’m sorry.”

“No, it’s not your fault, Babs. It was fun for a bit. Although, this city is starting to creep me out. Doesn’t it feel… cold… to you?”

“Yes… yes it does.” Almost like we don’t have any power heeya. Almost like we’re weak heeya. Like we ain’t… connected.

A train rolled into the Canterlot station, startling both. Once the wheels were locked and secured, a conductor-pony hopped from the locomotive and called out, “Train bound for Ponyville! Leaving in ten minutes!”

“That’s our cue, sweetie. C’mon,” Citrus urged, sniffling away her tears. “Let’s hop on and sleep this off.”

“… Don’t youze wanna talk more?”

“I think I’ll be alright. I think we both just need sleep. And I’ll wake you up once it pulls into Ponyville. I’ll be catching one to Appleloosa after.”

Following behind the mare, Babs Seed replied, “Alright. One mo’ thing, though, Citrus.”

Citrus Blossom turned around. “Yes, Babs?”

“Youze are beautiful, Citrus. Youze deserve any stallion in Equestria youze want. An’ dey are wrong. Don’t youze forget it.”

This time, Citrus Blossom crushed Babs Seed in a hug, believing her.

Around midnight, the train pulled into Ponyville, grinding its gears to a screeching halt. Never an insomniac by nature, Citrus Blossom nonetheless stayed awake throughout the entire ride, rousing her sibling once they’d arrived. Babs Seed gathered her saddlebags and, through a dreamlike, half-asleep haze, exchanged farewells with her beloved sister.

Neither was too concerned. Only one year of schooling separated Babs Seed from freedom. Once that grand year came and passed, the filly would be free to choose her own destiny and time and purpose. Citrus hoped that future would include Appleloosa.

Citrus Blossom waved goodbye, watching as Babs became a mere shadow against the moonlight. With a few minutes to spare in between the arrival of the next train, Citrus Blossom plopped down on her haunches and let her mind wander. It wandered to the desert this time, instead of the city.

She remembered the escape from Manehatten, the wondrous landscape, Braeburn’s crushing hug, and that first night in the shack. She recalled the first winter, the blanket of snow upon the sand, her mother’s sorrow. She remembered the reunion with Babs Seed, Applejack, and Apple Bloom, how complete their little family felt then, huddled around Braeburn’s tiny table.

She remembered buffalo and settlers, acceptance and friendship from them all. She thought of the warmth of the Appleloosian sun across her countenance, the satisfying CLINK! of bits in a mason jar, the pride of a hard day’s work done.

She remembered Braeburn’s grin, his laugh, his calm and wise words, the promises he struggled to keep. Throughout all these years, he’d done his best to keep her and her mother comfortable, safe, and sane, giving refuge to all their madness. The stallion wore himself into the ground, frequently working multiple jobs to keep food on their table, assisting fellow settlers at the drop of a hat. He demanded no compensation, pressed for no payback.

Whereas Canterlot, at least on its cold, icy surface, appeared to be as relentless as Manehatten—praising prestige and reputation, looking down its snout at all who did not fit its image—Appleloosa brought only warmth to Citrus’s mind. The iciest desert winter trumped the bitter cold she’d found in her dream city among her idols.

No more doubt remained. She knew, then, who she was, where she was supposed to be.

A train to Appleloosa announced its arrival, wrestling Citrus Blossom from her thoughts. She eagerly boarded, and, once inside, found herself too excited to sleep.

A creak of the door.

Braeburn scrambled on his bunk, bolting upright. He hissed through the darkness, a forehoof wandering between his pillows in search of his concealed revolver, “Who’s there?!”

“Braeburn, it’s just me," soothed a familiar mare.

He sighed in relief. “Oh, Citrus. Ya scared me!” he muttered, keeping his voice low, careful not to wake his aunt. Libra had finally awoken with the high noon and spent the majority of the day earning her wages in the orchard. Exhausted again, she’d retired earlier than Braeburn, lost to the world.

Citrus Blossom paused. Her mother did not wake. Hesitantly, she whispered, “Sorry. I didn’t realize I would be home so late. It’s almost sunrise.”

“Ah know.” The stallion quietly maneuvered out of his bunk and hopped down to the floorboards. Meeting her in the threshold, he asked, “How was Canterlot?”

“It was alright,” Citrus Blossom said. She chuckled. “Not as good as I thought it would be.”

“Really?” Braeburn pressed. “Ah thought that place was yer dream city. An’ goin’ there would be like yer dream come true.”

“I thought so too, Brae. But, sometimes, our dreams aren’t what they seem to be, I guess.”

“Ah. Ah’m sorry, Citrus.”

“Don’t be.”

“But, it’s where ya wanted ta—“

“Braeburn."

“Yes?”

Citrus Blossom hugged him tightly, startling the stallion. Braeburn laughed and returned the gesture, embracing her.

Under the cover of dark, Citrus declared, “This is where I want to be, Braeburn. This is what I dream about now. Being here. With you and Mother.

“This is home to me now.”

Braeburn smiled. He would build a home for three, after all.

Year Five: Out Of The Woodwork

Apple Bloom always rose with the dawn.

This morning, however, she shied away from it, burying her face beneath the covers. The stomping of hooves down the stairs near her room and general commotion below announced the departure of Granny Smith, Big Mac, and Applejack. All three elder Apples had cast their best dice the prior evening, bargaining with their youngest member.

“Babs ain’t gonna be back ‘till late tomorrowa mornin’, maybe midnight if the trains run good, Apple Bloom. Why don’t ya come ta the rodeo wit’ me? Ah’m sure ya’ll have a good time if ya do.” Applejack offered her a sincere grin.

“Ah’m fine,” Apple Bloom had said. “Ah think Ah’ll jus’ stay home an’ relax.”

“What’s that now, youngin’? Ya don’t wanna come wit’ yer big sister ta the rodeo?” Granny Smith asked, holding an ear trumpet up to her head and eying the filly suspiciously.

Again, Apple Bloom declined.

Big Macintosh chose to stay out of this particular brewing argument. The soft-spoken stallion reckoned the reason why, plain and blank as day. He decided not to press the issue, and cut Applejack off with a stern glare when she began to protest once more.

They’d left her alone accordingly.

Now, listening as Applejack fumbled with her saddlebags in the living room—“Tarnation! These things are gettin’ old!”—and Granny set a pot of oatmeal to boil on the kitchen stove, Apple Bloom fought the sunrise. She threw the blankets over herself and closed her eyes, transporting herself to a place beyond Sweet Apple Acres.

In her mind’s eye, Sweetie Belle and Scootaloo didn’t cancel their Crusader meetings with awkward, forced smiles and half-truths. There, Babs Seed didn’t hold her close and launch into tired reassurances that the day would come, and it would be brilliant and glorious and wonderful. There, other ponies didn’t whisper behind her back in Cheerilee’s class, placing bets on just how long it would be before she threw up her hooves in submission and accepted her fate.

Permanent blankflanks were unheard of in present-day Equestria. An old book of equine history, quietly borrowed from Twilight’s library and kept concealed within her saddlebags, revealed to Apple Bloom that this had not always been the case. There had been some ponies long, long ago who never acquired their special talent.

Dark, ancient days forced those unlucky beings into servitude and slavery. They were regarded as slightly better than mules, though not on the same scale as full-fledged ponies, regardless of race. Those times, of course, were gone with the dust of yesteryear and vowed never to return again (long as Celestia had some say in governance). Still, the past premise and slim possibility sent a chill down Apple Bloom’s spine.

She’d tried everything. Sweetie, Scoots, and Babs picked the very corners of their brains, scooping out gray matter and ideas, but nothing worked. Nothing. Every occupation short of Royal Guard or royalty itself had been tested and found worthless.

Apple Bloom loved Babs Seed so, but found no solace in her words.

“Go, Babs. Go an’ see yer sister. Ah’ll still be here,” she’d reassured Babs, watching her pack away an overnight saddlebag for the trip.

Babs trotted over and nuzzled her filly’s neck. “Are youze sure youze’ll be alright? Youze been awful quiet lately.”

“Ah’m fine,” Apple Bloom lied. Swallowing honesty—grateful she was not an Element, unlike her sibling—deception surfaced, and added with a forced grin, “Ah’m jus’ tired. Been studyin’ too much, Ah think. Ah think Ah jus’ need ta sleep in an’ relax fer a while.”

Babs Seed narrowed her gaze. “But youze neva study. An’ youze do betta on dem tests than me.”

“Heh, well, first time fer everythin’, right?”

“I guess so…”

“Jus’ say hi ta Citrus fer me, please?”

“O’ course.”

Apple Bloom despised liars and lying. The truth, however, proved to be far too difficult for her to articulate. Everypony knew it anyway. There was no use in complaining or whining or ranting about it; her words never drew her closer to obtaining the sacred mark, anyhow. The bottom of her heart urged optimism and determination. The rest of it folded its cards and walked away from the table.

Eight years of crusading—five of which took place with her favorite filly in the entire Universe—all amounted to naught. She was bare. It was worthless. Maybe, she was worthless, too.

Apple Bloom groaned, muzzle to the pillow, wishing to sleep again, all day if she could. Summer sun would derail her plans, along with the call of duty. Applejack likely left a list of chores behind in the kitchen, just as she always did. Apple Bloom sighed. No rest could be found for the wicked or the blankflanked.

Downstairs, the farmhouse door creaked open, its hinges crying for oil. Heavy hoof-steps of Big Macintosh exited first, slow and steady. Light, eager hooves of Applejack followed him, and then, last but not least, the careful steps of an elderly mare were the last to leave. A slam of a door, a click of a door strike, and the front door was secured, leaving only its upstairs occupant.

A set of paws bounded across the floorboards and crossed her threshold, unwilling to be forgotten. A tongue panted eager ha-ha-ha, and a bell on a collar rang out "Good morning" in familiar happy-critter-talk.

“Mornin’, Winona,” Apple Bloom whispered, peeking out from under her blankets. The hound barked happily and hopped over, tail wagging and eyes bright. She nudged her mistress’s forehoof with a cold, wet nose, urging her out of bed. Apple Bloom chuckled and shook her head. “No, not yet. Heh. Come up here, girl. It’s too damn early ta get up.”

Winona plopped down on her haunches and looked quizzically at the filly.

“Ah said, Ah’m not gettin’ up.”

Winona whined and tilted her head to the side, confused.

Apple Bloom repeated, “Ah’m not gettin’ up, Winona. Ya can sit there an’ make puppy-dog eyes at me all ya want. But Ah’m not gettin’ up.”

Celestia’s rays blared through her window, coaxing her eyelids to greet the dawn. Again, Apple Bloom hid, reluctant to face the new morning. No promise whispered in the sunlight. She would be alone all blasted, cursed day, a whole farm to her responsibility.

Jumping on the bed, the hound leaned down on top of her master and licked her ear. “Aaah! Winona! Stop that!”

WOOF! WOOF! (“Don’t you think it’s time to get up yet?”)

Apple Bloom attempted to swat the dog away, flailing a forehoof behind her. Winona saw this only as a game and began to play with the hoof, wrapping her paws around it, pouncing on it, prey pursued by predator.

“Go away! Ah jus’ wanna sleep, Winona!”

The dog switched sides and licked Apple Bloom’s cheek, barking into her ear. RRRRRUFF! RRRRUFF! (“You know moping never solves anything, right?”)

Defeated, the filly wrestled out from her blankets, flinging them to the floor. Her faithful companion tugged on one of her fetlocks, growling playfully. Apple Bloom sighed and relented, “Alright, Ah’m up! Sheesh! Ya must be hungry o’ somethin’. Come on…”

Rubbing the last remnants of sleep from her tired eyes, Apple Bloom followed the farmhoud out of her room, hooves stomping against the cold floorboards. Winona happily weaved in-and-out of her hooves, tail wagging and brushing against her fur, yipping with glee.

Apple Bloom rolled her eyes. “At least one o’ us is happy ta be awake,” she muttered, lumbering down the stairs and towards the dimly lit kitchen.

YIP! YIP! YIP! (“It’s such a beautiful day, silly filly! Just you and me! We’ll get to play all day!”)

Winona guided her mistress into the kitchen and pawed at her empty food dish. She crinkled her nose and looked pleadingly up at the unamused pony, who merely sighed and fumbled through the pantry for a bag of dog food.

One happy hound later, Apple Bloom scoured the kitchen, finding, to her chagrin, Applejack’s infamous list. The litany awaited her on the icebox, staccato hoof-writing resigning her “day off” to a monotony of farm chores.

“Let’s see... feed the pigs, clean the cellar, collect the eggs, check the fields, check the orchards... Horseapples, Applejack. Ah shoulda jus’ went wit’ ya to the rodeo!” Apple Bloom grumbled, cursing her foalishness.

A well-fed hound dog accompanied a reluctant filly out of the farmhouse and towards the fields. On the horizon, dawn broke in full swing, shades of red, yellow, and orange, announcing a new day, a new promise, a new hope. Holding, within its cloudless sky, a wellspring of magic, potential, possibility.

The future, and change, as they always do, belong to everypony, though not every pony can discern it. Some, like Apple Bloom, her every hoof-step chipping at a journey of a thousand miles, require their blinders to be removed, first.

And while some, like Babs Seed before her, found destiny early and bright and obvious, others heeded the mantra of wait and bide, however reluctantly, however unknown. The truth waits for nopony, nor advances for anypony. It is bound by no schedule, undeterred by any obstacle, unspurred by any urging.

Apple Bloom trotted out into the dawn.

The sun rose to its apex in the atmosphere once Applejack’s final task had been completed. Sweat dripping from her wild, unbrushed mane and her unshorn fetlocks, Apple Bloom fell down into the grass. She crossed her forehooves behind her head and peered up at the cloudless blue sky, perfection mocking her from above.

“Ah wonder what Babs an’ Citrus are doin’. O’ Applejack. O’ Granny an’ Mac. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea after all,” she mused. Beside her, a loyal Winona only curled up on the grass and began to snore in response.

Though tempting, Apple Bloom could find no sliver of slumber within her. She knew she wouldn’t find it until very late tonight. It had been like this for the past few weeks; she would fight to awake with the dawn, reverting to a laziness usually reserved for Babs Seed. Once awake, she could not find sleep until the very last seconds of twilight. Seemingly nothing had instigated it.

There were no bullies in Cheerilee’s class anymore—not if Babs had anything to say about it. Diamond Tiara, abandoned by her best and only friend, regressed to silent daggers and piercing glares. Nothing vile uttered from her fetid maw anymore. Silver Spoon proved to be only an acquaintance. At the very least, this kept a second potential antagonist from the Crusaders and their games.

The Apple Family remained supportive and generally cheerful. Applejack appeared more worried about the farm and finances than normal, but otherwise, Apple Bloom could detect no crisis. No, this strange insomnia, this malaise and despondence, came from somewhere within her heart and soul. It scared her.

No. It terrified her.

She cursed herself, knowing that she was worrying not just her filly, but everypony who cared about her. Only one year stood between her and adulthood, and here she was, blankflanked as a newfoal, beginning to lose hope and steam and will and why was the sky so damn blue on a day like this?

Apple Bloom petted Winona, careful not to wake the hound from her peaceful slumber. Rising to her hooves, she reasoned that if anything could cheer her up, it would be found in the far corner of the orchards.

Hooves pointed towards the south, Apple Bloom broke into a trot, then a canter, than a gallop, determined to kick away the black cloud above her, pegasus wings or not.

“What the?!”

Apple Bloom shook her muzzle, slamming her eyes shut. No. She was still asleep. She was still in her bed, alone, cowering beneath the covers, brushing Winona away. She was still in the farmhouse—the dark, dim, cold farmhouse. She wasn’t here.

She wasn’t seeing this.

Apple Bloom opened her eyes again.

There, nestled between the branches, were the remains of the Cutie Mark Crusaders clubhouse. Well, that’s what it used to be. Any good number of adjectives or nouns suited it far more sufficiently at this moment: wreck, shell, skeleton, crumbled heap of rusted nails and mold-stained wood.

Between Sweetie Belle’s vocal lessons, Scootaloo’s flying sessions with Rainbow Dash, and the seemingly endless myriad of chores Applejack demanded from Babs and Bloom, nopony had visited this part of the orchard in weeks. Months. What purpose did it serve, anyway?

One of the upper branches of the strong apple tree had weakened and faltered, crashing straight through the roof. The heat of the summer sun, coupled with a fresh round of mold spores blowing through the breeze and the dip of night’s mercury, cultivated a colony of black mold along the outer walls of the clubhouse. A few of the floorboards were missing. These had most likely, Apple Bloom surmised, fallen to the same curse as the outer walls. Ropes connecting the drawbridge to the platform around the structure hung by their threads. The drawbridge itself threatened to break and burst under the filly’s hoof, Apple Bloom cautiously testing its strength.

Apple Bloom’s incredulous expression morphed into pure, unrefined rage. Her lips drew back in an animalistic snarl, her brow furrowed.

“So this is what Ah get! Ah’m the only one left, the only one who’s bothered ta come by this thing, an’ it’s broke?!” she screamed, blood pumping furiously through her boiling veins, fueling the trembling within her limbs. Apple Bloom pointed towards the rot on the walls. “How could this have happened?! How could nopony notice?!”

The bright summer afternoon contained no answers for her. Birds perched in nearby apple trees chirped obliviously, a few pegasi soared above in the cloudless sky, chasing the thermals, and the wind began to tumble and wrestle the grass, whispering its wisdom. It fell on deaf, flattened ears, one filly face-hoofing and arguing in the confines of her mind.

Would it be worth fixing? Or would it just be a waste of time, effort, and materials? And, if she determined it was worth it, who would help her? Sweet Apple Acres possessed only a blankflank and a hound dog on its roster; neither of them were particularly skilled carpenters.

Eight years. Eight years of Crusades—all, in the end, unsuccessful—rotted and shattered and hung in the balance before her. Apple Bloom’s first instinct was to just gallop away, pretend she’d never seen it, and go back to bed. Go back to her dreams, to her fields of green and gold, heading off into the horizon with Babs Seed, to a place where she knew who she was at last.

Apple Bloom cursed her weakness, and with a sigh, said, “Ah guess Ah’ll go see if anypony in town can help me wit’ this. We’ve still got a year. Maybe we’ll use it again.”

Silently, she added, Befo’ they leave us behind, fer Cloudsdale an’ Canterlot.

Pinkie Pie stuck her head through the top half of Sugar Cube Corner’s front door. “Hiya, Apple Bloom! How are you doing today on this grrrrrrrrrrrrrreat day?! Ooh! Would you like to try a cupcake?”

The party pony magicked a random cupcake from thin air and offered it to the frowning filly. “I made them myself! They have a super secret special ingredient! Oooooooooh! I’ll tell you if you promise to keep it a secret!”

Apple Bloom shook her head and mustered a weak smile. “That’s alright, Pinkie Pie. Ah actually was wonderin’ if ya’ve seen Scoots o’ Sweetie Belle ‘round today.”

“Ooh! Scootaloo was here earlier, with that one coltfriend of hers—oh, it was just so cuuuuuuuuuuute!” Pinkie gushed. She clapped her forehooves together and hopped excitedly. “Silly filly thought I was in the back but I was watching! And they were so cute and omigosh I can’t wait until I find my special somepony too and... oh! Did you want a cupcake?”

“Er... that’s alright, Pinkie. Thanks anyway. Ah’m gonna go ask Rarity instead.”

“Well, alrighty then! And don’t forget the gliiiiiiiiiiiiiiter!”

For no apparent, known reason, Pinkie Pie dumped an entire bucket of lusterdust on the filly, who summoned a half-hearted thanks and took off towards Carousel Boutique. “Ah bet Ah know what that 'special ingredient' is,” she mumbled, shaking waves of gold glitter from her mane.

“Oh my stars, darling! Look at your mane!” Rarity exclaimed, nearly fainting at the sight. “Oh my, my, my, my dearest Apple Bloom, you must let me fix that up for you!”

Backing away from the door and the distraught unicorn, Apple Bloom dismissed, “Ah’m fine, Rarity! Ah was jus’ wonderin’ if—”

“Nonsense! Please, come in!”

Apple Bloom dug her hooves into the dirt. “No,” she replied, firm. “Ah was jus’ wonderin’ if Sweetie Belle was here still. Ah need her help wit’ somethin’.”

Rarity stifled a gasp with a forehoof. “She didn’t tell you, darling?”

“Didn’t tell me...what?” Apple Bloom raised curious eyebrow.

“Sweetie Belle is in Trottingham this weekend, working with one of the finest vocal coaches in all of Equestria!” Rarity gushed, her eyes sparkling with visions of fame and fortune. Riches and notoriety eluded the fashionista; perhaps, vicariously, they could find her sibling, and she could rejoice in what would never be. She could only hope.

Rarity continued, “Oh, yes, Apple Bloom, she is definitely on the radar now! Why, once you beautiful fillies graduate, I bet all the stars in Canterlot she’ll be going on tour! She has quite a powerful voice, you know.”

“Heh... yeah...” Apple Bloom sighed, crestfallen. “So she ain’t here is what yer sayin’?”

Rarity blinked. “... Are you alright, my dear?”

“Ah’m fine. Thanks anyway, Rarity.”

Rarity reached out towards the uncouth filly, far too slow. Apple Bloom pivoted and kicked up her hindhooves, sending a cloud of dust in her wake. The fashionista coughed and muttered under her breath, “Just like Applejack, never taking fashion advice. Why, lusterdust? With her mane? Oh, it’s simply a crime against fashion!”

Against the dusty Ponyville roads, the rolling green hills, and the dirt of the fields, Apple Bloom thundered her hooves. To the southern fields she galloped, alone and apart, towards the clubhouse. Towards her memories, her foalhood dreams, now shattered and diseased.

“It’s not even worth it,” she mumbled, gritting her teeth, the wind catching her wavy mane. “It was stupid ta begin wit’. What did... it... git me? All o’ this...”

She reached her destination and paused. Taking a few, deep breaths, she gazed back towards Sweet Apple Acres and its empty farmhouse, back towards the mess before her, and back again.

Apple Bloom weighed her options. She could let it go, leave it be, pretend she’d never seen it. Nopony would care. Nopony would notice. Neglect reigned supreme, leading to this state of affairs.

Something deep, buried, a spark below her desperation whispered, “What’s the harm in trying?”

ARF! ARF!

Apple Bloom spun around, no longer alone. “Winona! What are ya doin’ out here? Get away from that clubhouse! It’s dangerous!”

ARF! ARF! (“You know you could fix it, right?”)

Winona ignored her, brushing against her hindhooves. Apple Bloom groaned. “Yer gettin’ on ma nerves today, Winona. Ah’m goin’ back home. Nothin’ worth salvagin’ here,” she muttered, gaze downcast to the taunting fields of green beneath her hooves.

RRRRRRUUUUUUUFF! (“You give up too easily.”)

Winona darted in the direction of the barn and back again, summoning her own beastly gods in prayer of telepathy. Her mistress blinked and rolled her eyes. Again she darted towards the barn and back to her hooves, nudging her snout in that direction. WOOOOOF! (“Big Mac keeps his tools there, silly filly!”)

And then, when Apple Bloom still didn’t get the message, Winona began nipping at the filly’s forehooves. GRRRRRR! (“You’re as stubborn as a mule! And they say you Earth ponies are smart? Ha!”)

Desperate, Apple Bloom grumbled, “If Ah follow ya, will ya leave me alone?!”

YIP! YIP! (“You got a deal, sister!”)

The doors to the barn swung wide, revealing little within. The few remaining animal friends who shared Sweet Apple Acres with the ponies wallowed in the mud near a section of fence. None dwelled within the barn anymore. The sheep, cows, and goats had been sold months ago. Applejack offered no explanation, saying only, “Times are gettin’ tough, Bloom. An’ you'll be a mare soon, an’ you'll know what Ah mean.”

Apple Bloom had shrugged it off, pretending to understand. So much awaited after that momentous year. Eighteen. She was almost seventeen now, one year of school to go, two summers until she’d be free to decide her fate. Fate and Destiny were a mystery. Brushing aside the summons of deeper, darker thoughts, Apple Bloom trotted inside the barn.

After locating a wheelbarrow, the filly set to work, opening Big Mac’s toolbox. Several hammers, saws, clamps, and a pound of nails were borrowed. A large stack of spare wood rested in a corner of the barn. This, too, was raided, boards and sheets of apple heartwood bundled up with the tools. Apple Bloom made a mental note to pay Big Macintosh back for the supplies. The bits she’d been provided through “earning her keep” would more than cover the cost.

Winona spun in circles, chasing her own scraggly tail, eliciting a final few giggles from her mistress. “Ya jus’ wanted me ta laugh an’ cheer up, didn’t ya, girl?” Apple Bloom chuckled, watching the hound lose her own games.

RRRRRUFF! (“Yes! But you feel better now, huh?”)

A slight spring in her step, Apple Bloom pushed the heavy wheelbarrow full of supplies towards the clubhouse. Mid-afternoon beckoned, leaving her to her own devices for the rest of the day. Babs Seed would be the first to arrive back, per Applejack’s timeline. Maybe, if she was lucky, Apple Bloom would repair it by then, or at least try to.

She didn’t want to go back to sleep. There was work to be done.

On the face of the Ponyville clock-tower, minutes, hours passed, the sun amplifying its temperature, leading many to seek refuge within their homes. The streets soon cleared, the town baked in the radiance of Celestia’s rays. Vendors packed up their carts for the day, gambling lost wages against the unrelenting heat. Mercury threatened to boil within its thermometer. The weather patrol team pulled no punches; the summer had been mild enough that a scorcher was due.

THUD! THUD! THUD!

Apple Bloom clutched two nails in her teeth and drilled another one into a fresh two-by-four on the side of the clubhouse. Balancing on her hindhooves, she reached up and smacked the hammer with all her might, driving the latest nail deep. Sweat drenched her mane and blurred her vision, taunting her, mocking her, constantly reminding her of the remaining option. She could quit. Nopony would know. Nopony would care.

Apple Bloom would, though, and the very thought ached more than her tired muscles or her fleeing breath. She would care. This was all she had left. Preservation at all costs. Keeping the dream, however broken, alive, was her mantra, a command repeating itself on endless loop within her consciousness. Keep going. Keep working.

She paused, spat the nails out, and took a brief rest before carefully climbing back down, avoiding the weakened drawbridge, which would be tackled next. Balancing a board on her back, Apple Bloom scampered back up to the platform.

She grasped a rotting, mildew-covered sideboard and pulled, hard as she could, her hooves trembling. The wood struggled but did not release, intent on being frozen, stuck in place, stuck in time. Apple Bloom cursed and yanked again. It stayed.

“Celestia damn it!”

Casting aside her tools, Apple Bloom wrapped her forehooves and braced her hindhooves against the offending board, shoving it this time. Bearing down her lean, sinewy figure upon it, the wood finally relented with a CRACK! Splinters dug into her fetlocks. She winced but grinned with smug satisfaction. The last board of this wall was ripped away, falling to the rotting floor instead.

One side down, one to go. And then the floor. And then the drawbridge. And the roof.

Apple Bloom threw back her mane and checked the position of the sun in the sky. Mid-day. 1500 or so. A few hours had passed. She gritted her teeth and continued anyway, despite her muscles and despite her thundering heartbeat, which both demanded rest.

For the first time in weeks, she felt strong. Alone.

Apple Bloom collapsed on the grass. She sprawled her forehooves, her body heaving, dripping with sweat, ligaments and tendons punishing her resolve. She’d lost count of the chimes of Ponyville’s clock-tower, of the morning star’s journey through the horizon, of the times she’d wanted nothing more than to trudge on back home. The roof had been the worst. She’d stretched carefully over the remaining shingles, hindhooves struggling for a grip. She’d fallen once, maybe twice. She couldn’t remember.

There’d been no breaks, no pauses, no in-betweens. Through it all, she’d let her mind wander to its deepest haze, its most secret fears, things that went bump in the night and exacerbated her insomnia. Things with far more significance than a cutiemark. Graduation. Adulthood. Sweet Apple Acres. The desert. Appleloosa. Babs Seed.

Babs Seed was going to leave. Apple Bloom bet all her meager bits on it. She’d never said it, but she knew. Babs didn’t have to say a word. A gleam and wonder twinkled within those emerald irises she adored so, a glint and a shimmer that no star could match, when she spoke of Appleloosa or the badlands beyond. The rumors were alive. Oil, silver, gold. Promise, possibility. Tabula rasa. New beginnings.

The bareness of her flank, her supreme lack of special talent (or any talent at all) dwarfed in comparison to that dilemma. Apple Bloom reckoned herself lucky and blessed to possess the foresight to know. Maybe, she thought, she even knew before Babs could fathom it. With the barrier of a year or so (or longer, given Babs's clueless nature) perhaps she could weigh the options, decide whether she’d stay or go.

Four would soon become two, Apple Bloom understood. All the promises of their foalhood, that they’d be friends forever, would amount to nothing in the call of dreams and destiny. Bittersweet. All those memories would be bittersweet.

Only a year remained. A year, and it would all change. Just like her mind, body, heart, and soul. Maybe not for the better. Maybe for the worse. Maybe. Too much anticipation. Too much uncertainty. Must go back to bed.

None of that mattered now. There was only the burning sensation through every fiber of her existence, the gentle rustle of the breeze over the grass. The sunset blazing in the heavens, seas of yellow, orange, and red, last dying embers of daylight.

And, Apple Bloom realized with a smile, the clubhouse.

“Ah did it,” she mumbled, peeking above the grass.

The Cutie Mark Crusaders clubhouse would hold fast now, a defiant edifice in the face of timeless, reckless, unforgiving Nature. Fresh boards carved from the heartwood of powerful apple trees supported its sidewalls. New shingles decorated and protected the roof, each nailed precisely and correctly next to its partner. The floor had been completely ripped out and replaced. What little that could be salvaged was thrown into a pile of dead, rotting wood below the structure, along with a bucketful of rusted nails and weathered shingles.

Apple Bloom stumbled to her hooves, panting, her stomach painfully empty, her throat scratchy, dry, parched. In a dream-like trance, she looked over her shoulder and whistled for Winona, finally ready and willing to head back inside, to sleep, to the darkness of dreams, to her carousel of thoughts.

Her words trailed off, unfinished, interrupted by a flash of light.

By the light of the moon, Babs Seed pointed her hooves towards home, down the crest of the highest hill. She struggled to keep her eyes open, fighting the call of the Sandmare. Damn it, Citrus, I was havin’ the best dream eva, an’ youze had ta go wake me up. Nearly tripping over a wayward stone in her path, Babs shook herself awake and followed the path to the farmhouse.

Down, down, down she trotted, through thickets of apple trees, the parish lantern in the pristine sky her guide when her eyes failed her. She exhaled, her breath a cloud of dragon’s-smoke, hoping against all hope that Apple Bloom was still awake. Or, instead, that Applejack or Big Macintosh had come home early. Granny Smith, even. Somepony to speak with, to bounce the night’s twisted turn of events off. Somepony to laugh with.

Reaching the door after a final, scattered eternity, Babs Seed fumbled with her key and opened the door. She entered slowly, keeping her hooves quiet, and slipped her saddlebag off her aching, sore back.

Through the darkness came a slow clip-clop of hooves and a smoky, “Hey, Babsy.”

Babs blushed, startled. “A-A-Apple Bloom? Why are youze downstairs?”

Apple Bloom joined her in the threshold, nuzzling her neck. Babs reached back to close the door, stopped by a forehoof on her shoulder. “Ah wanted ta show ya somethin’. Don’t close the door. Ah need the light.”

Confused, Babs Seed stammered, “Ah... all... alright?”

Trotting before her, moonlight illuminating her figure, Apple Bloom brushed her tail over her flank and grinned.

There it was, proudly displayed. Finally come, long and last, nowhere near to least. A tango of destiny, fate, the right choice, the right time. The cutiemark.

It was a shining red apple with a hammer and nails.

Babs Seed immediately embraced her filly and choked through happy tears, “I knew youze could do it! I knew youze would! An’ it’s beautiful, Bloom! It’s jus’ as beautiful as youze.”

Holding her tight, holding her close, Babs whispered, “I told youze neva ta give up. An’ youze neva did. I... I love youze, Bloom. An’ I’m so proud o’ youze.”

Returning the gesture, Apple Bloom whispered back, “Ah love ya too. But... Babs?”

“Yea?”

“There’s somethin’ Ah need ta ask ya."

Without missing a beat, Babs shot back, “Sure, Bloom. Shoot.”

Taking her forehooves in her own, Apple Bloom cautiously asked, “Do ya think a lot ‘bout... next year?”

Babs asked, “What do youze mean?”

“After... graduation. When we're all grown up, an' free ta choose. Where do ya wanna go? Do ya wanna stay here? On the farm? O’...”

Apple Bloom swallowed as she paused, gathering strength to rise above her intuition, to prove it a liar. “O’ do ya wanna go out there? Out there in Appleloosa? O’ beyond?”

Hay iffa I know. “... What brought dis up?” Babs asked, throwing a forehoof around Apple Bloom's neck.

“Ah... Ah don’t know. Ah... Ah jus’ worry, Babs.” Apple Bloom nuzzled her filly once more, slower this time, distracting herself from that brewing, rising, foalish fear.

Together. Together always meant "forever," didn't it, or was that just a tack-on, an option, an accessory, miscellaneous addition?

Did together surpass the boundaries of geography, the conflict of interests, the flow of time?

After a brief pause, Babs Seed raised a question of her own. “Well... do youze know what youze wanna do?”

“N-no... not really,” Apple Bloom said. “Ah don’t. Ah didn’t even know what Ah was good at until today, Babsy. Ah don’t know. Sweetie an’ Scoots, they... they seem ta have it together. An’ you do, too. But me? Ah... Ah dunno.”

Babs laughed. “C'mon. Youze always been the stronga o’ us, Bloom. Even then. Even when we first met. Rememba when I ran? Rememba when I couldn’t tell youze how I felt? Youze told me, then, dat I’m strong. An' maybe, in some ways, I am. But youze is stronga.

“Youze always been.”

Apple Bloom chuckled weakly, a small smile rising above her fear. “A-alright, whateva ya say. But... ya still didn’t answer ma question.”

“Because I don’t have an answer,” Babs Seed said. “But,” she began, leaning in close to her filly, “maybe, soon, we can find dat answer, togetha.”

Apple Bloom slept with the twilight, and rose with the dawn. She found no need to escape in dreams. There was nothing to hide from anymore. Her deepest fear was calmed. Her only perceived inadequacy was corrected, struck down, all by her own hooves, though her heart held space for two, instead of one.

A year remained. A moment in time to pass. And, then, would come the greatest journey.

Year Six: A Moment In Time

Ponyville fillies and colts received twelve years of compulsory education. From the very beginning as tiny, bumbling foals, to the end of their journey, they sprouted and flourished, mighty saplings springing forth from the garden of their minds. Their journeys were never easy. Some fell by the wayside, choosing truancy and delinquency over the stability and regiment of education. Such foals were rebels indeed, but Ponyville had no room for rebels.

Not if Cheerilee had any say in the matter.

Cheerilee stood at the empty podium, peering down at rows of unoccupied stools below. Wind teased her mane, a gentle contrast to the blazing June sun. Cheerilee cleared her throat and smiled before her audience of none. She ruminated over the speech in her mind, treating each rehearsed word with careful consideration.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow, she would see her lovely blooms burst from the soil and stretch their stems towards the heavens. Tomorrow, twelve years of dark nights and sunny days would come to a hilt. She would know, then, if she had fulfilled her cutiemark and her destiny once more, ushering a new generation of fillies and colts into adulthood.

Tomorrow was Graduation Day.

The schoolteacher let her thoughts wander to those who’d left her in their dust. Her tiny class was not immune from teenage foalishness. Several she’d slaved over dropped out over the years, against all her protests. Whether it was due to family troubles, poor grades, or despair, some simply chose the easy way out. She sighed. She couldn’t save everypony, after all.

Others, though, showed great promise. Her class of twenty would shine in the afternoon sunlight, casting a shadow borne of sleepless nights and engrossed studying, relentless determination and a steady spirit. Cheerilee hadn’t spared anypony in her class. All received the same education. All were weighed and graded against the others.

Two towered above the rest: the Apple Family cousins. Apple Bloom and Babs Seed proved to be (despite the latter’s bad behavior at times) highly intelligent, capable, hardworking fillies. Whatever they decided—though Cheerilee wagered it would probably involve apples—they would excel at. The educator had no doubt.

Fighting the sunset, Cheerilee rehearsed her speech once more, her voice trembling with excitement. Tomorrow. A moment in time to pass.

A moment nopony would forget.

Luna and Celestia battled in the atmosphere, dueling stars in their duality. A new day dawned over the horizon once they could fight no more. Throughout Ponyville, twenty fillies and colts battled their Graduation Day jitters and the sunrise. Some indulged in their finest, favorite breakfasts, swallowing their anxiety. Others didn’t trust their stomachs enough to wager the risk.

Babs Seed shook her muzzle at a plate of buckwheat pancakes and hopped from her stool. Trotting away from the breakfast table, she mumbled, “I’m not hungry anyhow. I think I’ll go take a walk o’ summat.”

“Are ya sure?” Applejack asked, raising an eyebrow. “Ya know Graduation ain’t until ‘round one o’ clock today, right?”

Heading towards the front door, Babs said, “I know. I ain’t hungry.”

Apple Bloom grabbed her cousin’s plate and giggled. “Mo’ fer me! Thanks, Babsy!”

“Sure. Whateva.”

SLAM!

Big Macintosh strode into the kitchen from the living room. Concern on his muzzle, he turned to Applejack and asked, “What was that all ‘bout, AJ? Babs jus’ galloped on outta here.”

With a slight, uneasy smile, Applejack answered, “Ah think she’s jus’ nervous ‘bout today. Graduatin’ an’ all. Ah’m sure Ah was back then. You remember, don’t ya, Mac?”

Big Mac chuckled, “Heh, how could Ah forget? Ah had ta drag ya down ta the schoolhouse! Granny couldn’t even convince ya ta go, ya were so nervous.”

Apple Bloom eagerly wolfed down an entire platter of buckwheat pancakes, foregoing syrup and utensils. The filly greedily ate both portions, oblivious to the wide eyes of the two grown ponies in the kitchen staring at her spectacle. She leaned back in her stool and patted her stomach. “Ahhhh…”

Catching their gaze at last, Apple Bloom looked to her siblings and forced a grin. “What? Ah was jus’ hungry! An’ Ah ain’t gonna let a good breakfast like that go ta waste! Babs said she wasn’t hungry anyway…”

“Sugarcube, are you sure ya ain’t nervous ‘bout today?”

“O’ course Ah’m not!” Apple Bloom snapped, crossing her forehooves and rolling her eyes. “Why would Ah be? It’s not like today everythin’s gonna change on me. It’s not like today Ah’m gonna be left ta maself o’ somethin’. Ah mean, it’s not like Ah’ve been goin’ ta school fer the past twelve years an’ now Ah ain’t—“

“Ah thought so,” Applejack said with a smirk. Scooping up the empty plates, she gently assured, “Don’t worry, Bloom. Today will go jus’ great. Everypony’s gonna be there—me, Mac, Granny. An’ Ah think Citrus, Libra, an’ Brae are comin’ too.”

Apple Bloom sat upright on her haunches, beaming. “Really?! They’re comin’ up here?”

“Eeyup!” Big Macintosh affirmed.

Applejack nodded. “They kinda wanna keep it a surprise, though, so don’t say nothin’ ta yer cousin ‘bout it. Babs’ll be so happy ta see ‘em.” She winked and threw the dishes in the sink, setting to work. Applejack planned to invite the Appleloosians back to Sweet Apple Acres after the big event for a family dinner. She had her own preparations to make in the meantime.

Big Macintosh peered out the kitchen window. Tapping his chin with a forehoof, he mused, “Ah think Ah’ll go see what’s wrong wit’ Babs.” Shooting a glance at his younger sibling, he asked, “Do ya know what’s botherin’ her, Bloom?”

Sighing, Apple Bloom replied, “Ah think it’s the same thing that’s been botherin’ everypony at school lately, big brother. She an’ Ah haven’t talked much ‘bout it yet.”

The stallion smiled. “Well, then, Ah’ll go an’ be the first.”

Seeking refuge under the shade of a mighty apple tree, its branches thick with fruit, promising a bountiful harvest to come, Babs Seed watched the sun cross the horizon. The clock ticked away her last remaining hours as a filly. Her birthday would not be for a few months. She could avoid the big 1-8 for a little while longer. Nevertheless, despite only being seventeen, Graduation Day would take a filly and make her a mare.

The continents of foalhood and adulthood would meet at last, connected by the bridge of a podium, a diploma, and a hoof-shake from Cheerilee.

It was something to both fear and anticipate, abhor and rejoice. Both revelry and mourning seemed appropriate responses. Six years in Ponyville and six in Manehatten drove her to this hilt, this final moment. Babs Seed passed her tests, completed her assignments, and, for the most part, keep her snout out of trouble. Unlike some, she stuck through it all, even when she hated it. Especially when she hated it.

Resting her head on her forehooves, stretching out on the grass, Babs Seed's mind turned to the horizon and what laid beyond it. We’re gonna be done. We’re gonna be done wit’ everythin’ everypony’s been tellin’ us ta do since we were foals. We stayed in school. We did our homework. We stayed outta trouble. Well, I tried ta, at least. An’ now… now what?

Behind her came the familiar slow, steady rhythm of mighty hoof-steps. A flash of crimson from the corner of her eye confirmed her suspicions. Keeping her eyes towards the morning star, Babs greeted, “’Ey, Big Mac.”

Big Macintosh trotted over and sat on his haunches next to her. He followed her line of sight, finding nothing of much note. Ponyville laid in the distance. Surely, by now, Cheerilee and a few community volunteers were setting up for the grand ceremony, arranging stools and printing up flyers.

The stallion fondly recalled his own school graduation. His headmaster—a stern, no-nonsense stallion—spoke little and hoof-shaked less. The whole ordeal had been terrifying, but it had been over within an hour. He’d returned to Sweet Apple Acres with Granny and AJ afterwards, never looking back.

He was home. He would always be home.

Maybe, Babs would be, too.

Finally, one of them spoke.

“Don’t worry. I’m jus’ thinkin’.”

“Ah know.”

“Good. Glad youze came out heeya an’ not Applejack. She woulda been talkin’ ma hooves off.”

Big Macintosh chortled. “Heh, eeyup. Ya know how AJ is.”

Babs laughed in agreement. “Heh, heh. Eeyup.”

“There is one thing Ah’ll say ta ya, Babs.”

Babs looked up at the stallion and urged him to continue with a nod.

Slowly, Big Macintosh explained, “Ah know yer scared. Ah was, too. But maybe it’s mo' fer ya than it was fer me. Because Ah knew where Ah wanted ta be, what Ah wanted ta do. Ah never had ta think ‘bout it too much.”

A gentle smile on his face, the stallion continued, “Ah jus’ know what Ah’m born ta do. An’ that’s run the farm wit’ Granny an’ AJ. Ah think when ya know what ya want ta do, ya’ll know too, Babs.”

What I wanna do. The Apple Family had yet to have this impending conversation with its youngest members. Tradition dictated that they would stay and uphold the family mantle, proud and young and strong, into the future. Sweet Apple Acres hired no outside help. Even if they had the bits to do so, they wouldn’t have, anyway. Theirs was a labor of love.

Babs Seed never failed to disappoint her elders. She possessed endurance and strength that no filly her age should know. Yet, she knew it, and knew it well. Whether it was plowing the fields, assisting with cider sales, taking care of daily chores, or playing a (small) part in the fall harvest, Babs refused to back down. She accomplished everything with a haste and determination that awed the strong stallion sitting beside her. Sweet Apple Acres welcomed her with open hooves from the first day of her arrival and failed to close them hence.

What I wanna do. What do I wanna do? Where do I wanna go?

An’, who do I wanna be? I’m an Apple, ain’t I? Isn’t dis ma home?

Big Mac embraced her with a forehoof over her shoulders, pulling her close for a hug. “Ah know you'll know what ya wanna do, Babs, in time. Take yer time. Yer always welcome here. Ya know that, right?”

Smiling, hugging him back, Babs said, “I know, Mac. An’ I thank youze now, jus’ as I did then. It’s good ta always have someplace I can call home.” It’s good ta be loved.

“Fillies and gentlecolts! May I please present to you, a wonderful schoolteacher and the instructor of this year’s graduating class, Miss Cheerilee!”

Mayor Mare stepped off the podium and ushered the schoolteacher forward. Dressed to her nines, Cheerilee accepted the mayor’s gesture and took her place at the podium, standing on her hindhooves. Rows and rows of proud parents, grandparents, aunts, uncles, siblings, friends, and towns-ponies smiled back at her.

The air was cool and crisp, the sun burning just bright enough on this wondrous day. Her class of twenty fillies and colts fidgeted in their stools behind her, muzzles slammed shut, sweat trickling down their necks. Clad in the traditional graduation garb—a simple black cloak and square hat and tassel—they prayed for Cheerilee’s speech to be a quick one. A mixture of fear and excitement drove their minds wild, their hooves aching to canter and gallop.

Sweetie Belle, Scootaloo, Apple Bloom, and Babs Seed sat on one side of the stage. On the opposite side, Silver Spoon sat next to Featherweight, Twist, Snips, and Snails. Between Snails and the last stool sat the remainder of the class. Except for one filly, of course.

In the very last stool, next to the edge, Diamond Tiara sat, scowling, alone.

Cheerilee cleared her throat and set a stack of notecards on the podium. The entire graduating class exchanged worried glances, face-hoofs, and silent curses. The notecards were stacked tightly, several inches high.

This would take a while.

Cheerilee began her speech. “Welcome, everypony! Family, fellow faculty, friends, community members, welcome, all of you. Welcome to this year’s Graduation Day for this year’s class of Ponyville schoolfoals. I have behind me twenty fillies and colts who have endured through twelve years of compulsory public education to reach this momentous day…”

Babs nudged Scootaloo in the ribs and hissed under her breath, “How much youze wanna bet everypony falls asleep in the audience befo’ she’s done?”

Sweetie Belle shushed Babs, shaking her head disapprovingly. Babs and Scoots rolled their eyes. Apple Bloom stifled a giggle.

Babs Seed slumped back in her stool and blew a strand of mane from her eyes. She fumbled with her graduation cap, moving the tassel aimlessly from one side to the next, until a forehoof knocked hers away. “’Ey! What was dat fo’?!”

Again, Sweetie glared in response. “You don’t move that until we’re done!”

“What’s the matta? I’m jus’ playin’ ‘round!”

“… Biology... geology… psychology… sociology… geometry… linguistics. Yes, rest assured, your tax dollars have been spent well here in Ponyville, my friends! This group behind me is composed of the most intelligent students I’ve seen in all my years as an educator,” Cheerilee proudly continued.

Snails jabbed his forehoof towards his nose in search of a booger. Babs Seed caught sight of the dim-witted colt and bit her forehoof, suppressing a well-timed laugh. Oh, iffa it weren’t fo’ the sympathy o’ Cheerilee, dat fool an’ the one beside him wouldn’t be heeya…

Apple Bloom nudged her in the shoulder.

“What?” Babs asked.

“… I will admit, there were some setbacks. It appears not everypony quite understands the value of ‘fancy book learning,’ as some have said. However, once the alternatives were considered, I’m proud to report most of our students acquired a zest for literature and learning. I’m proud to say that the vast majority of them bloomed quite well over the years, finding their cutiemarks, learning their special talents, memorizing Shakespony…”

Grabbing her fillyfriend’s forehoof, Apple Bloom pointed towards the audience. “Look, Babsy,” she whispered, unable to contain the surprise any longer.

Among the crowd of thoroughly disinterested ceremony attendees (most of them barely registering Cheerilee’s droning), three Earth ponies meandered through, scanning for empty stools. Their manes were wild and windswept, caressed by dust and sunlight. A stallion trotted ahead of two mares, mumbling apologies as they snaked through the crowd. He wore a proud Stetson and vest, a silver star pinned to his garment.

The mares following behind him clearly brushed their manes to their best ability, how futile it was. Strands of fiery-orange and tangerine mane flowed behind them in the breeze. They wore no fine silks, velvets, or any garments at all. Their beauty, however, remained, rough and wild in the face of so many coiffed manes and pressed suits within the crowd.

Applejack spotted them and waved them forward. She, Big Macintosh, and Granny Smith occupied a middle row, saving three stools between them. The three picked up their pace and trotted eagerly towards her.

Behind the podium, Babs Seed saw them before they could locate her, the Appleloosians lost in the crowd. It took every last minute morsel of her self-control to keep her haunches planted in her seat. Within the confines of her mind, she chanted their names over and over again. Ma! Citrus! Braeburn! Ma! Citrus! Braeburn!

They’d never responded to her latest letter, never confirmed that they would be able to catch a train into town and show their muzzles here. She’d buried her disappointment, reasoning that Appleloosa was far beyond Ponyville and bits were even farther between. All last vestiges of her sadness were forgotten.

Babs tapped her hindhooves excitedly. Scoots and Sweetie stared at her, but with a quick nudge and a pointed forehoof towards the visitors, they understood. Sweetie and Scoots, too, had spotted their folks within the audience, first unable to contain their joy. Rarity had cut short a business trip to make it back to Ponyville, and Scootaloo’s normally absent parents found it within their workaholic hearts to take just one day off.

Past Cheerilee’s poetic lecture, Citrus, Libra, and Braeburn took their seats, waving excitedly at Babs Seed and Apple Bloom.

A tear welled in Babs's eye, triggered by the polar opposite of sorrow. Dey came. Dey came all the way from Appleloosa ta see me. Ta see me… graduate. Ta see me become a mare.

A forehoof gently squeezed one of her own. In red-orange eyes, a single tear matched hers.

“… Fillies and gentlecolts. Please welcome me in congratulating this year’s graduating class.”

Cheerilee turned towards her students and urged them to stand. To their hooves they rose, a sea of fillies and colts, coats and cutiemarks of all colors and origins concealed beneath an ocean of black. Their schoolteacher nodded to an off-stage assistant, who quickly joined her at the podium, cradling a stack of scrolls. Diplomas.

Tickets to freedom. To the future. To tomorrow.

Beyond the horizon.

One by one, she called their names, foregoing the alphabet and all its chronological order. Each student trotted to the podium, clutching their scroll tightly once received, shaking forehooves with Cheerilee. Their faces said what their quivering vocal cords could not articulate. Twelve years came to a crescendo in a single moment of time. Before they crossed the stage and took the diploma, they were a mere schoolfoal, only a child, their destiny and fate held in hooves other than their own.

Once that piece of paper—that unlit, unburned torch—had been passed, crossing an unseen threshold, Equestria itself appeared in their forehooves.

Apple Bloom received her diploma first among the Crusaders. Big Macintosh bellowed and hollered and whooped, casting aside his nature. Applejack pumped her forehoof into the air. Even Granny Smith celebrated, forgetting her rusty old hip and dancing like the young, spry filly she once was. Braeburn, Citrus, and Libra held nothing back, joining their cheers.

And then came her moment. “Babs Seed!”

Hooves trembling, a sensation that no timberwolf or schoolyard bully had been able to bring forth from her, Babs Seed crossed the greatest distance in Ponyville and met Cheerilee at the podium.

With a sincere smile, Cheerilee passed her the tightly bound scroll, its contents secured by a golden ribbon. “Congratulations, Babs. Good luck,” she whispered.

“Thank youze.” Babs exhaled, her voice caught somewhere between dimensions.

Heeya it is. Dat moment.

From the crowd came a rush of hooves stomping the Earth, a chorus of whoops and wolf-whistles and cheers. She looked over and below, and found beside her Ponyville family, her Appleloosa family, their grins threatening to split their faces in two, eyes shining with happy tears.

The moment when I make youze proud.

At Cheerilee’s direction, twenty tassels traversed an immeasurable trek, crossing from the right to the left side of twenty graduation caps. This moment instigated the most thunderous applause of all. The fillies and colts of Cheerilee’s graduating class beamed with pride, bowing, not a dry eye among anypony. Not even the most macho of the colts could hold back his liquid pride.

Twelve years, and it was all over. Some of them would call Ponyville home forever. Others would leave for greener pastures, to concrete and cobblestone, Trottingham and Manehatten. The newspapers spoke of promise and opportunity in both cities, economies booming with no bust in sight. Others would take to Appleloosa and the badlands beyond. The same papers whispered possibility there, too, gold, silver, oil and more.

For now, Cheerilee’s graduating class filed off the stage and rushed towards their guardians and friends, forehooves wide open and displaying their sacred parchment.

Together, Babs Seed and Apple Bloom galloped through the crowd, rocketing past their classmates. Two stallions and four mares galloped towards them in turn. They met in the middle, both fillies crushed into a hug by a wild-eyed Appleloosian Deputy.

“Cousin Apple Bloom! Cousin Babs Seed! Why, Ah’m so proud o’ y’all!” Braeburn exclaimed, lifting them off their hindhooves. The stallion laughed and laughed, holding them tight, tears rolling down his cheeks. “Yer all grown up now! Yer mares now! Why, Ah’m so proud, Ah can’t—“

“Braeburn,” Applejack said.

Braeburn continued, still squeezing them close, “Ah jus’ can’t believe it! Why, it’s jus’ gone by so fast! Ah still remember when Ah met ya fer the first time, Babs, at the train station—“

“Braeburn,” Applejack repeated.

“An’ now look at y’all! Yer all grown up! Ah can’t, Ah jus’ refuse ta—“

“BRAEBURN!!!”

Confused, the stallion spun around and asked, “Uh, yes, cuz?”

Applejack yelled, “Yer squishin’ ‘em!”

Babs Seed and Apple Bloom groaned.

“Oh! Shoot! Sorry!”

Landing with a THUD! on their hindhooves, the two fillies stumbled, dizzy. “It’s alright,” they mumbled in unison, stars dancing before their eyes. Yeesh, Braeburn, it was nice ta see youze too, but… horseapples… is dat Luna?

Braeburn rubbed the back of his neck with a forehoof. “Uh… sorry, gals. Ah jus’ got a lil’ carried away,” he muttered, blushing.

Citrus Blossom chuckled and assisted her sister to her hooves. “Oh, it’s alright, Brae. No harm done. Right, Babs?”

“… Yea… Right…”

Libra Scales steadied her niece, preventing her from full-on crashing into Babs. “Are you alright, my dear?”

Apple Bloom mumbled, “Yea, Ah’m fine…”

Granny Smith smacked Braeburn on the back. “Whoa there, young feller! Ya best be playin’ gentle wit’—errr, wait a minute. What’s that now on yer vest?”

“Oh, this?” The stallion pointed to the silver star pinned to his garment.

Applejack leaned forward and examined the badge. “’Appleloosa Deputy Sheriff’? Braeburn, since when were ya gonna be a law-pony?”

Laughing, he replied, “Well, it wasn’t entirely ma decision—“

“What do youze mean?” Babs asked.

Braeburn cleared his throat. “Well, actually, Ah was wantin’ ta save that story fer later, Babs. But fer now… Ah dunno ‘bout y’all, but Ah’m hankerin’ fer some famous Apple Family pie." He winked at Applejack.

Stomach growling in annoyance, Babs agreed, “Yea, dat sounds good ta me! I’m starved!”

“Ya wouldn’t have been if ya would’ve ate yer breakfast,” Apple Bloom teased, grinning.

“Maybe I woulda had summat ta eat iffa somepony didn’t steal ma plate!”

“Awww, silly filly, ya gave it ta me, don’t ya remember?”

“No, I didn’t!”

“Yes ya did!”

“Noooo, I didn’t!”

Citrus turned to Applejack and whispered, “Do they argue like this all the time?”

Applejack rolled her eyes, muttering from the corner of her muzzle, “Like ya wouldn’t believe.”

“Oh… so, the wedding should be soon then, right?”

Applejack snorted and covered her mouth with a forehoof.

“What’s that, Citrus?” Libra Scales eyed them suspiciously.

“Er, nothing, Mother,” Citrus stuttered, shaking her head.

Applejack failed to disappoint. Her famous apple pie exceeded her own expectations, proving to be the finest any of the Appleloosians had ever tasted. Braeburn reasoned that it must be due to the climate. The desert apples, however hardy, could never surpass the finest fruit from Sweet Apple Acres.

The eight of them shared a fantastic dinner and patched the time lost between them. Libra, Braeburn, and Citrus hadn’t seen the elder Apples that much, holidays the only bridge between them at times. Nevertheless, here they were, three branches of the family under one roof, and they didn’t spare a moment.

Babs Seed and Apple Bloom sat next to each other at the table as they always did, tails entwined. Nopony seemed to mind. Well, most of them, anyway.

“Auntie Orange” to all but two of them, “Mother” to the rest, shifted her gaze, noting the subtle intricacies between the graduates. The elder Apples didn’t mind it, to her confusion. Nevertheless, Libra Scales kept her muzzle shut, jotting down a mental note to speak to Babs Seed about it some other point in time. Her daughter would soon be a mare, after all, and she would still keep her promise if things went well. And they appeared to be well.

Time would tell if that would come to pass. Libra wasn’t betting too much on it. Not that she was a gambling mare, anyway.

Babs noticed her mother’s wary gaze but drew no attention to it. Jus’ youze see, Ma. Someday, youze’ll be happy fer me. Fer us both. Someday…

Somewhere between her fourth and fifth slice of apple pie, Applejack asked the new graduates, “So, what are you gals gonna do tonight fer graduation? Any… parties yer plannin’ on attendin’?”

“’Parties?’ Applejack, they are too young!” protested Libra. “They aren’t even eighteen yet. They can’t drink. And even if they could, they shouldn’t.”

“Ah didn’t mean it like that, Auntie,” Applejack said. “Ah meant Pinkie Pie sorta party.”

Confused, Braeburn, Libra, and Citrus blinked.

Apple Bloom laughed. “Aww, don’t tell me y’all haven’t heard o’ Pinkie Pie! Why, she’s the biggest party animal in all o’ Equestria! She throws great parties! An’ all without drinkin’!”

“Wait a minute… isn’t she a pink Earth pony mare who likes… singin’?” Braeburn asked. Within his mind’s eye, he recalled a rambunctious pink mare dressed in an elaborate outfit (imitating a “mare of the night,” truth be told) dancing on top of a piano. The mare's antics sent both Sheriff Silverstar and Chief Thunderhooves into a murderous rampage.

Suddenly, Braeburn’s slice of apple pie didn’t taste quite as good.

“That’s right!” answered Apple Bloom. “An’ Ah hear she’s got a great party planned fer all the graduates tonight! We’re goin’, aren’t we, Babsy?”

Ignoring her mother’s narrowed gaze, Babs stumbled, “Heh… Ah… Uh, o’ course, Bloom. Sweetie an’ Scoots’ll be there, too.”

Citrus asked, “’Sweetie and Scoots’?”

“Two o’ our best friends,” Babs explained.

“Oh.” Citrus beamed. “Yes, you should go. Go and have fun with your friends, Babs, Bloom. We can talk more tomorrow morning. We were thinking of staying the night here… if you don’t mind, of course, Applejack.”

Applejack mused, “What was that ya told me, all them years ‘go, Citrus? Ya wouldn’t allow me an’ Bloom ta stay in some seedy hotel in Manehatten? Well, Ah won’t let y’all stay in no seedy Ponyville one, neither.”

Braeburn removed his Stetson and bowed his head low. “Thank ya kindly, Applejack. Ah will try an’ make this up ta ya, yer fine hospitality.”

Dismissing him with a forehoof, Applejack said, “Aw, shucks, Braeburn. It ain’t nothin’. Now, befo’ ya two leave an’ go celebrate—“ she turned to both graduates—“Ah wanted ta jus’ say somethin’ ta ya both. Ah’m sure we’ll talk more ‘bout this later, but fer right now, Ah jus’ wanted ta clear the air.”

Nopony tossed their own words into the atmosphere. Applejack seized her opportunity and continued. She reached over to the kitchen counter and plucked the latest edition of the Ponyville Express. “In this here paper, it talks ‘bout lotsa things happenin’ throughout Equestria right now. Economically. Ya know what that means, right, Babs, Bloom?”

Both of them nodded.

Applejack sighed, glancing at their three visitors. “Ah’m sure y’all know how things are in Appleloosa better than Ah do. But things here in Ponyville have been rough, also. Stagnant. Lots o’ businesses goin’ out fer good.”

Mr. Breezy’s Fan Emporium, Quills an’ Sofas… shoot, even Roseluck is startin’ ta trim down her inventory, poor mare.

“Ah imagine the settled lands ain’t much better. There’s talk o’ new developments way out—“

“How far out?” Apple Bloom asked.

Applejack shook her head. “Ah dunno. Point is, things are tough. But if ya look in this paper here, it says quite differently fer the big cities. They’re doin’ good, an’ crime’s even goin’ down. Trottingham, Canterlot, an’ even Manehatten.”

By some stroke of synchronized Nature or Fate or coincidence, four chills shot down four spines. Libra, Citrus, and Braeburn shot each other uneasy glances, swallowing their objection. Babs Seed felt the icy grip of concrete beneath her hooves, though the floorboards were warm with light and love and radiance. Manehatten… so long ago…

“Do ya ever think ‘bout goin’ there, Citrus, Libra?”

Cast in the shadow of Bernie Madhoof’s darkest dream, Applejack assumed that Citrus and Libra simply saw the light and left that wretched city in their dust. She’d never been one to pry, and had never brought the issue into conversation. Now, she hoped that the only answer she would hear would be a firm—

“Absolutely not,” Libra Scales said, striking the table with a forehoof. “Appleloosa is my home. Our home.” Pulling both Braeburn and Citrus Blossom close to her, the mare added, “And I have no intention of going back.”

Relieved, Applejack asked Babs Seed the same question.

Shaking her muzzle, Babs said, “There’s nothin’ fo’ me there. I’m not scared o’ it—“ sure youze ain’t, youze perfect liar—“but I don’t wanna go back. Though I know a lot o’ ponies are headed out there ta try. Good riddance ta 'em.”

“Eeyup,” Big Mac agreed, sending the entire table into a spiral of laughter. Dumbfounded, he spread his forehooves and asked, “What? Did Ah say somethin’ wrong?”

Ponyville’s premier party pony spared no expense for this year’s Graduation Day celebration. The Cakes quietly packed their bags the day prior for a surprise “vacation to Trottingham.” They were getting, as Greyhoof the butler would've said, far too old for this. Pinkie Pie swore on her own ritual that Sugarcube Corner would be cleaned up by the time they returned.

Colorful streamers and balloons of every shade adorned the walls and ceiling. The shop’s entire inventory of flour, sugar, and butter was dissolved and distributed between towers of cookies, cakes, pies, and, of course, Pinkie's famous cupcakes. Music blared to unbearable decibels, shaking the walls of the tiny shop. Party games invited everypony to play—“Pin The Tail On The Pony,” “Ponopoly,” “Charades,” and even a few raunchier games were scattered throughout the bakery.

Pinkie Pie greeted each graduate with a party hat and a chipper, “Don’t forget your party hat! Forgetty Forgetterson! It’s time to party, Pinkie Pie style!”

Soon, Sugarcube Corner filled to the brim with many of the graduates and more than a few out-of-town friends, laughing, dancing to the eardrum-shattering vinyl beats, gulping down unspiked punch (to more than a few ponies’ disappointment) and gobbling themselves into sugar comas.

Sweetie Belle, Scootaloo, Babs Seed, and Apple Bloom partied as a group. The four friends all knew that, soon enough, the dreaded time would come. No longer bound to Ponyville by the demands of education, they were free to choose their own destinies. With Sweetie Belle’s blooming singing career and Scootaloo’s need for pegasus speed, both hinted that their fates may lay far beyond the Ponyville horizon. For now, they swept such subjects under the rug, choosing to cut it instead.

Hours into the party, Featherweight arrived at last. “Where have you been?!” Scootaloo exclaimed, tugging on her coltfriend’s forehoof.

“Sorry, I was just having dinner with my folks and—Scoots! What are you doing?”

With a sly grin, she said, “Let’s dance, Featherweight!”

“To this music?” Featherweight asked with a tilt of his head. Indeed, the loud bass and heavy tempo filling the bakery suited head-banging far more than couple dancing. The daredevil flier, however, could not be persuaded, and pulled the colt into the corner, demanding his tango.

Babs snickered. “What a mook!”

“Actually, that’s a good idea…” Apple Bloom grabbed her fillyfriend’s forehooves in her own. “C’mon, Babsy,” she whispered coyly. “Let’s dance.”

In fronta everypony?! “Ah… heh… heh…” Blushing, Babs looked away from her fillyfriend, a herd of colorful balloons proving an insufficient distraction. “Ah, youze know, Apple Bloom, I’ve neva danced befo’ an—“

“Then it’s jus’ the right time ta learn. Right, Sweetie Belle?” Apple Bloom said with a giggle.

Sweetie giggled back. “I think so! But you know what? I think I’ll go and find something more… fun to do than dancing with myself. Will you two excuse me for a second?”

Babs opened her mouth to object. With a quick flick of a curly tail, the unicorn departed, joining a group of fillies and colts in the corner of the room. Dat does look kinda fun, not dat dis isn’t…

Sugarcube Corner’s temperature soared high above melting point, threatening to send frosting running in glorious rivers of pink and white. Buying herself a little time (dreadfully ashamed of all four of her left hooves), Babs Seed released her partner and blurted, “I’m gonna go get some punch real quick, Bloom, alright?”

Apple Bloom answered with a knowing, teasing grin, “Alright, Babsy. Ah’ll be waitin’ here ta teach ya.”

Oh, c’mon. Dat’s jus’ not fair! Not ma fault I’m not fancy on ma hooves, Babs silently complained, trotting over to the punch table.

Babs Seed took the ladle of the punchbowl and poured herself another generous cup. She tilted it back and drank it all in one gulp, finding it sweet, saccharine, fitting. Pinkie’s outdone herself wit’ dis recipe. Much betta than was at the cute-cenearas.

She was just about to make her way back into the epicenter of the celebration and face the nerve-wracking music when a strange, muffled sound caught her attention. Babs pricked her ears over the music and laughter of the party guests. It seemed pitiful, perhaps a whimper or a whine. It continued, steady and concealed, hidden to everypony but one observant filly.

She looked about the scene, finding nothing out of the ordinary. Shrugging, Babs took one mere hoof-step forward when it started up again. Louder this time. Unmistakable.

Somepony’s cryin’.

Babs quickly darted her gaze to the punchbowl and, consequently, the drink table. A quick flick of a thick purple-and-white tail underneath the table betrayed all doubt. She leaned down on her hooves and whispered under the table, “Diamond Tiara?”

Huddled near the wall, forehooves wrapped around herself, Metal Crown did not reply. Instead, she faced away from Babs and stifled her cries, resorting to ineffective sniffling. Crown swallowed her sorrow and mentally scolded herself. There was no way this despicable filly would have the joy of seeing her cry. There was no way she would allow a fillyfooler to make this night far worse than it already was.

“Diamond Tiara? Youze alright?”

Babs Seed quietly ducked under the table and scooted closer towards her. Despite their disagreements—despite their mutual hatred of another—she was compelled to act. Perhaps it was pity; perhaps it was empathy. Perhaps it was something more substantial.

During Graduation, it seemed everypony had at least one family member beaming in the audience, standing on their hindhooves in ovation once their pride and joy crossed the stage and officially joined the ranks of adulthood. Many surprises sat among those rows. Scootaloo’s absentee guardians found the means to make it. So did Sweetie Belle’s busy fashionista sister, interrupting a stay in Canterlot to share this powerful memory. Citrus, Libra, and Braeburn had journeyed the eight hours from Appleloosa to Ponyville, braving the desert sun and a cramped train cab meant for two.

Surely, Filthy Rich and Diamond's mother could’ve showed their muzzles.

They hadn’t. Everypony but the sobbing filly lying on the sticky floor of Sugarcube Corner had somepony to celebrate with on this momentous day, this moment in time. And, in spite of her venom and malice and irrationality, Metal Crown reminded the bully from the East of somepony far less reprehensive.

Apple Bloom once asked iffa youze was summat how I was. How I was a lifetime ago. An’ maybe I don’t wanna admit it, but maybe, youze are. I certainly recognize those tears.

One inch closer. Stretching out a forehoof. Gently, Babs said, “C’mon, I know we ain’t the best o’ friends, but—“

“That’s putting it lightly.” Crown growled, flipping over to face her. The sapphire-blue within her irises contrasted no more glaringly than they did right now, a slight drop of azure in a sea of red. Mascara ran down her face in twin trails of shameful tears. Rubbing her muzzle with a forehoof, the filly scowled, her tone failing her malevolence, “Don’t you have anything better to do than try and come onto me? Go mess around with your cousin or something.”

Ha. Mo’ like dance ‘round. O’ try ta. Babs Seed snickered. “Youze couldn’t insult a flea right now iffa youze tried, Tiara. An’ I’m much bigga than a flea.”

Metal Crown groaned and rolled her aching eyes. “Of course you are. You’re fat.”

Ignoring the jab—Dat’s muscle, youze idiot!—Babs snapped back, “So, how long youze been unda heeya, eh? I’m thinkin’ I’m the first ta find youze.” An’ youze be thankful I did, ‘cuz nopony else will.

“That’s none of your business. Go away.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Don’t make me make you go away.”

“C’mon, Tiara, youze think I’m afraid o’ somepony like youze? Who kicked youze flank a few years ago? Who saved youze an’ Spoon from timberwolves? Huh?”

Unable to muster a counterargument, Metal Crown huffed and rolled her eyes. “Whatever.”

Crown sniffed and bit her bottom lip, slowing the steady stream of tears. She stared straight ahead, seeking to escape Babs's gaze. It was useless. Those menacing emerald eyes wouldn’t stop watching her, transfixed on her every motion. “Why are you staring at me? Take a picture! It’ll last longer.”

Babs replied, sneering, “Youze flatta youzeself too much, Tiara. But, iffa youze ain’t gonna tell me what’s wrong, I’m gonna jus’ leave youze heeya. There’s a whole party goin’ on, an’ it’s a hell o’ a lot mo’ fun than mopin’ wit’ youze.” Even iffa I have ta dance.

Scooting carefully back on her hindhooves, ducking her head, Babs added, “Sorry fo’ carin’ ‘bout youze.” Foalish on ma part, anyhow.

She was a mere motion away from safely escaping the table when two forehooves clung to one of hers. Their owner tugged forcefully, pulling her back.

Oh, c’mon…

Sighing, Babs hesitantly asked, “… Yes?”

After a slight pause, Crown answered with a question of her own. “… Why?”

“Why what?”

“… Why… why do you…” Crown took a deep breath before asking, “Why do you care about me?”

“I don’t!” Babs Seed blurted. Shaking her muzzle, she clarified, “Well, not ‘bout youze in particular. But iffa somepony’s cryin’ under a punch table at a graduation party, Celestia knows somepony oughta step up an’ ask ‘em why. It’s the right thing ta do.”

Crown whispered back, “But… but… I hate you…”

“Do youze, Diamond Tiara?”

Crown paused. Looking down at the unshaven fetlock grasped tightly between two of her own, she found that question hopping on a carousel within her consciousness, spinning and taunting her. Did she really? Well, of course she did, offered one half of her mind.

Babs Seed was not only a fillyfooler—which was grounds for friendship termination by itself—but she was a haughty, arrogant brute. The bruises had long healed. Well, the physical ones had. The jab at the train station, however, still weighed heavily on Diamond’s mind. Her antagonist would never surmise how deeply her parting vow had cut to the core. How sharp her words could become.

Another side of her answered slightly differently. No. She did not hate Babs Seed. “Hate” missed the mark. “Loathing” was not a suitable verb either. No. There was something else.

Babs Seed had it all: a loving family, a special somepony, two great friends. Even if that family was composed of simpletons and working-class stooges, even if that special somepony was her own female cousin, and even if those two friends were equally as pathetic, it was still far more than Diamond Tiara possessed. She would never admit that envy, rather than wrath, was her deadly sin. Though not spiritual in any sense, Diamond Tiara was ashamed of this particular sin, this sickening weakness.

If it weren’t for the tears, her eyes would’ve been green.

“I… well, I…” Crown's sentence trailed off into the distance, interrupted by a loud burst of laughter nearby. She stared across the floor towards a group of fillies and colts engaged in a round of "Spin The Bottle".

Among the participants, Crown spotted a silver Earth pony filly, laughing and blushing as she nervously took her turn. A quick spin sealed her fate. Taking off her glasses, the silver filly gestured towards a white unicorn filly, brought her close, and kissed her.

“Oh, yea. Quite a show over there.” Babs nodded towards the raunchy party game. “Sweetie said she wanted ta do summat mo’ fun than dance. Wasn’t thinkin’ she’d pick dis, but, whateva makes her happy,” she explained, stretching out beside her antagonist. She smiled and added, “Apple Bloom’s tryin’ ta con me inta dancin’, hehe. Scoot’s wit’ Feathaweight, o’ course. She made him dance too, poor colt. Been… three years, now, fo’ dem? Damn. It’s been dat long. Crazy. We're all findin’ our special someponies, youze could say. Heh.

“’Ey, youze neva answered me.”

Metal Crown’s temperature began to rise, a light blush streaking across her muzzle. She watched as Silver Spoon and her object of affection plunged forward for another kiss—this one voluntary, disregarding the bottle and its spin entirely. The sight was hypnotic, clutching her in its forehooves, unwilling to release her. In silence, she stared, counting the seconds, counting every move.

Retching or vomiting seemed more appropriate responses than her current fascination. The few times she’d been unfortunate enough to catch the bully and the then-blankflank in the act, mashing their fetid lips together, she’d been disgusted. Which she should’ve been. Right?

Her father was the wealthiest, most powerful stallion in Ponyville. He’d always warned his filly of such deviance, such madness, such flank-backwards insanity. Surely, he couldn’t be wrong. Could he?

Why then, Metal Crown wondered, was she feeling so jealous? Why then, did she think back to that awful Hearts and Hooves Day? Why did the memory keep her up in the night, every Hearts and Hooves Day since, giving way to over-analysis and contemplation?

Maybe, Crown thought, Silver Spoon—

Babs Seed clapped her forehooves in front of the filly’s face. “Aaah!”

“What the hay is wrong wit’ youze?!” Babs demanded, glaring.

“Oh! Sorry! To your question, I, um,” Crown stumbled, tearing away from the scene. Turning to an irritated filly, she said, “I, well… uh… I guess ‘hate’ is a strong word.”

Smirking, Babs replied, “I thought so. Youze talk too big o’ a game. Nothin’ ta back it up. Heh. By the way, youze had youze chance, youze know.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about!” Crown exclaimed.

“Oh, really? So youze weren’t starin’ at Silva an’ Sweetie, huh?” Babs teased, raising a knowing eyebrow. Nopony’s as good a liar as me. Not even youze.

Metal Crown drew her lips back in a snarl. “Why would I?! Good for her, that sick, twisted fillyfooler! Now they can be depraved together! And good for you and your—“

Babs Seed interrupted, “Oh, cut it out, will youze? Youze know, youze seem awfully fixated on dat kinda stuff fo’ a filly who allegedly only likes colts…”

Another poorly concealed blush brought a triumphant grin to Babs's muzzle. Oh, thought so. Saw youze first one, too. Idiot.

Noting that the tears had ceased, and feeling finished with this conversation in more ways than one, Babs Seed again began to crawl her way out from under the table. This time, a quick yank of her tail halted her. “What do youze want now?!”

“How did you know?” Crown asked, leaning close to whisper her question.

“Know what?”

“That you were… that you were…”

“C’mon, Diamond, quit wastin’ ma time.”

Crown hissed her reply before she could stop herself, regretting each word as it left her tongue. “That you were into fillies!”

There. There it was. She thanked every nonexistent god she could imagine that her father was not here. If he had been, she would pray silently to Most Low instead of Most High in hopes of a curse. Deafening the stallion would be her only chance then.

Oh, how her father would hate her for the mere possibility implied within her words.

Babs immediately chuckled, her grin wide and mocking. Metal Crown stared at the tile and growled under her breath, “Forget it. I don’t want to know.”

“Then why did youze ask?” Lowering her voice, Babs Seed muttered, “Youze know, I won’t tell anypony dat youze asked. O’ anythin’ dat youze don’t want ‘em ta know.”

Crown raised an eyebrow. “You expect me to trust you?”

Good point. “Fair enough,” Babs said. “But… ta answer youze question, it’s because I fell fo’ somepony. Somepony very special. An’ youze know what, Tiara? I don’t like labels. Fillyfooler. What a nasty word. I ain’t foolin’ nopony. I jus’ fell in love. An’ I jus’ fell fo’ a filly. I jus’ followed ma heart.

“Maybe youze should, too.”

Before she could be captured once more, Babs Seed departed, squirming from under the table. She crouched down and muttered some final parting words once freed. She reasoned it was time for them at last.

Babs Seed bore no guilt, unburdened by any heavy yoke. What was fitting then had been uttered, without a speck or trace of regret. It was the same today and now. There was no regret. She was compelled by righteousness alone. That circle of long past had been drawn in the mud and the sand, incomplete. Now came the reckoning of completion, wholeness, things returning to where they began.

There was a time and place for everything. This Graduation Day demanded completion in all loose ends. Six years had taught her the value of repentance and the hope of redemption. Nopony was truly beyond salvation. Nopony was lost to the darkness. Nopony in Ponyville, anyway. Everypony deserved a second chance for truth and tomorrow.

Even somepony like youze.

Babs Seed said, “I’m sorry fo’ pushin’ youze in the mud, Diamond.”

She neglected to wait for a response, no will to argue further. She took to her hooves, navigating through the crowd, in search of her filly and her best friend, leaving Diamond Tiara in her dust.

Underneath the drink table, Diamond Tiara felt the hint of a smile at the corner of her muzzle, and to her departed antagonist, whispered, “And I’m sorry for hating you and Apple Bloom. I was wrong. I… I guess I’m happy for you.”

Sweetie Belle and Silver Spoon trotted out of Sugarcube Corner, tails entwined.

Sighing, Diamond Tiara relented, “I guess I have to be.”

“Now, see, ya jus’ put yer forehoof in mine, an’—“

“Like dis?”

“No… that’s close. Ya need ta hold it higher. An’ then ya take yer other one—see?—an’ then ya hold me wit’ the other one.”

“… C’mon, Bloom. Youze know I can’t dance.”

“Ya never told me that! You jus' said ya neva have befo'!”

“I did once in school, in Manehatten, an' failed. An' now, well, youze know.”

“Awww, c’mon. Please, jus' try? Fer me?”

“… Fine.”

A few minutes and one stumbling filly later, Pinkie Pie giggled, “Looks like somepony has four left horseshoes!”

Wearing the punch bowl as a fitting hat, Babs Seed grumbled to her fillyfriend, “I told youze so.”

Year Six: Cloudsdale And Canterlot

Libra Scales flopped off the couch, nearly crashing into a slumbering Braeburn and Citrus Blossom below. She stifled a chuckle. Her daughter and nephew were oblivious to her movements, twitching in their sleep, sharing a thick quilt on the hardwood floor. She reasoned that their dreams must be running wild, as reckless as their daytime aspirations.

Libra was somewhat relieved when Citrus had chosen to stay. She wished only the best for her fillies. Canterlot had always been her eldest daughter’s dream, a star on the horizon beyond. Finding it to be a mere illusion, a careful construct of media and reckless youthful abandon, would’ve been shattering a lifetime ago.

However, Libra and her daughter were tempered by Appeloosa, fine steel beneath the hammer of the desert sun and the anvil of winter’s frost. Citrus survived the cruel reality, and seemed happier because of it. There would be no more wondering.

Libra quietly trotted through the living room and out the front door, careful to keep her hoof-steps light. Dawn hesitantly greeted Sweet Apple Acres. Her hooves met the cold, dew-kissed grass, sending a charge of energy through her veins. In Manehatten, the mare had struggled with depression for years. She’d tried everything she could imagine to chase it away. Strange diets, a myriad of supplements, exercise, and alcohol all fell far short of the mark.

Somehow, despite their poverty, her injuries, and the aching distance between Ponyville and Appleloosa, Libra Scales was happier than she’d ever been. At times, she cursed ever leaving the settlement in the first place. Things would’ve been far easier if she’d stayed.

But, then, she never would have met… him. She kept her eyes wide open for him, hoping to catch among the growing populace a sight of the beige stallion and his jet-black mane. She pricked her ears for the familiar Manehatten accent—a thick, staccato voice that only Babs Seed retained anymore. Citrus seemed cured of it, and Libra had never adopted it in the first place.

Throughout academia, she’d slaved to hide her country drawl, replacing it with monotonous corporate-speak. Try as she might, it only returned to her now on several occasions. But he had spoken it then, and possibly did now. Regardless, she longed to hear again from him, accent or none.

She hadn’t seen him at all throughout these six years, despite her wishes. No. It had been almost eighteen years since their first and only meeting. So long ago. Eons ago. Her own age mocked her. Sighing, Libra continued her morning walk, shaking out her mane and her reminiscence.

Under an apple tree waited a tall, shadowy figure, leaning its back against the bark. She picked up her pace, her hooves eager and light. Mother found daughter and asked, “Why are you awake so early, darling? Applejack says you’re so hard to wake up, you know.”

Babs chuckled and crossed her forehooves behind her head and her hindhooves across each other, stretching out on the grass. “Oh, I know. But I slept pretty good afta the party last night. Thought I’d get up early. Bloom an’ everypony else is still asleep upstairs.”

Libra raised an eyebrow. “Please don’t tell me you two—“

Blushing, Babs blurted, “Ma! O’ course not!”

“Good. I was worried there for a bit. Anyway,” she said, steering the conversation to a more favorable direction, “how was the party?”

“Great! Lots o’ games an’ dancin’ an’ stuff. Oh, an’ it looks like Sweetie Belle finally found her special somepony. Which is nice. I was worried ‘bout her fo’ a while,” she remarked with a grin. “I’ll have ta tease her ‘bout it. Me, Bloom, Scoots an’ Sweetie are gonna meet up ta-day. I’m sure I’ll hear all ‘bout it.”

“Sounds fun. What are you all going to do now?”

“Aww, I dunno. Prolly jus’ catch up an’ plan fo’—“

“No, Babs,” Libra said, stretching out her own hooves as she leaned into the tree, watching the sun began its ascent in the sky. With a slight smile, she clarified, “What are you all going to do now that you’ve graduated?”

The question was perfectly poised to shake Ponyville, Equestria, and Earth itself with shattering magnitude. It seemed that this question would not elude Babs, no matter how hard she tried to dismiss it. It pursued her, a ravenous timberwolf in the dark, following her with a steely glint in its eyes and an unearthly determination. Her thoughts proved to be an illusory refuge. Even there it taunted her, an endless mantra of urgency and indecision.

Giving no reply, she chose to focus on the sunrise instead. Does it look the same from all angles? It seems mo' beautiful than it was in Manehatten. Manehatten. Why do I even botha ta think o’ dat place? I said it maself… there’s nothin’ there fo’ me.

… Wonda what happened ta dat CMC o’ mine.

Gently, Libra Scales said, “You know you’re always welcome in Appleloosa, right?”

“Jus’ me, though, huh?” Youze jus’ want me ta leave dis place behind, an’ all who comes wit’ it. Don’t youze?

“… Babs.”

Avoiding her mother's gaze, Babs Seed asked, “What?”

Sighing, Libra pleaded, “Give me time, alright?”

“It’s been six years, Ma.” How much mo’ do youze need? We ain’t gonna be breakin’ up anytime soon, iffa eva.

Rationality demanded that Libra Scales concede the point here. However, if she tallied and counted all their meetings since departing that wretched ghetto of the East, not even a year’s worth of days had been shared between herself and her filly. Correspondence was mainly maintained through letters.

Try as she might, Libra would never obtain the wealth to purchase a home in Ponyville and relocate. She refused to burden her family any more than they already were. Ponyville and Appleloosa both faced similar economic hardships. Jobs were few and scarce. Many ponies were emigrating to the larger cities or to the frontier for a fresh start.

So little had she seen of Babs Seed, and even less she had seen of Apple Bloom. Such little foundation seemed to exist between them, for better or for worse. The whole thing left her dumbfounded. Therefore, withholding judgment (positive or negative) appeared to be the most logical response.

Libra dropped the subject, reasoning it was far too early to argue, anyway. “You know who you remind me of, sweetie?”

Ignoring her deflection (seeing no point in confronting the issue quite yet), Babs asked monotonously, “Who, Ma?”

“There was a stallion I met a long, long time ago. Long before you were born. His name evades me, but I’ll never forget his face. He was one-of-a-kind. Not like the others. He was a dreamer,” Libra said, the fire in her irises lit anew with her recollection. “He dreamt big dreams. He was always talking about his latest adventure or his upcoming exploits. He was a traveler. He went from one side of Equestria to the other at the drop of a hat. He said he was searching for some place to call ‘home,’ and he never quite found it.”

“So… he was a vagabond o’ summat?”

“I guess you could say that.”

“Hmm. Are there a lotta ponies who live dat way?”

Libra tapped her chin with a forehoof. “Well, not a lot. But there are some. We see a few of them pass through Appleloosa each month, according to Braeburn. They usually stay long enough to work a little in one of the stores or the orchards, stock up on bits and supplies, and head out someplace else. It’s a very interesting way to live. I always sort of envied that stallion… my old friend. I wonder what became of him.”

Babs Seed shrugged. Hopefully, he found what he was lookin’ fo’. I think I have. An’ I think I will…

Unable to contemplate an answer, Libra Scales turned back to her filly, offering a gentle smile. “When I see you, I think of him, because you both have so much potential. You’re both smart and strong. You can do anything you want. And whatever you decide to do, honey, just know that there is room for you in Appleloosa if you so choose. Braeburn just finished building a home for the three of us. It even has a guest room and living room. They’re small, but they work.”

Mustering an uneasy grin, Babs replied, “Thanks, Ma. I might have ta take youze up on dat someday. Fo’ now, I ain’t sure o’ much. All I know is dis sunrise is beautiful right now, an’ I’m glad ta share it wit’ youze.”

Although a good liar, there was no falsehood in Babs Seed’s words. Together, mother and daughter watched the sun rise and proliferate, mighty and radiant in the new dawn. Today was the first day of the rest of the younger’s life. In a few months, a filly would soon be a mare, crossing that threshold between continents at last.

Then, there would be no stopping her in whatever she would choose. For now, they lived in the moment, enjoying what laid on the horizon, before the train would come and usher the Appleloosians back to the desert plains.

Citrus and Braeburn were shaken awake by a laughing Applejack, who insisted they sample another piece of her pie before departing. Two gracious maws gobbled up their breakfast and, again at their host’s demand, packed up an extra piece each to consume on the train ride home. Soon, the farmhouse came alive, the remaining Apples yawning, stretching, and muttering their goodbyes.

Babs Seed trotted back to the front door with her mother and embraced her sister and cousin there, graciously thanking them for their appearance. Nopony else in Equestria meant as much as the three beaming before her. Her thoughts rarely, if ever, drifted to her remaining Manehatten relative. She referred to him, even within her consciousness, by his ridiculous legal name. He was father to nopony. Good riddance.

Big Macintosh, Granny Smith, Apple Bloom, and Applejack stood beside and behind Babs Seed, waving enthusiastic forehooves goodbye to their three visitors. Libra, Citrus, and Braeburn cantered away, an early train ride home cutting their stay regrettably short.

“Thank y’all fer comin’! Don’t be afraid ta stop by anytime!” Applejack called after the trio, waving her Stetson in the air.

“Take care o’ yerselves!” Granny Smith yelled.

“We’ll miss ya!” Apple Bloom shouted.

“Eeyup!” Big Mac agreed.

To their own ways they split, eight Apples total: three hurrying to their hooves towards the train station, five offering their farewells. Like all partings, this one would not be for too long. Geography possessed little power in the face of familial ties.

Once they’d become dots on the horizon, Babs Seed turned to Apple Bloom, an impish grin on her countenance. “Think it’s time ta go find Sweetie an’ Scoots? Dey should be up by now.”

“Ah don’t think so!” Applejack quipped, a devilish smile of her own speaking her intent. “Ah think ya both have some work ta do beforehoof. Y’all may not be mares yet, but Ah’ve got work fer ya.”

Groaning, the fillies relented, soon becoming lost in repetitive tasks under the rising sun.

“Alright, everypony, watch this one!”

Scootaloo spread her powerful wings and propelled off her hindhooves with a mighty bound, rocketing into the air. She beat her wings several times, catching a thermal and following it upstream into the atmosphere. Higher and higher she climbed, soaring, until the clubhouse shrunk to an insignificant blur below the clouds.

Below, three Crusaders waited impatiently. The pegasus had flown far up and beyond their line of sight, seeking refuge among the cloud-cover above. None of them possessed vision perfect enough to see anything but a shapeless orange figure towering somewhere near the heavens. “Where did she go?” Sweetie Belle asked.

Babs Seed opened her mouth to reply, interrupted by a speeding WOOSH! of air and pegasus. Scootaloo careened into a daring dive and pulled up mere feet in front of them, sending a gust of wind over the platform of the treehouse and her three friends. She sharply pulled back up at the last second, dodging the roof, heading headfirst into the sky. Scootaloo quickly arched her back and led with her forehooves, turning upside-down. She then completed a quick reverse loop and streaked once more, up, up, up, her wings cutting through the afternoon air.

“Wowza!” Babs exclaimed, pointing a forehoof excitedly after her. Though the trio had seen Scootaloo perform her tricks on countless occasions throughout the years, her current finesse and skill exceeded anything they had previously observed. “She musta been practicin’ a lot lately!”

Following Scootaloo’s ascent back up past the clouds with incredulous eyes, Sweetie Belle said, “You can say that again! Just look at her! I bet she could join the Wonderbolts if she wanted!”

Apple Bloom rolled her eyes and muttered, “Don’t give her that idea. It’ll go ta her head, and we won’t hear the end o’ it if ya do. She’s finally gotten off the subject o’ Rainbow Dash as o’ late.”

“You don’t think she’s got what it takes?” Sweetie asked.

Scootaloo rose to the top of her arc and quickly turned around, lowering her head and stretching out her forehooves once more. She accepted gravity and plummeted down, down, down towards her friends, flattening her ears and squinting her eyes. The sheer speed of her descent—coupled with her aerodynamic pose—pummeled her through the atmosphere, and her tail became as a purple comet, streaking and trailing behind her.

She dove further down than her previous attempt, passing the clubhouse and still going southwards, her hooves almost touching the grass. She pulled back up in a perfectly-timed instant and soared straight up, kicking up a cloud of dust and purple steam. The pony-turned-locomotive finished with a backwards descent towards her friends, her eyes closed in pure trust of her freefall.

Gently alighting upon the rooftop of the Cutie Mark Crusaders clubhouse, hindhooves first, Scootaloo stood, triumphant and declared, “What’s this I hear about the Wonderbolts?”

Tapping on the platform with a forehoof, Babs Seed asked, “Why don’t youze come down wit’ us an’ talk ‘bout it? Unless youze like us lookin’ up, hotshot,” she added with a teasing grin.

“Well, I’d better get used to it sometime! After all, speaking of Wonderbolts—and you all don’t think I have what it takes!—I’m gonna be headin’ to Cloudsdale in a week for training!”

Silence. Three mouths went agape in shock.

“I know, right?” Scootaloo boasted, fluttering her wings. “I can’t believe it either!”

One of them finally found their words through the haze. Apple Bloom stammered, “C-c-could ya r-repeat that, please? Not what ya jus’ said, but befo’?”

Heeding Babs’s words, the pegasus leapt from the roof and stood by the railing of the clubhouse, beaming with pride. “I said, I’m going to Cloudsdale next week! I got accepted into the Wonderbolt Academy! The letter came in the mailbox this morning. Oh, mom and dad are going to be so proud! Dad’s deployed right now with the Royal Guard, but I’ll have to write him, and then Mom will be…”

Her words dissolved into excited banter, hopping on her hindhooves, oblivious to the uneasy silence that quickly stole away her friends' breath.

After a minute or so, once Scootaloo had calmed, a response came from somepony at last.

“… Oh.” Apple Blom tapped her hooves on the railing, briefly looking towards the orchards below. She turned back, a smile painted across her countenance without a drop of enthusiasm behind it. “That’s great, Scoots, real great!”

Concerned, Scoots raised a tentative brow. “You’re… you’re happy for me, aren’t you?”

“O’ course Ah am! Yer one o’ ma best friends, Scoots. Why wouldn’t Ah be happy fer ya?”

“Yea,” Babs added, her expression matching her cousin’s. “O’ course we’re happy fo’ youze, Scoots. It’s youze dream, ain’t it?”

Both muzzles strained under the weight of their gestures, movements that defied the instincts of their muscles. Smiling required more kinetic energy than frowning. They both pushed themselves to their limits in this regard. Applejack’s chores had been foal’s play. This, however, was a far more demanding exercise.

Sweetie Belle tossed her own words into the ring. “Yeah… it’s… awesome, Scootaloo. It’s what you’ve always wanted.”

Scootaloo sighed, the tension in her wings going slack. “I was afraid you three would react this way. I’m sorry. I had no idea this would happen. I applied for the Academy expecting to get rejected, so I didn’t tell you. I mean… it’s the Wonderbolts, right? But they accepted me, somehow. And…”

The pegasus gulped, turning her back away from her friends. “I had no idea I would have to leave so soon.”

“Now, don’t get us wrong… o’, at least, don’t’ get me wrong,” Babs began, dropping her mask. “Though, I’m pretty sure youze two feel the same way I do, don’t youze?”

Apple Bloom nodded, understanding Babs’s unspoken intent, and slowly said, “Ya see, Scoots, it’s not that we ain’t happy fer ya, it’s jus’—“

“We weren’t expecting you to leave so soon,” Sweetie Belle gently finished, putting a forehoof on Scootaloo's shoulder. “I mean… we just graduated. We have the whole summer to look forward to. Well, actually, I guess our entire lives can be summer in a way, until we get jobs.”

“Yea. It’s not dat I don’t want youze ta follow youze dream… I do. It’s jus’ hard, ya know?”

“Ah’ll support ya no matter what ya do! That’s what friends are fer, Scoots.”

Three fillies pulled a fourth into a hug. Scootaloo wrapped her forehooves around them, a solitary tear shining in her eye. Before anypony could comment on it, she quickly wiped it away, sniffling. “Thanks, everypony. It’s just…”

Scootaloo took a step backwards, wrestling out of their hooves. She sighed. “It’s just…I don’t know when I’ll be able to see you all again. I know we’ll be able to write and everything but…it just won’t be the same.”

An’ Earth ponies an’ unicorns don’t have much o’ a way ta see youze. Unless we borrow a hot air balloon o’ summat. An’ I don’t count on dat. Three crestfallen muzzles pondered her words, forehooves tapping chins. The three who found themselves lacking wings were in quite a quandary. No immediate solutions surfaced to mind.

Suddenly, Apple Bloom broke the silence. “Don’t y’all remember what we said, all ‘em years ‘go, ‘bout crusadin’? Especially you, Babs,” she said, nudging her filly in the ribs.

“What do youze mean, Apple Bloom?”

“What was the first rule o’ the Manehatten CMC ya told yer friends there?”

Immediately, Babs answered, “’Once a Crusada, always a Crusada.’”

Apple Bloom nodded. Taking Scootaloo's forehoof in her own, she explained, “Maybe we shouldn’t worry ‘bout this kinda stuff fer now. Maybe we shouldn’t worry ‘bout it after all. Ah mean… we’ve been friends all these years. No reason ta worry ‘bout our friendship now, right?”

“That’s right!” Sweetie Belle exclaimed happily. “Maybe it’ll be like how Rarity is with her friends! They don’t see each other every day, or even every week. She’s usually in Canterlot or Trottingham or working at the Boutique. But when she does see one of her friends, she says it’s just like they never parted ways to begin with!”

“Yea. Yea, Sweetie’s right,” Babs said. “Kinda like how it is wit’ ma folks in Appleloosa. Like… we’re apart, but we’re not. We don’t see each otha much, but when we do, there’s nothin’ missin’. It’s complete. Maybe it’ll be jus’ like dat.”

“An’ we’ll always be friends! Even if ya go on a world tour wit’ the Wonderbolts an’ we only see ya ‘round the holidays!” Apple Bloom assured.

Scootaloo nervously chuckled. “Well… I hope it’s not that bad…”

The three of them joined in the laughter, shattering the tension between them. The four friends spent the rest of their afternoon together in their clubhouse of old, sharing stories of past crusades and future aspirations. Not a stone was left unturned, recounting all of their failed (but laughable) attempts: skydiving, sewing, security-guarding, soothsaying. How apparent their talents were now, broadcast on their flanks for the entirety of Equestria to see. How long and arduous some of their journeys had been, blood, sweat, and tears.

But, they now knew who they were, and every inch and mile had been worth it. Four Cutie Mark Crusaders they had been, and forever would be, but now they pointed their hooves firm towards the future.

Sweetie Belle revealed that she’d put in an application for an internship with the Pony of Pop herself, Sapphire Shores. If accepted, she would be sent to Canterlot for a year to work under the singing sensation, opening the gates to her own musical career. Like Scootaloo, she was wished the best of luck, and they all vowed to defy the boundaries of geography and journey.

Somewhere near the end of their meeting came the dreaded question once more. Sweetie was the one to bring it to the surface. “So… Babs, Apple Bloom? What do you two plan on doing? Staying here in Ponyville, on Sweet Apple Acres?”

“Oh, uh, Ah dunno, Sweetie,” Apple Bloom deflected, running a forehoof over the clubhouse floorboards. Her construction proved structurally sound and aesthetically pleasing; the varnish she’d painted over the floor hid all traces of her nervous digging. “We haven’t really decided that yet.”

Babs looked at her and repeated, “’We’?”

“Well, o’ course, silly filly.” Apple Bloom giggled. “Did ya think Ah’d jus’ let ya go ta Appleloosa o’ the badlands alone?”

Huh? “Why do youze think dat I’d wanna go there?”

Scootaloo whispered to Sweetie Belle from the corner of her mouth, “Uh oh…h ere we go…”

“Well, Ah jus’ figured… ’cuz Auntie an’ Citrus are out there… An’ the way ya talk ‘bout it. It seems… how do Ah put it… mystical ta ya, the unsettled lands. Like some kinda adventure. An’ Ah know how ya like adventures,” Apple Bloom explained.

True, but… “But dis is ma home, Apple Bloom. It always has been, since the first day I came heeya. Sweet Apple Acres is ma home.Youze are ma home,” Babs said, grasping a yellow forehoof between two orange ones.

Scootaloo and Sweetie Belle exclaimed in unison, “Awwwwww!”

Blushing, Babs glared back at them. I’ll get youze both fo’ dat.

Apple Bloom lightly nuzzled her neck. “That’s how Ah feel, too. Though, sometimes, Ah think ‘bout what’s outside o’ Ponyville. Don’t ya do too, Babs? Don’t ya wonder what’s beyond here? What might be in the wide, wide world o’ Equestria?”

“Yeah!” Sweetie agreed. “I sure know I do.”

Scootaloo nodded. “That’s why we’re Crusaders, isn’t it?”

“I… I don’t know…” Babs muttered. “I haven’t thought dat far ahead. I’m jus’ takin’ dis one day at a time. But everypony seems ta want ta know what I wanna do, right here an’ now, an’ I have no clue!”

“An’ that’s fine. Right, gals?”

In unison came the reply: “Right!”

“Ya’ll know soon, Babs. We both will. Ah jus’ know it.”

“… Thanks, Bloom,” Babs replied, brushing her cheek against her filly’s. Remembering her mockery, Babs Seed focused her attention to Sweetie Belle. “Hey… Sweetie?”

“Yeah?”

“What was dat wit’ Silva Spoon last night?”

This time, it was the unicorn’s turn to take her hoof to the floorboards. It proved as ineffectual as Apple Bloom's digging. “Well, um, I guess we’re, um… dating, now…”

Apple Bloom and Babs Seed exclaimed in time, “Awwwwww!”

Fast on their reflexes, they easily dodged a forehoof thrown their way, and collapsed into fits of giggles. Scootaloo joined them, the sight of white cheeks deepening to crimson the most hilarious thing the pegasus had seen all day.

Thankfully for the other three, Sweetie Belle’s magic related entirely to singing. Otherwise, two Earth ponies and a pegasus may have sported green manes. There was nothing worse than green manes, assuming Rarity was no liar. And Rarity seemed to know a thing or two about fashion.

Almost a week passed them by, the four friends utilizing all time possible. Countless memories were hashed over milkshakes, cupcakes, and cookies at Sugar Cube Corner. Apple Bloom and Babs Seed finished up their chores as quickly as possible each morning, occasionally rising before the dawn if needed. Scoots showed off her moves and stunts to the awe of the others. Sweetie serenaded them, her talent leaving her friends in awe.

They wandered here, there, and everywhere throughout Ponyville, sometimes with no goal in mind. All that mattered was that they were together, if only for a little while longer, if only they could put the future on hold.

The last day before Academy training would come and steal Scootaloo away from Ponyville, the cross-eyed mailmare delivered an acceptance letter to the residence of one Sweetie Belle. Unlike Scootaloo, Sweetie Belle was commanded through the parchment to pack her bags that evening for Canterlot. A train was due to arrive in the morning on her behalf.

She stopped at Scootaloo’s residence first, disregarding her objection of the hour and the need for sleep. She concealed the truth of her visit, choosing to save the bittersweet revelation for the boundaries of Sweet Apple Acres. “C’mon, Scoots, we need to go see Apple Bloom and Babs right now! Can you fly us there, please?”

“What do I look like, a taxi?” Scootaloo groaned.

“No. Wait. Maybe?”

Face-hoofing, Scootalooo mumbled, “Get on my back.”

“An’ that’s yer Uncle Apple Strudel tryin’ on yer Auntie Apple Sauce’s dentures, an’ this is—“

KNOCK! KNOCK! KNOCK!

Granny Smith looked up from her photo album and stared at the front door. “Who could that be at this hour?” she grumbled. Babs Seed and Apple Bloom, seated on their haunches on each side of the elderly mare, merely shrugged their own cluelessness.

“Ah’ll get it,” Apple Bloom said as she jumped off the couch. She trotted to the threshold and opened the door. What she found there elicited a gasp and a grin from her in surprise. “Sweetie? Scoots? What are y’all doin’ here?”

“Dey’re heeya?” Babs landed on all four of her hooves and met her cousin in the entryway. “I second dat question. Youze know what time it is?”

“… Nine P.M.?” Scootaloo answered, confused.

Sweetie Belle shook her head vigorously. “Never mind the time! C’mon, girls! We need to go talk—“ she glanced around the corner of the farmhouse, finding a confused Granny Smith blinking back at her— “alone.”

“Why? What can’t ya say in fronta Granny, Sweetie Belle?”

Sweetie replied, “It’s nothing bad. Nothing that I can’t really say here, it’s… it’s just… I just would feel better if we were in the clubhouse.”

Dis can’t be good.

“Alright, Sweetie, Scoots, y'all go on ahead. Ah’ll go tell Granny. Babs an’ Ah’ll meet ya there in a bit.”

A blanket of stars concealed their voices, their whispers in the dark. The constellations were fragmented tonight, some stars aiding in the escape of their brothers. Perhaps it was the clouds that hid the handle of the Big Dipper or the spines in Draco’s back. Nevertheless, the night was silent but imperfect, a beautiful contradiction in the atmosphere. Quite fitting for such bittersweet words.

Babs Seed shook her muzzle, tapping the side of her head with a forehoof near her eyes. Surely, she hadn’t heard correctly. Surely, her mind was playing tricks on her, twisting her friend’s words. Scootaloo’s impending farewell was hard enough to fathom.

Tomorrow morning. Tomorrow morning, before Celestia even retrieved her star from its void, Scootaloo would rocket towards Cloudsdale, unsure if she should look back. Tomorrow, six years of their close friendship would dissolve into simple letter exchanges for an agonizing stretch of unknown time.

No. Not Sweetie too. Not so soon. It’s barely been a week! It’s barely been any time at all! We jus’ graduated yesterday! We jus’ started our summer togetha… dis can’t be…

Apple Bloom’s forehoof was on her shoulder, comforting her. Sweetie Belle’s words merged with the background, diving into the freshly painted walls and protected hardwood of the clubhouse. This wasn’t happening. Anywhere but here. Anywhere else.

A lifetime away from the Orange Family Mansion, Babs Seed felt abandoned once more, a ghost in the machine. Cast into the dust, lost in the cloud of their impending farewell. Scootaloo had been bad enough. One friend she could cope with, however reluctantly. Two? It seemed impossible.

“… Babs, are you alright?” Sweetie asked.

“I’m fine. It’s... T-ta-night, right? Youze are leavin’ ta-night?” Babs answered, posing a question of her own.

Sweetie Belle shook her head. “Well… sorta. The train will be here at four A.M., so it’s technically tomorrow, but it might as well be today!”

Sweetie braced her hindhooves against the floorboards, suppressing the urge to hop and skip and jump in pure joy. “I can’t believe it! So soon! I’m going to be perfecting my singing with the Sapphire Shores! I’ll probably even get a record deal out of it in the end! I can’t believe it!”

Babs Seed swallowed all her objection, casting aside her irrational, churning emotion. A few days ago, she was the one playing comforter, playing rough and tough, assuring her friends that this would not be the end. Wasn’t that true? Why, then, was she on the brink of tears now?

Apple Bloom exclaimed, “Ah’m so happy fer ya, Sweetie! We’ll be sure ta write! Right, Scoots, Babs?”

Both nodded in agreement. One of them piped, “Hey, what about Silver Spoon? Aren’t you going to go tell her?”

Absent-minded as always, Sweetie Belle suddenly bolted to her hooves and shrieked, “Oh no! She’s going to be so upset! … Wait.”

Hesitating, Sweetie recalled, “She has family in Canterlot. She goes to visit there sometimes… so, I guess it won’t be too bad, but… I need to tell her, too!”

Scootaloo spread her wings and patted her back. “Hop on. I’ll play taxi again.”

Giggling, Sweetie Belle turned to her friends, opening her forehooves. “One more hug before I take off?”

The four of them embraced, tight enough to convince all but one of them that things would stay the same, in spite of their distance. By the time they let go, a mess of forehooves and tussled manes and contradicted tears, the moon rose to its highest apex in the sky. The night was slipping away, dust in the wind.

Just like everything else.

Cloudsdale and Canterlot became beasts in Babs Seed’s mind. Within a few hours, they would swallow her friends whole, trapping them within their maws, taking them so achingly far away. Like all devious captors, Cloudsdale and Canterlot refused to reveal the extent of their plans. Their victims would be forced to rely on parchment until their sentences were fulfilled. Maybe, those sentences would last forever, if things went as Babs feared they would go.

Once Scootaloo kicked off her hindhooves, Sweetie Belle on her back, rocketing into the stars, Apple Bloom and Babs Seed watched her depart, waving their forehooves frantically goodbye, goodbye, good friends, goodbye.

“It’s crazy, ain’t it?” Apple Bloom mused, the two figures in the distance melting into the darkness of night. “They’re already set. Scoots gonna be a great Wonderbolt, Ah know. An’ Sweetie’ll be a great singer, too.”

“Mmmhmm.” Babs Seed leaned against her, tracing patterns in the sky with a forehoof. Choosing to distract herself from the implications of tonight’s revelation, she observed, “Sure is beautiful out heeya ta-night.”

Sensing discord within her filly, Apple Bloom asked, “Somethin’ wrong, Babsy?”

Ears flattened at the mere utterance of that nickname—youze must know by now how it makes me—Babs muttered, “I’ll… I’ll be alright. It’s nothin’.”

Her counterpart refused to let it slide. “Don’t ya rememba when Ah tried that line wit’ ya befo’? An’ ya said, ‘Where Ah come from, nothin’ is a whole lotta somethin’?”

Eying her suspiciously, Babs asked, “How do youze rememba stuff like dat?”

Apple Bloom simply shot back, “Apple Family memory. We don’t forget nothin’.”

“Hmm. Maybe I’m not really an Apple, then. Guess I’ll have ta send ma cutiemark back ta the factory. Dis one’s defective,” Babs Seed joked, smirking.

Their laughter echoed through the empty orchard, the two alone but for Luna’s moon and stars. “Silly filly. Well, what's really on yer mind?” Apple Bloom held her close. “Tell me.”

Sighing, Babs returned the embrace and leaned against the clubhouse railing. “I guess it’s jus’ a lot ta think ‘bout. Youze know? Heeya we are, not even a week outta school, an’ our two best friends already know what dey’re gonna do wit’ their lives. Already takin’ off fo’ bigger things. I’m happy fo’ ‘em, but I’ll miss ‘em. An’, the otha thing is, I still don’t have no stinkin’ clue ‘bout what I wanna do.”

“Jus’ give it time, sugarcube. You'll figure it out. An’ so will Ah. Both o’ us.”

“I know. I know. Jus’… Apple Bloom?”

“Yeah, Babs?”

Babs hesitated at first, unsure if she should toss these cards onto the table as well, along with everything else that had happened in this brief amount of time. But her burden was heavy, threatening to break her yoke and send her stumbling, and she could bear it no longer. “Bloom, iffa I do decide ta leave… iffa I go inta the dark… Will youze follow me?”

Please, please, please…

Sincerely, Apple Bloom answered, no doubt within her words, “O’ course Ah will,” and kissed her.

Retracting slowly, Apple Bloom added, her voice smooth as the night breeze that teased their manes, “Don't urge me ta leave ya, o’ ta turn ma back on ya. Because whereva ya go, Ah’ll go, an’ whereva ya stay, Ah’ll stay. Yer horizon will be ma horizon, an’ yer dawn will be ma dawn.

“That’s what love is—stayin’ beside yer loved ones. An’ Ah love you.”

It didn’t matter then, her uncertain future. It didn’t matter then, her fear of tomorrow. The compass spun, pointing towards all directions in this moment, but it would not be eternally conflicted.

The day would come, Babs knew, when she either planted her roots firmly in Sweet Apple Acres for long last, or chose the road or Appleloosa or the desert instead. And she knew on that night, beyond all probability, that whatever her decision, she would not be alone.

Cloudsdale and Canterlot were far, but they could be bridged. Parchment would hold them close until pegasus wings, balloons, or train tickets filled their gaps. Despite her sorrow, Babs Seed knew that her friends’ departures were not the end.

Friendship has no end.

No, the greatest distance in Equestria was here that night, here outside the Cutie Mark Crusaders' clubhouse during their final crusade. Under the stars, Babs Seed crossed the threshold and shattered that distance, meeting Apple Bloom in the middle.

Babs Seed whispered, “I love youze, too.”

Neitha does love.

Year Six: Beyond The Horizon

Clenching a match between her forehooves, Applejack struck the back of the matchbox, creating a pinprick of light in the dark kitchen. She put the match to a single candle in the center of the kitchen table, racing the tiny, flickering flame. She won.

Applejack rested on her haunches and began to organize her paperwork as quietly as she could. The rest of the farmhouse was silent and slumbering. Summer reigned from on high, creating a pleasant, warm night. She had no need for blankets or firewood. Just light.

She sighed. She yearned for the taunting figures on the parchment before her to be only a trick of the light. However, Applejack could not blame shoddy illumination on this discrepancy. Even after this year’s Zap Apple Jam season and the regular apple harvests, profits were down, expenses were up, and Applejack was scrambling.

Recently, the plow and several other farming tools had to be replaced. That had been expensive. The pigs—their last remaining livestock—were carted off to auction just a week ago. Their upkeep couldn’t justify the fertilizer they produced. That, too, would need to be purchased from now on.

Applejack couldn’t put her hoof on the cause. In the past few years, exports of Applejack Daniels to the larger cities—Trottingham, Canterlot, and Manehatten—had decreased in demand. Ponies there were no longer drinking Apple Family beverages. Hay, even apple sales there declined.

Appleloosa’s demand grew, but the tiny settlement couldn’t compete with the larger losses. Ponyville sales also decreased slightly, doubtlessly caused by the general decline of the town’s economy. Many ponies were taking to their hooves and the road, called by whispers of gold, silver, oil, labor and cheap land in the West. On one hoof, Applejack couldn’t blame them. On the other, she despised their willingness to abandon their fellows, to drown them in their dust. Recovery, when (not if) it came, would be slow, and emigration would not assist it.

There were only so many towns throughout Equestria, and with each lost sale or cancelled contract, the Apple Family had to search for a replacement market. Those were becoming fewer and farther between. The exodus of her own townsfolk was certainly less than reassuring.

Applejack fumbled through her inventory and budget listings. She double and triple-checked her figures, sweat dripping down her nape. Lies. It was all lies. It had to be. The Element of Honesty wasn’t sure if she could handle this truth.

Cursing her insomnia, Applejack blew out the candle and gathered her paperwork. “We’ll be fine. We’ve always been,” she reasoned, keeping her voice barely above a trembling whisper. “We’ve been through worse.”

Clousdale and Canterlot proved to be deserving of their monstrous titles. A few weeks after their departure, Sweetie Belle and Scootaloo wrote to their fellow Crusaders, parchment drenched in excited scribbles of their new adventures. Scootaloo was a lead pony and performing near the top of her Academy class. Sapphire Shores positively adored Sweetie Belle’s voice and encouraged her to write original music and lyrics.

Unfortunately, neither of the twain would be able to visit Ponyville for at least a year. Engrossed in their own demands and held hostage by strict instructors, both were forced to leave their friends in their hometown. Both assured, however, that if Babs Seed and Apple Bloom could find the means to bridge the distance between them, they would make all the time in Equestria for their meeting.

Again, Fate frowned down at Babs and Apple Bloom. Travel required bits. Bits that they no longer possessed.

A few days after their eighteenth birthdays—mares at long last—Applejack broke the harsh, reluctant news to her sibling and cousin, sitting them down at the kitchen table after a particularly grueling day of work.

“Ah’m gonna keep this short,” Applejack said, pulling up a stool to the table. “But there’s somethin’ Ah have ta tell y’all, though Ah wish Ah didn’t have ta.”

Confused glances were swapped between her wards. Apple Bloom and Babs Seed joined her and took their own seats. Her sibling was the first to inquire, “What do ya mean, Applejack?”

“Well… look. Ah’m jus’ gonna come out an’ say it. Ah can’t pay y’all any mo’ fer yer work. Not until harvest time, at least,” Applejack spat, fiddling with her forehooves. She tugged on her Stetson and dodged their gaze. Her ears flattened, regretting the words they’d heard.

Babs Seed asked, “Why is dat, Applejack?” Her muscles ached beneath her coat, torn fresh and anew from another tiresome day in the fields. With school forever out of the way, they worked from dawn until dusk. Spurred by little other than her own foalish pride, Babs Seed pushed herself to the limit, to the edge of the edge. Driven by no whip, threatened by no chains, she sought merely to challenge herself, to see how much she could take.

Bits, though they mattered little, would be a nice exchange for her efforts.

Applejack muttered, ashamed, “Well, Ah don’t really know how o’ why, but we aren’t makin’ as much money as we used ta, an’—“

“We jus’ bought a new plow a few weeks ‘go! Don’t youze tell me right now we’re broke,” Babs snapped. Leaning forward on her forehooves, she pressed, “What’s the real reason, Applejack?”

“Ah don’t have any other reason,” Applejack replied, glancing up at Babs from beneath her Stetson. “Why would ya think Ah have any other reason? Are ya callin’ me a liar?”

Babs countered, “No, but it seems awful strange ta me dat youze suddenly can’t pay us. We’re grown mares workin’ our tails off in dat heat!”

Brushing aside her shame, Applejack looked the filly straight in the eyes, leaning across the table. “What do ya think Ah’m doin’ all day? Ya even saw me workin’ out there earlier wit’ y’all!”

“Not as long as I was!”

“Ah don’t ask ya ta push yerself like that! Ya do it on yer own!”

Apple Bloom said calmly, “Ya know, it’s really not that big o’ a deal—“

Snapping her head around to face her, Babs argued, “What do youze mean ‘it’s not dat big o’ a deal’? Bloom, we’ve been earnin’ fo’ years! An’ now we won’t be paid—“

“Until harvest time,” Applejack finished. “Not forever. Besides, Babs, what’s so damn important ya can’t go without pay fer a few months?”

Babs Seed narrowed her eyes and growled through her teeth to the surprise of both siblings, “Dat’s none o’ youze business.”

Apple Bloom shook her muzzle, certain her ears betrayed her. She blinked several times, finding herself thrust into reality, rather than some dream of a parallel universe. Babs Seed had just growled at Applejack, dismissing her carelessly. Placing a forehoof on her mare's shoulders, she hesitantly asked, “Babs, are ya alright?”

“I’m fine, Bloom,” Babs dismissed, breaking free of her grasp. Rising from her haunches and pointing her hooves towards the front door, she added, “Guess I’ll go an’ do some mo’ work fo’ free. Don’t have anythin’ betta ta do.”

Muttering curses that would make a Royal Guard blush, Babs Seed exited the farmhouse, nearly slamming the front door off its hinges in her wake. Two Apples pondered the silence and fidgeted with their forehooves.

Then, Apple Bloom began to apologize on her filly’s behalf. “Don’t worry, Applejack, Ah’ll go talk ta her later ‘bout it. She needs ta apologize, though Ah’m sure she didn’t mean it.”

Applejack secured her Stetson on her head and sighed. “Ya don’t have ta do that, Apple Bloom. Ah don’t wanna drive a wedge ‘tween y’all. Ah’m sure it’s jus’ ‘cuz she’s tired o’ somethin’.”

Apple Bloom trotted over and nuzzled her sister. “Are ya sure there ain’t mo’ ta this, Applejack? This not gettin’ paid, Ah mean?”

Returning the gesture, Applejack answered, “No. It’s jus’…Ah’ll tell ya ‘bout it sometime later. Not now. Ah gotta go talk ta Granny an’ Mac ‘bout a few things.”

Applejack began to make her way out of the kitchen, suddenly halted by a stray thought. “Oh, one mo’ thing, Bloom.”

“What’s that, Applejack?”

“Can ya go get the mail fer me in town? Ah didn’t have time ta take care o’ it this mornin’.”

Apple Bloom nodded eagerly. No errand or task from Applejack’s edict truly inconvenienced her. Sure, as a foal and a filly, she would bemoan her chores, though she had no honest reason to do so. As a mare, she knew all that Applejack commanded was within reason and not without purpose.

Still, as Apple Bloom strode towards town’s center, she couldn’t help but wonder if Babs Seed had stumbled upon some smidgen of truth. Perhaps there was a reason beyond pure economics that Applejack wasn’t going to pay them for a while?

Perhaps, she pondered, was this her sister’s way of urging them to strike out on their own, just as Sweetie and Scoots had?

Summer’s sun rose and fell upon its apex and descent, churning away their days. Weeks passed. Apple Bloom rose with the dawn and nudged Babs Seed awake with her, ignoring pleas of, “Jus’ five mo’ minutes…” Those words, of course, never worked. Apple Bloom was stronger than that.

The days preceding the fall harvest began to trickle away. All of their days merged and stretched into one infinite, repetitive cycle. Wake with the dawn. Chow down breakfast. Work in the fields, the orchards, the farmhouse, whatever needed tending. Check the mail. Write back a reply to Sweetie or Scoots some lucky days, sigh in disappointment the rest. Chow down dinner with the rest of the family. Collapse into bed, exhausted, unable to talk for more than a few minutes before one of them fell asleep.

Such was the life of Apple Bloom and Babs Seed, post-graduation.

During her toil, Babs Seed found a familiar, tranquil peace, a silence of her buzzing brain that seemed to purge her anxiety. While pulling the plow, or bucking apple trees, or baling hay, or doing any sort of mindless task, she was calm and quiet of mind. She was content under the blazing sun, the unrelenting heat, the echo of the wind through her ears in the fields beyond. She was alright with her two best friends being worlds away from her, nothing within her own power to bridge that distance.

She was alright confined to Sweet Apple Acres, to her boundaries and responsibilities. And so was Apple Bloom. Or so it seemed.

The desert road stretched endlessly beyond her forehooves, leading to the division between the heavens and the Earth. That horizon, trickster boundary it was, did not fade or shrink as she trotted towards it. She picked up her pace, escalating quickly to a canter, then a full-speed gallop, chasing it, pursuing it, predator and prey tangoing in the dying light of the setting sun.

Churning up a cloud of dust, Babs Seed held her muzzle high, breathing through her nostrils. On her back, she carried only the most meager of provisions. Enough water to hold her until an oasis or town. Enough food to satisfy her gnawing hunger once it could no longer be disregarded. A blanket, some matches, some candles, some parchment, quills, and ink. The bare necessities were all she needed.

But, she thought, pounding her hooves against the sand—the horizon and its ornamental sun eluding her through her fruitless steps—perhaps there was something else she needed. No. Not something else. Somepony else.

Babs Seed turned around, skidding to a halt.

Beneath fire in the sky, a shadowy figure emerged from behind her, its identity obscured by a traveler’s cloak. The pony rivaled her in height by only six inches, and in weight by maybe thirty or so pounds. Nevertheless, she could discern from its slow, ragged breaths that this figure was a stallion.

A stallion? Who? The only stallions she cared about were in Ponyville or Appleloosa, not in the desert plains between.

“Who are youze?” Babs Seed barked, bracing her hooves and flexing her powerful muscles beneath her fur. Was he a fellow traveler, a vagabond-in-the-making, just as she? Or was he far more sinister? Her senses failed to side with either half of her suspicions.

The approaching stallion continued, his hoof-steps as slow and calculated as his breath. Muzzle hidden by a black cowl, his coat and cutiemark kept a mystery beneath waves of black cloth, he refused to reveal himself. Instead, he trotted further and further towards her, her only companion in the race for the sun.

Again, she asked, “Who are youze?”

He stopped in his tracks, mere feet from her.

Babs Seed took a step forward. A sudden gust of wind scooped sand from the ground and rushed between them, creating a barrier that irritated her eyes, making them water. Babs threw a foreleg over her eyes and squeezed them shut. She cursed, unable to see or move, vulnerable.

Her stranger breached the barrier and placed a forehoof on her shoulder. “Don’t you know who I am?” he asked, his voice a deeper baritone than that of any Ponyville stallion.

Coughing, she mumbled back, “I… I dunno! Dat’s why I asked youze! Where’s Apple Bloom? I thought she was gonna come wit’ me!”

Through her narrowed gaze, she detected the shake of a shadowy muzzle. “That’s for you to find out,” he replied, his tone steady, firm. “But, if you want to leave this place, you must take up your hooves and follow me.”

“I don’t even know who youze are!”

“That’s part of the mystery, isn’t it?”

Sandstorm blinding her still, Babs squeezed her eyes shut again. The stallion lowered his forehoof from her shoulder and sighed. “C’mon. You know what you want to do. You want to leave, and follow the horizon, and follow me.”

Enraged, she shouted over the desert’s mournful howl, “Who the hay are youze?! Make it stop! I wanna see! I wanna see who youze are!”

Chuckling, the stallion said, “The desert is a cruel mistress, Babs Seed…”

A flash of light in front of her eyelids, the wind’s final breath, and then, when she opened her eyes, Babs Seed was alone.

Babs Seed dreamt of the shadowy figure on the desert road for several days before he disappeared as mysteriously as he arrived. She tossed and turned in her sleep in his presence but did not startle herself awake. She thanked the Most High for this blessing, grateful she did not rouse Apple Bloom from her own slumber those nights. Sleep was their refuge, their gateway into Cloudsdale and Canterlot, and neither sought to disturb the other. It would be long before they would sprout wings or scrape together enough for a Canterlot ticket.

Dreams had been pleasant and restful for Babs Seed since her permanent arrival in Ponyville six years prior. These visions could not rightly be called nightmares, especially when compared to the shadows in her foalhood nights. However, she was at a loss to explain them, and chose not to worry her filly or her family with their contents.

Past the clubhouse she trotted, admiring her work. A year of relentless Nature had been unable to destroy that which she so lovingly crafted. Shame and pity that it had outlived its purpose. However, Apple Bloom hoped, perhaps someday, by the blessings of Celestia and Luna themselves, her own foals would run wild in that structure, crusading for their cutiemarks. Or maybe her nieces and nephews would. It was of little importance, the distinction.

All she knew was that she would forever be a Crusader. All she knew was that her adventures were not yet over.

Continuing past the clubhouse and towards the northern orchards, Apple Bloom let her thoughts wander aimlessly beyond the horizon. The sun was setting fast now, sending the heavens aflame with seas of yellow, orange, and red. What laid beyond it? Could she reach it? Could she reach it… alone?

Apple Bloom spun on her hindhooves. She was joined by a familiar form, and a smile streaked across her muzzle, happy to be alone no longer. “Howdy, Applejack.”

Applejack wrapped a forehoof around her sister in a quick sideways-hug. “Howdy, lil’ sis! Ain’t them orchards lookin’ mighty pretty this time o’ the year?”

Applejack matched her sister's pace, striding alongside her as she journeyed through the thicket of trees. Apple Bloom’s course was set for the highest hill on Sweet Apple Acres, the one that led to the train station and out of town.

Apple Bloom nodded and grinned. “Sure is, Applejack!” she exclaimed, genuine. “Why, Ah think they’re even stronger an’ mo’ beautiful than usual…”

“Well, o’ course they are!” Applejack rustled the filly’s mane playfully. “Now that Ah’ve got ya all grown up an’ helpin’ me—you an’ Babs both—nothin’ can stop us! That’s the Apple Family way!”

Apple Bloom paused, her hooves frozen in place. “C-come again, sis?”

“Heh, heh. Are ya goin’ deaf already?” Applejack teased. Nudging her sibling in the ribs, she repeated, “Ah said, things are mighty good now that you an’ Babs are all grown up. Now y’all can really start helpin’ me wit’ the farm! Nothin’ can stop us now! Ya, me, Babs, an’ Mac, all workin’ together on the family farm…”

Applejack paused, letting her words hang listlessly in the air, unfinished. Apple Bloom was frowning. “What’s wrong, lil’ sis?”

“Well, it’s jus’… Ah was kinda wantin’ ta go travelin’ fer a while,” Apple Bloom admitted, her eyes downcast, fascinated with the grass beneath her hooves. “Ah mean… Ah do love ya, Applejack, an’ Ah love the farm. It’s what Ah’ve always known, an’ Ah loved every minute o’ it. But Ah jus’ wanna see what’s out there, like Sweetie an’ Scoots have. An’ Ah think Babs does, too.”

Applejack took a few steps away from her, her emerald irises widening in horror. All she had feared was coming to pass, right before her eyes. Apple Bloom was leaving her. Babs Seed’s impending departure she could tolerate, but not her sister’s.

Hurt, Apple Bloom reached out to her sibling with a forehoof, pleading, “Applejack, please, don’t be mad… Ah thought ya knew, o’ ya would have a good idea o’ this—“

“Good idea o’ what?! That ma own sister wants ta abandon the family?!” Applejack snapped, backing further away still. “That she’s gonna leave everythin’ behind jus’ ta go chase her fillyfriend’s foalish dream?! What do y’all think yer gonna find anyway? It’s all sand an’ broken dreams! Jus’ as Manehatten was!”

“Yer not even givin’ it a chance! Yer not even—“

“Ah expected better from you, Apple Bloom.”

Applejack turned tail and galloped away, an orange blur expertly dodging tree trunks in her egress. Apple Bloom took to her own hooves to follow her. She hadn’t gotten far when the Earth itself opened its carnivorous maw, and she stumbled into a bottomless pit, beginning to fall, fall, fall…

She screamed for Babs Seed. This time, she wasn’t there to protect her.

Unlike her counterpart, Apple Bloom dreamt only of Applejack’s disdain and the murderous ground beneath her hooves once. Unfamiliar with such nightmares, she woke up that night in a cold sweat, her mane frazzled and knotted. Babs Seed, caught in the forehooves of the shadowy figure and his beckoning, did not awaken.

That night, smack-dab in the August heat, Apple Bloom wondered how soon the day would come. She could sense it with every fiber and ounce of her being. They had spoken little of the subject, keeping their pillow talk to lighter things. But she knew. Each letter from Canterlot or Cloudsdale served as a catalyst, spurring both of them to reconsider their own options.

Their friends had moved on, chasing their own dreams. Knowing that her only reply would be a shrug and a mutter of indecision, Apple Bloom resisted asking Babs Seed what hers were. In due time, she would know.

They would both know.

August rushed them by, a thief stealing away into the night. September soon followed. The last of the apple harvest was completed by two sets of young, spry, capable hooves. Applejack was more than impressed, and rewarded Babs Seed and Apple Bloom accordingly. Much-needed revenue began to flow in, and as October began to usher in autumn, Applejack breathed a sigh of relief.

Applejack's happiness was short-lived. Fall arrived with torrents and tempests, storms of tremendous magnitude, ripping shingles off the roof of both the farmhouse and the barn. The little buffer between coasting through winter and struggling to make ends meet evaporated with the latest repairs. Apple Bloom and Big Macintosh did all they could to fix the torn roofs, finding themselves empty-hooved. New shingles were ordered, and Applejack dreaded the winter that was sure to come.

Again, she told her wards that there would be no more pay. Anger dissolved into apathy, and there were no more confrontations at the Apple Family kitchen table. For now.

Autumn began to paint its broad brush across the farmland, strokes of red, yellow, orange, and brown, but Applejack found herself unable to truly rejoice. Winter was coming, and it would be long.

One dusk near the beginning of October, after a round of harvesting the last of the turnips, potatoes, and carrots with Big Macintosh, Babs Seed entered the farmhouse and trotted into the kitchen, her stomach rumbling. The scent of dinner rapidly boiling on the stove transfixed her. To an equal amount of surprise and disappointment, she found the table empty, except for a piece of rolled-up parchment. A scroll.

A scroll addressed to her.

Apple Bloom and Applejack busied themselves over the stove with dinner, oblivious. Babs Seed cleared her throat. Two mares jumped in their coats and turned around, chuckling nervously. “Oh! Hiya, Babs!” Apple Bloom greeted sweetly, smiling.

“’Ey. Who’s dis from?” Babs asked, pointing at the scroll.

“From Auntie, Ah think,” Applejack said, stirring a pot on the stovetop. “Weren’t in an envelope like normal, but Ah think it’s from her. Sorry dinner ain’t done yet. Me an’ Bloom been a might busy.”

Suspicious, Babs asked, “Wit’ what?”

“Nothin’,” dismissed Apple Bloom, forcing a grin. “Don’t worry. Dinner’ll be ready soon.”

I’m not worried ‘bout dat. I’m worried ‘bout how strange youze been lately. Quiet, distant, spendin’ a lot mo’ time wit’ Applejack than youze used ta. Hay, I don’t even see youze half o’ the workday anymo’. Babs snorted her skepticism . But maybe I should jus’ keep it ta maself. Afta all, I haven’t been entirely honest wit’ youze, eitha…

“Are ya alright, sugarcube?” Applejack frowned, noting Babs’ crestfallen countenance. “Ah’m sure Auntie only has good news ta share. Things are goin’ a tad betta out there in Appleloosa.”

Huh? Oh. Dat’s right. Thinking fast on her hooves, Babs snapped out of her haze and grabbed the parchment off the table. “Heh, right. Thanks, Applejack. Dat’s good ta hear.”

It was no lie, but it was no truth, either; finding that Appleloosa of all places was fairing better than Ponyville and Sweet Apple Acres didn’t exactly tip the scales towards staying. And unbalanced scales made Babs’s relentless, circular thinking that much more unbearable.

Excusing herself from the kitchen, Babs ducked upstairs and closed her bedroom door behind her. She trotted over to the bed and slumped down against the sheets. She stretched, yawned, opened the scroll, and began to read.

“Babs,

I hope this letter finds you well. I’m sorry we haven’t been able to visit since your Graduation. Luck has finally smiled down upon us after all these years. I’ve found a steady job as an accountant for our general store. No more orchard work for me! It was great, but my back can’t take it anymore. You’ll understand when you’re older. Mares in our family all eventually have back problems, unfortunately…

Anyway. Braeburn is doing great work as a Deputy, earning a generous pay. The townsfolk love him, and I think he’ll give Silverstar a run for his money someday soon. Citrus is considering opening her own clothing store here in Appleloosa, and is working hard to save up the bits. The settler ponies are beginning to, well, settle here, and beginning to desire fine threads. You know (maybe even more than I do) that Citrus’s Canterlot days are over, but she still has an eye for fashion, the clever mare. I’m so proud of her.

And you. I’m so proud of YOU. You’ve grown up so much throughout these years, Babs… I just can’t believe it. You’re a mare now. You’re all grown up. (Well, actually, nopony ever really “grows up,” but you know what I mean, don’t you?) You can do anything you set your mind to; don’t let anypony tell you otherwise.

Which brings me to the ultimate reason for THIS particular letter. Babs, there are two things I wanted to tell you about. One of them I will not tell you until I see you again, face-to-face. I have been agonizing these past six years how to tell you this, and I think I am finally ready. But I won’t tell it to you through a letter. So, the next time you visit—or the next time I visit—we will have a talk, mother to daughter.

The other thing is simply news, word-of-mouth I am sure you have probably heard. Even further west than Appleloosa, there have simply been explosions of economy and resource. Gold and silver have been found again, long thought to be dried up. Oil, too. Ponies of all varieties and occupations are scrambling to get out here. Do you remember Allspice? She was in town the other day! It was so wonderful to see her. She’s working as a camp chef for several groups of miners out west in a little settlement called Yukon. You won’t find that on any map, but it’s there, Babs, and it’s growing. It’ll be a town before anypony bothers to write it down.

I know that you are as strong in spirit as you are in body, and I know that if you choose to do so, you can make it out here, Babs. I won’t lie. I would love to see you out here again. I miss you dearly. I often wish that we could come and live in Ponyville with you, Applejack, Mac, Granny, and Apple Bloom, but unfortunately that’s just not going to happen. I’ll explain more later.

Running out of ink… I love you and hope to hear from you soon.

Sincerely,

~Mother

P.S. Apple Bloom can come with you out here, too. You know how I feel about that, but maybe… maybe, I’m wrong.”

Pupils incredulously wide, Babs Seed read and re-read her mother’s letter, unable to comprehend its contents on the first try. Once it had sank in, she jumped from the bed to her hooves, clutching the scroll tightly. She smiled so bright and wide her muzzle ached.

Excitedly, she crossed the room and opened the door, intent on barreling down those stairs and sharing the news with the rest of the family. Braeburn’s a deputy! Citrus is gonna open a store! Ma’s got a new job! An’ there’s lotsa jobs out there fo’ everypony! An’ gold, too! Gold! An’ Allspice is alive an’ well! An’—

Only a few steps from the threshold, Babs’ ears fluttered and pricked, catching the sound of hushed voices on the first floor. Huh? She trotted over and leaned against the railing of the second story, tilting her head to amplify the whispers below. Sure enough, indistinguishable murmurs escalated to faint whispers, and she was barely able to pick out the words of two fillies arguing with each other in the kitchen.

“… Ah jus’ don’t see why y’all wanna leave,” muttered Applejack, her words thick with anger.

Oh no.

“… Don’t know why you wanna argue this!” Apple Bloom countered, venom apparent, unrefined in her voice.

Babs fidgeted uncomfortably in her position but was unable to break away. Eavesdropping was not only foalish; it was dangerous. A storm was beginning to brew below her, two trains threatening to crash into each other. Babs Seed could not tear away, and stretched out on her belly, listening closer.

“Ah need… yer help. Both o’ y’all. Granny’s far too old ta be… much other than bakin’ o’…Zap Apple Jam.” Applejack's words faded in and out of her ears, although it was simple for Babs to fill in the blanks. So, she wants us ta stay an’ help. But, why then, wouldn’t she pay us? How’s dat one work?

“But, Applejack—“

“Ah know what yer goin’ ta say… can’t afford ta pay y’all… sales down… Manehatten… Manehatten’s the worst, nopony will buy our product anymo’… new contracts hopefully soon… please stay through the winter…”

Through winter? Dat’s pretty long... I dunno iffa I can do dat…

“Ah can’t promise nothin’… Babs an’ Ah—“

THUD!

“Ah said, stay through winter!”

Babs Seed jolted and rose to her haunches. The storm was approaching, and Apple Bloom was in the eye of it. Not iffa I have anythin’ ta do wit’ it, will youze—

Then came Apple Bloom’s voice, calm and serene. Unhurt. “Applejack, please… ya don’t understand…”

Babs Seed froze in mid-step down the stairs.

Apple Bloom continued, her words staccato, trembling, drifting through her filly’s startled ears. “Ah know ya want us ta stay… We already stayed ‘till harvest, that’s what Ah promised ya… Help as much as we can… might leave soon... Ah promised somepony else somethin’ Ah can’t break…”

“… But… Ah thought ya were gonna stay here an’ help. Help run the family business. Like Mac did. Like Ah did. Like Ma an' Pa did.”

Ice rushed through her veins and crystallized her muscles and bones, a statue in orange fur clinging to the railing of the stairs. No. Youze didn’t. Youze...

From the kitchen came a whimper, a soft, pitiful noise. Soon followed a barely audible squeak of a reply, its speaker clearly on the verge of tears. “Please… please don’t bring that up…”

A clip-clop of one set of hooves trotting towards another. A mournful silence. And then Applejack said it, it that would later keep Babs Seed up at night, going bump in her night, going insane in her night.

“Then… Please… please don’t leave me, Apple Bloom. Ah’m… Ah’m sorry… Ah jus’… Ah can’t handle losin’ ya both… losin’ ya the most…”

Unable to bear any more, Babs Seed turned around and escaped into the bedroom, locking the door behind her. The parchment in her forehooves soaked her tears perfectly. Soon, the ink ran and tangled and twisted, the words becoming unintelligible gibberish.

Memory, though it most likely flowed from her Orange past rather than her Apple present, was not one of Babs Seed’s weak points. Nevertheless, she willed herself to forget her mother’s words, to bury the calls of opportunity and reunion and rapture in Appleloosa and the badlands beyond.

Ponyville is ma home, she repeated to herself on an endless loop through plow and orchard and field and barn and sleep. For weeks on end, she chanted her mantra, as if she would believe it if she could just hammer it into her skull one more time. I’m not leavin’. I’m not leavin’. Applejack wants me ta stay heeya.

Bloom wants me ta stay heeya.

Which wasn’t exactly the case. Apple Bloom had never said such an awful thing. She didn’t need to.

Babs Seed dodged all sorts of bullets shot her way over those next few weeks, questions and concern from all others in the household, especially the one she loved the most. She buried her vagabond dreams. Gold, silver, and oil—and, more importantly, adventure and wanderlust—amounted to nil in the face of love and duty. Focusing on farmwork and family, Babs Seed hoped her dreams would fade, lost to the winds of time and change.

Overall, Babs Seed had everything she needed. A loving family, a loving mare, food on her table, a roof over her head, a duty and a purpose. She was second only to Big Macintosh in strength or endurance, a worker in the same right as him and Applejack, a part of Sweet Apple Acres's clockwork. Like any worthy gear, she could not suddenly cease, halting all action for her own selfish whims.

She had once been incomplete, holes riddling her soul and heart, and was now fulfilled. Perfect had arrived, casting away all partition. She was once a foal, and was now a mare. And it was time to let go of foalish things. She had once seen through the glass darkly, but now saw everything muzzle-to-muzzle.

She knew the truth now in part, but would soon know the entire story, just as she was known.

Babs Seed was running.

A foal once more, her tiny hooves thundered against the cobblestone, running down, down, down the Manehatten Hill. The wind caressed her mane and tickled her nostrils, wanting nothing more than to play with her. She was free. She was wild. She could do anything…

Babs Seed was watching the Buffalo run.

She was almost fifteen, sitting on her haunches beside her mother, confessing her true and sacred heart. Her mother was less than accepting. She brushed her rejection away, though her words tunneled through her chest, pure ice through her heart. Those words would keep her awake through more than a few nights, taunting her, whispering that certain things would never come to pass. Not with the blessing of her mother, the mare who mattered more to her than anypony else in Equestria. But it was alright. It was alright because she could watch the Buffalo stampede into the sunset, disappearing below the horizon, and they were free, and someday, she could be, too…

Babs Seed was reading her mother’s letter.

She was eighteen, arching her tired back into the full-sized bed she’d shared with Apple Bloom over six long years. It was becoming far too small. Everything on Sweet Apple Acres was becoming far too small, too confining, too routine and mundane and predictable and so, so, so suffocating. She toiled from dawn until dusk to “earn her keep,” finding her mason jar emptier than ever. She longed to chase her dreams at last, to follow the road, the edge of the edge, the horizon, the sunset, to just GO and see what she could find. With Apple Bloom beside her, of course. Six years had made them inseparable, if not in word, in heart. And she couldn’t fathom walking that road alone.

Her mother’s words urged her, the spark on the sagebrush, setting everything aflame. There was hope. There was work. There was possibility. Whereas Ponyville and Sweet Apple Acres was stagnant and floundering, manipulated by the invisible hooves of the apathetic marketplace into oblivion, Appleloosa and beyond promised a new start, a fresh beginning, a lifetime of adventure…

Babs Seed was running.

Up, up, up the crest of the highest hill on Sweet Apple Acres she galloped, never looking back. A few personal momentos and supplies weighed her down, but only a little. Soon, she had crossed that hill and stood at the boundary of the farmland, gazing longingly towards the place she’d called home for the last six years of her life.

It would never be as beautiful as it was in that moment. Nor would it be as bittersweet.

Though she chased the sun into its void between the dimensions, uncovered the identity of her shadowy pursuer, struck gold in the sand, found a home with Braeburn, Citrus, and her mother, and tasted adventure—thick and sweet as honey—on her tongue, she did so alone.

She did so alone.

Babs Seed was running, running, running, catching her dreams and leaving Apple Bloom behind. And one night in the desert, she ran and ran and ran until she couldn’t run anymore.

She didn’t raise her forehooves to stop the Earth when it swallowed her. She accepted gravity and let herself be consumed.

She deserved it.

Babs Seed bolted upright in bed, clutching the blankets between her forehooves. Her chest rose and fell rapidly, searching within the darkness for a hint of oxygen and relief. She sputtered and coughed, her heart racing with the aftershock of adrenaline. Jus’ a dream… jus’ a dream…

No monster or shadowy figured cursed her slumber. No demon cackling through the great beyond swept upon her. Her antagonist was far more intangible. Her blood surged not with the commands of fight, but the urgency of flight, flight, flight, move, move, move. Gotta go, gotta go, gotta go NOW. Now, now, now, NOW.

Babs counted her breaths, crashing back down to Equestria.

Apple Bloom stirred next to her but did not wake. Oblivious to the interruption, she nuzzled her pillow in her sleep, visions of green and gold leading her to the higher plains. A grateful smile streaked across Babs Seed's muzzle. At least youze can sleep soundly. At least I didn’t wake youze up. Good. I think I need... need ta...

Unfinished, her thoughts played hide-and-seek, merging into the gentle pitter-patter of raindrops against her window. Carefully, Babs Seed wrestled out of the covers and softly placed her hooves onto the floor. Mindful of her gait, she slowly crossed from one side of the room to the other, muffling her motion. Forehooves met windowsill and a muzzle pressed against the glass.

The Ponyville moon was full and glorious, radiant beacon in the night. Its warden, however, frowned upon Babs, snatching away her refuge. Youze dreams these past moons have been restless, an’ full o’ nightmares…

Never before had the moon shone this brightly. Well, perhaps that was a lie. There had been one other instance, one just as haunting and significant as this night. Then, the parish lantern had truly guided her out of the dark, out of the East, out of her tangled mess of roots and to someplace where there was no more hiding.

Six years ago, Babs Seed found a light to guide her home, and it pointed west. She’d made her choice. The right choice.

Six years past that dark night of the soul, Babs exhaled her indecision on her bedroom windowpane, circles of condensation proliferating on the glass with each passing second.

Autumn reigned triumphant on the farmland. Leaves in infinite branches transformed into shades of copper, gold, crimson, and vermillion. Soon, they would crash to the fields below, orchards stripped of foliage and blanketed by winter’s frost. The seasons never failed. They never would.

Rhythm and regiment were the cornerstones of Sweet Apple Acres. Planting season, Zap Apple Jam season, harvest season, cider season, winter’s slumber, Winter Wrap-Up, and on and on, ad infinitum, until Celestia and Luna laid down their crowns and let time arrest for eternity. Never would such a thing come to pass. Time and seasons would remain, outlasting their laborers, lording over all.

Babs cracked the window open, a cool rush of wind caressing her muzzle. She peered from the peripheral of her pupils, checking to ensure she hadn’t roused a sleeping beauty. Apple Bloom flipped over onto her back, snoring still. Good. Don’t wanna wake youze fo’ ma foalishness.

Inch by inch, Babs welcomed the night breeze, hanging her forehooves over the windowsill and ducking her head under the glass.

Satisfied, she exhaled a cloud of dragon’s-breath, a steady stream against the curtain of night. The barn and farmhouse slept peacefully. No timberwolves crept through the orchards. No intruders dared to sample their wares. Not a blade of grass grew out of place. Nopony tossed and turned from nightmares within the house. All was quiet on the Western front.

Too quiet.

Alright, maybe it’s mo’ than jus’ dreams, dis wanderlust. Maybe I can't bury it, she admitted, exasperated with herself. Maybe I am gettin’ restless. Maybe I can't wait anymo'. Maybe I'll leave. An’ soon. So soon. But why? Silva an’ gold? Oil? Adventure? Pfft. Ain’t dat jus’ foal’s dreams? I have everythin’ I could possibly want heeya. Dis place is ma home. I have everythin’ I need.

The constellations spelled out meaningless gibberish. The alicorn of the night did not escape from her lunar prison, searching the dreams of foals and foals alone for discord. No apparition of a bartender or barber magicked himself into existence on her shoulder. Though the moon was radiant and vibrant, it whispered no secrets, no wisdom from the chasms of the Earth.

Babs Seed stood on her hindhooves, alone. She did not awaken her better half. She remained, silent, stone as statue, letting a thousand moments in time race through her mind.

Apple Bloom creaked one eye open, her fiery-ruby iris shining in the moonlight. The gem glistened in Luna’s rays but suffered no discomfort. Light or noise hadn’t torn her from the Sandmare’s hypnotic forehooves. The absence of a familiar form beside her did.

That form leaned on her hindhooves, her head, shoulders and forehooves hanging out the window. Transfixed on some unknown object in the distance, she stared straight and true ahead, somewhere beyond the horizon.

Beyond the horizon. Apple Bloom had caught her mare fascinated with that division time and time again these past few weeks. Once harvest season had been completed, Babs Seed had grown distant, sleeping late, dragging through her chores, wandering over Sweet Apple Acres until the dusk called her inside. She withdrew from the others, dismissing questions posed by their elders. She was alright. Everything was normal. Everything was fine.

Between their sheets and their own whispers, Babs dodged her filly, assuring her there was nothing to worry about. She was just tired. She was just getting sick. She was just preoccupied for any number of reasons about any list of things. Although Apple Bloom inherited no Element of Honesty from her elder sibling, she could easily detect the white lies thrust towards her.

Babs Seed was not as good a liar as she used to be.

Something was wrong. Their few conversations would suddenly cease in mid-sentence, Babs’s own gemstones held hostage to the West again. Babs held her less and less, turning her back and her forehooves away. Their late-night sweet nothings amounted to little more than an exchanged “Good night,” and “I love you,” anymore.

Suspicion and dread roused Apple Bloom from her slumber. She had enough.

One of her hindhooves softly connected with the floorboards, bearing little weight. Babs’s left ear pricked immediately.

“Go ta bed, Bloom,” Babs muttered, unmoved from her position.

Ignoring her, Apple Bloom put all four to the floor and trotted up to the windowsill, placing her own hooves beside her filly’s. Though one side of her demanded she drag the elephant out from the room and beat the living daylights out of it, another part of Apple Bloom reckoned that would only end in disaster. So, instead, she chose a gentle inquiry.

“Why are ya up so late, Babs? Don’t ya know what time it is?”

Shivering, Babs snapped, “I couldn’t sleep.”

Apple Bloom raised a concerned brow. “Why? What’s wrong?”

“Nothin’.” Deadpan.

Apple Bloom shook her muzzle. The sum of all Equestrian wealth would never be enough to buy what Babs Seed was trying to sell her. She whispered, “An’ yer cold… yer coat’s so cold…” A forehoof ran across Babs's shoulders, fur chilled and clammy with sweat. “How long have ya been standin’ here?”

Sighing, Babs replied, “I don’t know.” Black of night beginning to fade to lighter shades of violet, she guessed, “Maybe an hour?”

“An hour?” Apple Bloom repeated. She stretched up on her hooves and stared her filly straight in the eye. Or attempted to do so. Babs refused to tilt or turn her way. Sighing, she asked, “Why didn’t ya wake me up? Somethin’ on yer mind?”

“Nope, everythin’s fine,” Babs dismissed.

“Then why are ya up?”

“I dunno. Jus’ go back ta bed, Bloom. Go back ta bed, alright? Please?”

Apple Bloom shook her head. “No.”

Towering over her, height and weight and muscle, Babs Seed around at last. She said it again, sternly this time, request evolving rapidly into an order. “Go back ta bed.” Don’t youze get it?

Apple Bloom stood firm, answering in the negative. She pressed her muzzle to her mare’s. The elephant couldn’t be dismissed anymore. Petty-talk-time was long over.

“Ah’m not goin’ back ta sleep until ya tell me what’s been botherin’ ya. Ah’m tired o’ ya dodgin’ me. Somethin’s wrong, an’ ya won’t tell me.”

Babs Seed didn’t reply.

Apple Bloom ran a forehoof through Babs Seed's mane, only to be quickly nudged away. She sighed. “Alright, fine. You don’t want me ta touch ya? Fine, Ah won’t.”

Apple Bloom backed away and tensed her hooves, frustration a match and spark settling the kindling of her suspicion afire. “Ya’ve been actin’ like this since we sold the last o’ the harvest fer the year. Ya keep spacin’ out on us, on me ‘specially. Ya won’t tell anypony what’s wrong. Yer startin’ ta drift away from me. Fer no good reason! An’ Ah’m tired o’ it. Yer gonna tell me what’s wrong, right now, Babs Seed.”

Apple Bloom had always been the smaller of them, the weaker, the slower, the late-bloomer. She was the first to apologize, the first to compromise, the first to cling to the other. A litany of adjectives and clauses could entrap her within their boundaries, reducing her to the more submissive of the two.

To think this, however, would be a mistake.

Stomping a forehoof for emphasis, Apple Bloom appeared all the stronger. She stood firm and fast, glaring through the dim light of the moon, waiting for some explanation, any explanation. Anything that would silence the taunting fear of her most secret heart. “Ah’m waitin’, Babs! Fess up already!”

Silence settled between them. This was not the familiar, comforting silence of friends or lovers. It was prickly around its edges, rough and alien, a hesitation that sent icy daggers through two thundering hearts.

Apple Bloom waited.

And waited.

Finally, Babs Seed stared at the floorboards and struggled to answer. “Bloom… I…”

“Ya what?”

“I…”

“Ya what?”

Babs swallowed, trying again. “I… I…”

Apple Bloom bounded forward and grabbed her by the muzzle, forcing her to meet her gaze. “Ya what, Babs Seed?”

Unable to stop herself, Babs blurted,“I heard what youze an’ Applejack were talkin’ ‘bout!”

Apple Bloom blinked. “… W-what?”

“When youze were in the kitchen! When I got dat letter a few weeks ‘go! I heard youze! I heard it all!”

Refusing to pause for a polite knock and an affirmation, a tear announced itself in the window of an emerald-green soul. Don’t, don’t, don’t, not heeya, not now…

Too late. Burying her muzzle in her hooves, Babs pushed Apple Bloom away, dropping her belly to the floor. Countless more joined the first intruder, tears running down her cheeks and staining the old wood grain below. “I h-h-heard y-youze t-two! S-she w-w-wants y-y-youze t-ta stay! An’ I k-know y-youze said iffa I g-go, youze would g-go, but—“

Sprawling on her stomach, Apple Bloom joined her, wrapping a forehoof around Babs’ shoulder. “So why are ya worried? Don’t ya believe me? Ah’m no Element o’ Honesty, but Ah can’t be that much o’ a liar, right?” she joked, forcing a chuckle.

One deep breath followed another, and then another, and then a third after that. By the fourth, Babs Seed was rolled onto her side, a set of gentle hooves wrapped around her from behind. “Shhhh. Take slow breaths. Shhhh. Ah’m here. It’s alright.”

“No it’s n-not, d-d-dammit!” Babs choked, pulling at her own mane.

Disgusted that she had even dared to take a menacing step towards the pony she loved the most, Babs gripped her own strands tightly, tugging, rejoicing in her wincing. Nopony could hurt Apple Bloom. Nopony. What’s wrong wit’ me? How could I even—

This time, Babs was the one who was knocked away, forehooves grasping hers and securing them on her chest. She allowed herself to be overcome. She was the stronger, after all. Wasn’t she?

It would be so easy for Babs to simply flex and fling Apple Bloom away, to trot and canter and gallop and just run, run for the hills, for the mountains, for the desert. It would be so easy to do that, anytime but the wretched now. Thoughts disjointed, a haphazard concoction of rotting fear and doubt and apprehension swirling in her consciousness, she was powerless now, sobbing, concealing her shame with Apple Bloom’s fetlocks.

Apple Bloom whispered in her nicked left ear, “Shhhh. Jus’ relax. It’s alright. Ah’m here. Ah’m not goin’ anywhere—“

Babs interrupted, “B-b-but I a-a-am.”

A pause. And then, “Oh?”

Swallowing her foalish sorrow, Babs Seed sniffed and craned her neck to the worried mare holding her close. Nodding, she muttered back, each word an act of Celestia itself, “I’ve… I’ve been wantin’ ta go… fo’ a while. Since the summer. An’… dat letta… it was from Ma. She wants ta see me… An’ lots o’ things are happenin’ out there… Big things, Bloom. Things I wanna be a part o’… But… I know Applejack doesn’t want us ta leave… I know she asked youze not ta leave—“

An' I can't be the one ta pry youze away from her... dat isn't right...

“Is that all ya heard from our conversation?” Apple Bloom asked. Another nod. She sighed. “Ah was afraid o’ that. Why didn’t ya tell me sooner?”

Wiping her tears on her own fetlocks this time (feeling slightly guilty at how damp her mare’s had become), Babs answered, “I wanted ta stop thinkin’ ‘bout it… I wanted ta see iffa I could jus’ let it go an’ be happy stayin’ heeya. An’ I am happy, I guess.”

“If ya only ‘guess’ ‘bout it, don’t ya think ya ain’t happy?”

“… I dunno. Maybe, I guess. But I wanted ta see iffa dis whole thing was jus’ a foalish dream o’ mine. Silva, gold, oil, goin’ west. Becomin’ a traveler. All dat junk,” Babs explained. “Youze see… it’s kinda like when I lived… in Manehatten. I used ta like ta run at night. I told youze dat, didn’t I?”

Apple Family memory neglecting to fail her, Apple Bloom said quietly, “Yes, Ah remember, sugarcube.”

“Alright. Well,” said Babs Seed, beginning to calm, “when I did dat, I felt free. Jus’ runnin’ an’ explorin’, no destination in mind. Even afta it got me in trouble, I still wanted ta do it. I stared out the window, jus’ like I was doin’ now, an’ I would think ‘bout how free I felt. Explorin’ new places, seein’ new things. But at home, surrounded by all dat luxury, an’ possessions, an’ havin’ everythin’ I wanted, I wasn’t happy. An’ then I came heeya fo’ Harvest Day an’ saw youze an’ how youze all lived, how happy youze were. That’s mostly why I came back heeya. I was so happy bein’ heeya.

“An’ I still am, in a way,” Babs said. “But…”

“Ya wonder what else is out there, an’ ya want ta see it. Ya want ta experience it. Ya want ta be… free,” finished Apple Bloom, nuzzling her neck softly.

Babs sighed. “Those are such stupid reasons, aren’t dey?”

Apple Bloom shook her head, leaning against her mare. “No. Ah don’t think so. Everypony's gotta get out an' explore, don't they? Applejack went ta Manehatten when she was jus’ a foal ta see how Auntie an’ Uncle Orange lived. Don’t ya remember?”

“Yea, dat’s right… but, iffa dat’s true, why did she say she wanted us ta stay? Why wouldn’t she want us ta explore, too?”

Apple Bloom whispered back, her breath hot in her mare’s disfigured ear, “Ah dunno, sugarcube. We never talked ‘bout that part, 'bout explorin'. All Ah know is that she’d rather have at least one o’ us stay an’ help her. But ya missed out on the rest o’ the conversation, darlin’.”

“An’ what was the rest?”

“Ah told her that Ah understood, but Ah’ve got ma own dreams ta chase. Ah love her, an’ Ah love you, an’ Ah want y’all both ta be happy. But Ah’ve got itchy hooves too, Babs. Ya really think after all that crusadin’, tryin’ all kinds o’ things, that Ah’d jus’ be okay doin’ the same damn things over an’ over again?

"Plus,” Apple Bloom added, “Ah wanna get closer ta Auntie, an’ Citrus, an Braeburn. Ah wanna see the settlements, face the frontier. Ah wanna see what’s beyond the horizon, too. It’s history, Babs, what’s goin’ on out there. We can be a part o’ history. We can make our mark. Jus’ think o’ it. Gold, silver, oil, all kinds o’ ponies out there, all kinds o’ sights… everythin’ new, an’ clean, an’ blank, an’ real.

“An’ ya know what?”

Babs Seed flipped over to face her, muzzle-to-muzzle close. “What’s dat?”

Apple Bloom said, “Ah want ta see it all wit’ you. Ah not only promised that Ah would follow ya inta the dark. Ah want ta.”

“Are youze sure?”

Gripping her forehooves in sincerity, Apple Bloom answered, “Yes. Yes, Babs. Ah’m sure.

“Ah’ve never been so sure o’ anythin’ else.”

Daylight extinguished the fireflies and the stars, sending them back into their retreat and refuge. The rain halted its downpour, the clouds parting and revealing the promise of a new dawn, a new sun, a new star. Although it was the same one that always rose over the face of the deep, today, as it shone on the horizon, it signaled the beginning and end for two fillies on Sweet Apple Acres.

Applejack heard the commotion from the bedroom next door, hasty packing in the morning, drawers slammed shut, closet doors thrust open in urgency. She yawned and ran a brush quickly through her mane. Securing her Stetson on her head, the mare exited her bedroom and trotted down the stairs. Within a few minutes, she brought a pot of oatmeal to boil on the stove and set the table. Each and every monotonous motion bore the burden of Equestria upon her back. She focused on the tasks at hoof, pretending she hadn’t heard what she’d thought she’d heard.

So it came to this. She expected it from Babs Seed. After all, nopony but a foal who’d snarled in the muzzle of Death itself could have made the choice that she had. Apple Bloom, however, was a different story.

Though courageous in her own right, her determination a source of supreme pride and praise in Applejack’s eyes, Apple Bloom was not the reckless, wild, untamed force of nature that was Babs Seed. Apples they both were—they all were—but Babs was the boldest of them all.

Yes, Applejack—one of six Elements of Harmony, one savior of Equestria—acknowledged her cousin and ward for what and who she was. The shield on her flank and the nick in her ear spoke of power, courage, and sacrifice. She would be fine in the badlands, in the mines and oil fields, in the unforgiving Appleloosian heat.

Imagine, then, Applejack’s utter shock when two fillies emerged from the second level, a saddlebag on each back, full to bursting. If Applejack hadn’t already set the table, she would’ve ruined their finest silverware, sending it clattering to the floor and stomping it underhoof in her canter.

Meeting them in front of the kitchen table, Applejack exclaimed, “What in tarnation are y’all doin’?!”

Confused, Babs Seed looked to Apple Bloom, who offered no answers. Cautiously, Babs replied, “Uh, gettin’ breakfast?”

“No!” Applejack shook her muzzle rapidly. Pointing at their saddlebags, she demanded, “Why are ya lookin’ like yer packed ta go join the circus o' somethin'? Where are y’all goin’?!”

Apple Bloom began, “Applejack, calm—“

“Down,” interrupted a husky baritone. Big Macintosh strode through the living room, chewing on the end of a single stem of wheat. His coat was slicked with morning rain. “Ah heard yer hollerin’ from outside, AJ. Ya need ta calm down.”

“’Calm down?!’ What’s this look like ta ya, Mac? Look at ‘em!”

The stallion answered flatly, “Looks like they packed their bags fer somethin’.”

“Exactly!” Applejack snapped, glaring at him. Turning to her cousin and sister, she asked, “An’ where, exactly, are y’all goin’?”

“Well, Applejack, heh, we were gonna tell youze—“

“We’re leavin’,” Apple Bloom said.

Silence among the four. One of them breathed a silent sigh of relief. Thank youze, Bloom.

Applejack stammered, “N-n-now?! T-today? Ya can’t be serious. It’s almost winter! An’ where are y’all goin’, anyway?”

“Ta Appleloosa, first,” Babs answered. “An’ afta dat, we don’t know. But we’ll find out.”

Narrowing her eyes at her sister, Applejack began, “Ah thought we already discussed this, Bloom.”

“An’ Ah told ya ma answer then, don’t ya remember? An’ it’s no different than now,” Apple Bloom said, standing firm. “Babs wants ta go, an’ Ah want ta go, too.”

Shaking her muzzle in protest, Applejack countered, “Yer jus’ gettin’ blindsided by—“

“AJ, that’s enough.”

Big Macintosh stomped towards Applejack, placing his towering form between her and the fillies. Pointing accusatorily with a forehoof, he said, “You should be ashamed o’ yerself! Tryin’ ta stop ‘em from goin’ out an’ havin’ adventures an’ findin’ themselves when you did the same thing! An’ as a foal ya did it! Do ya have any idea how worried Granny an’ Ah were when ya left?! Ah thought Ah was neva gonna see ma sister ever again!”

Applejack backed away, staring at the tile, removing her Stetson and circling it in her forehooves. “M-Mac… Ah… Ah never knew—“

“’Cuz Ah didn’t guilt trip ya like yer doin’ ta them!” The stallion gestured to the two fillies standing close behind him, their expressions a mixture of relief and resentment. “Ah know things aren’t goin’ so well ‘round here, but it’s not their fault! Yer jus’ drivin’ ‘em away! An’ if yer not careful, ya will drive ‘em away, AJ. Is that what you want?”

Applejack hung her head in shame. It had been many, many, many years since she’d last been scolded by her older brother. She’d done many foolhardy things in the years hence, but Big Macintosh had stayed trademark silent, watching from afar. But he couldn’t turn a blind eye to this spectacle.

Applejack was scrambling to keep the farm and her own dreams alive—her own dreams of passing Sweet Apple Acres to Apple Bloom, to the next generation, a time she feared may never come to pass. In the process, she was pushing Babs Seed and Apple Bloom away, working their hooves into the ground, living vicariously through them.

Sibling and cousin did not share Applejack's dream. Their hooves itched and their eyes pointed longingly towards what laid beyond all they knew and towards all they dreamt of finding. They were their own ponies now, captains of their own souls. They had their own dreams to chase, however reckless and foalish they were. The call of the wild and of wanderlust was a strong and often unbreakable one.

Yes, Applejack realized, Apple Bloom was truly a mare, and Babs Seed, too. And she could do nothing but bless them.

Regaining her composure, Applejack secured the Stetson on her head and offered a weak smile to the three ponies scowling before her. “Ah’m sorry, y’all… Ah’m jus’ worried ‘bout the farm… Ah want ta pass it down ta ya, Apple Bloom, someday. Ah want it ta be yers… Ah… Ah don’t ever see maself havin’ foals. Ah guess… Yer all Ah’ve got in that sorta way. Ah jus’ worry.”

Babs Seed trotted forward and wrapped her forehooves around Applejack, embracing her. Startled, the mare returned the gesture, holding her tight. “Heh, Babs, are ya—“

“Don’t worry, Applejack,” Babs Seed said, releasing her. “I’ll take good care o’ her. We'll be back someday, maybe soon. Don’t youze worry. An’ she’ll take care o’ me too. Afta all,” she began, winking her mare, “she’s the betta half o’ us.”

The four of them shared a good laugh.

“Well, all Ah know is if ya run inta any timberwolves o’ coyotes, y’all should be alright,” Applejack joked, injecting a little more humor into the atmosphere. “Ever thought ‘bout joinin’ Royal Guard, Babs? Ah bet Twilight o’ her brother could help ya wit’ that.”

“Heh, well… I dunno. Maybe someday. Fo’ now, I need ta go see Ma, Citrus, an’ Brae, then go check out those… What's the matta, Apple Bloom?”

Forehooves crossed, Apple Bloom huffed as she said, “Don’t ya mean we need ta go see Auntie, Citrus, an’ Braeburn?”

Laughter again shattered their tension, their previous scuffle forgiven in a wave of baritone, alto, and soprano chuckles. “Yea,” Babs Seed affirmed, giggling. “Yea, we need ta.”

Pointing their hooves towards the train station, Babs Seed and Apple Bloom cherished every hoof-step out of Sweet Apple Acres, knowing it would not be their last. Up and down the hills they trotted, taking in all sight, sound, smell and taste of that autumn morning.

They waved continuous forehooves goodbye to Granny Smith, Applejack, and Big Macintosh as they trotted off into the distance, their ribs aching from being hugged so tightly. A set of saddlebags each threatened to slow their pace, loaded down with food, water, supplies and a few momentos. So far, they continued, strong as ever, heads held high against the face of the wind.

All fear vanquished, all trespasses forgiven, and all family intact, they traversed on their path, stopping along the way to bid farewell to their remaining friends. Tears were shed, well wishes were spoken, and advice was provided, taken dearly to heart and hoof.

They arrived at the train station around mid-day and purchased two tickets to Appleloosa. Applejack had reached deep into her own bit-jars for the loan, insisting that they forego Babs’s plan of walking there. They initially refused the bits, but Applejack was not one to be denied. Babs vowed to return the favor once they were strong on their own hooves. Don’t youze worry, Applejack. I’ll pay youze back, tenfold.

A few hours stood between them and their train, but the mares didn’t mind.

Equestria was now theirs to explore. What laid beyond the horizon, mysterious and beautiful, beckoned, summoned, a magnetism neither could deny. One’s polarity was due to the ancient call of codon and chromosome, nomadic tendency rushing through her blood; the other’s was borne of wonder, curiosity, and love.

Soon, Babs Seed and Apple Bloom would come to find which was thicker—blood or love—beyond the horizon.

Year Seven: Buffalo And Settlers

Braeburn patrolled the perimeter of the train station, his 38-caliber revolver safely holstered on his left shoulder. The weapon was finely crafted by Colt Manufacturing, the largest weapons manufacturer in Equestria. Within the past three years, Colt had begun to create weaponry that could be wielded by Earth ponies and pegasi alongside unicorns. The result had been, well, a double-edged sword.

On one hoof, the availability of firearms gave law-ponies such as Braeburn and Sheriff Silverstar the upper edge against all those who threatened the serenity of their settlement. On the other, the wide distribution of steel and lead ultimately gave way to an explosion in crime. Whispers from visitors and vagabonds alike spoke of a vastly different Manehatten, Trottingham, and Canterlot than Braeburn could ever fathom. Bernie Madhoof’s evil, though chilling, seemed naught in the face of the chaos that reigned through those city streets.

None of this, of course, was reported by the media. All Braeburn knew was second-hoof information. Nevertheless, he considered the sources, and trusted them well. He was grateful to be a desert dweller, safely hidden from the chaos beyond.

Though the newspapers spoke otherwise, Braeburn heard through the desert grapevine that there was a mass exodus taking place among the upper crust of the cobblestones. Many were going westward or northward, finding refuge in the Crystal Empire, Appleloosa, or the uncharted lands. Braeburn and his fellows happily welcomed the resulting economic boost. He wasn’t as pleased with the riff-raff that blew in from the East.

His Deputy’s badge shining in dusk’s light, Braeburn continued his rounds, keeping his eyes wide open for any sign of trouble. Appleloosa’s first true saloon had opened just a few weeks prior. It seemed salt couldn’t satiate every traveler’s thirst after all. Some required stronger brews. Braeburn’s nostrils flared at the thought. Alcohol was nothing but trouble.

Braeburn was grateful that crime in his fair city was currently minimized to mere bar brawls and back-door gambling. He hadn’t installed a lock upon the front door of his freshly-constructed abode; he’d found no reason to do so. Appleloosians simply had no need for thieves, and without locks or keys, they made none.

Cousin Citrus and Auntie Orange were in their cozy abode, doubtlessly preparing a fine dinner for the three of them. Citrus had become a fine chef over the years. Both mares had found better work, to Braeburn’s delight. Things were finally starting to go right for their little Appleloosian trio. The Most High, he reasoned, allowed them to enjoy the fruits of their labor at last.

Finding the train station secure, Braeburn chose to patrol through town next, his hoof-steps slow and quiet. Past the general store, the school-house, the post office, the saloon, and the salt-bar he trotted, the autumn dusk crisp and clean. He tipped his hat to several townsfolk on his way, his gesture enthusiastically returned.

Nopony followed him or acted suspiciously; everypony seemed engrossed in completing their day’s work or day’s shopping, chasing daylight before it faded. Only the sunset raced the stallion as he completed his patrol and returned to the Sheriff’s office.

Braeburn took his seat on the porch and stretched his hindhooves out on the railing. Winter would soon be upon the settlement within less than two months. His mother’s orchard would need to be harvested in the meantime, but the stallion didn’t worry.

Cleaning his revolver, Braeburn the deputy smiled into the setting sun, unaware that his fledgling city would soon grow in population by two.

Apple Bloom ran a forehoof through her saddlebags, hastily double-checking their supplies.

“Maps… parchment… quills… ink…” She paused, one hoof squirming around at the bottom of the bag, searching for some undiscovered item. “Um… Babs?”

“…. Nnggggghhhh…”

“... Seriously?!”

Babs Seed continued to snore, drool trickling down her muzzle and chin. Lost to the world, she’d sprawled her hooves all over her side of the train cab. Whilst her counterpart had napped, Babs had done her best to keep awake, despite her boredom. Of course, the moment Apple Bloom awakened and began to gather her wits, Babs Seed had fallen fast asleep.

Apple Bloom sighed and patted her on the shoulder. “C’mon, we’re almost there. An’ Ah can’t find ma compass. Git up an’ help me find it.”

Her eyes darting back and forth beneath her tightly-squeezed eyelids, Babs muttered from the depths of her dreams, “…. Nggghhhhh… no… I don’t want any oranges…”

Face-hoofing, Apple Bloom surrendered and grabbed Babs’s saddlebag instead. A quick rifling through its contents revealed that Babs Seed had forgotten to pack a compass as well. Of course. Some adventurers they were already proving to be. Apple Bloom made a mental note to pick one up in Appleloosa.

After securing both their saddlebags and storing them under the cab seat, Apple Bloom stretched out on her side of the cab and let her thoughts meander. They were rocketing towards Appleloosa first. For how long, neither had yet discussed. She knew, however, that they would not settle there.

Equestria was far and wide, and Appleloosa was but one tiny dot on the charted territory. There was far more to be explored and experienced. Much of it would never be captured by surveyor’s eyes. Things were moving far too rapidly. Boom-and-bust towns were cropping up everywhere, following the flow of bits and glory.

Babs Seed stirred in her sleep and continued to saw magnificent logs. Stifling a giggle, Apple Bloom muttered, “Ah shoulda known ya needed yer sleep. Keepin’ yerself up wit’ worry last night an’ all.” She shook her head.

Although they were both time-rich, freed from all true obligation or bounds, nopony had time to worry. Minus a compass, they had everything they needed with them.

Apple Bloom passed the time by watching the desert fly them by, a landscape of plains, cacti and tumbleweed below the horizon, majestic hawks and fiery sunset above it. The window of their cab was slightly open, allowing a fresh breeze to escape. She smiled as its scent teased her nostrils.

It was clean, new, fresh, and real.

Citrus Blossom carefully carried a few bowls full of hot chili over to the kitchen table. Braeburn had constructed a masterful dwelling with Silverstar’s assistance. No longer would the three of them huddle hoof-to-hoof together around their tiny table, noshing their scraps and lamenting either the snow or the heat. While it still lacked plumbing and electricity, their home was far more comfortable. She couldn’t thank Braeburn enough. He was far more noble and authentic than any Manehatten colt had ever been…

“Citrus, something on your mind?” Libra Scales asked. She sat patiently at the table, leaving her chili untouched. Dinner was a family affair. With no sign of their Deputy yet, her ravenous stomach would have to wait just a little longer.

Citrus blinked and shook her muzzle, chuckling lightly. “Oh, nothing, Mother.” She trotted over into the kitchenette and grabbed a few utensils. Placing them alongside the bowls, she asked, “Has Babs written you back yet?”

Libra sighed. “No. I haven’t heard from Applejack recently, either. I told her in my last letter—oh, maybe a month or so ago—that I was ready to start paying her back.” She frowned. “I feel simply terrible for how much we’ve borrowed over the years.”

“Well… now that things are going good for us at last, surely, we can repay her kindness, right?” offered her daughter, taking a seat at the table. Citrus, too, left her meal untouched. “After all,” she said, gesturing with a forehoof, “Appleloosa is growing, and our savings along with it. I’m willing to pitch in my part, too, Mother. Applejack deserves it.”

“You don’t have to do that, Citrus. This whole fiasco was my fault, anyway.” Libra hung her head, staring into her bowl. Nearly seven years had swept them by. Anypony would surmise that the time for forgiveness of the self was long past due, especially when one had spent so much time ruminating on their transgressions. But the rational mare couldn’t bring herself to cast aside all of the past. Her debts to Braeburn and Applejack surpassed mere bits. Someday, Libra vowed, she would repay them… somehow.

Taking her mother’s forehoof in hers, Citrus replied, “But I want to. To her and Braeburn both. They deserve it.”

Squeezing her forehoof back, Libra remarked, “Indeed, they do. But Applejack hasn’t replied to me. I won’t be sending anything her way until I hear from her again. That mare and her pride...”

The door to their not-so-humble shack burst open. Autumn breeze held it taut against the entryway, tossing sand into the doorway. Braeburn stood in the threshold, a wide grin across his muzzle. “Auntie! Citrus! Ah have a surprise fer y’all!”

Both mares rose to their hooves and joined him in the entryway. “What’s that, Braeburn?” asked Libra Scales.

“You'll see.” He took a few steps forward and ushered with a forehoof. “C’mere, y’all. Auntie an’ Citrus are waitin’ ta see ya.”

Both mares looked towards his gesture and leapt from their hindhooves, galloping through the sand and the wind.

There, a few yards behind him, Babs Seed and Apple Bloom--weighed down only slightly by their saddlebags--picked up their hooves and met their counterparts in the middle. Babs Seed crashed into her sister, almost tackling her to the ground. Citrus laughed and laughed, squeezing her tight. “Babs! Oh, it’s so good to see you! I know it hasn’t been that long, but—“

“It felt like foreva,” finished Babs, crushing her in a hug. “I know! I can’t believe Graduation wasn’t even six months ago.”

Libra Scales embraced her niece, joy written across her muzzle. Their meetings had been even more infrequent over the years than Babs’s had been. In spite of her own reservations, Libra was glad to see that they had made this trip together this time.

And, if their full-to-bursting saddlebags were of any indication, it seemed that this trip would be far from a short visit. Much would need to be discussed, but for now, she merely hugged Apple Bloom tight and said, “And it’s so good to see you, Apple Bloom! I’m glad you decided to come out here.”

“Heh, me too, Auntie,” Apple Bloom replied, nuzzling her. She broke the embrace and gestured towards their abode. What had once been a small, compact shack was now a wide, finely-constructed cabin, windows on each side and a chimney on top. Fine, strong heartwood supported the structure, not a nail out of place. The shingles on the roof appeared as fresh and strong as they had ever been, even after two years of sun, wind, and snow. “Wow! So this is what ya built, huh, Braeburn?”

“That’s right, cuz!” The stallion beamed with pride. “An’ Ah know yer the one who’s s’posed ta be good at buildin’ things, but Ah think Ah’ll give ya a run fer yer bits!” Rustling his cousin’s mane with a forehoof, Braeburn squinted through the wind and said, “Let’s get inside, y’all, befo’ it gets too thick out here. Lookin’ like we might have a sandstorm soon.”

Sandstorm? Maybe, then, I’ll see dat stallion… he did say I have ta come out heeya ta find him—oh, come on, Babs! It was jus’ a dream. Idiot.

Shaking her thoughts away, Babs Seed followed Braeburn and the others into the cabin, shutting the door behind her. She turned to lock the door, only to be interrupted by another chuckle from Braeburn.

“We don’t have any need fer locks, Babs. Don’t ya remember where ya are?” Rearing up on his hindhooves, his emerald-green eyes wild with excitement, Braeburn whinnied, “We’re in Aaaaaapple—“

Libra silenced him with her forehoof as she let out an exasperated sigh. “I think they know where we are, Braeburn.”

Four hooves back on the floor, the stallion mumbled back, avoiding the quizzical expressions shot his way by his two newest wards, “Oh, Ah guess yer right…”

After a delicious dinner, which was quite impressive in its simplistic splendor, proving that Citrus Blossom had truly, indeed, learned to cook, Libra Scales glanced over to Babs Seed and Apple Bloom. The two fillies sat side-by-side again, talking excitedly with Citrus and Braeburn.

The stallion was spinning his usual Deputy tales to a wide-eyed Babs Seed, tales of gold and silver and oil and vagabonds and Buffalo. Citrus was detailing her plans for a clothing store to Apple Bloom, itemizing the fine threads she would carry for the growing Appleloosian populace.

Apples they all were, engaged in conversation about wild dreams.

“So, youze gonna show me youze gun?”

Braeburn rubbed the back of his neck and avoided her gaze. “Heh, well, Ah’m not sure if Ah should—“

“C’mon,” Babs teased, poking him in the chest. “I may talk like one, but I assure youze, Braeburn, I ain’t no ghetto-pony.”

He laughed. “Ah wasn’t ‘fraid o’ that. Ah’m jus’ not that comfortable wit’ it yet, an’ less so wit’ havin’ somepony else handle it. Sorry.” The stallion tugged on his Stetson and patted the holster on his shoulder. “Silverstar an’ Ah jus’ got these. Haven’t had ta use ‘em yet. Hopefully it’ll stay that way. But Ah’m not so sure, what wit’ everypony from the East comin’ here…”

“From the East?” Apple Bloom turned curiously to the stallion. “What do ya mean, Braeburn?”

“Well, there’s a lotta city-ponies comin’ out here,” he slowly explained, contemplating his words. “Fer better o’ fer worse. Ah mean, on one hoof, it’s good, their business an’ their growth. But on another, Ah’m kinda worried. Who knows… who might come.”

From the corner of his eye, Citrus and Libra exchanged knowing gazes. Nearly seven years since he’d last tasted an orange, Braeburn hoped never again to know the sting of that fruit, nor the muzzle of its master. For now, Appleloosa was far beyond the sights of one Bernie Madhoof.

Seizing her opportunity, Libra Scales grabbed Babs’s forehoof. “Honey, remember how I said there was something I needed to tell you?”

“Yea?” Babs said hesitantly.

“Well, I think it’s time. Come on,” Libra urged, tugging on her hoof. Babs planted her haunches firmly in her stool. “Come on. Let’s go outside and talk.”

Babs stayed put.

Sighing, Libra Scales tugged a little more forcefully. “You may be bigger than me, Babs Seed, but I am still your mother. Come on, let’s go outside and talk.”

“An’ what can’t youze tell me in fronta everypony else?” In fronta Apple Bloom?

Crossing her forehooves, Babs shook away her mother’s grasp. “No mo’ secrets in dis family. It don’t do nopony no good. Right, Citrus?”

Citrus Blossom fidgeted with her own hooves. “Well, um, Babs, you see…”

Braeburn’s expression matched the mare’s, choosing to dodge the bullets he sensed being aimed his way. “Ya know, Auntie always means well—“

“I’m not a foal no mo’. Anythin’ youze need ta tell me, youze can tell everypony. I’m not playin’ secrets wit’ youze, Ma. Youze eitha tell everypony, o’ youze tell nopony. Right, Apple Bloom?”

“Actually, Babs, Ah think ya should listen ta her.”

Babs tapped her ears, left first, then right, clearing them of any gibberish or nonsense. “Sorry, Bloom, I think I heard youze wrong. Say dat again?” Don’t youze get it? She’s gonna try ta—

Apple Bloom shook her head sternly. “Ah said, you should listen ta her. Ah don’t mind.” Smiling towards her aunt, she added, “Ah’m sure Auntie wouldn’t want ta talk ta ya in private if it wasn’t somethin’ mighty important.”

A grin curling at the corners of her muzzle, Libra nodded in approval. She turned to her daughter once more. “Let’s go outside and talk. It’ll only take a little bit. I promise.”

Groaning, Babs relented, “Fine. See youze all in a bit,” she mumbled, following her mother out of the kitchen and towards the front door.

The wind howled its hello into the abode, escaping through the entryway as the door ceased to close in their egress. Braeburn quickly rose to his hooves and secured it, keeping the night far and away.

Citrus Blossom giggled and shook her muzzle. “Wow. You’re good.”

Running a forehoof casually through her mane, Apple Bloom chuckled and said casually, “Ah try ma best.”

Braeburn hung his Stetson on a hook on the cabin wall and joined his cousins at the table. “An’ yer doin’ good, Apple Bloom. Ah’m really glad y’all came out here. How long do y’all plan on stayin’?”

“Not sure. Through the winter, Ah’ll bet,” Apple Bloom said. “Ah wanna stay an’ get ta know y’all a bit better. An’ Ah know Babs wants ta go minin’ sometime, an’ Ah don’t think we can do that when everythin’s buried under the snow. Speakin’ o’ which, how long does winter last here?”

Braeburn tapped his chin with a forehoof. “Well, not too long, usually only ‘bout three months. Through the end o’ January. Then February comes an’ the heat returns. Which is another thing Ah wanted ta talk ta y’all ‘bout.”

The stallion raised a disbelieving brow. “Y’all ever been out in the wild like that? O’ in heat like that? It’s not that easy. Ah think yer—“

“Braeburn, don’t you think we shouldn’t worry about this for now?” Citrus interrupted. She rolled her eyes. “I mean, she already said they’ll be staying for a while—“

“Ah know, but—“

“And you know Babs has been through—“

“Yes, Citrus, Ah know, but Ah’m jus’—“

Apple Bloom strode over between them and put a forehoof on each arguing shoulder. “Ah’m sure we’ll figure it out soon, Brae. An’ Citrus, yer right. We’ll be stayin’ here fer a while.”

“Told you,” Citrus said, smirking at him.

Braeburn stuck out his tongue and blew a raspberry. Both fillies giggled and exchanged high-hooves, ignoring the crossing of dusty forehooves and a half-hearted pout.

“Say, wait a minute...” Citrus eyed Apple Bloom with a knowing smile. “’Get to know us better’? Any particular reason for that, Apple Bloom? After all, we’ve been here for a while, been in Appleloosa nearly the whole time while you and Babs were growing up… any reason it’s more pressing now that you are mares?”

Deflecting any ulterior motive, Apple Bloom stumbled, “N-no! O’ c-course not!”

Her muzzle betrayed her, flushed with crimson, and two sets of forehooves pounded the table in glee, laughter filling the air of a shack meant for three.

Two mares traversed through the desert plains, down past the highest point in Appleloosa and towards the apple orchards below. The wind halted in their steps, granting them a peaceful, comfortable silence. Libra Scales and her grown daughter trotted among rows and rows of mighty Appleloosa heartwood, branches full with the last of the harvest before winter’s snow.

I’ve neva seen ‘em up close, Babs realized, staring at the trees as she passed them.

Although Aunt Barbara’s breed was a particularly hearty tree, it lacked the height or girth of the orchards on Sweet Apple Acres. A grimace announced itself on the filly’s muzzle, a supreme irony brought to light. An’ they’ll be needin’ help wit’ the harvest befo’ the snows come. So much fo’ gettin’ a break from farm work. Horseapples! Ah, well. At least I’m heeya, way out in the West…

Libra Scales suddenly stopped and patted the sand beside her. “Sit down, Babs. You’ll want to be sitting down to hear this.”

Obeying (however begrudgingly), Babs Seed glanced down at her mother and asked, “Why did youze bring me way out heeya?”

Libra Scales pointed towards the horizon in the distance. “Look, way out there. What do you see?”

Squinting through the darkness, Babs Seed couldn’t determine anything at first, seeing only a heap of broken images in the wasteland. She leaned forward on her haunches and strained her eyes, detecting at last a flicker of a campfire and a small billow of smoke. “Looks like some ponies are out there.”

Libra nodded. “This is the Appleloosa city limit,” she explained, drawing a line in the sand a few feet in front of them. “This is where Braeburn and Silverstar’s protection ends. Beyond this line is the frontier, the badlands, the uncharted territory. That’s where the gold, oil, and silver are springing up, and all the camps and settlements around them. That’s where the Buffalo roam. That’s where you and Apple Bloom want to go, isn’t it?”

“O’ course. It’s adventure, Ma. An’ youze know how I have a taste fo’ adventure.” An’ danger. Even iffa I’m not the one ta seek it, somehow, it always finds me. Am I blessed o’ cursed in dat way?

Laughing, Libra pulled her daughter close. “I thought so. Such adventurers, like my old friend…”

Babs Seed nuzzled her mother’s neck gently. “Tell me ‘bout youze ol’ friend again.” For a reason she couldn’t quite articulate, she enjoyed hearing about her mother’s mysterious stallion, emboldened by tales of the vagabond.

“Heh, well, there’s not much more to tell you, Babs. I do know that he had a brother, but I never met him. They were distant. He said he was nothing like his brother… His brother valued bits and things, power and prestige, and earning more of them all. His brother was married and had a foal of his own. My friend had neither. He was a restless spirit. He was jumping from temp job to temp job at the time. I hope he found what he was looking for,” Libra mused, smiling in her reminiscence.

“I hope so, too,” Babs whispered. I hope he found his happy endin’. Everypony deserves one. Most o’ us, anyway.

“Yes, he was an adventurer. As you are. But, there is one place I do not want you adventuring.” She leaned down and stared straight into her gemstones, crushing them with her own. “You must promise me this, Babs Seed. You must promise me to stay as far away from there if you can, and to be extremely careful if you do chose to venture out into this place.”

Anticipating her response (and somewhat relieved that the conversation had not escalated to matters of the heart), Babs Seed nodded and waited for her to continue.

Libra Scales paused, rustling the dust beneath her hooves. Her coping mechanism of choice proved useless, inefficient. Five years after she had done the same to her daughter, Babs Seed grasped her forehoof, stopping her. “Sorry. This is just really hard for me to explain, Babs.”

“Jus’ go on an’ say it, Ma,” Babs urged, lowering her volume to barely above a whisper. “I promise I won’t be mad. I mean… As much as I wanna explore, I know iffa youze tell me dis, there must be a good reason fo’ it.”

“Babs…” Libra pressed her forehoof to the cold desert sand, a rush of energy invigorating her at the contact, providing the strength necessary to choke the next words from her throat. “Do you remember when we reunited here and I told you how Manehatten is no longer our home?”

Again, Babs Seed nodded.

“And I told you that your father and I divorced?”

Babs Seed gave her affirmation.

Libra Scales, the mare whose cutiemark represented good judgment and wisdom, inhaled deeply, night air chilling her lungs and shaking her hooves. Her breath billowed on its exit, a premonition of the harsh winter that was to come. And many more to follow. But none would contain the ice and venom of Bernie Madhoof’s heart.

“Ma, what’s wrong?” Babs asked, her ears flattening. Youze look so… pained. Like dis is summat dat’s been burdenin’ youze foreva. “Youze can tell me anythin’… Iffa dis is ‘bout Bloom an’ I in some way, well, dat’s alright, I know youze are try—“

“Your father was going to kill us.”

Seven years of constant worry, seeing Bernie Madhoof in every unfamiliar form, in every haunting nightmare, in every rumination of the past, came to a zenith in seven words.

The mare who set them free buried her muzzle in her forehooves, unable to face the filly towering above and beside her. Her words trembled under the caress of the desert moon.

“Babs… He… he wanted us not only gone, but dead. He had the police on his side... he probably still does... There wasn't anything we could do. We could only run... And… and it was my fault… It’s my fault Citrus and I were homeless, and Braeburn had to take us in, and I didn’t see you for a year and… and…”

No tree struck her on the spine, and yet, Libra Scales crumpled onto the sand. An unshorn fetlock was embracing her tight, its owner sprawling on the Earth next to her. “Ma, I’m sure it ain’t youze fault. How could it be?”

Babs Seed retained a hold on her own venom, her blood boiling with pure, righteous rage. What kinda fatha would want ta kill his own foals?! His own wife?! I have no fatha. I am fathaless. I am. I relent even callin’ him dat. Fatha. Youze don’t deserve dat title. Youze ain’t even a stallion. Youze is scum.

Fuck youze, Bernie Madhoof.

“… You don’t understand… You’ll never understand,” Libra choked through her tears. “I was supposed to protect you and Citrus… and I failed. If it wasn’t for an assistant of his showing up at the last minute and telling us what had happened, we would be—“

No. “Don’t youze even finish dat sentence. Don’t youze dare.”

Snapping her neck up to face her daughter, Libra grabbed the sides of Babs’s head with rough, unshorn fetlocks of her own and stared into her, eyes wild, afire. “Promise me you won’t come near him. Near the Mansion. Near the Hill. Near Manehatten itself, if you can. Promise me. Promise me, Babs Seed!”

A fatherless filly answered, “I promise youze, Ma. I promise.”

Mere feet away from the limits of civilization and the law, mother and daughter wept as one, in sorrow and in joy, lucky and thankful to be alive, having tangoed with the Reaper so long ago against their own will. Close to the line they had been, and by an act of nopony but Celestia herself had they refrained from crossing it.

Unbeknownst to them both, there was, like all things, a reason they were spared. A reason that would be revealed in time, on the chessboard of Life’s most dangerous game.

Hypocritical as it was, Babs Seed chose not to heap the full truth upon Apple Bloom’s brow, telling her instead that Libra Scales had simply requested that they stay out of Bernie Madhoof’s way. Apple Bloom sensed her fillyfriend’s apprehension at the mere utterance of his name but chose not to press the issue.

Applejack had long ago told her that Uncle Orange had chosen to divorce and separate from the family, and that seemed reason enough. Not everypony chose reunion. Some chose dissolution. And Apple Bloom didn’t mind dissolving ties from somepony who set Babs Seed on edge.

The two budding nomads slept in the guest room, heeding Libra’s warning of thinly-insulated walls and sensitive ears. Apple Bloom had seen many strange things in her short, humble existence, but watching an orange coat of fur turn red from tip of the snout to the last strands of its tail was the most amusing of all.

Predictably, Babs Seed and Apple Bloom enlisted themselves in orchard work, hoarding their meager bits as winter drew near. In their spare time, both sought to grow closer to their cousins—Apple Bloom with Citrus, and Babs Seed with Braeburn. Neither neglected Libra Scales either, filling the memories lost between them, tales of schoolfoal antics and Appleloosian adventures making up for all their lost time.

It was during one of those workdays, sweating beneath Celestia’s desert blaze, that Babs Seed began to suspect things were far more sinister out in the West and the best than she’d expected.

CRASH!

Powerful hindhooves sent another branch full of red fruit tumbling into a basket below. Craving the taste of cider, or, at least, the relief of water, upon her parched throat, Babs Seed worked quickly, pushing her apple-basket from tree to full tree. Apple Bloom was working out here as well on the other side of the orchard. November’s calendar was rapidly dissipating from them. Soon would come the snow.

Babs Seed's muscles flexed beneath her coat, weathered from many years of hard, physical labor. She wiped the sweat from her brow with a forehoof but was mostly unfazed. Despite the familiar, repetitive motion, at least she was being paid for this exertion. An’ paid well. Enough fo’ a lotta things. Gotta get a compass, some mo’ campin’ equipment… lotsa things befo’ spring comes. But not paid enough ta not goof off...

“'Ey, Apple Bloom!” she shouted across the fields.

Apple Bloom looked up from her basket and yelled back, “What, Babs?”

“Watch dis!” Babs grabbed three apples from her basket, holding two in one forehoof and one in the other. She threw one into the air, then another, then another, attempting to juggle them. Attempting.

All three apples crashed to the dust, SPLAT!

Horseapples!

“Wow… that was sure impressive!” Apple Bloom chuckled, stifling a wave of laughter with a forehoof. “Good one, sugarcube! Why, ya sure won me over wit’ that!”

Turning away, Babs grumbled, “I did it fo’ real the otha day when it was jus’ me out heeya!”

“Suuure ya did. Don’t worry ‘bout it! We’re not gettin’ paid ta juggle anyhow!” scolded her fillyfriend, returning to the task at hoof. “Work’ll be over soon. An’ maybe we can go ta the saloon after.”

Babs Seed cantered up to Apple Bloom, skidding to a stop and kicking up a small cloud of dust. “Saloon? Youze wanna go ta a saloon?”

Apple Bloom shrugged. “Why not?”

“Because—“

“That’s what they call a ‘rhetorical question,’ sugarcube.” Apple Bloom rustled Babs's mane with a grin. “It’ll be fun! We haven’t had much o’ a chance ta interact with the townsponies, an' this'll be the perfect time ta!”

“But,” Babs Seed protested, “I don’t wanna drink.” Alcohol makes the monstas come out from behind their masks… Wait, would dat make me a monsta iffa I don’t want ta drink? But I ain’t no monsta. I’m a brute. There’s a difference. Brutes have souls. Somewhere.

“We don’t have ta. We can jus’ get some water o’ juice. Silly filly. You worry too much, ya know that?”

“An’ youze are too—“

CRUNCH, CRUNCH.

Pivoting on her hooves, Babs Seed's ears flicked erect and alert, sensing the subtle weight of hooves snapping branches. She swept the orchard, finding no workers but themselves in the thicket of woods. Neurotransmitter spurred adrenaline to fire, fight-or-flight response detecting that things should not be as they are. A low growl issued from the mare’s throat.

“Babs? What’s wrong?”

From the far end of the orchard, Babs Seed’s pupils caught a flash of movement, and she bounded forward, forehooves outstretched in a primal pounce. C’mon, youze, I know youze are watchin’ us—

“Babs!”

Apple Bloom cantered after her mare, following her as she dodged trees left and right, snaking through the orchard after some unknown entity. Babs Seed stopped as suddenly as she began, her hackles raised, her teeth gritted. “Hey!” she exclaimed, almost slamming straight into her in her own ceasing, “What was that all ‘bout? Did ya see somethin’?”

“Somepony was watchin’ us,” Babs snarled, her molars threatening to morph into canines. She tensed her hooves, searching for any sign of the intruder. “Somepony was spyin’ on us.”

“It was probably jus’ a critter o’ somethin’. Again, ya worry too much, darlin’. C’mon.” Apple Bloom wrapped a forehoof around the mare. “Let’s jus’ finish up our trees an’ go socialize fer a bit. Bein’ out here in the sun’s gettin’ ta yer head.”

“Says youze!” Babs snapped, spinning on her hindhooves. She immediately shook her muzzle, ready to smack herself. “I… I mean, I’m sorry. Dat came out wrong.”

“Don’t worry 'bout it. It’s alright. We’re in an unfamiliar place,” reassured Apple Bloom. “Ah’m sure it’s jus’ a trick o’ the light o’ somethin’.”

Seven years out of Manehatten would’ve led most ponies to believe that Babs Seed had long surmounted her past. Apple Bloom knew better. The speed of her hooves and the quickness of her muscles may have been a blessing of biology, but they had been honed by one dark night long, long ago, when the transition from millisecond to millisecond had made all the difference. Neither would ever forget that, and one of them was hesitant to delay in the shadow of any danger.

Sighing, Babs Seed released her tension, feeding the Earth with the energy through her hooves. “Youze is probably right.” Mustering a slight smile, she agreed, “Let’s get through dis work an’ then go meet some new ponies. I think I might even buy a pretty mare a drink, iffa she lets me... Maybe youze know her? Could be ma wing-pony?”

Giggling at her foalish wink, Apple Bloom said, “Oh, yer quite the charmer, ain’t ya? Ah might know a mare who might have a problem wit’ that… Silly.”

They finished their work with haste, oblivious to a pair of eyes watching them from a cliff-face above, its owner scampering through the heated stone with expert hooves.

Appleloosa’s premiere saloon, lacking an official designation or namesake, welcomed any and all comers. This included both established settlers (those who had seen Appleloosa from its humble beginnings) and itchy-hooved wanderers (those who barely knew the town outside of a map). The bartender was a tall, lanky gray Earth pony stallion, the brother and rival of the salt-shop owner. Here, only the finest of draughts were served, including Applejack Daniel’s, a whiskey meant only for the most virile of drinkers.

Two mares trotted into the bartender’s saloon, pulled up a stool, and ordered a round each of the drink. Never one to deny bits, the stallion merely took their change and shrugged, fetching their drinks with haste.

“Ah thought ya weren’t gonna get a drink,” Apple Bloom said, tapping her forehooves on the bar.

“Well, youze were right. I worry too much. I’m sure it’ll be fine,” Babs dismissed, matching her rhythm. I’m sure jus’ one won’t hurt. I don’t have ta be like… Bernie. I can drink jus’ one an’ be fine.

A forehoof found its way on top of hers, a pair of concerned eyes staring back at her. “Are ya afraid ya’ll get in too deep because o’ how Uncle Orange is?”

“He’s not… I mean, maybe.”

“He’s not what?”

The bartender slammed two glasses of whiskey down in front of them. “Here ya are, partners. Two rounds o’ Applejack Daniels.”

“’Ey! Where’s the ice?”

The stallion rolled his eyes. “As ya shoulda noticed, ma friend, we’re in a desert.”

“Don’t mean youze can’t have no icebox!” protested Babs Seed, pushing her drink aside. “Besides, three months outta the year, youze only have snow!”

“City-dweller like you won’t know jack ‘bout Appleloosa,” huffed a baritone voice beside them.

Two muzzles turned and discovered a black stallion with a disheveled white mane sitting next to Apple Bloom at the bar, his Stetson covered in grime and sand. The stallion smirked. “That’s right. Ah know yer accent. Yer from Manehatten, ain’t ya, bobtail?”

“Not exactly,” Babs shot back, grasping her drink despite its warmth. The bartender gave up the battle and turned his attention to other customers. Babs narrowed her gaze and added, “We are from Ponyville,” taking Apple Bloom’s forehoof in hers.

The stallion snorted. “Aww, y’all gonna be like that, are ya? That’s too bad. Yer a mighty pretty mare, missy,” he said to Apple Bloom, his grin revealing several missing molars and a stench on his tongue rivaling that of any timberwolf.

Apple Bloom forced an uneasy smile. Through her teeth, she muttered, “Why, thank ya. But, uh, Ah—“

“What was dat?” Disregarding her drink entirely, Babs hopped from her stool and stomped towards the stallion on her hindhooves, forehooves clenching. Oh no, youze didn’t.

Pounding a quick shot of his own Daniel’s, the stallion laughed and mused, “Well, it’s jus’ a damn shame such a pretty mare is wit’ somepony like yerself.” He rose off his own stool and clarified, “Fillyfoolin’ Ah can handle, but not when a fine young farm-filly’s wit’ some city-slickin’ dyke such as yerself.” He beamed, broad and mocking, crossing his forehooves in defiance.

The bartender, who was busying himself with cleaning dusty shot glasses, paused, sensing the shifts in the atmosphere between the sourdough and the bobtail mare. He was never one to pass up an opportunity for a good show of hooves.

However, he loathed Silverstar—though he was mildly indifferent to the young stallion who was giving him a run for his bits—and hated the mere thought of the old coot breaking up yet another bar brawl. “Now, settle down, Pickaxe,” he ordered, glaring at the black stallion. “Yer jus’ askin’ fer trouble. They ain’t hurtin’ nopony.”

Pickaxe scoffed, “Trouble? This filly here gonna give me trouble?” He pointed at Babs Seed and smacked his forehooves on his stomach, whooping with laughter. “T-that’s a g-good o-one!”

Apple Bloom jumped down and wrapped a forehoof around Babs’s torso, whispering in her ear, “He’s jus’ drunk, let it go, he’s not—“

BANG!

A sea of muzzles turned towards the double doors of the saloon. In the threshold, a figure clad in black from muzzle to tail, cutiemark and coat hidden beneath swaths of dark cloth, held a pistol high, firing a warning shot in the ceiling.

Pickaxe stumbled on his unsteady hooves to the floor, fumbling on his shoulders for a revolver he’d forgotten in the desert. Babs Seed shoved Apple Bloom to the floor, shielding her body with her own. She weighed her options in a split second, knowing that she would leave her vulnerable if she darted forward. But if she did not take quick action, the intruder would surely open fire, and here he was, holding his weapon tight and beginning to lower it…

BANG!

The stallion crashed into the floorboards below, his pistol clattering to the ground. Another stallion stood strong behind him, his revolver smoking with the last remnants of spent lead, gunpowder, and fire.

“Braeburn!” Babs exclaimed, stumbling to her hooves and pulling Apple Bloom up beside her.

The Deputy rushed inside and scanned the scene, searching for an accomplice, a snake hidden within their sand-swept grass. All patrons were either cowering on the floor or rising slowly to their hooves, forehooves raised in surrender.“Everypony alright?!" he screeched, keeping his revolver steady. Murmurs and whispers were his answer.

“Are youze alright?” asked Babs Seed, frowning at Apple Bloom.

“Ah’m fine, sugarcube,” Apple Bloom said. “Are you? Yer shakin’…”

“N- o I’m not!” Babs said, locking her hooves in place. Who the buck was dat? No, who the FUCK was dat?! Dis is Appleloosa! Dis ain’t no big city! An’ didn’t Brae say he neva used his gun? Well, not until ta-day...

Braeburn trotted over to the intruder and placed another bullet between his eyes for good measure. He then shook his muzzle and raised a forehoof to the saloon. “Somepony, tell me what happened!”

Apple Bloom trotted up to him. “It happened so fast, Brae, he—“

“Are you an’ Babs alright?”

“Yes, we’re fine. But whoever this is—“ she gestured towards the gun-pony below, sleeping forever on the floor of Appleloosa’s first saloon—“he didn’t say nothin’ o’ anythin’. He jus’ trotted in, shot through the ceilin’ once, an’ then ya shot him.”

C’mon, pull youzeself togetha! Nopony got hurt but the scum himself… It’s jus’ a gun, what’s the big difference ‘tween dat an’ a knife, o’ hooves?

Scolding herself, Babs gritted her teeth and trotted over to Pickaxe, offering a forehoof to the stallion. “C’mon, lemme help youze up.”

Grumbling, Pickaxe accepted her offer, though he muttered, “Ah’m sure our culprit is a city-pony…”

Braeburn tossed daggers with his eyes towards the grimy stallion. “What?” Pickaxe pleaded, throwing up his forehooves. “We ain’t got no crime here in Appleloosa until the city-dwellers started pullin’ in.”

“That’s enough, Pickaxe.” Braeburn scowled. “Take yer prejudice someplace else.”

“Are ya kickin’ me out, Braeburn?” he taunted, stumbling towards the deputy. “Without big ol’ Silverstar ta protect ya? Really? Ya think ya can—oompfh!” The stallion caught a forehoof to the stomach, clutching his torso.

Patience struck down and bleeding all over the saloon floor, Braeburn Apple grabbed Pickaxe and tossed him through the saloon doors, calling, “Git outta here!”

The stallion sailed through the dusk and landed forcefully on his stomach, groaning and cursing his intoxication.

Laughing, Babs Seed smacked Braeburn across the back. “Wowza, Braeburn, youze really showed him!”

“Anythin’ fer you, cuz.” He laughed. “Now,” he began, striding over to the fallen on the floor, “let’s see who our criminal is…”

With a few quick tugs of his iron hooves, Braeburn split the fabric covering the intruder, ripping the black tactical uniform from flank to neck. A simple cutiemark of a fork and knife adorned the stallion’s gray flank. The deputy recognized none of it. The body appeared to have no identification strapped to its shoulders or hooves, and the garment possessed no pockets.

There was, however, one thing of note.

Near his tail, the stallion had been tattooed with a black orange and the initials K.K.

Peering over his victim, Braeburn narrowed his eyes, squinting the letters into clarity. “KK? Does that mean anythin’ ta anypony?”

He glanced back up to the sea of muzzles, some familiar, some strange. All of them shook their heads in the negative. “Tarnation. Well, Ah can’t jus’ leave him here—“ the bartender coughed in annoyance, to Braeburn’s eye-roll—“but Ah can’t bury him alone. Ah’m gonna need a few ponies ta help.”

Near the back of the bar, three seasoned miner-ponies trotted up and assisted the Deputy, carrying the body of the gun-pony between them. They made haste out of the saloon, but not before Braeburn turned to Babs Seed and Apple Bloom and said, a touch of humor in his voice, “Tell Auntie an’ Citrus ta start dinner late. Ah’ve got work ta do.”

Appleloosa was abuzz with wild rumors and speculation after the shooting. Traditionally a welcoming, hospitable community, some within the settlement began to fear and resent outsiders, natives of Canterlot, Trottingham, and Manehatten who came for adventure or refuge. Sheriff Silverstar and Deputy Braeburn did their best to stamp out the hostility. They’d scratched their heads, had newspapers from far and wide flown in, and even written to Celestia herself, all for naught. Nopony knew what “KK” meant, or why a stallion with that mark would be in Appleloosa, or why he had turned a weapon on a bar full of innocent ponies.

Resilient beneath the desert sun, Appleloosa’s economy continued to flourish, even as winter knocked on its door. Babs Seed and Apple Bloom were understandably shaken, though both denied it furiously. For the first few days afterwards, sleep eluded all at Braeburn’s abode. Citrus and Libra began to feel old fears creeping through the cracks. Had the ghetto twisted its gnarled roots towards their little slice of paradise? Was the stallion a messenger of Madhoof’s? Had he found them at last?

Nopony knew. Still, they installed a lock on the front door to their dwelling. It was not thieves they feared; materialism meant nothing to them. What little they owned, they could easily part ways with, by force or choice. No, the five Apples in the sand wondered if there were more around the corner, more stallions with pistols and tattoos.

Lock and key kept them out. For now.

A week after the shooting, Babs Seed was in the apple orchard again, slaving away for another satisfactory clink of bits in a mason jar. Apple Bloom was assisting Citrus at home, helping her draw up blueprints for the shop of her dreams. Heh. Bloom be good at helpin’ wit dat. Filly can build o’ fix anythin’, I swear. ‘Cept ma accent.

Throughout seven long years, Babs Seed had been unable to shake her speech. At first, she’d been hesitant to do so. Like the nick in her ear, she believed some reminders were necessary, some evidence of where she had been and who she was then. The city accent was one such remnant of Manehatten, the place she’d been born and raised and fled for higher things. And to higher things she would stay. A promise is a promise. Not dat I would want ta go ta such a wretched place anymo’. Buck dat.

Filling up another basket full of apples, Babs Seed dragged a fresh basket to another tree. December was impeding now, winter thundering its hooves on their oak. Soon, the snow would come, painting everything white and clean again. Perhaps then, she reasoned, the townsponies and her own suspicion would calm. Soon would come a new year, tabula rasa, and once the snow melted, the wild. Into the wild she would go, and find that gold and that silver and that oil, that adventure and glory.

CRUNCH, CRUNCH.

Babs Seed spun around.

There.

Behind a large chunk of sandstone ducked an orange blur, the figure shorter and leaner than Babs Seed. Babs wasted no time, taking to her hooves towards the boulder, pushing off her hindhooves with all her might.

This time, Babs timed her tempo perfectly, and just as she reached the rock, the blur caught scent of its pursuer. It darted from behind the sandstone and rushed towards town. Not dis time!

Gulping down oxygen, lifeblood stirring and rushing much-needed energy towards her muscles, Babs Seed pounded her hooves against the dust, over and over, thundering her speed. Her prey turned to look back at her, foolish and weak. Babs Seed stretched her forehooves again and pounced.

CRASH!

Two orange coats of fur struggled against each other, the one with a red-and-pink two-tone mane to match possessing far more than the upper hoof. Babs pinned her quarry to the torched terrace and screeched into the ear of the…

… Buffalo?

“Who are youze?!? Why were youze spyin’ on me?!”

Trapped beneath the weight of the mare, the Buffalo cow squirmed and gasped, flailing her cloven hooves uselessly across the sand. “Please! Please, let me go! Let me explain!” she shrieked, struggling to gain a hoof-hold. She yelped in pain as two powerful fetlocks overcame her own forehooves, pressing them down into the desert. She shook her head rapidly, so fast that the two eagles’ feathers on her headband were poised to take to the air after their rightful owner. “Please! I didn’t mean you any harm!”

“Likely story!” Babs growled, utilizing all of her might to keep the Buffalo trapped under her. An’ I respected youze kind. Horseapples. “Youze the same one who was spyin’ on me a week ago?”

“Yes! Yes! It was me! Please! I beg of you, let me go! You’re… hurting… me…”

The Buffalo cow tilted her head back and gazed deep into those emerald eyes, her own copper shining with wretched tears. “Please…” She gasped, the weight of the pony thrusting her into the blazing sand sending waves of pure agony through her body. The sand scorched her stomach, mocking her hesitation. “Please, Babs Seed, please let me go.”

Mouth agape, Babs Seed backed one hindhoof off her, and then another. She pressed her forehooves down, hard, keeping the flailing Buffalo hostage. “How do youze know ma name?! Huh?! Who are youze?!”

“I’m…” Coughing, the Buffalo choked, “I’m Little Strongheart… Daughter of the leader of the Buffalo tribe, Chief Thunderhooves… Warden of the Spirit World… High priestess of The Great Mystery…”

“Great Mystery”? “Spirit World”? Is dat like… The Most High?

Cautiously, letting her adrenaline rush freely, Babs Seed released Little Strongheart from her grasp. She stood tall on all four hooves, several feet taller and many pounds of sinew and muscle stronger. Gaze glued to every minute movement, the mare watched in silence as the cow stumbled to her cloven hooves, sputtering sand, shaking herself back into reality.

Little Strongheart panted and glared at her. “I didn’t even do anything to you! What’s wrong with you?!”

“Youze were spyin’ on me, like I said, an’ youze admitted! Now, where I come from, iffa somepony’s spyin’, it’s not fo’ a good reason.” Babs lips drew back in a snarl. “So, spill youze beans all ova the sand, befo’ I strike youze down again!"

“Violence solves nothing,” Strongheart hissed, brushing sand out of her coat. “My tribe learned that lesson long ago. And as one of Braeburn’s kin, you should know that, too.”

“An’ how, exactly, do youze know dat ‘bout me? What, are youze gonna tell me ma favorite color o’ summat, too?”

“It’s yellow.”

Dammit. Keeping a wary distance from Strongheart, Babs Seed harrumphed. “So youze got lucky. Whateva. I guess youze jus’ been spyin’ on me long ‘nough ta know ma name, an’ dat I’m related ta Braeburn, an’ what color ma fillyfriend is.”

Little Strongheart smirked. “You think that’s all I know? You’re funny, Babs Seed. No. You ponies are funny. Your eyes are wide open, yet, you are blind. Your ears are pricked, but they are deaf. Your nostrils may flare, but they detect nothing.”

“I don’t have time fo’ youze riddles!” Babs exclaimed, taking a heavy hoof-step towards the Buffalo. “Tell me what youze know, an’ why youze were heeya, o’ I’ll buck youze teeth in. There was a shootin’ heeya recently, as I’m sure youze have heard, so forgive me iffa I’m not exactly welcomin’ ta strangers who spy on me.”

“Yes, I have heard. And I have also heard that you are seeking to go into the wild,” Little Strongheart said, nudging towards the Appleloosian city limit, that invisible dividing line between orchards and desert. “I can help you. I can offer you guidance. I can help you learn what you will need to know to survive. That is part of the reason I was spying on you.

“The other part, you might not believe.”

Babs Seed raised an eyebrow. “Youze be surprised the kinda things I’ve been through, an’ the kind o’ things I would believe. Hit me wit’ youze best shot.” Not literally, o’ I’ll buck youze teeth in.

Joining her side, Little Strongheart extended a hoof in friendship. “Before I tell you that, please, allow me to make a proper introduction. I promise not to spy on you, Apple Bloom, or anypony else from this day forward. I promise to help you and tell you what I know. And I hope you would promise not to… How did you say it? ‘Buck my teeth in.’” She beamed, burying a brewing laugh.

Babs Seed glanced at the cloven hoof, then at Little Strongheart, then back to her hoof, then back to her eyes again. Little Strongheart was small enough that she possessed no real physical threat, and a glance across her hooves revealed no hidden weapons. The deal weighing heavily in her favor, Babs grinned and shook hooves. “Alright, youze got a deal. Now, tell me what youze know.”

Little Strongheart sat on her haunches and smiled at her new friend. “While Buffalo do not have cutiemarks like you ponies do, we all have special talents. They just do not declare themselves on our flanks. And like yours, each of ours are unique. Me, I am sensitive to the Spirit World, the Source From Which All Things Flow, the Ground of Being, the undercurrent of reality from which all magic springs.”

“Magic?” Babs Seed said. “I am an Earth pony. I have no need fo’ magic.”

Little Strongheart shook her head and chuckled. “Ah, that is where you are wrong, Babs Seed. Earth ponies have magic—in some sense, it is the strongest magic of all. Your magic is from the Earth, from the ground, from the chasms beneath the mantle, all the way down to the core of our Earth. Of our being.”

So dat explains why me an’ Citrus got cold in Canterlot. The cobblestone. It separates us. But what ‘bout places like Manehatten? Where Earth ponies live all year ‘round? Is dat why everypony is the way dey are? Is dat why I was so unhappy? “Go on…”

“Well,” Strongheart continued, “it was only a few weeks ago that I felt a surge of magic, a swing of power, near our camp. You see, we are wanderers. Nomads. Vagabonds, as you ponies would say. We follow the seasons and the growth of our food. The desert grows our food. We have no need for planting. And we are closer to Appleloosa this time of year, before the snows come. So, I felt this upswing of magic, this potential and surge and channel, and I needed to find it.

“So, I staked out the orchard, waiting for it to come again. And then you trotted in and started harvesting, and I knew I found the source.”

Silence.

“Babs Seed,” Little Strongheart said, picking up one of the mare’s forehooves, “you have incredible power and magic for an Earth pony. You… you might just be as powerful as the mare who made these trees grow, long, long ago.”

Aunt Barbara’s orchard rustled in the autumn breeze.

“Youze kiddin’ me… Me? Powerful? Youze don’t know a thing ‘bout me,” Babs dismissed, removing her forehoof from Little Strongheart’s grasp.

“We’ve already established that I do. Far more than you would like to admit,” Strongheart argued, stern. “You say you want to go out into the wild? You want adventure? You want to explore? I will not stop you. I will only bless you. Because you have the ability, the power, to achieve whatever you wish.”

“So, is dis like a hobby o’ youze o’ summat? Goin’ ‘round, tellin’ random ponies dat dey have special powers?” Babs scoffed, shaking her muzzle. “Give me one good reason I should believe youze. Jus’ one.”

Little Strongheart rose to her hooves, pointing them towards the horizon. “I will give you that and many more, if you seek and find me. For now, your heart is closed, and you will not listen to me. You are not ready, yet, to go into the wild. You are waiting for winter to pass. So am I. Once spring comes, my tribe will stampede, and we will take off beyond the horizon, into the wild. And if you want to follow us there, you can. Nopony related to Braeburn is unwelcome in our presence.”

Offering one last parting smile, Little Strongheart sprang off her nimble hooves, bounding towards the sandstone and the cliff-faces, leaving Babs Seed in her dust.

Year Seven: Into The Wild

“Buffalo, ya say?”

Apple Bloom dropped her quill into its inkpot and glanced up from her blueprints. She’d only about half-listened to Babs Seed’s rehashing of the encounter in the orchards. Babs sat on her haunches on the guest-room bed, repeating Strongheart’s odd speech as best as she could remember.

Once finished, Babs Seed shook her muzzle, exasperated. “Youze aren’t even listenin’ ta me, are youze?” she mumbled, glaring at her fillyfriend.

“Ah’m sorry, Babs. Ah’ve jus’ been workin’ on these blueprints all day… guess Ah got a lil’ carried away,” Apple Bloom sheepishly admitted. She held up the parchment, a proud smile across her muzzle. “They’re almost done. Citrus will love ‘em, don’t ya think?”

Trotting over, Babs took a look at the parchment. Several detailed sketches of a simple one-level store, complete with precise dimensions and measurements, nearly filled the entire page. “I think she will, Bloom. How long did it take youze ta draw dis?”

“Not very long. But it’s not a very complicated idea, an' we won't be buildin' fer a while, anyway,” replied Apple Bloom, staying humble. “Anyway,” she said, putting down the blueprint and turning her full attention to Babs, “Ah’m sorry Ah got a lil’ distracted there, sugarcube. So… the Buffalo said somethin’ ‘bout magic? O’ power?”

“Both, actually.” Babs sat on the bed again and crossed her forehooves, her muzzle a mix of skepticism and curiosity. “Lil’ Strongheart told me she could sense summat ‘bout me, summat dat led her ta spy on me. But I ain’t nothin’ special—“

“That’s a lie, an’ you know it.” Packing up her quill, ink, and sketch in her saddlebag, Apple Bloom joined her mare, sitting down beside her. She grinned and ran a forehoof over Babs’s left ear, gently passing over the nick. “This says ya are.”

“I jus’ got lucky,” Babs muttered, pushing her forehoof away, chills rocketing down her spine. Not now. Composing herself, she remarked, “Still, I dunno iffa I should believe her o’ not. She could jus’ be observant, playin’ guessin’ games wit’ me.”

“Ah dunno. It wasn’t jus’ Slinga, Babs—“

Babs snapped, “Don’t say his name.”

“… Sorry. It wasn’t jus’ him. Think ‘bout it. All ya’ve done over these years. Fightin’ Tiara, an’ then all the work ya did on the farm—work that even Applejack can’t do—an’ then the timberwolves…” Apple Bloom gestured to Babs Seed's cutiemark. “Maybe she’s onta somethin’ ‘bout ya. Who knows? But fer better o’ fer worse, Ah wanna meet her when we go.”

Babs nudged her playfully. “Oh? So youze gonna follow me out inta the wild, too? What do I hafta do ta get rid o’ youze?” she teased, pulling Apple Bloom close to her.

“Hmmm… yer gonna have ta do mo’ than spin crazy tales ‘bout Buffalo spies,” Apple Bloom taunted back, chuckling softly and leaning against her. “Oh, an’ one mo’ thing, befo’ I forget.”

“What’s dat?” Babs asked.

Apple Bloom said, “Ah saw somethin’ in town today that’s pretty promisin’.” She broke their embrace and strode over to her saddlebags again, retrieving a different piece of parchment. Clutching it in her mouth, she passed it to her fillyfriend, who read its contents out loud:

“SPRING HELP WANTED!

NEED STRONG HOOVES TO MINE NEW CLAIMS. ASSISTANCE NEEDED IN TRANSPORTATION AND HAULING OF ORE, PROSPECTING, AND SLUICING.

LOCATION: YUKON SETTLEMENT (TWENTY MILES WEST OF APPLELOOSA)
PAY: TEN BITS PER WEEK/TEN PERCENT OF HAUL (WHICHEVER IS GREATER)
CONTACT: SKAGWAY (A.K.A. “SOAPY”)

JOIN A WINNING PROSPECTING TEAM! BE PART OF THE EQUESTRIAN GOLD RUSH!

BOTH GREENHOOVES AND SOURDOUGHS WELCOME.”

Though written in the language of her forefathers, its words eloquent in her own thick, accented tongue, Babs Seed comprehended little of it. Greenhooves? Sourdoughs? Surely dey don’t mean bread! Somepony named “Skagway”? An’ what is “sluicin’,” anyhow?

Gibberish it was, though not all was without merit. Between its unfamiliar lines, the ink whispered of possibility and promise, a mark in history, an opportunity for adventure. Gold. The foundation of coins, jewelry, and wiring. High in demand for time and time eternal. Beyond the horizon and into the wild it laid, hidden under thick chasms of earth, accessible only by the most daring of hooves.

“So, what do ya think?” Apple Bloom asked, hopeful as she leaned up on her hindhooves.

Grinning, Babs Seed mused, “I think spring betta hurry up an’ get on its way.”

Winter soon arrived, unbidden and without warning, a thief in the skeptical desert night. As a blanket of white began to bury the desert, sending Appleloosa into almost three months of slumber, the train lines halted their service. Most of the Appleloosians breathed audible sighs of relief. Though there were no strange attacks on the saloon or anywhere else within the city limits, peace could not be located among the minds of the shaken settlers.

Sheriff Silverstar and Deputy Braeburn, to their dismay, broke up far more saloon and salt-bar brawls between townsponies and city folk than anything else. With a quick draw of their revolvers, most were settled. Many of the Appleloosians had yet to acquire their own steel. Whether this was for better or for worse, Braeburn knew not. All of his thoughts fixated on the strange stallion and his stranger tattoo instead.

Although Silverstar seemed satisfied with no explanation other than, “That was one crazy mothabucker,” his Deputy wouldn’t cease his inquiry just as quickly. A black orange. The initials K.K. But oranges couldn’t survive in this climate, Braeburn reasoned. And besides, even if they could, the apple orchards would strangle their roots, soaking up all radiance and nutrients. Photosynthesis couldn’t save an orange tree in the shade of a mighty apple.

Dismissing the idea of a rival farmer seeking to uproot Appleloosa from its foundation (after all, for what other reason would an orange-inked stallion be in the city of apples?), Braeburn let his thoughts circle and circle, carousel of a madpony, all through his patrols, his meals, his conversations with the four ponies he loved the most.

He let his consciousness creep into dark crevices one night, the stallion checking the chambers of his revolver for what seemed like the hundredth time. All eight rounds were hot and ready. All eight were poised to fly, lest somepony come and wreak havoc upon his town again. Or his loved ones.

Outside his windows, winter cast its magic, snowflakes falling in a torrent of white. Appleloosa slept all around him. Braeburn kept a tight grip on his hoof-gun and pressed his muzzle to the glass. Though the blinding white could cleanse Appleloosa of its sin, ushering in a new year and a new dawn, it couldn’t reveal the secrets scampering impishly away from his prying consciousness.

“Black orange...” Braeburn muttered, holstering his weapon securely on his left shoulder. The wind howled a nonsensical reply. Think about it, pressed the voice of the deep, the wisdom of the Earth itself. Think.

“Orange… could it be…”

Cursing himself, Braeburn removed his Stetson, shaking away any remnants of his suspicion.

“No,” he whispered, firm. “It’s been far too long fer that.”

Orchards dormant for the winter, general store boarded up for the season (though an apologetic, “Come back in February!” sign adorned its storefront window), and any construction plans for a clothing store cast aside until the heat overcame the frost left five Apples without much to do. Well, except converse. And converse they did, making up for all their lost time and intermittent meetings.

Joining the rest of her family on the living room couch after a particularly satisfying meal, Citrus Blossom looked expectantly to sibling and cousin and asked, “So, have you two decided what you’re doing once spring comes? Gonna stay and work in the orchards some more?”

“Well, actually, Citrus, Bloom an’ I were thinkin’ o’ goin’ ta Yukon.” A confident grin swept across Babs's muzzle. “I think we can strike it rich. Don’t youze, Bloom?”

Giggling, Apple Bloom rolled her eyes and remarked, “Ah wouldn’t say rich, but Ah sure would like ta try. At the very least, we’ll meet some interestin’ ponies an’ such!”

“Interestin’ is puttin’ it lightly.” Braeburn tipped a glass of apple cider to his lips and glanced curiously at the duo. Wiping his muzzle with a fetlock, he said, “Ain’t no law out in them sands, ya know. Yukon ain’t much better. It’s on the map, but it ain’t got a Sheriff o’ anythin’ yet. Not ta mention everythin’ else… The sand, the heat, the hardship. Are y’all sure that’s where ya want ta go?”

This time, Babs Seed was the one to roll her eyes. “Youze worry too much, Brae. It ain't too far out. An' dey’re recruitin’ fo’ help out there, so it’s not like we’ll be all alone.”

“’They’ are recruiting? Who is this ‘they’?” Libra inquired, raising an eyebrow. She narrowed her gaze and slowly shook her muzzle. “You need to be careful, both of you. We’ve stayed in civilization for good reason. There is a lot of adventure out there, but a lot of risk accompanies it. And you are a reckless one, Babs.”

“I am not!” Babs protested.

Citrus giggled into one of her forehooves. “Oh, Babs, do you think I’ll ever forget those nights I stayed up until two A.M. waiting for you to come home? Do you think I’d ever forget your life after midnight?”

Babs Seed blew a strand of mane out from in front of her eyes and crossed her forehooves. “Hmph.”

Chuckling, Libra Scales turned to her niece and ordered, pointing to her daughter, “Make sure she doesn’t get too wild and reckless out there, Apple Bloom.”

“Oh, o’ course not, Auntie Orange!” Apple Bloom grinned and grabbed her fillyfriend’s forehoof. “Ya hear that, Babs? Auntie’s puttin’ me in charge o’ ya!”

Babs slipped out of her grasp, gasping in a half-hearted display of disbelief. “Youze?! In charge o’ me?! But…but… I’m olda than youze!”

“Only by a few days! An’ that don’t count fer nothin’! Right?” Apple Bloom gestured playfully to her elders, who all nodded, taunting grins of their own across their muzzles. “Ya see! Now, Ah’m in charge! An’ Ah say… Git me some mo’ apple cider, sugarcube!” She offered her empty glass to Babs Seed.

Babs looked from the glass to Apple Bloom and back again. Sighing, she grabbed it and trotted towards the kitchen, muttering about monsters of her mother’s creation.

Citrus Blossom scooted closer to Apple Bloom and laughed. “You know, I don’t think that’s what Mother meant… but, again, good job.”

Nonchalantly, running a forehoof through her mane, Apple Bloom replied, “Thank ya, Citrus. But no, Ah’m not like that. Ah’m jus’ havin’ a lil’ fun, that’s all.”

“As you should,” Libra said. “Before she gets back, though, there is something I would like to say to you, Apple Bloom…”

“Yes, Auntie?” Apple Bloom asked, ears pricked to full attention. “What is it?”

“Please, do take care of her. I may not fully understand… things between the two of you,” Libra Scales slowly began, “but I do know that she will listen to you when nopony else can get through. And she is stubborn. Always has been. An Orange family trait, I suppose.” Apple Bloom smiled and nodded.

Libra continued, “For better or for worse, once Babs latches onto something—or somepony—“ her niece blushed but remained silent—“she doesn’t let it go. So, if this mining thing turns out to be a lost cause, make sure she doesn’t break her back or something out there.” She arched her spine, popping several joints for good measure. “If anypony would know about the dangers of pushing oneself, it would be me.”

“Don’t worry, Auntie. Ya can count on me,” Apple Bloom promised, taking her aunt’s forehoof in her sincerity. “We’ll be jus’ fine.”

Libra Scales nodded approvingly. “Good.”

Braeburn joked to Apple Bloom, “Well, Ah’d like ta hope y’all git yer hooves on a compass o’ two befo’ ya take off! Hate ta have ta round up a search party ‘cuz o’ that!” He laughed and messed her mane. “Some adventurers y’all would be!”

Apple Bloom laughed with him and pushed his forehoof away. “Aw, Brae, we won’t forget! Ah made a list o’ things we need ta get befo’ then anyway.”

“Good. Ah’ll help y’all as much as Ah can. Learnt a thing o’ two from the Buffalo ‘bout survivin’ out there. In fact, Ah’ve been out in the wild a bit befo’, long, long ago. But that is another story fer another time,” Braeburn said, a litany of tall tales of his own surging to the surface.

Babs Seed returned from the kitchen, a full glass of cider in her forehooves. “Took you long enough, Babs!” Citrus teased. “And you forgot to bring me one!”

“Youze didn’t ask!” Babs scowled, passing the drink to her fillyfriend. She took her seat on the couch and glanced curiously at the others. “What were youze all talkin’ ‘bout, anyhow? Had ta rummage through the cabinets ta find anotha jug o’ cider, but youze sure were talkin’…”

Wrapping a forehoof around her neck, Braeburn messed his cousin’s mane to match her counterpart’s as he taunted, “Oh, ya know, jus’ placin’ bets on how long it’ll be befo’ y’all be beggin’ ta come back home! Ah give it a week!”

Snickering, Babs ruffled his mane in return.“I hope youze didn’t bet all yer bits, Brae, ‘cuz youze would be broke! Right, Apple Bloom?”

“That’s right! Ah said two weeks!”

December and January swept Appleloosa by indiscriminately. Inevitably, economic growth stagnated for those two months trapped under the frost. Once February came to pass and the sun reigned from on high on the atmosphere, the wheels of commerce and capital began to churn once more.

The general store re-opened. Libra Scales resumed her duties as accountant there. Braeburn’s patrols doubled, his hometown flooded with more visitors and vagabonds of both noble and infamous stripes. Appleloosa found a new influx of ponies from the East among their numbers. With Apple Bloom’s assistance, Citrus Blossom finalized her blueprints and business plan for a Western clothing store. Citrus decided to wait to embark on her enterprise, however, and took a receptionist job at Appleloosa’s first hotel.

Babs Seed and Apple Bloom let their hooves itch for two more weeks into February. They managed that short time wisely, stocking up on supplies and packing their saddlebags to the brim. Two compasses found their rightful place in their saddlebags, along with (among other things): flint, steel, matches, rope, hatchets, maps, utensils, emergency rations and water, First Aid kits, and, last but not least, a heavy-duty knife. This last inclusion had been at Braeburn’s insistence. The stallion practically begged them to pack a weapon.

“Ya jus’ don’t get it, Babs," he'd said harshly to the stubborn mare. “Not everypony’s gonna be as welcomin’ as us. Ya remember Pickaxe? He was tame compared ta what the frontier has ta offer at its worst.” Frowning, he mumbled, “If Ah had a gun ta give ya, Ah would.”

“An’ I would turn dat down as well,” Babs Seed snapped back. “I don’t need no weaponry. I’ve got all I need right heeya.” She stomped her forehooves and leaned back on her hindhooves. Last thing I want is a damn knife. Have had enough o' knives fo’ a lifetime, thanks ta some scumbag back in Manehatten.

Remembering her vow to a certain aunt, Apple Bloom reasoned with Babs, “But it’s better ta have it an’ not need it, then ta wish we had it, don’t ya think? Besides, if ya don’t want in yers, Ah can carry it in ma bag.”

Sighing, Babs relented, “Fine.”

And so, a heavy-duty combat knife found its way into the bottom of Apple Bloom’s saddlebag, buried beneath a mound of blank parchment and enough ink to fill several tomes with her thoughts. This pleased the Deputy and irritated his more bull-headed ward. Nevertheless, this item’s inclusion would prove to be an important one. Beyond the horizon awaited not only adventure, but danger, too, from within and without.

Applejack paced in her room, scribbling solution after solution upon the over-sized parchment stationed in the corner of her bedroom. The floorboards were littered with crumpled-up mistakes and foalish ideas. Midnight mocked her insomnia and tugged at her eyelids. Deep, dark circles formed under the mare’s eyes, unable to be concealed by any amount of makeup or dismissal. Even Rarity would not be able to wipe the stress from her fellow Element’s tired eyes.

Elements. Elements of Harmony. Applejack strode over to the parchment and picked up a quill once more. “Let’s see... It’s spring now, so we’ve got plantin’ ta do… Few months fer the apples ta grow… So, no sales on that yet. Got enough food ta last us ‘till our own crops grow fer a bit. Tons o’ Daniels down in the cellar, though…”

Applejack, Fluttershy, and Pinkie Pie were the only ones of the six remaining in Ponyville. They were also the only three of the original group to assist in this year’s Winter Wrap-Up. The others had departed for one reason or another before the snows came.

Rainbow Dash had taken up permanent residence in Cloudsdale, flying in her own Wonderbolt blues alongside her biggest fan. Rarity joined her sister in Canterlot, the fashionista’s diligence paying off at last. Twilight Sparkle ruled over Equestria with her mentor in the royal capital as well. Twilight wrote often—more than anypony else—but it still wasn’t the same.

Soon enough, Pinkie Pie and Fluttershy would find their own ways and leave her, too.

Applejack scolded her anxiety and focused on the task at hoof. “Can’t sell it ta anypony else in Ponyville. An’ nopony in the East wants our drink. Well, Ah guess Ah’ll have ta send mo’ Daniels ta Appleloosa.” She groaned, nearly snapping her quill in half in frustration. Her original idea proved to be the only solution. Literally every merchant, restaurant owner, and bartender in the larger cities refused to stock her family’s whiskey. But why?

Sitting on the edge of her bed, she opened a drawer on her nightstand and pulled out two pieces of parchment. One was covered in Apple Bloom’s hoof-writing, detailing her and Babs Seed’s latest adventures in Appleloosa. The other was blank, intended for its possessor to put her own ink to its surface and scrawl out her own secret heart.

It would be so easy, Applejack reasoned, to beg Apple Bloom to come back—no, to beg them both to return—and fill the empty square feet of the farmhouse. It would be so easy to pull them from their foalish fantasies and nudge them back to reality, to the seasons and the crop cycles, to the dilemmas at hoof.

Though she’d read it a thousand times before, as the letter was almost a month old, Applejack lost herself once more in her sister’s words:

“Applejack—

How are you doing? How’s Mac and Granny? And Winona? I hope you all are getting through the winter well. We’re doing alright. With the snow here, Citrus, Auntie Orange, Braeburn, Babs, and I are going stir-crazy. We’re all sick with “cabin fever,” as Braeburn calls it. Well, I think I’m alright. Though Babs is looking like she’s going to smack her sister or Brae one of these days… especially when they keep… oh, never mind. That’s just speculation on my part.

Anyway, I just wanted to let you know that we will be heading out around mid-February to Yukon. It’s a small settlement about twenty miles west of here. Ponies say it’s the center of the gold rush. I’m really excited, but I won’t lie… I am scared. But I know we’ll be alright. Between Babs and I, nothing can stop us.

I hope to hear from you soon. I’ll keep writing as much as I can when we’re on the road. Not sure which towns have post offices or mail-pegasi, but I’ll try my best.

Love,
Apple Bloom.”

Applejack grabbed a blank sheet of parchment and a quill. She stared intensely at the leaf of paper, words fragmenting and jumbling before her eyes. She couldn't find the strength or will to cross the distance between the quill in her hoof and the parchment in the other.

On this night, like many more before, Applejack couldn't think of anything to write.

When a clock in her room announced in its echoing chime that an hour had passed, the mare packed away both items, closed the drawer, and slumped down on her bed. She removed her Stetson and tossed it across the room, not caring where it landed.

“It’ll be fine," she mumbled, pulling the blankets over herself. "Ah don’t need any help. We’ll get through this.”

Applejack chewed her words and swallowed them slowly, letting them sink and settle like a stone in her innards. They were bitter, hollow, providing no nourishment or peace.

She hated lying.

On the morning of February 15th, the day after Hearts and Hooves Day, Babs Seed woke with the dawn. She inhaled the morning mist entering through the guest-room window and carefully slipped out of bed, leaving Apple Bloom to her own dreams. Apple Bloom twitched and mumbled but remained asleep.

Good. No rush. Babs Seed quietly trotted over to their saddlebags and opened her own, digging a forehoof through the contents. Compass… map… matches… Bloom’s got flint an’ steel in hers… some food, some cider, some water…mirror… blankets… looks good… Satisfied, she swiftly exited the room, careful not to slam the door behind her.

Libra Scales sat on her haunches on the couch in the living room, sipping a mug of coffee. She spotted her daughter and beckoned her to join. Babs Seed obeyed and took a seat beside her. “Mornin’, Ma.”

“Good morning, Babs," Libra greeted. "Is today the day?”

Babs nodded. “It sure is, Ma. I jus’ checked ma bag. I’m all packed up. I’m sure Bloom’ll check hers once she gets up an’ be fine. She’s the mo’ organized o’ us, afta all,” she added, cracking a smile.

Her mother’s muzzle soon matched hers. “Well, I suppose there has to be somepony to match the force of nature that is my Babs Seed.” She chuckled, pulling her filly into a sideways-hug.

“Yea.” Babs giggled back. “I guess so.” She returned the gestured and embraced her mother. Retracting, she looked into her mother's eyess, relishing the peaceful silence. Youze say youze are tryin’. I think youze are doin’ mo’ than dat. But I won’t spoil dis. I won’t quit while I’m ahead…

“Something on your mind, darling?”

“No, Ma.” Babs smiled. “I’m jus’ excited fo’ ta-day. Jus’ lookin’ forward ta it. Thank youze again fo’ lettin’ me an’ Bloom stay heeya.”

Libra dismissed her with a casual wave of a fetlock. “It’s no trouble at all, hon. You are family, and always will be. And if Yukon doesn’t turn out to be as great as you hoped, don’t hesitate to come back. Or if you need anything—bits, supplies, anything—just send me a letter. You did pack parchment, quills, and ink, didn’t you?” she chided her filly. Despite her daughter towering over her (literally and figuratively), Libra Scales would never cease to be Babs Seed’s mother. And any good mother second-guesses the hasty packing of her adventurous foal.

“Nope. I didn’t pack dat. O’ food. O’ water. O’ a map. O’—“

“Alright, alright! I get it. You’re all packed up. Yeesh.”

“Exactly. Why are youze so up early, anyway, Ma?”

Libra Scales sipped her coffee, willing herself awake. Work waited patiently, several hours away. The rest of the household was sound asleep. No breakfast demanded to be cooked, no chores beckoned to be performed, and Celestia’s daybreak was gentle enough to lull most dreamers back to the recesses of their refuge.

No, the reason Libra squirmed from her slumber in twilight’s fading light and caffeinated herself into cohesion was staring back at her, orange and red-and-pink and emerald and bobtailed and wondrous and strong and ready.

“No reason. And I could ask the same of you.”

Another smile. “Fair enough, Ma, fair enough.”

A matching grin. “Now, let’s wait for everypony else to wake up.”

Libra Scales grasped her filly’s forehoof, and found a mare grasping hers back instead.

Braeburn double-checked both of his cousins' saddlebags, ensuring that they were strapped taut and secure. He circled around both of them in the threshold, checking, checking, checking—

“Everythin’ alright, Brae?” Babs Seed asked, shooting him a suspicious glance. “Youze checked our bags ‘bout four o’ five times now…”

He ceased his pacing and rubbed his nape with a forehoof. “Ah, well, heh, heh, Ah was jus’ makin’ sure. Hate ta have y’all lose anythin’ out there. Ya would never find it again if ya lost it.”

Citrus Blossom strode up to the stallion and nuzzled his neck, eliciting a sudden burst of crimson across his muzzle. “Citrus! What are ya—“

“They’ll be fine, Braeburn,” Citrus soothed, breaking away from him and embracing sibling and cousin in unison. “Right?”

“Right!” Babs and Bloom exclaimed.

“See? You worry too much. Aren’t you supposed to be protecting Appleloosa right about now?” Citrus teased, nudging his shoulder. “I’m sure there’s a bar fight or two calling your name.”

He snorted. “Oh, ha, ha. An’ aren’t ya s’posed ta be workin’ down at the hotel?”

“I don’t have to be there for another hour or so,” countered Citrus. Ending their playful quarrel, she turned to the two budding vagabonds and grinned. “So, how long do you two want us to wait before we send out a search party?”

Libra Scales rose from the living room and joined her family in the threshold to their abode. She snickered and scolded her eldest, “Now, Citrus, as I’ve told you before… No party is worth attending if you tell everypony about it! Let’s have it be a surprise!”

Apple Bloom laughed and laughed, stomping a forehoof on the floorboards in glee. Babs Seed face-hoofed and groaned. She grumbled, “Ugh, we’re burnin’ daylight heeya…”

“Fair enough. Let's go," Libra said as she unlocked the door. A resulting rush of early-morning desert breeze teased five manes, entering without regard for custom or permission. All five Apples rose their hooves in opposition against the wall of wind and trotted out into the sand.

Babs Seed and Apple Bloom took a few tentative hoof-steps forward before turning around. No words were exchanged between the three behind and the two beyond. None were required.

Together, in near-synchronization, Braeburn, Citrus Blossom, and Libra Scales nodded their approval, their permission, their blessing.

Apple Bloom met her mare's eyes and asked, “Are ya thinkin’ what Ah’m thinkin’, Babs?”

Locking onto her gaze, Babs Seed answered, “I think so, Bloom. Youze ready?”

“Ready!”

“Alrighty, then. Three…”

“Two…”

Before she could reach one, Apple Bloom launched off her hindhooves towards the apple orchards and the Appleloosian city limit, towards the Buffalo and the Yukon. Babs Seed called out, “Cheata!” and bounded after her, her hooves striking the scorching sand and propelling her forward with ease.

“Don’t forget to WRITE!!” screeched Libra Scales, her muzzle upturned in a scowl. “Celestia help you both if you forget to write!”

The trio shared hearty chuckles, slapping backs and clutching ribs, their two wards fading into the horizon, racing for the sun, soon reaching the orchards and crossing that invisible boundary between civilization and frontier, camaraderie and solitude, known and unknown.

Citrus Blossom took a hoof-step towards her mother, eyes wide with concern. “Mother? Are you crying?”

Libra Scales shook her head and blamed it on the sand cast by the wind.

“… Babs…”

“… Yea…?”

“… Are ya sure ya saw Lil’ Strongheart out this way?”

Babs Seed swayed slightly, her hooves gelatinous and uncharacteristically unstable. Sweat rained from her brow to her snout, dropping down to the desert sand only to be evaporated instantaneously, steam borne of scorching heat. Although she’d won their little race, she felt no celebration was in order. “Yea… I’m sure,” she mumbled, doubt poorly concealed within her tone.

Apple Bloom brushed up against her coat and nudged her to stop. “Hold up. Yer gettin’ off the path again.”

Before embarking on their hasty journey, Apple Bloom had wrapped twine around her compass and tied it to another string, creating a necklace. This ensured that at least one of them wouldn’t be forgetting such a vital tool. She balanced the instrument on a forehoof and held it out to Babs. “See?” She pointed towards a trajectory slightly to the left of Babs’s hooves. "That way. West.”

“I know what way west is!” Babs snapped, repositioning her course.

“Ah’m sure ya do,” Apple Bloom muttered under her breath, matching her counterpart’s pace. Silently, she added, That’s why Ah’ve had ta do this a second time already. Been only an hour o’ so.

Biting her tongue, Babs Seed continued onwards, resisting the urge to toss another jab her filly’s way. Barely sixty minutes and maybe five miles into their trek had passed, and the heat was already beginning to prove relentless. Braeburn’s words echoed in her mind, his admonitions regarding the nature of the climate proving unfortunately accurate. How could dis be dis hard? It’s jus’ walkin’! Buckin’ apples in dis heat ain’t half as bad… maybe it’s because we’re gettin’ furtha west? Hotta out heeya, maybe?

Long past the city limits, neither mare caught hide nor hoof of the Buffalo, boar or cow alike. Their only companions under the blazing desert sun were the occasional tumbleweed and rows and rows of cacti. They paused every few minutes to sip from their canteens but otherwise pressed continuously towards the west, the west, the west. Yukon was the ultimate end in mind, but the Buffalo’s strange words and promises of assistance were not forgotten.

Although pride prevented Babs from admitting it audibly, she scanned the empty horizon feverishly for eagles’ feathers, nimble hooves, or a blur and dart of orange fur. Youze said I wasn’t ready ta go out inta the wild. Dat I was waitin’ fo’ spring ta come. Well, spring’s heeya, but where the buck are youze? Maybe youze was jus’ flappin’ youze gums. Well, good riddance. Buck…

Panting, Babs stopped in her tracks and fumbled for her canteen in her saddlebag. Apple Bloom waited patiently, studying her map and eying her compass curiously. Quickly draining another quarter of her canteen, Babs Seed re-capped it and placed it back in her bag. “Ugh. So damn hot. Good thing we packed extra,” she said, trotting over to her filly. “’Ey. We are on the right path, right?”

“Ah think so. Lucky Yukon’s actually on the map. Ah was worried it might not be.” Assured that their route was correct (albeit unforgiving), Apple Bloom secured her map once again and led the way.

Babs Seed hastily matched her pace and strode alongside her. No signs of civilization—of Buffalo or settlers either—greeted them in the desert plains. The fillies were the only sign of life under Celestia’s fire in the sky. Fifteen miles to go.

“Hey, Babs?” Apple Bloom asked after a few minutes, breaking their silence.

“Yea?” Babs glanced at her from the peripheral of her pupils, keeping her main gaze uncluttered. C’mon. No teepees, no fire pits, nothin’. Dey’ve gotta be ‘round heeya somewhere. Iffa we don’t see no Buffalo befo’ we get ta Yukon, somepony’s gettin’ dey flank kicked next time I check ‘em spyin’. An’ I will.

Taking a deep breath, Apple Bloom cautiously inquired, “What does… what does Auntie really think o’ me?”

“What do youze mean, Bloom?” Babs answered, offering a question of her own. Gaze sweeping from left to right, searching for clues to a certain Buffalo cow’s whereabouts and dangers in the desert alike, she commented, “Youze is family. She loves youze. Why wouldn’t she?”

“No, Ah don’t mean like that,” Apple Bloom flatly replied. A fresh bead of sweat trickled down her neck, borne of something other than a rise in the mercury. “Ah mean… um… like us. What does she think o’ you an’ Ah?”

Before she could fumble a response, Babs Seed’s left ear—far more sensitive than its twin—flicked to attention, detecting the shift of weight against sand. “Wait a sec, Bloom.” Pausing, she searched for the source of the noise. Sand, sand, cactus, cactus, tumbleweed, sand, hoo—

Adrenaline fired in a split-second within her veins, spurred by the shock of her discovery. There, hidden about fifty yards away near a cluster of boulders, Little Strongheart was trotting towards the northeast. In the very, very, very distant horizon, Babs Seed could make out the shape of a few teepees reaching towards the heavens.

“’Ey!” she bellowed across the plains, hackles raised in a concoction of both tense apprehension and genuine excitement. The Buffalo cow stopped, confused. “’Ey, Strongheart! Ova heeya!” Babs shouted, rising up on her hindhooves.

“That’s her!” Apple Bloom exclaimed, whipping her head around. “Wow! She’s a lot smaller than Ah thought!”

“Wait ‘til youze see the males,” Babs muttered, snorting. “Dey are big. Real big. Make-Mac-look-like-a-foal big.”

Little Strongheart located her at last and began to gallop towards them. Always one to meet in the middle, Babs took to her hooves towards Strongheart.

Swallowing, Apple Bloom mumbled, “Sounds great, Babs, jus’ great,” and followed after her.

Little Strongheart met Babs Seed in the desert plains, skidding her nimble forehooves to a halt with ease. Accustomed to the climate, no sweat drenched her headband or her mane, nor did she struggle to find her breath among the arid heat. Babs Seed was a different story, and so was Apple Bloom. Little Strongheart waited in respectful silence for them to compose themselves before saying, “It’s so good to see you, Babs Seed! I was afraid you may have changed your mind about coming out here.”

“Well… hah… I… er… we been lookin’ fo’ youze all mornin’,” Babs stammered, bracing her hooves in the sand. Five miles o’ so… fifteen ta go…c ould make it by nightfall, but… horseapples. “So,” she began, rounding on the Buffalo, “youze said youze could help us? An’ youze would tell me what’s wit’ youze foalish lil’ riddles?”

Little Strongheart chuckled, shaking her mane slowly. “Oh, you silly ponies. I do not speak in riddles. I speak only the truth. If you do not understand me, it is only you who—“

“Yea, yea, we get it." Babs rolled her eyes. “Youze some kinda wise-pone o’ summat. Whateva. Anyhow… oh, shoot. Where are ma manners?” Somewhere where it ain’t so Celestia-damned hot.

Nuzzling her mare, Babs introduced them. “Little Strongheart, dis is Apple Bloom. Apple Bloom, dis is the weirdo who was spyin’ on us in the orchards.”

Apple Bloom glared at her. “Babs!”

Innocently, Babs exclaimed, “What? She was!”

“It’s alright,” Strongheart said, extending a forehoof to Apple Bloom. “She meant no harm, nor did I. It is very nice to meet you, Apple Bloom.”

Shaking hooves, Apple Bloom replied with a grin, “Thank ya kindly. Ah’ve heard lots ‘bout ya. Ah gotta tell ya, Ah'm mighty curious ta hear what ya have ta say. An’ we could use any advice ya have fer gettin’ out ta Yukon. Didn’t realize it would be this hot. It’s nothin’ like—“

“Working with the trees?” Strongheart guessed. Two nods confirmed her suspicion. “Yes, many who come out here notice the same. Besides the shade, it is far more humid out here. Nothing grows out here but several species of cacti. Luckily, my tribe has long learned how to identify the edible varieties and—“

“Youze eat cactus? These things?” Babs Seed gestured to a tall, prickled green plant, its surface covered in hundreds of protruding slivers. Skeptical, she added, “Youze really expect me ta believe youze? First, youze spy on me, say I’ve got some kinda magical powers o’ summat. Then, youze tell us youze eat cactus?”

Little Strongheart paused. “Well… if you do not believe me, and do not wish to follow me back to our camp, feel free. We have plenty to eat and drink, and do not hesitate to feed our friends. Speaking of which, I suppose you two already know how to find water out here, outside of the towns, don’t you? If you don’t, you have a long road ahead of you...”

Silence.

“No? Well… I will not force you, but if you would like, you can follow me.” Little Strongheart spun on her hooves and pointed them towards the northeast. Mustering one more parting grin, she leapt from her nimble hindhooves and churned them quickly against the plains, sending up a cloud of dust.

Urged by promises of food (her stomach growling in protest) and more than a little spite, Babs Seed swallowed her pride. “I think we should follow—“

“Already ahead o’ ya,” Apple Bloom taunted, galloping after the Buffalo.

Little Strongheart led the two ponies through the sands and to their camp. A hoof-full of teepees pitched in a circle marked the boundaries of their current refuge. Most Buffalo chose to sleep under the stars; only Chief Thunderhooves, Little Strongheart, and a few of the other Tribe Elders dwelt in the teepees.

Noon sun rising in the sky marked prime foraging time for the Buffalo tribe. As a result, the camp was nearly empty when they arrived. Only Chief Thunderhooves and a few slumbering Buffalo boars remained. The Chief snorted a cloud of steam and gazed skeptically at his visitors. “My daughter, who are these strange ponies?”

Strongheart introduced her guests, gently nudging them towards the massive Chief, who was about twice the height and three to four times the weight of Babs Seed. “Chief, this is Babs Seed and this is Apple Bloom. They are both relatives of Braeburn’s.”

At the mere mention of Braeburn, the Chief's expression instantly softened. “Anypony who is related to Braeburn is a friend of ours. Welcome, my friends,” he kindly greeted, a slight grin appearing at the corners of his muzzle. He gestured towards his teepee—the largest in the camp. “Please, take refuge in the shade of my dwelling. I can see you are not yet used to the heat.”

Babs bowed low, in deference and in awe of both the Chief’s hospitality and his sheer size. Mac would be a twig in his hooves… an’ me, a little speck. Betta not cross him. “Thank youze, Mis—er, Chief.”

Apple Bloom, too, cast her muzzle to the sand graciously. “Thank ya kindly, Chief. Ah promise y’all, we will repay yer hospitality.”

“Nonsense,” he replied, waving them off with a forehoof. “Braeburn has brought peace between my tribe and yours. The very least we can offer as thanks is a little hospitality.”

“Thank you, Chief,” said Strongheart to her father, embracing him. She then trotted into the enormous teepee and beckoned the two mares to follow. They did so without sparing a moment to hesitate, strength beginning to deplete under the sweltering sun. Rest. Rest sounds good ta me.

Inside, the teepee was about twenty feet in diameter, practically empty but for a fire ring in the middle and various clay pots and jugs strewn about. Some appeared to be packed full of flowers and strange, green fruit. Others were filled with a strange gray-and-brown mush that looked suspiciously similar to oatmeal.

Little Strongheart grabbed one of the full jugs and offered it to Babs. “Here, drink. Don’t drain your canteens while you are here. We have plenty of water.”

Babs Seed accepted it and tilted her head back, draining about half of the jug before passing it off to Apple Bloom, who finished it. Both fillies plopped down on their haunches near the fire ring, discovering that the ground was surprisingly cool and pleasant beneath them. “Ahhh. Thank youze, Lil’, er, Strongheart.”

“Oh, no, it was nothing. You are welcome to take as much water as you need.” Little Strongheart trotted over to one of the pots and retrieved two pieces of unfamiliar green fruit. “You both are hungry, aren’t you?”

“Yes, ma’am!” Apple Bloom chipped, beaming. She eagerly accepted the piece offered to her and dove right in, smacking her lips and noshing it down as fast as she could. To Babs’s quizzical muzzle, she just said, “What? Try it! It’s real good!”

“What is it?” Babs studied the fruit in her hooves. It wasn’t recognizable or comparable to anything that had grown in Sweet Apple Acres, nor any cuisine that had been imported into the Orange Family Mansion. She sniffed it and found it slightly sweet. She took a tentative bite. Bursting with flavor, the fruit proved far more than merely satisfactory, and soon Babs Seed practically inhaled it.

Little Strongheart laughed and sat on her haunches beside them. “That is a fig cactus. You know the cacti out there with the three limbs at the top that form a ‘w’ of sorts? Well, if you kick any of the three limbs open, you will find these fruit. If you kick the trunk open, you will find water. There are other things we eat—“ she nodded in the direction of the faux-oatmeal dish, which, frankly, made Babs’s stomach churn—“but that is the most prominent. And the most useful you shall find out here in your journeys.”

Slurping down her last bite, Babs mused, “Wowza. Guess I shouldn’t have mocked youze fo’ eatin’ cactus, huh?”

“Who can blame you? It is quite strange to you ponies.” Smirking, Strongheart added, “Most of you have not ventured beyond Appleloosa. It is only in the past few years that the both the brave and the reckless have dared to come out here into the uncharted lands. I seen many of them struggle to survive, and help them when I can… But… sometimes, it is not enough.” Hanging her head low, she whispered, “There are bones in the desert, if you look hard enough…”

A chill announced its arrival down Babs Seed’s spine. She quickly changed the subject, rounding on Little Strongheart once more. “Well, I thank youze fo’ the advice. It’s very good ta know. We’ve got fifteen miles ta go ‘til Yukon, so we might need it. But… the otha things… what youze said ta me a few months ago—“

“Ah, yes, of course. There are two things I wish to explain to you, Babs Seed, and two ways I can explain them.” Little Strongheart dug a forehoof into the sand. “I can simply tell you, or I can show you. But if you wish to be shown, you must wait until nightfall. It is your choice.”

“’Show’ us?” Apple Bloom asked, skeptical. “How can ya show us what ya think?”

Strongheart explained, “I will show you using a technique that was passed down to me by my father, and his father before him, and his father before him. But, we must wait until nightfall to do so. You are more than welcome to rest here until then. Or, if you would rather, I can tell you everything I know right now. But you may not believe me or fully understand this way.”

Apple Bloom placed a forehoof on her mare’s shoulder. “What do ya think? Do ya want ta stay an’ rest, an’ see what she wants us ta see? O’ do ya jus’ wanna go? We might be able ta make it by nightfall if we leave now.”

Stretching out her forehooves and cracking several joints, Babs Seed offered, “Youze is right, but maybe we should wait until nightfall ta go out there ‘gain? It'll be nice an' cool dat way. Maybe we should sleep durin' the day fo’ a bit?”

“Hmm, that’s true. Would be a tad easier ta git there when the sun ain’t strikin’ us silly. An’ makin’ some o’ us irritable,” Apple Bloom added, smirking at her mare. Babs blushed and averted her gaze. “It’s alright, sugarcube. Ah’m not mad. But maybe we should rest.”

Little Strongheart rose to her hooves and trotted towards the teepee’s entrance. “I’ll be back to wake you when dusk arrives. For now, try and get some rest… And feel free to eat or drink whatever you like in here. The Chief won’t mind.”

She left them with a smile and covered the entrance to the abode with a makeshift door constructed of several pieces of deadwood nailed together. This darkened the inside of the dwelling and kept the furious sun at bay, leaving two mares alone in the dim, tepid teepee.

Babs Seed stretched out on her belly and pushed her saddlebags away. Yawning, she mumbled, “Let’s get some sleep… I’m too tired ta deal wit’ dis nonsense, anyhow.”

Curling up beside her, Apple Bloom quietly replied, “Ya know, Strongheart's mighty smart. She knows what she’s talkin’ ‘bout. Maybe she knows what she’s talkin’ ‘bout wit’ what she told ya few months 'go, too.”

Pulling her close, Babs grumbled, “I sure hope so,” and soon drifted off into midday slumber.

A pair of gentle forehooves tapping on her shoulders roused Babs Seed from the company of the Sandmare. Little Strongheart and Apple Bloom were standing next to her, though the Buffalo was the offender. She grunted and rolled over in the dirt, squeezing her eyes shut. “Suppa time already?” she muttered, resisting the temptation to drift back asleep.

“Of course! We have plenty. And you’ll be able to meet more of our tribe! Rise and shine, Babs Seed!” Strongheart quipped, poking her again.

Babs brushed her away and reluctantly rose to her hooves. Shaking dust from her coat, she pondered, “Shouldn’t youze say summat like dat in the mornin’? Mo’ like ‘rise an’ dark,’ right now?”

Strongheart rolled her eyes. “Technicality.”

Grinning, Babs Seed followed her out of the teepee, Apple Bloom trotting beside her. “It’s the technicalities—the split-seconds—dat count the most. Youze shoulda known dat. Dat’s why I caught youze.”

Apple Bloom flicked her mane towards her mare and scolded her, “Now, be nice, sugarcube. Lil’ Strongheart knows it all too well, Ah think.”

“Youze know,” Babs said with a huff, “youze is takin’ Ma’s lil’ commandment a bit too seriously.”

“Somepony’s gotta be the mo’ reserved o’ us.”

Reserved? “’Ey, wait a…!”

The sight of a roaring bonfire, flames billowing in thick tongues and spirals of smoke rising towards the Most High launched Babs Seed’s retort into the distance. Around a circle of coals and stones, Chief Thunderhooves and several old, weathered Buffalo boars sat on their haunches, devouring bowls of the faux-oatmeal sludge she’d seen in the teepee. The remainder of the tribe—mostly males, though a few cows Strongheart’s size or smaller wandered about—took their meals outside of the fire pit, sharpening their horns or practicing their stampede charges between bites.

Little Strongheart led the two mares to Chief Thunderhooves, who scooted from his position, leaving a wide berth of room for the three to take their places. The Chief looked up from his bowl, his snout and muzzle dripping with the remainders of his meal and welcomed them. “Good evening, my friends. Please, come and sit by the fireside. We have plenty for you to eat.”

Apple Bloom and Babs Seed bowed a subsequent time in deference before sitting beside him. The coals and stones around the pit were hot near Babs’ hooves, but not unpleasantly so, a majestic contrast to the chill of the desert night. Night alicorn reigned supreme and solitary, transforming the arid heat of day to a cool, haunting mist. Little Strongheart joined her visitors, balancing two bowls of mush and offering it to them.

“Um…” Babs muttered, staring into her bowl. “Ahh… what is dis?”

Strongheart plopped on her haunches beside Apple Bloom, choosing not to partake in the nightly meal. Hunger could not find her on a night like tonight, revelation awaiting. “It is ground-up leaves and blooms of the fig cactus plant mashed into a paste. Their flowers only bloom in the middle of spring. For now, the plants you see around you—“ she gestured towards the multitude of towering cacti throughout the desert plains—“will not bloom for several months. But, further south of here, they already have. That is where we stampede. Once our supply from winter’s hibernation begins to dwindle, we rush south to find more.”

Never one to turn down a good meal, Apple Bloom dug her snout into her bowl and greedily slurped every last morsel of the mushy stuff. After considering it for a moment, Babs Seed shoved her bowl towards her mare. “Ehh… dat’s nice. But youze know what? I’m not really hungry—“

“Mo’ for me!” Apple Bloom exclaimed, starting on her seconds within a heartbeat.

Little Strongheart chuckled. “There’s more where that came from, Apple Bloom. You sure you’re not hungry?” she asked Babs, concerned. “I’d be more than happy to go get you some more fruit—“

“I’m fine. We’ve got a lotta ground ta cover ta-night, an’ I don’t want ta do it on no full stomach, neither. Now,” she began, narrowing her eyes, “show us what youze wanted ta show us. Tell me the meanin’ ta youze riddles.”

Quickly finishing the last of her supper (even going so far as to lick the bowl in a most uncouth manner), Apple Bloom tossed her own two bits into the ring of fire. “Yea! Show us, Lil’ Strongheart. Ah’m curious.”

Such was the understatement of the century; Apple Bloom crossed her forehooves and tapped her hindhooves expectantly, staring at Little Strongheart, each passing second lengthening into a minute. “Well?”

“Very well,” Strongheart answered after a few moments. “I shall show you what words cannot articulate.”

She reached up into her headband and located a small, concealed pouch near the two eagles’ feathers. The jet-black pouched was barely the size of a forehoof and was tightly closed with a twine drawstring. Opening it, she tossed what appeared to be a hoof-full of sparkling dust onto the fire.

The blaze before the eyes of the Chief, the Elders, the mares, and Little Strongheart radiated brightly, morphing into a blinding white. Then, just as rapidly, it darkened into a foul, fetid black, blacker than night, blacker than the mane of Babs Seed’s sadistic piercer.

“W-what the?!” Babs Seed felt the fur along her spine and shoulders spring to attention. All warmth from the bonfire disappeared into a vacuum of blackness, and the night soared downwards in the mercury, turning her breath into icy frost. Apple Bloom began to rise to her hooves, her own hackles raised.

Little Strongheart stood tall on all four hooves and commanded, her voice lowered by several octaves, “Do not be afraid. What you see in the flame is merely an illusion. It is merely cold fire, cast by the magic of our ancestors.” She secured the pouch and set it on the ground beside her.

“W-what did youze jus’ do ta it?! It’s black! An’ cold! Tell me!”

Little Strongheart shook her head. “No, Babs Seed, it is not.”

“Ah see it, too,” Apple Bloom blurted, fear driving her to stand on all fours. “It’s c-cold… like it’s takin’ all the warm outta the desert—“

“Be not afraid,” Chief Thunderhooves said, his wise, weathered muzzle still dripping with ground-up cactus blossoms mashed into a paste. Though comical, neither mare laughed at the sight, and continued to stare him down. “Cold fire is an ancient divining technique passed down to me by my father, and his father before him, and his father before him, and—“

“They get it, Chief.” Little Strongheart groaned, trotting over to them. She placed a forehoof on each of the startled mares’ shoulders. “I assure you, nothing has truly changed. What you see is merely an illusion, a reflection of things to come.

“I am gifted—as I have told you, Babs Seed—to know things of the spirit, of the world beyond and around us. The sand I sprinkled on the fire is of the deepest Earth and the strongest magic, harvested long ago before the settler-ponies came, and all with them. It reveals what lies in store for those who gaze upon it.”

The flames of the cold fire roared in time with her words, mimicking the inflections of the Buffalo’s voice. Before two pairs of irises—one fiery-ruby, one emerald—the tempest remained vigilant in its chill and darkness. Before the copper of all but Little Strongheart, the fire was akin to any other flame, light and radiance a beacon in the desert night.

Babs Seed pulled Apple Bloom off her hooves and pulled her mare beside her instinctively. Whether it was borne of the need to protect or to be comforted, she wasn’t quite sure. All she knew, as she stared into the hypnotic cold fire, was the overwhelming blackness, the cold…

Cold like cobblestone, like a clearing near Manehatten Lake, like her former father’s touch in the Orange Family Mansion…

Somepony was shaking her.

“Babs?!”

Her mane was drenched in sweat. So was her muzzle, snout, and face.

“Babs, wake up!”

She cracked one eye open. Above her, Little Strongheart and Apple Bloom glanced worriedly into her eyes. She grunted and was pulled up onto her haunches by her mare’s forehooves, who, once she was stable, promptly took them up against the Buffalo. “What the hay is wrong wit’ ya?! What did ya do ta her?!”

“I didn’t do anything! I—“

“Liar!”

Apple Bloom pulled her forehoof back somewhere between Ponyville and Appleloosa and launched it forward.

An forehoof caught hers in time and deflected the blow.

“A… Apple Bloom…”

Babs Seed stumbled to her hooves again and brushed against her fur, swaying. “It’s… not… her… fault. I—“

A rush of hooves surrounded them, barricading them within a circle of enraged brown, black, and orange coats, enormous Buffalo boars with war-paint marring their muzzles standing their firm ground. Shit.

Cold, mocking sweat rushing down her nape, Apple Bloom stuttered, “S-s-sorry… Ah was j-jus’—“

Strongheart broke through the circle and shouted to her fellows, “Leave them alone! Let them go!”

Chief Thunderhooves trotted up beside her and stomped his hooves twice on the ground in warning. The circle of Buffalo crumbled, its members bounding away on their own hooves. Nopony would dare to raise a hoof against the Chief’s daughter. Skeptical as they were—eying the two strangers with menacing gazes—they nevertheless obeyed and resumed their previous duties. Some sharpened their horns a second time.

Little Strongheart steadied Babs Seed on one side, while Apple Bloom took the other. Together, they guided Babs Seed towards the bonfire, which was now familiar shades of red, orange, and yellow. C-cold… so… cold. Must… sit. Panting, exhausted, and confused beyond description, Babs Seed chose to sit in front of the flames. Thankfully, the flames radiated heat instead of a strange, sickening chill.

Holding Babs Seed up with their forehooves, mare and Buffalo sat in silence.

Finally, the Chief whispered, leaning close to Babs, “What did you see, young one?”

“I didn’t see anythin’,” Babs replied, each word requiring a strange, insurmountable effort. “I jus’ felt.”

“An’ what did ya feel?” Apple Bloom asked.

“Cold. Hollow. Empty. Dark. An’… An’ I remembered… I remembered what it was like back there.”

“Ya can’t mean….” Refusing to even consider the possibility, Apple Bloom rounded on Little Strongheart once more, snorting hot steam through her nostrils. “Ya took her there! There o' all places! How could ya do such a thing?! Ah trusted ya!”

“Please! I mean no harm!” Little Strongheart pleaded, raising her forehooves in surrender. “I didn’t take anypony anywhere! What one sees in the cold fire is different for us all, a premonition of probability and possibility—“

“Then, why were ours like that?”

“I have felt it too, Apple Bloom,” Strongheart shot back, taking a few hoof-steps away from them. “I have felt the blackness, the coldness, the foreboding dark. It is rolling into Appleloosa and the frontier, and has for several months now. Right before the shooting…”

She took a deep, shaky breath. “Right before the shooting in town, I was staring into the cold fire, as I usually do. I look into it often. It is my duty to divine the spirits, to see what our ancestors can teach us. And, when I did—“

“The same thing that just happened to your mare happened to my daughter,” Chief Thunderhooves said, turning to Apple Bloom. “She, too, lost consciousness, overwhelmed by great fear and trembling. There is great danger coming to this land. From what—or who—we do not know. But, the spirits do not lie. Within those sacred sands, one can divine the truth. And the truth is some great evil, rolling in…”

Feeling his temper begin to spark and rise, betraying his calm countenance, Chief Thunderhooves stomped away his thoughts. “From where, we do not know,” he finished, though his heart said otherwise.

“So… lemme get dis straight,” Babs said, finding her strength once more, replenished by both the desert sands beneath her hooves and the radiance of the flames. “Youze… wanted ta tell me dat I have some kind o’ power, an’ how ta survive in the desert, an’…. youze wanted ta warn us?”

Little Strongheart nodded. “Yes, I wanted to tell you of this, also. As for your magic, Babs Seed, I cannot divine it. I can only sense it. I am drawn to sources of magic, to those who possess power and strength beyond normal measure.”

Apple Bloom assisted Babs Seed to all fours. Babs Seed raised an eyebrow and remarked, “Did youze say… strength?”

Strongheart nodded again. “Yes,” she explained, “strength. Strength comes in all varieties, especially among Earth ponies. Some are able to grow crops, such as the mare who planted those orchards in the sand.” Aunt Barbara. “Some are able to bring peace and harmony in the midst of chaos, whose words and hooves find common ground where there is none otherwise.” Cousin Braeburn.

“There are many more kinds of magic and strength,” Strongheart added, stepping towards the towering mare, “and I cannot discern them all. I cannot identify what only you can know for yourself. All I do know is that you, like the one who grew your trees or the one who keeps your city safe, are one whose connection to the Earth has not yet been severed. One whose might and magic is strong. Your speech may be from the East, but your heart is not. Isn’t it, Babs Seed?”

Immediately, Babs answered, “No.” It neva was.

Although she had no answers of her own to provide if prompted, Little Strongheart asked anyway, “Do you know what your power is, Babs Seed?”

Amongst the Buffalo, five miles west of Appleloosa and many, many more away from her roots in the cobblestone, Babs Seed flicked her left ear, and knew. No explanation was necessary. It was apparent from her fetlocks to her snout, from the tip of her bobtail to the one rebellious strand of her red-and-pink mane. It was apparent in the way she towered over all the other Apples but one—and that one had "big" in his name.

She nodded, feeling her muscles ripple beneath her coat.

“Then,” Little Strongheart said, taking the bobtailed mare’s forehoof in her own, “promise me this.”

“What?”

“Both of you, be vigilant,” urged Little Strongheart, staring at both mares. “For I fear that the darkness may not only be rolling towards those who strike up gold and silver beyond the horizon, but upon us all in the West. It shall settle amongst us all, whether we will it or not. And when the time comes to choose the side of the darkness or the light, harness your strengths towards righteousness.”

The foal in the clearing, now a mare in the desert, nodded her affirmation. And so did the other beside her—the one who had been beside her though seven years of trial and tribulation, daggers and deserts alike. Apple Bloom sensed her own surging of energy, adrenaline rushing at Strongheart’s words, her own hackles rising amongst the darkness.

She too, knew the answer to Strongheart's inquiry, and, if asked, would've offered her own truth.

They stood there, builder and destroyer, two sides of the same coin.

Babs Seed and Apple Bloom accepted the Buffalo’s parting gift of several pots filled with fig cactus and “that mushy stuff,” (as Babs referred to it) tucking the rations into their saddlebags. While Luna’s lantern still lit the desert sands, they set their course back to Yukon, double-checking their compasses and maps.

They left the tiny camp, waving forehooves goodbye until a distance beyond mere geography separated them. Grateful they were for the Buffalo’s friendship and alliance, though neither could shake the chill of the cold fire. Its black, flickering flames charred their bones to the marrow, visions of what had and could be tormenting their minds and extending their silence.

After what seemed like hours, one of them spoke again.

“’Ey, Bloom?” Babs asked, striding close beside her mare, her heavy hooves a rhythmic clip-clop in the silent night.

Apple Bloom whispered, “Yes, Babs?”

“What did youze think o’, when youze saw the cold fire?”

Apple Bloom paused, then muttered, “… Ah don’t wanna talk ‘bout that.”

Nuzzling her, Babs pressed, “C’mon. Youze can tell me anythin’.”

Apple Bloom sighed. “Ah know Ah can. Ah jus’… Ah don’t wanna think ‘bout it. Ya know how ya said ya thought o’ Manehatten, an’ all the things that happened there?” At her nod, she explained, “Well, Ah didn’t think o’ anythin’ that’s happened ta me befo’. Ah thought o’ somethin’ Ah never want ta happen.”

“… Oh.” Babs glanced curiously out of the corner of her eye, keeping the other half of her gaze steady for any sign of predators in pony or coyote clothing. “Well… who knows iffa it’ll come true. Dey don’t know everythin’, right? Lil’ Strongheart didn’t even know everythin’ ‘bout me.” She doesn’t know what ma cutiemark means, o’ what happened way back then.

“Yer right. Ah shouldn’t worry.” Chuckling slightly, Apple Bloom added, “Though, ya sure gave me a scare when ya passed out. Don’t do that again. Yer too big fer me ta put on ma back anymo’.”

“… Is dat why youze keep stealin’ ma food?”

Skagway, also known as “Soapy,” was a seasoned prospector, the sourest of sourdoughs. The stallion patrolled the perimeters of his camp on this clear, crisp night, thanking Luna for her gift of a full moon. His camp slumbered peacefully, a few miles away from Yukon. The spring had come, and with it arrived several new miners. Most were greener than cacti. In their inexperience, they were easy to exploit, hauling ore, digging ditches for sluicing, sifting through pan after pan of worthless desert sand.

The stallion made his rounds around his camp, keeping a steady forehoof near his revolver. The weapon was a recent but necessary acquisition. News of the shooting in Appleloosa rocketed through the frontier, spread not by pegasi wings but tall tales over Applejack Daniel’s and games of poker. The wild was no longer the haven of vagabonds and dreamers. Vagrants and scoundrels were occupying the sands as well. Skagway would have none of that nonsense.

Just before Witching Hour, the small hand on his pocket watch inching towards the two, Skagway’s ears pricked erect, detecting the shift of two sets of hooves against the sand.

Nopony would be out at this hour for a good reason.

The stallion drew his revolver and spun around, ready to face anypony who opposed him. There was no law in the desert. There was only Skagway.

He moved his forehoof achingly close to the trigger. “Two o’ ya, huh? Well, come an’ get me, ya demons.”

Year Seven: Love Is Thicker Than Blood

Skagway patrolled the perimeter of his camp, fighting the urge to hang his muzzle in shame. Four months. For four months he'd worked his crew to their bones, tearing their sinews, breaking them until they could be broken no more. And for what? Not a speckle more of gold dust was found here in the lands surrounding Yukon, much less a nugget. They’d covered almost an entire five-mile radius around the settlement, all for naught.

He sighed. At the very least, the scoundrel and brute known as Babs Seed hadn’t caused him much more trouble. In fact, other than occasional drunkenness and minor squabbles over rounds of poker, there was very little trouble within the camp. Allspice cooked the finest for him and his crew, his prospectors dug until their tools dulled, his carpenters and sluicers dug through the ore and the Earth until their forehooves were black, and his hauler completed her duties without the slightest complaint.

For nothing.

Skagway sighed and continued his rounds, his revolver securely holstered. Mid-way through June already, the hooves of time would soon rotate their hourglass to July and the hottest heat of the year. He looked around his desert plains. Most of the cacti here had long been harvested, their water and fruit drained for his miners. Their last oasis had been drained by the sluice. Tomorrow, they would need to hike out into the frontier again, searching for an oasis and accompanying cacti. Without water to filter the heavy sediment, their work—especially Dyea’s—would be that much more difficult.

And though the prospector was a weathered, grizzled old brute, his Stetson caked in dirt and clay from years of mining, the last thing he wanted to do was break up his crew.

Satisfied that all was quiet and secure, Skagway began to turn his hooves towards the fire-pit and his most recent boulder-pillow when he heard a low growl.

He spun around, finding a pair of glowing green eyes staring at him through the blackness. The stallion quickly drew his revolver and aimed it between those eyes. Within the few seconds that trickled by between reaction and action, a second and third pair of eyes joined the first, and then a fourth, a fifth…

“Horseapples. Coyotes,” he whispered, words chilled with the night air. The waning moon above provided insufficient light. He saw no paws, no fur, no swishing, bristled tails, but the terrible tenor of their voices and the piercing light of their eyes identified them with all the precision of a biologist.

The stallion braced his hooves as the pack of canines inched towards him, coming into view at last as the flames of his campfire flickered in his peripherals. Coyotes they were—the size of small mares, hackles raised and claws brandished.

Skagway squeezed the trigger, pointing at the nearest coyote.

Nothing happened.

He darted his weapon towards another beast and pulled again.

Nothing.

“A bar?! Ah thought ya didn’t like bars,” Apple Bloom teased, poking Babs in the chest.

“Long as nopony comes an’ shoots it up, I’m fine with it,” Babs Seed countered, laughing a little. “I think it’d help AJ, an’ I wanna repay her fo’ all she’s done fo’ me. Fo’ youze. Fo’ all o’ us. She deserves betta than strugglin’.”

Apple Bloom leaned in close and kissed her on the snout. “Yer so sweet,” she whispered, wrapping her forehooves around her mare’s neck. “Aren’t Ah the lucky one…”

Skagway held his revolver steady in his shaking forehoof. He quickly checked his rounds, spinning his revolver’s chamber-wheel. Seven were ready to fire, hot lead seeking freedom at a burst of gunpowder and flame. A chill ran down his spine. He ran a forehoof over the barrel, finding the eighth trapped at the end.

“Horseapples! ‘Volver ain’t s’pposed ta jam!”

The coyotes were approaching, inch by tormented inch. Their muzzles dripped with yellowed incisors and revealed fangs. Their fetid breath was close enough for the stallion to taste it on his nauseated tongue. He secured the weapon with both forehooves and squeezed the trigger, a third time, a fourth, a fifth.

All useless.

Skagway was the boss of his crew for two reasons: one rattled in a Mason jar tucked within his saddlebags, and the other laid useless in his grasp, reduced to a club in the face of its malfunction.

The stallion opened and closed his mouth, mustering a scream. It was silent. His old heart began to quicken in time, beating faster and faster, threatening cardiac. If the beasts didn’t consume him, he feared his adrenaline would, rocketing through his muscles and setting his mind and heart afire, demanding action, turn and flee, or stand and fight.

“Grrrrrrrrrr.”

The first beast, slightly larger than the others, spoke a second time. No translation was needed. Skagway spat on the ground and hissed back, “Try an’ take me.” Brandishing the revolver by its grip with one forehoof and tensing the other, he awaited the strike, the pounce, the gnashing that was soon to come.

Babs Seed peeked her head out from under the blanket and pricked her ears towards the night. Growlin’. I heard growlin’.

Apple Bloom slept beside her, dead to Equestria, eyelids twitching in the haze of R.E.M. sleep. She did not stir or wake as her mare slowly squirmed out from the cover, listening close. I coulda swear, I heard—

“Grrrrrrrrrr.” There it was again.

Babs Seed burst to all four of her hooves, smacking her head against the top draw-rope strung between their cacti. Groaning and slightly dazed, she stumbled out of their shelter. Apple Bloom stayed asleep, her forehooves curled up around a pony who was no longer there.

Silently, Babs vowed, I’ll be back in jus’ a sec, Bloom, and kicked up a cloud of dust off her hindhooves. She caught sight of five glowing pairs of demonic orbs in the night and one stallion trembling before them.

Skagway brought down the barrel of his revolver as the first coyote lunged for his neck. Steel connected with skull and crashed, eliciting a howl from his attacker and a responding spring of four others. Together, the four remaining beasts launched towards the stallion, grabbing onto his neck, flanks, and stomach. They bore down, down, down with teeth as hypodermic needles injecting the deepest poison into his bloodstream.

Skagway howled and smashed the one on his neck first, revolver kissing it across the muzzle. This coyote, like his counterpart, crumbled on the sand. The other three doubled their efforts. Cursing, the stallion swung his useless gun again towards a beast, raising his forehoof back.

“AAAAHHH!”

His first tormentor recovered from his daze and cleverly attacked his right forehoof, sending his revolver flying into the sand. The beast clenched his jaws down onto his prize and tore, dangling from his limb as the stallion flailed, flailed, flailed, crimson staining his coat and his vision beginning to blur.

This is it, Skagway thought. The end.

“Come an’ get me, Ol’ Scratch…” He gave up his ghost in defeat as the fifth coyote jumped up alongside his brothers, aiming for the throat.

Babs Seed reached Skagway, turned her back, and bucked her hindhooves into two coyotes attached to his left flank. The beasts howled and hit the sand. Blood gushed from their jaws, ribs shattering on impact.

She jumped over to the other side and grabbed the other beast making a meal of the stallion’s side, wrestling it to the ground. The coyote raked its claws across her side and stomach, staining his nails red with her blood.

Thoughtless, mindless, driven only by instincts of long, long past, channeled by strength from muscle and sinew and adrenaline and calorie and Earth, Babs Seed pummeled the coyote, throat and muzzle and chest, until it ceased, death rattling in its trachea and its tongue flopping uselessly out of its murderous maw.

Skagway, now freed of three beasts, dodged the fifth aiming for his throat and flicked the fourth to the ground. He raised his forehooves and stomped down on one, bone and flesh crumpling beneath his thunder. The final beast, spurred by revenge and bloodlust unimaginable, leapt again.

This time, Babs Seed caught it in the air, springing her entire body into the coyote. She overpowered it, pinning it to the sand, and, with a quick twist of her forehooves, snapped its neck.

Panting, dripping blood from several slashes on her sides and stomach, Babs Seed looked over and asked, “Youze alright?”

Skagway, breathing so quickly that his vision began to blur and dot, couldn’t nod, or reply, or close his eyes. He stood there, frozen, all four of his hooves trembling, oblivious to the mare trotting over and examining his wounds.

“Wowza, looks like dey got youze good, too. C’mon, Bloom an’ I got some—“

“Why did ya do that?”

Skagway stared straight ahead, transfixed on some unknown object in the distance. His gray irises darkened and deepened into pure, haunting blackness. Still the Reaper tangoed before him, taunting him, sickle raised high and ready to separate his soul from his body, his Earth from his Heaven.

So close, it had been.

Babs Seed steadied him with a forehoof and gently tugged him towards the camp. “Because it’s the right thing ta do. Now, c’mon, youze is bleedin’. We need ta get youze clea—“

“After all Ah did ta ya?” Finally facing her, his voice quivered, hovering somewhere between sorrow and gratitude.

“’Ey, youze jus’ doin’ youze job,” she said, forcing a grin. Don’t have ta be such a prick ‘bout it, but ‘ey, the desert ain’t no easy mistress. She got ta youze a while ‘go, fo’ good reason. “Now, c’mon, Skagway—“

He shook his head and smiled, urging her, ”Please, Babs, call me Soapy.”

Two weeks later, both of their wounds had healed completely. Both made a full recovery and buried their hatchets in the sand, striking up a newfound friendship. At night, Skagway would share tales of his youth with Babs Seed, Apple Bloom, Dyea, and Allspice, huddled around the fire-pit while the remainder of his crew played poker or blackjack or wrestled each other for the last bowl of stew.

Through his whisperings, the two Ponyville mares learned that the frontier remained vastly unsettled or unexplored. “Yukon’s the minin’ town fer gold, but nothin’ fer silver’s popped up yet. Oil’s a bit ta the south o’ Appleloosa, actually. Shame ain’t mo’ towns ‘round here. Seen far too many settler-ponies push themselves too hard, no place ta stop in between.”

“Where’s the nearest town?” asked Apple Bloom. “Babs an’ Ah were kinda thinkin’ o’ buildin’ a bar o’ somethin’.”

“A bar?” Allspice snickered and glanced towards Babs Seed. “Youze be careful wit’ dat stuff, alright? Youze o’ all ponies should know what can come o’ dat.”

Babs dismissed her with a forehoof and said, “I know what youze mean, but I ain’t worried. What I really wanna do is help ma family. Our family,” she clarified, smiling at her mare. “Things ain’t goin’ too good fo’ ‘em. Figured iffa I open up a bar an’ sell our products, it should help out.”

Skagway took a drink from a silver flask, chasing whiskey down his throat. Wiping his muzzle with a forehoof, he said, “Ya know, Ah can tell ya fer a fact tons o’ ponies out here would do damn near anythin’ fer Applejack Daniel’s an’ such. That there flask has the last o’ mine that Ah bought in Appleloosa. But Ah ain’t willin’ ta hike twenty miles ta go find it.

"Ah’ll tell ya what, though… y’all wanna pull up stakes an’ go settle someplace, Ah won’t stop ya. Although, might take me a bit ta find a hauler good as ol’ Babs, here,” he joked, nudging her in the ribs.

Their laughter echoed throughout the desert night, five friends—some new, some old—around the campfire, no gold to be had but treasure just as supreme and priceless shared amongst them.

On the first Friday of July, Skagway’s prospecting team struck gold at last within the desert sands. The coordinates were about ten miles away from Yukon, about twenty-four feet below the surface and hidden deep within the chasms. The haul, in total, amounted to about 1200 bits worth of unrefined treasure.

Skagway, true to his word, provided each and every member of his team with ten percent of the haul: 120 bits a muzzle. Months and months of back-breaking labor and relentless digging, hauling, and sluicing came to a hilt with the discovery of hoof-fulls of gold nuggets, prime for the hammer and anvil and the marketplace.

However, he made one exception to his rule, and kept a nugget intended for his own coffers for another purpose.

Rolling up the blankets, cutting a section of rope down from its taut stringing between the catcti (reasoning that it wasn’t worth trying to untie the ends from all the needles tangled with them), and uprooting the four stakes from the final time, Apple Bloom broke their camp, tucking everything into their saddlebags.

Almost five months of mining beneath the desert blaze, communicating to friends and family through sweat-stained parchment, and ensuring that her mare did not break her spine running herself into the ground (the hardest job of all!) finally paid off.

After the camp’s minor mining success, she and Babs Seed agreed: it was time. Their hooves itched again and cried out for some sort of rest. Construction of a bar and handling of a business would not be easy work, but it beat sorting through dirt or hauling it.

Saddlebag packed, she trotted over to Babs Seed, who was scarfing down the last camp breakfast of their near-Yukon adventure. “Ya ready ta go? Maybe Allspice can give us a doggie bag,” she joked, giggling. The chef-pony rolled her eyes and giggled with her.

“Mmff, I’m almost, mmph, done,” grunted Babs Seed between bites of muesli. Uncouth as always, she lapped up the last bits of the mixture before offering a wary Allspice the empty bowl. “Uh, youze might wanta wash dat one real good. Sorry.”

“No problem, kiddo,” Allspice said with a wink. She smacked herself in the forehead, laughing. “Oh, how could I forget? Youze ain’t no lil’ foal anymo’. Neitha are youze, Apple Bloom. Both o’ youze is all grown up. An’ now youze gonna go an’ have mo’ adventures!”

“Dat’s right." Babs trotted over and hoisted her own saddlebags—weighed down with, among other things, 310 extra bits and enough harvested fig cactus and water to last them both through weeks of trekking—onto her back.

From almost five months of agonizing work, each hoof-step and heartbeat an exercise reducing all others to mere play, she had grown even stronger, and did not flinch under the weight. She joined the two other mares and teased her own, “Alright, Cap’n Apple Bloom, get out the map an’ tell us where we wanna go next.”

From behind her came a baritone, “Hey, before y’all go—“

She spun around. “Oh, hey, Soapy.”

The stallion grinned. “Hey. Ah got somethin’ fer ya, Babs, if ya want it.”

She glanced curiously to Allspice and Apple Bloom, who shrugged. “Um… what youze got, Soapy? Oh, by the way, why does everypony call youze ‘Soapy,’ anyhow?”

Tipping his grime-coated Stetson, the stallion chortled and said, “Well, Ah think it’s kinda a lil’ jab at ma, shall we say, down-ta-Earth manner! Haha!”

He whooped and slapped his flanks, the other three soon joining him. Once calmed, he said, “Anyway, Ah had somethin’ made from our haul. It’s fer you, Babs, if ya want it. Hold on.”

Soapy reached back towards his saddlebags and fumbled blindly through it, passing over a flask, a pickaxe, a map, a compass, and, finally, locating his prize. “Oh! Here we are.”

He grasped a small box between his forehooves and passed it to Babs Seed, who looked down at it suspiciously. “It’s not what ya think,” he assured, chuckling out of the side of his muzzle. “Ah ain’t that type o’ stallion, anyway. It's jus' a thanks, fer... well, you know. Anyhow, go ‘head, open it.”

“Alright…”

Babs Seed lifted the top half of the box, revealing a single, golden hoop earring inside.

Allspice and Apple Bloom exhaled in awe.

“S-Soapy, dis is real nice, but…” Babs flicked both her ears and chuckled nervously. “I don’t have any piercin’s. Youze didn’t have ta make dis.”

“Oh, it weren’t no problem. Ah need somethin’ ta do on nights that Ah patrol ‘round these parts. Needed ta practice wit' hammer an' anvil anyway. Ah figured Ah could help ya wit’ the no-piercin’ part, too, considerin’ it looks like somepony already tried ta pierce ya befo’ an’ didn’t do it right,” he explained, pointing at her left ear.

Allspice, Apple Bloom, and Babs Seed shared a silence, pondering a response.

Babs Seed broke it with, “Neva get a piercer who’s red-an’-black.”

“Ya ready?” Soapy asked, balancing a sharp needle (which had been sterilized with both a flame and a few shots of whiskey) in his forehooves.

Digging her haunches into the sand, Babs Seed pricked her left ear up and dug her forehooves into the ground. Apple Bloom and Allspice maintained a tight grip on both of her forelimbs—just in case. Sighing, she closed her eyes and mumbled, “Ready.”

Soapy leaned forward and squinted one of his eyes shut, correcting his vision. “Alright, this’ll only hurt a bit. Ya might feel a slight pinch, an’—“

“How would youze know?!” she snapped, peeking one eye open and glaring back at him. “I don’t see any piercin’s in youze ears!”

“Not anymo’, ya don’t,” Soapy corrected. “Now, ready?”

Sighing, she relented, “As I’ll eva be,” and closed her eyes again.

“Alright…

“One…

“Two…

“Three!”

One hour later, two mares departed Soapy’s mining camp, pointing their hooves towards the south this time. The twenty-five miles between their current location and Appleloosa were barren, lifeless, untouched by any pony civilization. Whispers of a fledgling new settlement in the southwest spurred their hooves. Soapy even tossed in rumors of a hotel there, and the prospect of a real bed and pillows were almost enough to send them galloping through the overwhelming heat.

They pressed on, following their compasses, ready to begin again.

“An’ then, ya said it didn’t hurt, an’ then me an’ Allspice started ta—“

“Yes, Bloom, I know, I was there.”

“No, no. That’s not even the best part. Then, ya started ta stand up, an’—“

“Apple Bloom!”

“What? Ah’m jus’ havin’ a lil’ fun. Ya look cute wit’ a piercin’.”

“… Thanks, I guess?”

“Ya know what ya look even cuter doin’?”

“… What?”

“Tryin’ ta act all tough, then passin’ out. Ma Babs, ma big ol’ hero, passin’ out from a hole in her ear! Hehehe!”

“… Dat’s it. Youze sleepin’ alone tonight.”

“Aww! C’mon, Babsy, Ah was jus’ jokin’!”

“Usin’ dat nickname don’t get youze no points dis time.”

“… Fiddle-fangle.”

Three hours later, chasing the sun as it began to dip below the horizon, Babs Seed and Apple Bloom encountered an Equestrian flag stuck in the middle of the sand—an epicenter in a small circle of buildings. There, in that stretch of plain, numerous species of cacti (including the “W” variety) stretched their limbs towards the desert sky. Tumbleweeds rushed by in the gentle wind. It the only sound heard here in this dot of civilization found outside of the map.

Here laid the most glorious of treasures, far more wondrous than the sparkling gold in Babs Seed's ear: a hotel. And a post office. And a general store.

There was, however, no bar. Nor no declaration of the settlement’s name, no sign decreeing one pony’s power over the others. There was, perhaps, no need for one—it was merely an outpost, an oasis, a refuge in the wasteland, a heap of images, but none of them broken.

“Wowza…”

Apple Bloom placed a forehoof on her shoulder, in awe herself. “Jus’ look at it. All these are new, these buildin’s. Everythin’s new. But… where is everypony?”

“Probably at the hotel. C’mon.”

The innkeeper charged the two mares ten bits for a week’s stay in her humbly crafted hotel. The design was simplistic—no arched ceilings, wall sconces, famous paintings (even replicas) or fine sculptures could be found here. What Apple Bloom and Babs Seed found instead was a real bed—their first in almost five months—complete with pillows, blankets, and, most of all, a roof. A writing desk, a small table, two chairs and a complementary wind-up alarm clock completed the room.

On that first night, Babs Seed put quill to parchment:

“Ma—

Hope everypony is doing good in Appleloosa. Bloom and I have left the mining crew and find ourselves in some nameless settlement. Even the innkeeper says it doesn’t have a name. Instead, it has a hotel, with a REAL BED. Real sheets, blankets, pillows. I can’t explain to you how amazing those are after five months of sleeping beneath some blankets and starlight. Though, I do miss that. We’ll have to do that sometime again…

Anyway. We struck gold, and—you might not like this part—part of it is in my ear. The left one. I guess it’s easier to explain this way now. Not that it’s anypony’s business anyway. But yeah, we’re here, and we’ve been thinking…

I really do feel indebted to Applejack for all she’s done for me, for us, for everypony. And I know how hard she’s working, only to fall so short. Our team leader pointed out that many ponies would do just about anything to get some Applejack Daniel’s out here.

Bloom and I were thinking… Maybe we could open a bar out here, be stable for a bit, make some bits, sell Apple Family cider and whiskey. Split the profits with AJ, so she’s staying afloat, and we are, too. I don’t know. Part of me wants to try oil next, but after five months of hauling ore, I think I just want to rest a bit…

I’m not going to ask for help, because you, Citrus, and Brae have your hooves full. Between Apple Bloom and myself, we have almost seven hundred bits—more than enough to get the materials for the bar. Problem is, we don’t know how to get anything out this far. Guess we haven’t been out in the “real world” long enough, heh…

Hope to hear from you soon…

Love,
Babs Seed”

Rolling up the parchment into a tight scroll, Babs Seed secured it with twine, jotted down the address, and left it on the small table within the room. She made a mental note to send it first thing in the morning.

For now, two vagabonds turned out the light, sleeping under a roof for the first (but not last) time. Their mining adventure reached its conclusion, but it would always be a part of the long arc of their shared history, their seven years of valleys and mountains, plains and clearings.

In Babs Seed’s left ear, below the mark that defined them—that bound them—a piece of gold glimmered in the moonlight, a gift from an eternally grateful stallion.

“Ah thought ya said Ah was sleepin’ alone tonight,” Apple Bloom whispered before closing her eyes, nuzzling her mare.

Summoned by the presence of the Sandmare, Babs Seed closed her eyes and pulled her mare close, shaking her muzzle. “I don’t want youze to, though,” she mused, yawning, beginning her descent into dreams.

Apple Bloom returned the yawn, beckoned by the same deity. “Hmm. Will ya ever?”

“No,” Babs Seed said, the most honest denial she’d ever mutter.

Builder and destroyer rested that night, entwined in each other’s hooves, nearly nineteen, no burden on their backs or in their hearts.

Mail-pegasi, if properly trained and scheduled, typically take only a few hours to reach their marked destination from their original post. The next day, Babs Seed found this to be an welcome truth.

Around high noon, as she perused the shelves of the local general store to stock up on a few supplies, a forehoof tapped her on the shoulder. When she spun around, a gray, cross-eyed pegasus mumbled around a letter in her mouth, “It’s for you!”

“Er, thanks, Derpy,” she muttered, reluctantly accepting the saliva-soaked letter. She eyed the mare with a mixture of confusion and suspicion. Derpy, of course, paid Babs no mind and went about on her merry way, almost crashing into a display of canned beans on her exit. With a few quick flaps of her wings (burdened slightly by a large bag of mail and muffins), she rocketed out of the settlement and up into the sky, Babs Seed watching as she became a dot against the horizon.

Would be nice ta have wings some days. Huh. She made her purchases and pulled up a stool on the store’s porch. Wiping the rest of the mailmare’s spittle off the envelope, she tore open the letter and began to read:

“Babs—

Say no more. Braeburn says he and Silverstar have some leftover materials from the latest addition to the Sheriff’s office you can use. I think it’s a wonderful idea. I do wish to help Applejack, and have offered to do so, but that stubborn mare (both an Orange and an Apple thing, BELIEVE me) won’t accept my bits. Maybe she will accept yours. After all, it would just be business. Never saw you as the type to sling suds, but just promise me you be careful with that, alright? More drinking than selling cuts into your profits, too.

Things here are alright. Work is steady for me. Citrus still hasn’t jumped the gun on this store, saying she’s only a thousand bits or so away from feeling comfortable enough to build it. When she does, I’m sure she’ll do great here. The town is growing exponentially. It’s crazy.

Not all of it is for the good, though. We had to hire a third deputy. Things are just getting out of hoof. We had another shooting, again at the saloon. This time, the bastard fired only at the bar-pony’s liquor shelf. He managed to clear out about all the Daniel’s and local cider before Silverstar shot him. Strange things are happening in this town. And I think Braeburn said this one had the same tattoo as the one before him.

Sorry, going off on a tangent again. It’s an Orange thing. Anyway, please, give us some coordinates to where you’re staying so we can meet up. It's been far too long, and we can't wait to see you two.

Tell Apple Bloom I said hi and I love her.

I love you.

I’m proud of you both.

Sincerely,
—Mother

P.S. Good on you for getting a piercing without asking my opinion, because the answer would've been NO.”

She read the letter again and again, its words piercing her haze upon the fourth (or was it the fifth?) read. She’s gonna help us! There was a shootin’! Anotha one! A new Deputy? Silverstar’s still ‘round? How can he be, wit’ Appleloosa how it is? Oh, can't wait ta see everypony soon!

Babs Seed crossed the boundless road to the hotel, stomping up the stairs and reaching their room within a minute or so. Key turned strike and tumbler, allowing her inside. Apple Bloom sat at the writing desk, hunched over a letter of her own.

“’Ey, Bloom! Guess what?” Babs practically hopped over to her. “I got a letta back from Ma!”

“Already?” Apple Bloom spun around. “Wow! Ah guess Auntie really liked what ya had ta say! What did she say? What does she think o’ this?”

“She thinks it’s a great idea! Said dat Brae has some spare materials we can use! Bet he'd let us get 'em real cheap.”

Apple Bloom rose from her chair and threw her forehooves around Babs Seed. “Oh, sugarcube, that’s wonderful! Ah’m so glad ta hear! Oh, we’re gonna make her so proud, an’ Applejack, too! In fact...” She glanced towards the parchment on the desk. “Ah was jus’ ‘bout ta write her an’ offer up the idea. Ah think she’ll say yes. Ain’t charity, after all, an’ she needs it. We’ll need it, too.”

“O’ course. Need somethin’ fo’ all these crazy sourdoughs,” Babs joked, hugging her back. “Only Apple Family whiskey an’ cider will be fit fo’ ‘em.”

“Exactly!”

“Hehe, eeyup. Say, uh, do youze think youze can get ‘coordinates’ fo’ where we are? I, uh, ain’t the best wit’ directions,” Babs admitted, blushing slightly. An’ I would hate ta face Ma’s wrath iffa I get her lost in the desert… Celestia help us all when she gets angry. Ohhhh, yes.

“’Course, silly filly. Gotta be one o’ us who knows where we are.” Apple Bloom trotted over to her saddlebags and whipped out the map, studying it carefully. “Hmm… alright, so we were twenty-five o’ so west o’ Appleloosa, then we went south ‘bout… ten o’ so… Alright. Ah got it.

"Write this down: thirty-three degrees, fifteen minutes, and thirty-two seconds north by ‘hundred-fifty-five degrees, twenty-seven minutes, an’ fifty-nine seconds west.”

Babs Seed scribbled out the coordinates on a piece of parchment, then paused. “Wait… what does dat even mean?”

“Don’t worry. They’ll be able ta find it. Not everypony fell asleep during geography, ya know.”

“… Dat was one time!”

They spent their days hiking in the plains, cracking cactus open with their hindhooves and noshing on the sweet fruit within (once repulsive, now addictive), exchanging letters between Cloudsdale and Canterlot, and drawing up blueprints for the bar. A long, boring week later, Babs Seed and Apple Bloom awoke to the thud of a set of hooves on their oak.

Stumbling to her hooves, Babs meandered over to the door and looked through the peephole. Two mares and a stallion waited in front of them, all with wide grins on their muzzles.

She ran a forehoof through her disheveled, wild mane, glanced over at half-asleep Apple Bloom (her mane in a similar state), and debated feigning slumber. Dammit, didn’t think dey would be heeya soon! Shoulda—

“Babs? You in there? Apple Bloom?”

Babs sighed, muttering, “Aw, fo’ Celestia’s sake,” and opened the door.

Braeburn attacked her first, squeezing her so tight that she felt her back pop. “N-Nice ta s-see youze, Brae!”

“Well, howdy, ‘cuz! Sure is nice ta see y’all too! Oh, how was minin’? An’ the hike out here? Whoo-ee! Boy, it sure is hot out there! Why, it’s almost August! An’ Ah can’t believe yer gonna build out here, why, it’s jus’ the perfect—“

“Braeburn… ma… ribs…”

“Oh!” Braeburn released her. Babs almost fell to the floorboards, catching her breath somewhere there. With an awkward chuckle, he mumbled, “Heh, sorry, Babs,” and galloped over to Apple Bloom, who was fully awake now. “Howdy, Bloom! Good mornin’, sunshine! Why, it’s so nice ta see—“

“Um, Brae, uh, can ya give me a minute? Ah’m jus’—“ She muffled a yawn. “Gittin’ up. Mmmph. Good ta see y’all doin’ good,” she said, brushing her mane back into place with her forehooves. She shook out the remnants of her sleep and put all four on the floor, giving the deputy a quick hug before trotting over to Citrus and Libra. “Hey, Auntie, Citrus…”

“Good morning, Apple Bloom!” Citrus chipped, smiling. She leaned in to whisper into her ear, “We weren’t interrupting anything, were we?”

“Uh!” Yellow morphing into crimson, Apple Bloom tapped her forehooves on the floor and snickered. “Heh, heh, ‘course not! Yer so silly, Citrus, uh—“

Libra chuckled and strode to her daughter, shaking her muzzle. “Oh, you two. Remind me of how I was at that age—“

“Ma! Please!” Babs groaned, rolling her eyes. “Can we change the subject o’ summat? It’s too early fo’ me ta feel dis nauseous.”

“Only this one time. Next time we visit, I’m busting out all of my embarrassing stories from my twenties. No, they aren’t embarrassing to me. They’re embarrassing to you. All of you,” Libra corrected, smirking at her wards. “Auntie Orange wasn’t exactly the refined mare she is now. When I was your age, Babs, Bloom, I was—“

“Mother, um, the carriages are waiting outside,” Citrus said, blushing with hot embarrassment. “We don’t want to keep them waiting.”

“Carriages?” Babs asked, confused. “Dey have carriages way out heeya in nopony’s land?”

“Well, we paid some o’ our townsfolk ta drive ‘em out from Appleloosa,” Braeburn explained, adjusting his Stetson. “No train lines out here yet, an’ we couldn’t exactly carry all them supplies an’ tools fer yer bar out here ourselves, heh.”

Apple Bloom stammered, “F-Fer our b-bar? Y’all brought all that stuff… now?!”

“Why not?” Braeburn shrugged and smiled. “We weren’t doin’ anythin’ wit’ it. It’s yer early birthday gift, both o’ y’all. Ah know yer doin’ it fer yer own reasons, too, but the fact that y’all wanna help AJ is mighty touchin’. She deserves all the help she can git, an’ Ah’m proud o’ you both fer wantin’ ta help her.”

Babs Seed and Apple Bloom exchanged grins and murmurs of gratitude. Together, they followed their visitors out their room, down the stairs, and through the saloon doors of the hotel. There, five carriages full of plywood, beams, drywall, plumbing equipment, and various tools, all pulled by strong, seasoned Appleloosians, waited.

“Braeburn… youze gotta let me pay youze fo’ dis,” Babs Seed said once she could lift her jaw from the ground. She shook her head, refusing his ready response. “I know youze said it’s a gift fo’ us, but—“

“Then accept it.” Libra pulled her daughter into a sideways-hug, saying, “It is more blessed to give than to receive, but this is something we want to give to you. You are doing a great thing by wanting to help Applejack, and we are doing a great thing by helping you. Some call it 'paying it forward' or 'karma'. I call it the way things should be. Families should help each other. Families should love each other. And we should love and support each other, even if we don’t always understand each other,” she added, pulling Apple Bloom into her free forehoof.

A blush forming on her cheeks, unanswered question tackled at last, Apple Bloom deflected, “Aw, shucks, Auntie, ya don’t have ta—“

“No." Libra Scales shook her head. “I want to, Apple Bloom. And I do. I love you both. I’m happy for you two, I’m proud of you two, and I want to see you both succeed at this.

“So, let’s go ahead, and raise this bar.”

Hands of the clock raced the sun from high noon, to mid-day scorcher, to daylight’s dying embers in the fire of the sunset. Red, orange, and yellow accompanied the dusk and the rhythm of their hammers, their saws, their sweat, blood, and tears. Braeburn and Apple Bloom led the charge, following their blueprints, scampering up on a hastily made scaffold and applying shingles to the roof. Babs Seed, Citrus Blossom, and Libra Scales did their part, raising the foundations, painting the sides, checking to ensure not one nail was out of place.

Apples the five were, tall and mighty and strong trees in the sand, their roots unwithered, unwavering, powerful. Together, with their tools and their toil, through that momentous July day, they built the bar in nopony’s land, from the foundations up.

Once they’d finished, their hooves and muscles aching, five Apples looked upon their creation—their labor of love—and smiled. It was only a shell for now—stools, decorations, and, of course, the all-important beverages would need to be ordered or crafted as well—but it was a start. A new start. Tabula rasa in a strange city, southwest of Appleloosa but not impossibly beyond.

“Wowza…” Babs muttered, her exhalation stolen away by the sudden dip of desert mercury.

She spoke what everypony’s mind could not articulate. There they were: five Apples, brought together by a myriad of Fate and choice, cards and chips falling or dealt or pushed by careful hooves. Through seven years of trial, tribulation, life and love and everything in between, they stood now, Appleloosa, Manehatten, and Ponyville.

Forever changed, they had evolved into something beyond themselves, or what they had dreamed they could have been.

“Ah hope we hear from Applejack soon….” Apple Bloom said, her eyes misting at both her masterpiece and a twinge of guilt. “Ah know she needs our help.”

“Don’t worry,” Libra assured, “I know you will. Sometimes, we have to wait on things that we love—on ponies we love. Sometimes, we’re afraid to tell them how we really feel, or what’s really on our mind, or what’s really happening. Maybe Applejack just needs some time. But I know that when she is ready to reply, she’s will be overjoyed by this, and incredibly grateful for what you two are willing to do to help her.”

“Auntie’s right,” Braeburn said. “Jus’ give it some time. AJ will come ‘round. She always does.”

Citrus added, “And if she doesn’t, just send us her way. We’ll straighten her out.”

The five of them shared a laugh. Then, they stood close beside each other, examining the minute, skillfully crafted details of the bar: its shades of beige and black, plain, yet beautiful in the rapidly-fading light of dusk’s magic; its welcoming saloon doors; and its compact structure, large enough for about twenty or so patrons without losing itself in needless empty space.

It was, like most things they had come to appreciate, not too much, not too little, but enough: a true haven for wanderers, nomads, travelers, vagabonds, and settlers alike. An oasis in the sands, serving only the finest draughts.

To one, a legacy of The Watering Hole.

As the moon begin to rise, Libra Scales broke the silence, whispering a revelation. “You know what?”

“What?” Babs asked.

“I’ve learned that life is made of echoes. What you put into it will ultimately come back to you, for better or for worse. No choice is without significance; no word without meaning. I still regret things in Manehatten, but…”

She smiled, embracing all four of them at once. “I couldn’t be more blessed because of it.”

An’ neitha could we.

Not a dry eye was found among the five, time of no essence to them as they stood, breeze teasing their manes, night’s chill driving them closer.

Despite the challenges that awaited them all, and the foreboding dark haunting the corners of two of their minds, on that night, there were no worries. There were no concerns. The hard work had been completed, and, soon, the rest would follow.

And, though it wouldn’t be forever, Babs Seed and Apple Bloom would eventually embark on their next adventure, pulling up stakes and taking to their hooves again. In due time. For now, they sought rest, and refuge, and enterprise, and restoration, healing what damage the changing times had wrought against those they loved the most.

On this night, southwest of Appleloosa, those whose bounds were thick—by love and by blood—knew, then, that everything would be alright in the end.

The five soon parted ways, but found no distance between them beyond meager geography. Mother, sister, and cousin would be there, waiting, for when Babs Seed’s hooves itched no more, and when her heart yearned to settle in the sands alongside her better half.

Seven years past the hardest decision of her young, tumultuous life, Babs Seed knew with utmost certainty that she had made the right choice. It was that choice, after all, that ultimately led her to create the second kind of family.

Lifting the foal’s head by the chin, staring into her eyes, Greyhoof whispered, “Do you know what is thicker than blood, Babs Seed?”

“What?”

“Love,” he answered.

Once three Appleoosians became dots against the horizon, galloping into the horizon and back into the wild, two Apples leaned against each other, pondering the silence. Apple Bloom and Babs Seed spared a moment to count the stars, sharing reminiscence and hushed wishes.

The bar would still be there in the morning, more work to be done. Applejack’s letter would (hopefully) arrive with the dawn. Their newest adventure had just begun. They couldn’t predict what the future held, but knew that, at the very least, they would face it together.

Youze were wise, Greyhoof. I hope youze died happy. An’ I hope youze found what youze was lookin’ fo’.

“Ah love you, Babsy.”

I know I did.

“I love youze too, Bloom.”

Like the constellations watching the mares from above, everything was connected.

“Do you understand your orders, little worm?”

Card Slinger bowed before his King, muzzle to the carpet. He kept his eyes low, his movements calculated. Three years now. Three years, he had served under this wreck of a pony, this demon in fur and keratin. Three years, he had swallowed his pride, obeying the carousel mantra on endless loop within his mind.

Wait and bide. Wait and bide. Wait. And bide.

Familiar sight of two armed guards posted by the office doors reaffirmed his convictions. Even as King Orange rose from his throne, dressed in fine silks and velvet, his eyes shining with unrestrained glee, Card Slinger merely nodded. His pistol had been confiscated at the entryway. There was no possibility on all Manehatten cobblestone that his revenge could be had on his Master’s own turf and terms.

Three years. Card Slinger could wait a little longer. Maybe a few more. Maybe. His family gravestones cried out for redemption, and he proved to be an unworthy savior. Perhaps—with his fellows galloping alongside him, cast in the fire and the fury—he could send Bernie Madhoof into the dark alongside his fallen guardians.

Or, maybe, he reasoned, he would find only the dark awaiting him.

The smack of a forehoof across his muzzle ripped Card Slinger’s contemplation out from under him. He flinched and gritted his teeth but stayed silent. He could taste the citric, bitter acid on King Orange’s breath as he leaned in close, hissing into one of his flattened ears, “Have you gone deaf on me already, little Knight? Answer me! Do you understand your orders?!”

“Sir, yes sir!” Card Slinger exclaimed, boring holes through the white shag carpeting beneath him. A shameful bead of sweat rolled down his thick, weathered nape—scarred from more than one scuffle on the streets—and followed his spine. Several chills joined it. His nerves were afire not from fear or apprehension. His whole body was poised to tremble from the burden of an ancient righteous rage. The stallion chuckling above him was in perfect position for a buck to the balls, hindhooves to the stomach, or forehooves to the jaw. Or the throat.

So close.

Bernie Madhoof squeezed his forehooves tightly around Card Slinger’s neck and jerked his muzzle upwards. “Repeat them to me. Recite them as if they were the most beautiful poetry you write to that speckled coltfriend of yours, you little faggot. Oh, you don’t like being called that, do you?” He snorted. “Forgive my lack of empathy. Kings have no need for it.”

Slinger swallowed a ready retort. He was a King. Someday, he would be the only one.

For now, his antagonist released his neck, eliciting several pained coughs from Card Slinger. This only amplified King Orange’s glee, his laughter echoing through his dim office. He strode over to his bay window and smiled at his streets below.

“So beautiful, the Manehatten streets at night. Under the cover of night, black makes all its moves, capturing white with ease…”

He spun around and pointed towards his cowering Knight, changing his mind. He had no time for his pitiful wailing, so he reiterated the orders himself instead.

“Your little gang shall be my eyes and ears amongst the Manehatten underground. Any establishment caught serving beverages other than my own shall be burnt to the ground, and the purveyors of such filth shall be dispatched appropriately. Use as many little worms of your own to obtain the necessary information and carry out the aforementioned tasks. Failure of these duties, or failure to report violations of such guidelines, shall result in immediate payment of King’s Ransom.

“Do you understand, scumbag?” Bernie Madhoof pounded his forehooves into his mahogany, leaning forward, his perfectly-maintained molars glistening in the dark.

Card Slinger croaked, his throat aching, “Y-yes s-sir.”

“Good. Now, get the fuck out of my office.”

Turning his back on his Knight, King Orange beamed, the sounds of rough forehooves dragging the filth off his carpet delightful music to his ears. The Manehatten moon glowed bright and radiant, a perfect beacon and guiding light for his pieces below on their chessboard.

And what a chessboard it was: twisting alleyways, ramshackle buildings, abandoned storefronts. A newspaper that printed only lies. A Police Department that arrested and housed only those deemed useless by their Master. Bars and restaurants that served only Orange Enterprises beverages.

Any establishment that dared to defy him would make fine kindling, fire underneath an empty sky. And those who’d dared to supply it with unsuitable swill would pay.

Especially those in the West.

Appleloosa scraped by, his wretch of a pawn easily captured on his chessboard, but another instrument of his destruction would not. He had dispatched another, but he, too, did not return, succumbing to fantasies, of gold, oil, and silver. Good riddance, reasoned the King. Those pawns were weak and useless. More would be sent that way, seeking to capture and control the budding trades there, converting the land of apples into the den of oranges—in due time, of course.

There were bigger concerns at hoof, and another mission, one that would not fail. Not this time. Not this Knight. He would not fail. Though he’d never admit it, King Orange sensed Card Slinger's power, his might, his expertise with steel and lead. And he would not disappoint his King on this mission.

Good.

Bernie Madhoof watched the moon rise by the hooves of the night alicorn. Hours were lost there beside the bay window, visions of glory—an expanding chessboard, Equestria itself bowing at his hindhooves—holding him hostage. His pride thundered in his heart, a steady, strong rhythm. The orange on his flank glistened in the moonlight.

Though nopony could hear him, he offered a prayer of atheistic gratitude—not to the Most High, but to the Most Low, the dark god of his own creation.

Sipping his final glass of orange juice, he mused, “Perhaps it is time to expand my game.”

The next morning, Derpy Hooves arrived again, with a letter from Ponyville.

Applejack accepted their offer, and soon sent the back stock of their liquor to the coordinates in the southwest. A few weeks later (with some more material assistance from the Oranges), Apple Bloom and Babs Seed whittled barstools and decorated the inside of their establishment. Within a month, their doors opened, accepting all who came to find the finest draughts in the sands.

Six months past their bar's opening, Babs Seed would find the shadowy figure of her dreamland. She would know then the ultimate truth, the final root of her own origins. She would know then that she was not the daughter of a devil, no seed of evil itself. She would know then, at last, her own heritage, her own blood, her own soul.

For, in finding him, she would see herself, a reflection made flesh.

Miles and miles away in Manehatten, King Orange would smile, and not know why.

Year One: Hearth's Warming Eve

Year One: Hearth’s Warming Eve

The desert in all its beautiful contradiction partnered winter and summer in rapturous eternity, four seasons morphed into two. Harsh sun and sand tested the resolve of those who dared to labor and live beneath its angry countenance. Nine months out of the year, the settler-ponies of Appleloosa knew naught but sweat and heat and so, so much work. Though these apple trees were of a particularly hardy breed, there was one element that they could not overcome.

The frost.

Beyond the reaches of a true city, Citrus and Libra spent the first week of their arrival scouring the town for income. There had been little time to further celebrate the reunion of Apples and Oranges. The winds hissed of winter’s impeding arrival. Hearth’s Warming Eve would soon be upon them, and they were determined to make it to Ponyville for the holiday. Thankfully, Braeburn vowed to find his aunt and cousin work, and kept his promise.

In the mornings, Citrus Blossom and Libra Scales assisted the owner of the town’s general store with stocking shelves, tracking inventory, and handling customers. The bits were small in number, and sporadically paid—far less than Manehatten minimum wage—but they found a home in Libra’s mason jar regardless.

A week after this acquisition, Braeburn returned to his shack and the mares with most excellent news. “Auntie! Citrus! There’s some mo’ work fer y’all, if ya want it!”

“What is it, Braeburn?” Libra asked.

He answered excitedly, “Apple-buckin’! Winter’s comin’ soon, an’ we need some mo’ help wit’ the orchards! Sheriff says extra help be gettin’ twenty bits a week fer five days' labor.”

Mother and daughter exchanged uncertain gazes. Turning to her cousin, Citrus asked, “Twenty bits… for a whole week?”

“That’s right.”

Silence.

Braeburn’s muzzle fell to the floorboards. “Ah know it ain’t much, but… Ah know y’all are tryin’ ta save up. Ah’m sorry if that was insultin’,” he muttered, ashamed. Twenty bits? Twenty bits in the city purchased a few milkshakes sans the cherries. Twenty bits for unrelenting labor under the sun was, well, ridiculous.

Beggars, however, have little room for choice. Placing a forehoof on her nephew’s shoulder, Libra let a gentle smile speak her forgiveness. “We’ll do it, Braeburn. Thank you so much.”

Four weeks had passed since the mares accepted their second job. Apple bucking was intense work. Every night, Citrus Blossom massaged the knots and kinks out of her mother’s aching limbs and back as Libra groaned in absolute agony, cursing her age.

For nearly a month, Libra collapsed into their shared bed at Luna’s arrival, muscles she’d long forgotten burning with lactic acid, cells torn and crying out in a plea for mercy. She could offer them none. From dawn until dusk, mother and daughter labored, foregoing but the most minimal of meals and all the bells and whistles of materialism.

With the jingle of each golden coin as it kissed the jar, Libra Scales urged herself to continue into a new day in spite of the pain. Soon. Soon there’d be enough for two tickets—no, three—and she would see her foal again.

Big Macintosh patrolled the perimeters of his family’s land, a bright lantern between his jaws guiding his path. He checked the locks of the barn and cellar, securing both animal friends and provisions for winter’s harsh embrace under tumbler and strike. That winter barreled upon them now, the night skies darkened with a thick cover of clouds. He exhaled, his breath visible steam against the chill.

More than cold enough to bring the frost crashing to Earth, all Ponyville needed was a little moisture for a snowy Hearth’s Warming. There hadn’t been one of those in years. It always seemed to fall a few cruel days after the last gift had been unwrapped and the last carol’s notes faded into the night.

On the eve of the holiday, Big Macintosh completed his rounds, loyal Winona by his side. The hound chased a few squirrels into one of the barren apple trees, but otherwise detected no danger. Satisfied that all was well on Sweet Apple Acres, Big Macintosh returned to the farmhouse.

He crossed the threshold and closed the door behind him. The wind howled in protest, churning the atmosphere beyond the security of their perimeter oak. He surmised with a knowing grin that the prospect of snow may not be much of a foal’s dream after all.

Big Mac trotted towards the living room in search of warmth to comfort his aching bones. Winona sped past his hindhooves, seeking her own refuge within the farmhouse. Chuckling, watching the hound ascend the stairs, Big Mac turned to his destination at last. His wish was granted, the fireplace lit and blazing bright, popping and crackling a few logs in its combustion.

“See anythin’ out there, Big Mac?” Applejack asked. She sat on a stool beside the fire. On the floorboards next to her sprawled his little sister and young cousin, both foals roasting marshmallows over the flames.

Shaking his muzzle, the stallion answered simply, “Nope.”

“No timberwolves o’ nothin’?”

“Nope.”

“Not even a—“

“Everythin’s fine, AJ,” Big Mac said. Looking down his muzzle to the fillies, he asked, “Did y’all save some marshmallows fer me?”

“O’ course, big brother!” Apple Bloom giggled. The stallion joined them in front of the fireplace, relaxing on his haunches, stretching his tired limbs next to Babs Seed.

Hearth’s Warming Eve had snuck up behind the elder Apples this year. There had been extensive holiday preparations to complete on top of the usual farm chores: obtaining, wrapping, and hiding gifts from each other and the fillies; sending out letters to the far corners of Equestria and their myriad network of family and friends; and, of course, locating, chopping, transporting, and decorating the beautiful pine tree that stood proudly in the center of the living room.

Diagonal from the hearth, safe from the embers that occasionally popped and hissed outside their bounds, the conifer towered to the ceiling. Babs Seed and Apple Bloom spent the entirety of the previous day decorating the majestic tree with Granny Smith and Applejack. Strings of popcorn, shrouds of blue, gold, and red garland, and ornaments of all colors and sizes added immeasurable wonder to its beauty. At the very top, a shining golden star pointed humbly towards the Heavens above, seeking the blessings of the Most High.

Apple Bloom had asked while they decorated, “What did ya do in Manehatten fer Hearth’s Warming, Babs?”

Babs Seed hadn’t had much to say in response, deflecting the question with a quick change of subject.

The hiss of the hearth’s warm blaze hypnotized her into the waiting forehooves of reminiscence. Babs took a long glance at the Hearth’s Warming tree, thoughts trailing off into its branches. Da’ neva had a tree in the mansion. Said it brought in lots o’ needles an’ dirt. Ma’ wanted one so bad. Citrus, too. I remember… I remember she’d take me ta look at other ones, in shops an’ such. So I guess… I guess dis is ma first real one.

In awe, she concluded, It’s beautiful.

“Can ya pass me some marshmallows, Babs?” Big Macintosh's baritone words wrestled Babs from her contemplation, irises a deeper shade of emerald piercing into her own.

Shoving the bag of treats his way, she replied, “Heeya youze go, Cousin Mac.”

“Thank ya, lil’ one.” He chuckled, ruffing her short mane. Though he was selective in his words and slow to launch into the long, expository speeches his sister was so fond of, Big Macintosh let his love shine in his gentle gestures. And love Babs Seed he did.

Babs Seed settled in quite smoothly throughout these six weeks. Demands of the harvest and impending final season occupied most of Big Mac’s attention. More than once, he’d found Babs Seed waiting for him in the orchards, the barn, or the fields, offering a tiny forehoof to assist him in his labors.

She’d not yet reached the age or ability to buck apples, pull the plow, or repair the fencing—to perform more strenuous work in general—but she did what she could. It never escaped his notice, nor did the smile on his muzzle.

Spearing a sugary cylinder, Big Macintosh let his mind ramble like it always did. Within the confines of his consciousness, he was contemplative, skeptical, philosophical. His soul shouted what his vocal cords could never articulate.

Adjacent to him, Apple Bloom and Babs Seed pulled their marshmallows from the fire, munching on burnt sugar with glee.

Things were so simple now. The chaos of Manehatten left its demonic hooves at the ghetto’s gates. From this angle, he could see that Babs Seed’s ear had healed completely as well. There would always be the gap, the mark, the scar, but nopony who mattered would care.

Big Macintosh chewed and swallowed his marshmallow in one bite, an unspoken toast to the hero giggling beside him.

Turning to Applejack, Babs asked, “Where’s Granny Smith? Aren’t we gonna be unwrappin’ presents ta-night?”

“She’s finishin’ up her nap right now. Don’t worry, Babs. She’ll be comin’ down ta celebrate wit’ us soon,” Applejack said. “Ah promise, we’ll unwrap our presents befo’ midnight.”

Apple Bloom nudged her cousin and explained, “Applejack always says we have ta finish befo’ midnight, ‘cuz then we can wish each other a happy Hearth’s Warmin’ right on the dot!”

“That’s right, lil’ sis!” Applejack praised with a grin. Ruffling her mane, Applejack pulled her sibling into a tight embrace. Her little sister was growing up so fast.

Although Babs Seed smiled, heart warmed by more than just the flicker of the flames before her, she couldn’t cease the wanderings of her thoughts. They took careful hoof-steps initially, but soon galloped against her mental cobblestone, plunging back into the deep.

Six weeks. Six weeks an’ not one letter back…

Are dey mad at me?

A few days before Hearth’s Warming Eve, the frost came, snow falling as a thief in the night. Appleloosa lay dormant and stagnant under the blanket of blinding white. A few apples remained in the town orchards, but nopony dared to venture into the cold to free them from their prison among the branches.

Out here, beyond the reaches of Manehatten and its king, the thermometer dripped as low as the mercury would allow. The settler-ponies huddled in their crude shelters, wind howling with a vengeance and a new layer of snow dusting their desert.

Citrus, Libra, and Braeburn clamored together for warmth, bunk beds forgotten in their cold. Two mares and a stallion utilized every inch of blankets, sheets, and warm clothing. It didn’t matter; they were frozen to their marrow, frost unrelenting.

On the morning of Hearth’s Warming Eve, Braeburn braved the tempest, galloping into the white in search of the train station. He secured Aunt Orange’s mason jar of savings in his saddlebags and trudged on, blankets secured around his shoulders, flanks, and abdomen.

“Jus’… a bit… further…” he urged his own reluctance. Appleloosa slumbered under a blanket of its own, Celestia’s star lacking the radiance to melt the ice and snow or cease the storm swirling around him. His hoof-steps were slow yet steady. Braeburn squeezed his eyes shut, relying on instincts to lead him towards the station.

An eternity later, hooves met platform, and Braeburn shielded his gaze as he opened his eyes.

He was alone.

“What in tarnation!”

He swept the scene with surprised pupils. Nopony. Not a single conductor, train-guard, or ticket-taker. Not a single passenger or waiting family member.

Not a single train, either.

Braeburn swallowed, an unseen stone settling into his stomach and wrecking havoc in his innards. “No… no… it’s… it’s Hearth’s Warming Eve…”

There should have been a train; there was always one this time of year. No, there always were many trains out of the West and the best, locomotives rushing towards the East and the beast, the cities and establishments.

Vagabonds may have strayed and settled here, but even the most zealous of wanderers still had family to visit. The stallion promised the two he sheltered—swearing under holy oath—that all of their labor would be rewarded today. Today, he would purchase two tickets to Ponyville on their behalf… and one on his own. He was not the only one missing somepony.

Panicking, Braeburn searched the platform for hide or hair of anypony. He thundered his hooves on the door to the abandoned ticket booth, ignoring the screaming, “ROUTES CANCELLED DUE TO WEATHER CONDITIONS!” sign posted across the glass. In sheer disbelief, he paced and paced, staring down the train tracks.

Surely, a train would be coming. Surely, he would soon see the familiar sight of steam and steel. Surely, this was just a dream.

He wasn’t sure how much time passed. He could’ve waited for a minute, an hour, or an eternity.

Soon enough, Braeburn felt his hooves begin to burn, frost nipping and biting at his fur, skin, flesh and keratin. His body betrayed him, beckoning him to seek shelter. His Stetson pulled low in shame, the stallion pointed his hooves back towards his shack, caring not for his pace, the atmosphere freezing his tears on his cheeks.

Braeburn felt anything but alive and well, though the storm did not take him on his return journey.

Five Apples sat on their haunches in a circle, taking turns to open their gifts, one-by-one. Tradition demanded that they unwrap their Hearth’s Warming presents this way, just as tradition demanded that they take part in the gift-giving on the eve of the holiday.

Granny Smith tried to explain the reasoning for this particular quirk to a curious Babs Seed, but Babs didn’t digest much beyond, “An’ that was the year Uncle Apple Strudel fell asleep in the pumpkin pie, an’ yer great-grandmother made him wear it as a hat fer the rest o’ the night ta make up fer it…”

Her attention was deficit now, mind planted firmly at the iron gates of the Orange Family Mansion. Nothin’ from dem yet, not a present o’ a letter o’… o’ anythin’…

Each Apple had received several presents, some from the others in the farmhouse, some delivered by pegasus wing from the farthest corners of Equestria. Babs Seed had the smallest pile of them all—her change of address had been sudden, and, for the most part, unknown to most of the extended family—but she didn’t mind.

She received a Daring Do book from Applejack (courtesy of Twilight’s recent book sale), a photo album from Granny Smith (filled with embarrassing photos of all the Apples, of course), and a box of apple tarts from Apple Bloom (promised to be better than the filly’s attempt at cupcakes). They were wonderful gifts.

Barely registering Big Macintosh receiving a book on “fancy mathematics” from Applejack—to the stallion’s baritone laughter—Babs Seed thought three ponies in the East. What are dey doin’ now? Did Da’ finally let ‘em have a tree? Are dey exchangin’ presents, too? Is it snowin’ in Manehatten?

Babs Seed wrote letter after letter to her old address. For the first few weeks she’d become the fifth member of the farmhouse, she’d looked to Applejack with wide eyes after the mare checked the mailbox. “Did dey write back? Did dey send anythin’?” she’d asked. Applejack always shook her frowning muzzle.

After the third week, she’d stopped asking.

Applejack didn’t think I’d see ‘em, but, I did. The letters in the garbage out back. Mine. “Return to sender,” scribbled on the front. Maybe I have the address wrong, o’ maybe—

“Babs? It’s yer turn ta open, honey,” Applejack said, gently tapping her on the shoulder.

Shaking her mane rapidly, Babs Seed was ripped once more from the deep within. “Oh! Sorry.” She grasped the final gift in her forehooves. It was a large, rectangular box wrapped in green-and-red parchment. Looking at the tag, she announced, “It’s from Big Mac!”

“Eeyup!” With a proud grin, the stallion urged, “Go ‘head an’ open it, Babs. Ah think ya’ll like it.”

Four pairs of eyes watched with baited breath as Babs tore into the paper, shredding waves of crimson and forest-green everywhere over the floorboards. A white box beckoned below. Slowly, Babs Seed opened the container.

Her breath caught in her throat.

Apple Bloom leaned over and gasped. “Wow! Big brother, Ah didn’t even know ya—“

Inside was a small bolo tie with a purple shield and red apple slice for its central ornamental crest. Babs gently held it between her forehooves, noting the intricacy of its design. The tie itself was constructed of braided rope, dyed orange. The crest was ceramic, and matched Babs Seed’s cutiemark down to the last detail.

“Could make things like that?” Macintosh finished. “Heh. Eeyup, Ah did. Ah’m not jus’ one fer buildin’ big things, like gazebos, ya know,” he added with a wink.

Two sets of irises, both green but devoid of any envy, met in silence. And then, Babs Seed spoke, her words trembling, “Cousin Mac, it’s… it’s beautiful.”

The stallion opened his forehooves to her, and she leapt into his embrace.

Holding her tight, Big Mac whispered, “Ah know it ain’t much, an’ yer jus’ a foal, so ya won’t be wearin’ it fer a while, but… Ah thought a filly like ya deserves somethin’ pretty ta wear.

“Ah know Ah don’t say much, Babs, but yer family ta me, special ta me, jus’ as much as anypony else here. An’ Ah’m glad yer back.”

Hearth’s Warming Eve never was intended to be a time for tears. Intention was disregarded. There wasn’t a dry eye in the farmhouse.

“Braeburn! Did youze get the tickets?” Citrus asked. She snuggled up close to her mother, both ponies incapable of sacrificing any inch of precious, life-saving warmth.

In their hasty packing, they’d neglected to remember the dark side of the desert’s moon. There’d been no room in their saddlebags for coats or scarves. Luckily, Braeburn had a few extra, and they thanked him endlessly for his generosity.

Braeburn removed his Stetson, shaking the snow off its brim and hanging it by a hook on the wall. He did not reply. He merely strode to the bottom bunk and sat on his haunches beside his aunt and cousin, staring intently into the floorboards.

They watched him, waiting, the room thick with their anticipation.

Then, with a deep breath, his words dripping with the most foul, staining taste of regret, the stallion whispered, “No. No, Ah didn’t, Citrus.”

Libra scrambled to her haunches, casting off the covers in spite of her discomfort. “What did you say, Braeburn?!”

He turned to his aunt, alarmed not by the anger flashing across her muzzle. “Ah didn’t get the tickets, Auntie Orange. Ah’m sorry. Ah’m so, so sorry."

A pair of aching forehooves grasped him by the vest and thrust him forward, pulling him snout-to-snout with her.

“Don’t you lie to me, Braeburn Apple!”

Libra shook her nephew violently in her incredulous rage. “Don’t you lie to me! Where are they? Where are the tickets?!”

“Auntie! Ah told ya! Ah didn’t get ‘em, they were—“

SMACK!

Blood boiled and threatened to surpass the boundaries of the veins within her depleted muscles. Finding new strength in her fury, Libra Scales raised a forehoof again towards the lying stallion trembling in her grasp. “LIAR!”

“MOM! STOP IT!”

Citrus Blossom rose from her disbelief and charged straight into Libra, forcing her off the mattress. Both mares landed on the floor of the shack with a dull THUD! Daughter pinned mother’s forehooves and pleaded through her threatening tears, “Stop it! Stop hitting him!”

The full weight of her actions crashed upon Libra Scales, a bushel of apples and bits landing on her chest. Crushed under the combined gravity of her body’s betrayal and her nephew’s failure, Libra did not resist, staring straight up into her daughter's sorrowful eyes.

Braeburn rubbed his muzzle, feeling the bruise began to rise, but stayed quiet. There would be no opposition from the stallion who’d broken the most vital of promises. He deserved it.

Together, the three shared a moment of mourning, the youngest among them beginning to weep.

Finally, aunt turned to nephew and apologized, “I… I don’t know what came over me. I’m so, so sorry, Braeburn. I…”

“It’s okay, Auntie Orange,” he soothed. Ashamed of his own actions, the stallion continued to speak to the oak below his hindhooves. “Ah should’ve bought ‘em befo’ it got this bad. Routes are canceled ‘till the snow clears. Ah tried everythin’, looked all over the station, but… nopony.”

Libra bit her bottom lip, securing her sadness within. “Braeburn… don’t blame yourself. You did the best you could.”

“No, Ah didn’t. Ah should’ve gotten y’all better work. Ya would’ve been able ta leave weeks ago if Ah did. Now look at yerself, Auntie Orange! Right near runnin’ yerself into the ground, an’ fer what?”

Citrus Blossom released Libra Scales from her grasp and assisted her shaking mother to her hooves. Joining the stallion on the bottom bunk, Libra reached over his shoulders with a forehoof and whispered, “You’re doing the best you can, Braeburn. And I thank you for that. I should’ve planned this better… planned a lot of things better…”

On the opposite side of the injured mare, Citrus said, “Mother, you’re doin’ the best youze can, too. How were you supposed to know this would happen?”

“I could’ve written them, at the very least,” Libra snapped.

Nearly fourteen hours of work a day, coupled with her own fears, prevented the mare from putting ink to parchment. How exactly was a mother supposed to explain to her daughter that the foal’s father had attempted murder, and that her mother and sister were homeless? That they could never go back to Manehatten again? That even the police couldn’t save them? Libra Scales had no answers.

Libra Scales longed to see her youngest filly again, to hold her close in her forehooves, to tell her everything would be alright in the end.

To tell her that they could be a family again.

This time, however, there would be no salvation in steam and steel. Desert’s winter wrought its howling vengeance upon Appleloosa and the Oranges, abandoning them miles and miles away from the saviors at Sweet Apple Acres and their beloved foal.

If only Libra Scales worked harder. If only she had saved more in her grandiose wealth. If only she could summon the courage and the eloquence to assure Babs Seed that mommy was okay, that mommy would see her soon, that mommy would explain everything.

If only.

She’d bet all her chips blindly, and at the flip of the cards, lost everything. Assaulting her long-lost nephew couldn’t save her. Neither could weeping. But Libra Scales did both.

On Hearth’s Warming Eve, Braeburn and Citrus comforted their guardian.

Though the frozen landscape beyond their door and the overwhelming rage of the heavens prevented her from doing so, Libra Scales wanted nothing more than to gallop into the snow and release her inner timberwolf. She longed to howl at the moon, wondering if it would howl back.

Wondering if, beyond the reach of the traitorous desert sands, Babs Seed was looking at the same moon.

Applejack led her brother and grandmother out of the farmhouse door, the stars above aiding in their escape. On her own back clung Apple Bloom, little forehooves wrapped around her neck. Behind them, Big Macintosh offered transport and security to Babs Seed, who wore her Hearth’s Warming gift proudly, the ornament sparkling in the moonlight.

Both foals willed themselves awake through their yawns. Midnight beckoned its arrival, eve poised to ascend into day at last. “Don’t fall asleep, Babs,” Apple Bloom warned her cousin, her eyelids drooping in hypocrisy.

“Don’t youze fall asleep, either, Bloom,” Babs Seed shot back. “Youze look tired.”

“No Ah’m not! You are!”

“Nuh-uh! Youze are!”

Granny Smith mumbled under her breath, “Ah should’ve been asleep five hours ago…”

“Don’t ya worry, Granny! It’s almost midnight!” Applejack said. She glanced over her shoulder and chuckled. “C’mon, now, Apple Bloom, jus’ a few mo’ minutes!” Her sibling merely yawned in response.

Big Macintosh checked to ensure his own ward was still awake. Babs blinked sleepily back at him. “What? I’m fine, Cousin Mac!”

“Heh, heh, o’ course ya are, Babs.” He laughed.

Before Babs Seed could make a case for her own insomnia, the three elder Apples reached their destination: the crest of the last hill on the edge of Sweet Apple Acres.

From this hill, their livelihood—rows and rows of apple trees—laid in wait for winter’s embrace, bare branches reaching towards the Most High. The red-and-white farmhouse and barn became a masterpiece now, a painting fit for any Canterlot museum, slumbering under the stars, the skies heavy with the snow that was soon to come.

Applejack exhaled, her words becoming dragon’s breath, “Ain’t it beautiful, y’all?”

The most beautiful farmhouse in Equestria. “Eeyup,” her brother agreed.

“Tarnation! Ain’t it midnight yet?” Granny Smith groaned. She felt her eyelids droop alongside her granddaughters’, both fillies targeted by the nimble hooves of the Sandmare’s beckoning.

Above them, Princess Luna rose her parish lantern to its highest point, one day melting into another. Luna proved herself to be a fine artist, her galaxy of lights illuminated by the glow of her brightest star on this most wondrous of nights.

As the four zeros flipped, Babs Seed felt something cold land on her snout. What the—

“It’s snowin’!” Apple Bloom forgot her fatigue and threw her head back, sticking out her tongue to catch the snowflakes that began to trickle down. She giggled with delight at winter’s first kiss, tiny ice crystals cool and crisp.

Babs Seed caught a snowflake of her own, savoring its taste. “Wowza! I’ve neva seen it snow on Hearth's Warming befo'!"

“First time fer everythin’, Babs,” Applejack said with a smile. “Happy Hearth’s Warming, everypony.”

Exchanging hugs and declarations for a very happy holiday indeed, the Apple Family stood in comfortable, warm silence, watching the snow begin to dot and blanket their fields and orchards. They caught snowflakes on their tongues, flavor of a new day sweet and saccharine, Sweet Apple Acres painted slowly white and wonderful.

Watching a comet streak across the sky, trail pointing towards the far west, Babs Seed decreed within her soul, Happy Hearth’s Warming, Ma, Da’, Citrus. I love youze… an’ I miss youze.

The last snowflake Babs Seed remembered tasting was bittersweet.

Year Three: Merciful Fate

Clyde Pie sat on his haunches on his farmhouse porch, a cold glass of lemonade soothing his thirst. The spring equinox had come in full bloom. Out in the quarry below his home, his latest “workers” tackled their final mission for the day—moving rocks from the north field to its southern counterpart.

In truth, Clyde knew it was a ridiculous, unnecessary task. No transformation from stone to gem (or something of that variety) was initiated by their labor; there were no real reasons to move the rocks. Despite this, he exploited his laborers to the hilt throughout the duration of their stay. Criminal scum such as these two colts deserved all the humiliation he tossed their way.

Celestia’s Royal Guard served the two law-breakers with only one year of hard labor to compensate for their trespasses. Vandals and drunkards they were, so achingly young—thirteen then, with fangs glimmering in the darkness.

The stallion smiled around the brim of his glass. One year soon gave way to two. His “helpers” learned no reform or rehabilitation the first time they ran through his ringer. Most days of that long, ridiculous year, the colts lazed about the farm, neglecting their work and shooting their vulgar maws into the air.

The sight of two jaws nearly shattering, dropped at Clyde Pie’s insistence that another twelve months of farm labor would precede the colts' reintroduction into pony society, made his entire year.

Rocks. Every cursed day under Celestia’s blistering sun, there were rocks. Everywhere. North field, south field, east field, west field, Heaven and Hell. When Card Slinger closed his soulless eyes every wretched night, he dreamt only of an endless stone sea. His underling and companion through this defiling, inexcusable torment fared no better. If it weren’t for the telltale snoring of his comrade, Slinger swore Boone never slept.

The dark circles under Boone's eyes were only mere fur, not a sign of insomnia, but it didn’t seem that way. Slinger was no fool, but he could have been hoodwinked in that case.

Their master was unyielding and unforgiving in his lordship over them. The colts rose with the blazing dawn, toiling until the embrace of dusk. At night, both felt at home again—the atmosphere matched their own void.

Today would mark the end of two agonizing years. Clyde Pie would soon hold no power over them. One last ridiculous task in the fields, a visit from the Royal Guard, and Card Slinger and Boone would be on their way back to their roots.

“So… what youze gonna do once we get back?” Boone panted, pushing a particularly large stone towards the southern point of the compass rose. The rock offered no relief, refusing to budge, a patch of mud halting its journey. “Dammit!”

Slinger rolled his eyes. “Boone, youze a piece o’ work. Dat rock ain’t nothin’. C’mon, be a stallion an’ push it youzeself.”

“Stallion?! Buck, Slinga, youze ain’t any older than me!” Struggling, Boone pressed both his forehooves to the stone, finally freeing it with one push off his hindlimbs. He nearly stumbled muzzle-first into the mud, catching himself at the last instant.

Card Slinger laughed, his tenor tone dark notes on Old Scratch’s keyboard. “Ha! Youze a lil’ colt, still, Boone! An’ I’m the big dog! Howl fo’ me, baby!”

Dodging a forehoof thrown his direction, Slinger gestured to his own stone. “Dis one’s much bigger, an’ I ain’t bitchin’! Got strength on youze, Boone. Dat’s why I’m a leada, an’ youze ain’t.”

With a skeptical snort, Boone challenged, “Leada, huh? What kind o’ leada abandons his gang an’ then gets himself ‘rrested?”

“Youze questionin’ youze loyalty, Boone?”

Concentrating on his final task, the challenger refused to meet his opponent’s gaze. “No, I didn’t say dat,” he mumbled. “Youze jus’ neva told me—o’ anypony, I bet—what happened dat week.”

Two years ago, Boone, Fencer, and Switch were cast into Card Slinger’s dark, their beloved gang ringleader retreating to his shack and demanding nopony speak of or to him. Only Lucky Toss was granted access to their commander. Lucky (the weakest of them all, Boone surmised) abandoned Manehatten in a dust of his own several weeks after Slinger’s arrest.

Celestia’s reformed Manehatten Police Department barely slapped the hoof-cuffs around Boone's fetlocks when Lucky Toss left town. Two arrests were the hoof-writing on the wall for Lucky Toss. He’d had no reason to play the devil’s card game anymore.

More than Slinger’s riddles, Boone despised Lucky Toss’s betrayal. If their gang were to continue (and the mere possibility of if sent the colt’s blood on full boil), the title of second-in-command would fall to somepony among the two who remained. And Boone, like his father, would rather be cursed to the gates of Tartarus than serve under a filly.

Switch, in spite of her pining, belonged to the weaker sex. Boone would have none of it.

Card Slinger dodged, “Dat’s none o’ youze business, Boone, fo’ the last buckin’ time! Horseapples! Two years, an’ I think youze ask dis o’ me every month o’ so, an’—“

“Because youze neva answer! Jus’ answer me—“

Boone was lying in the mud before the gears of his fetid consciousness’ clockwork could comprehend what brought him there. He howled in agony, a dark, black bruise erupting on his side. He soon discovered the source of his position and pain.

Card Slinger chuckled, saying with a snarl, “Nopony interrupts me, an’ gets way wit’ it! Youze should know dat, bastard!”

Slinger towered over his fellow slave. “An’ nopony deserves ta know what youze ask. Youze ain’t worthy, Boone. Youze ain’t nothin’ ta me. An’ when I get back, youze can follow me inta the dark, o’ youze can chicken out, like dat pussy Toss.” Slinger nearly spewed his fury across the ground, his stomach churning its meager breakfast at the issuance of his last word. Toss. Lucky Toss.

His best friend. His partner in crime. His brother of the concrete and the graffiti. When Boone broke the harrowing news out here in this prison of stone, Card Slinger found an old weakness creeping into his heart of darkness.

He’d suppressed that urge, and shed no tears, replacing his sorrow with righteous rage. Lucky Toss carved his own entry onto his former leader’s mental shit list. Someday, if their paths crossed, Lucky would pay for his abdication.

“Pussy?!” Boone spat a mouthful of mud out of his mutinous maw. “Youze callin’ me a pussy?! Buck youze!”

“I’m sure youze want ta, pretty-boy!”

Stumbling to all four of his hooves, Boone shot back, “Well, dat’s strange comin’ from somepony who nearly cried afta I told him his ‘best friend’ left town! Oh, waahhh, call the wahhhhmbulance, Slinga, youze lova is dead, Slinga! Boo-buckin’-hoo!”

Card Slinger drew his forehoof back, preparing to connect, when a stallion’s gruff voice bellowed from the farmhouse porch, “HEY! Keep flirting with each other and I’ll have the Guard extend your sentence another year! Get back to work, maggots!”

Slinger let his forehoof drop to the ground. He mustered all of his meager self-control, letting the steam from his nostrils spell out his fury instead of his iron hooves. No insults, however biting they could be, justified extending his sentence among the stone.

Setting aside their quarrel, Card Slinger and Boone mumbled half-hearted apologies, returning to their final day of forced labor. Soon, the rain came, turning the entirety of both north and south fields into earthen soup.

The rocks resisted their best efforts. Clyde Pie watched them toil, lemonade in his forehooves, a grin across his grim countenance. Celestia gave way to Luna, and, by the assistance of nopony other than Fate itself, his two laborers completed their final task.

They collapsed in the mud, moonlight beckoning their slumber.

A rough, unshorn beige fetlock was smacking him across his back and shoulders. “Hey! Get up, scumbag! Royal Guard’s here!”

Card Slinger rolled over onto his back. His tormentor disregarded his defense mechanism, and began to pull him up by his forehooves.

Clyde Pie sneered and spat on the ground. “Hurry it up! Your coltfriend’s already at the carriage! Don’t you want to give him a kiss before you leave my beautiful farm?”

The stallion snorted, watching the mud-caked colt draw back his lips in a snarl. Shoving him in the direction of the awaiting Royal Guard and their transport, Clyde added, “One more word out of your criminal mouth and you’ll be having breakfast with me tomorrow morning! Stone soup!”

Card Slinger swallowed his pride, feigning obedience. Though he’d be returning to the city of concrete and cobblestone, graffiti decorations in the ghetto, the colt would avoid rocks in any way, shape, or form as much as possible. He’d had a lifetime’s worth of them already.

Under the glow of Luna’s lantern, master and slave made their way to a waiting carriage. Two pegasi members of the Royal Guard stood by the driver with smug grins. “Good to see you, Mr. Pie,” one of the stallions greeted.

“And good to see you. I come bearing a gift.” Clyde shoved Card Slinger’s shoulder, nudging him forward. “If he causes any more trouble, send him my way again. I’m sure he’ll enjoy his work a third time around,” he said with a snicker.

The guards-ponies partook in Clyde's laughter. Slinger bit his tongue, letting his rage stew in his veins. He glanced inside the carriage. There, in two pairs of hoof-cuffs, Boone sat in his haunches, staring at his hindhooves. Two sets of black irises met in silence and irritation.

This made for one hay of a carriage ride to come.

The Royal Guards grabbed Card Slinger and snapped steel cuffs across all four of his fetlocks. Without a word, they grasped him by his mane and shoved him into the carriage.

“We’ll be flying from above, scumbags! If you try to escape, it’ll be the last thing you’ll ever do!” a guard warned. Powerful forehooves slammed the carriage’s door shut, and, with a few clicks of a strike, locked the two inside.

“Thanks fo’ wakin’ me up, asshole,” Slinger hissed. He turned to the window, taking one last glance at his prison. Rocks. Everywhere, just rocks, and a smiling, waving stallion in the middle, watching the taxi-pony take to his hooves towards the city.

Above, Slinger and Boone heard the rush of feathers against thermals, guardians of Celestia’s reign keeping a cautious but observant distant from the carriage. Slinger groaned. He refused to acknowledge his helplessness, staying silent, counting the blades of grass below their churning wheels.

Hours passed (or was it minutes?) before Boone shattered their peace. “Slinga… look. I’m sorry, alright?”

One thousand and one blades of grass. One thousand and two. “Fo’ what?” Card Slinger snapped in response, glued to his most interesting of pasttimes.

“Fo’ everythin’. Not wakin’ youze up, fightin’ wit’ youze, everythin’.” With a sigh, Boone mumbled, “I jus’… I…”

“Youze jus’ what, Boone? Spit it out.”

“I jus’… look. Dis is gonna sound real weak an’ soft, but… youze is like ma brotha, Slinga. The brotha I neva had. An’ when we get back ta Manehatten, I want ta continue the gang wit’ youze.”

Card Slinger paused. One thousand and ten. One thousand and eleven.

Casting aside his hesitation, Boone continued, “Youze don’t have ta tell me what happened two years ago, iffa youze don’t wanna. Whateva youze want me ta do, I’ll do it. I miss the streets, Slinga. I miss the parties, the runnin’ wild, the fights.

“Doin’ dat stuff is powerful. Nopony tellin’ us what ta do o’ how ta be. We jus’ create it. An’ wit’ a leada like youze, Slinga, we can create much mo’ than what we had.”

One thousand and twenty. One thousand and twenty-one. Finally, Card Slinger whispered, “What are youze thinkin’ o’, Boone?”

“Revenge, Slinga. Celestia thinks she can clean up the dirtiest city o’ dem all? She thinks we gonna be goody four-horseshoes now? C’mon. Youze an’ I both know dat’s a lie.”

Card Slinger lost count. Revenge.

He’d failed in his mission two years prior, too weak to even take down a foal younger than he. His knife found its resting-place in the Earth, tasting only a few, insignificant drops of blood. Somehow, he’d survived the filly’s enraged assault, every inch of his skin, fur, flesh, and keratin in torturous agony in her wake.

He’d dug up that blade a few days after the battle—relieved to recover his most prized possession--cleaning it, sharpening it, stashing it in his mattress, where it would wait.

It would wait and bide for its true purpose. The orange mogul, the tycoon of the entire industry, who ruled over life and death in his madness over Manehatten. It was that awful stallion who Card Slinger sought, in truth.

His failure, however, led to more contemplation than he desired. Slinger zoned out the carriage’s tiny window with no mathematics to distract him.

“Slinga? Youze okay?”

If Babs Seed could defeat Card Slinger, what more could Bernie Madhoof—a full-grown stallion with the bits to buy the entire city if he wanted—do to him? Slinger couldn’t fathom what the answer might be. All he knew, in the corners of his pickled brain, was that the sins of the father did not follow the daughter in this case. Nor did the cowardice.

It pained him to admit it, but he could not lie this one away. Babs Seed destroyed him that night.

He’d been bested, deserving of death, and she granted him none. In that moment, she proved to be something far greater than the stallion whose namesake she bore.

The colt would spare her if she someday crept back into the heart of the ghetto. She, too, had left Manehatten in her dust, Boone’s grapevine providing him with this wondrous information. She was still a blankflank and a daughter of a devil. The two strikes against her could not be erased. She would never be his equal, his comrade, his friend.

But her mercy, however, kept her out of Card Slinger’s sights… for now.

Bernie Madhoof was his ultimate goal. His family gravestones cried out for retribution.

Tearing away from the window, Card Slinger looked over to him and proposed, “Boone, how would youze like ta be ma right-hoof stallion?”

Boone nodded so quickly, Slinger was sure his head would break free of its vertebrae and roll upon the cramped floorboards.

Clasping his forehooves together—the best he could, at least, while they were restrained—Card Slinger declared, “Good. Once we get back, let’s show ‘em, Boone. Let’s show ‘em all who we are, what we can do.”

“Yes, Slinga, yes! We will, ma colt!”

Grinning, Slinger began, “An’, Boone?”

“Yes, Slinga?”

Under the watchful patrol of the pegasi guards, Card Slinger vowed, “Neva let me forget the name ‘Bernie Madhoof.’ Neva let me forget his name. Come time when we got an army o’ our own, we’ll have a siege ta run. Youze gonna march wit' me?”

Creature of habit he was, Boone unsuccessfully attempted to rub his chin with a forehoof. Disregarding his restraints, he raised a curious question. “Youze know I would, boss, but… youze know how rich he is, don’t youze?”

“O’ course. What does dat have ta do wit’ anythin’?”

“Well… iffa youze can beat ‘em, join ‘em, right?”

For the first time in a long time, Card Slinger complimented his right-hoof-stallion. Through the remainder of their long journey back to the land of graffiti decorations, the two hashed their plans. Their greatest enemy would first become an ally.

By the power of bits and blood, they would build their empire, and shove King Orange off his throne.

Year Seven: Blood Is Thicker Than Water

In the distance, the evening stars pointing west led two mares to a stretch of cactus-dotted plain. By squinting through the cool mist of twilight, Babs Seed could see the faint outlines of tents and lean-to’s arranged in a circle. We must be gettin’ close ta Yukon. Keeping close besides Apple Bloom, she quickened their collective pace.

“Almost there, Bloom,” she muttered, her hooves beginning to ache from their journey from the Buffalo camp to their current destination.

Apple Bloom cross-referenced her map and quickly tucked it back away in her saddlebag. With a relieved grin across her muzzle, she said, “Ah sure hope so. Ah think we’re not all the way there, but it’d be nice ta stop an’ sleep fer a bit.”

Desert night embraced them with crisp forehooves. The atmosphere stole their breath and converted it into telltale steam, declaring to all of ill will that they were approaching. Although preferable to the scorching madness of before, Babs Seed silently agreed. Would be nice ta stop an' get unda some blankets. Horseapples, it's cold. She reckoned it would take quite awhile before she would tolerate either half of the desert coin—dawn or dusk.

Suddenly, Babs Seed stopped in her hoof-steps. She halted Apple Bloom with a forehoof and pricked her ears. We ain’t alone anymo’. Apple Bloom did the same, dreadfully realizing that a third rhythmic breathing had joined theirs in the night.

From the corner of Apple Bloom’s eye, a dark gray figure raised something in his forehooves.

Her breath caught in her throat.

That figure met her gaze and began to gallop towards them, revolver raised, eyes two pools of indiscernible black in the darkness.

“Babs!”

Snapping her head around, Babs Seed managed to stammer, “What the—“ before a forehoof silenced her and pushed her down into the sand, damp with evening mist. Apple Bloom stood in front of her fillyfriend, her forehooves raised in opposition, pupils dilated and hindhooves flexed, ready to spring.

“Bloom! Don’t!”

Babs Seed wrestled out from beneath her and jumped in front of the mare, teeth as a timberwolf’s, jaws poised and molars glistening in the moonlight. “STOP!” she screeched, her heart mocking her resolve, fluttering into arrhythmia.

Iffa dis is the end, it’ll be me, not youze.

Apple Bloom brushed against her coat, grabbing her again, but Babs Seed was the stronger. She stood fast in front of Apple Bloom, hackles raised, Fate galloping towards her with a ready revolver and thundering iron hooves.

There was no Appleloosian Deputy to protect them now.

Closer, closer, closer the figure came, his weapon clear and visible beneath Luna’s lantern. When he was mere yards away, an alarm sounded within Babs Seed's mind, and she launched off her hindhooves.

Skagway, the sourest of sourdoughs, found his vision failing him in his later years. When he’d reckoned that he’d best meet his visitors in the sand before they could subject him to their own nefarious whims, he’d taken off as fast as his hooves could carry him.

Through the desert night, he could determine two figures: one noticeably bigger and taller than the other. “So, a mare an’ a stallion team o’ thugs?” he mumbled, quickening his pace. “Not on ma watch!”

As the stallion approached, fifty feet away, then thirty, then twenty, his grip on his weapon began to slip. Cursing his foalish, tired old forehooves, he hesitated for one accursed millisecond, looking down at the weapon…

WHAM!

Suddenly, Skagway was trapped to the sands, irritating grains sticking to his dark-gray fur and his disheveled white mane. A pair of unshorn fetlocks pressed down on his throat, making his eyes bulge in wide surprise. He struggled to breathe or speak, a monstrosity of a mare staring deep into him, her irises emeralds, precious jewels and treasures he had dedicated his life to extracting. And here the prospector was, flailing his forehooves and pushing against hers, feeling the darkness wrap around him for the final time…

The mare released him an instant before he was overcome. Skagway coughed and sputtered, spraying the ground with spittle. He lurched behind himself and fumbled for his revolver. “… Where…. where… is ma…”

“Lookin’ fer this?”

The second figure in the shadows joined the brute towering over him. This one was a yellow mare with a wavy-red mane, a small bow tucked within its lengths. She maintained a tight grip on the weapon, both her fetlocks squeezing around its grip, keeping it trained straight down. Her eyes wild, she demanded, “What in tarnation is wrong wit’ you?!”

His attacker—her cropped tail, colt's manecut, and a nick in her left ear attesting to the wildness her hooves had already demonstrated—snorted and shook her muzzle. “Shouldn’t have paused there, bucko. Now, tell me who youze are befo’ I—“

“Who am Ah?!” he growled, rising to his hooves. He took a few steps towards the larger mare, deflecting the accusation and pointing back at her. “Who are y’all?! Did y’all jus’ think ya could—“

Babs Seed tensed her muscles, ready to pounce once more. One mo’ step, mothabucka, an’ I’m gonna geld youze so fast—

The stallion immediately halted, his expression morphing from justified rage to bemusement. His eyes fell to their cutiemarks, both containing a familiar red fruit.

“… Apples?” the stallion whispered, lowering his forehoof. “Wait!” he exclaimed, taking a step away from his visitors. “Y’all… y’all are Apples?”

“Dat’s right,” Babs shot back. “Youze gotta problem wit’ dat?”

His gaze narrowed. “No, not that Ah would’ve know it from yer city-slickin’ tongue.” He shifted his attention to the smaller mare. “Are y’all related ta Braeburn Apple?”

“O’ course! He’s our cousin,” Apple Bloom answered, keeping a steady grip on the gun. Unconvinced, she hissed, “What’s it ta ya?”

“If Ah would’ve known that, Ah wouldn’t have charged after ya.” The stallion brushed sand from his mane and coat, shuddering as he touched his ribs. He glared at the the larger mare. “Yer lucky ya didn’t break anythin’! Ma ribs are bruised, Ah betcha, but at least Ah can walk! Oh, bobtail, yer one lucky lil’ bit—“

“I am the lucky one?!” Youze buckin’ scum. “Youze jus’ tried ta shoot us! Youze is lucky I haven’t cut the small talk an’ finished what I started!”

Apple Bloom trotted a few steps towards the stallion. “Who are ya? What are ya doin’ here? An’ give me one good reason Ah shouldn’t jus’ shoot ya now.” Her final words trembled as they left her tongue, adrenaline surging through her veins unsure if fight or flight was the correct response.

The stallion removed his Stetson and sighed. “Ah’m sorry. Please, lemme explain.” He stared at the ground, weighing his options. His old bones could easily wrestle the weapon from the forehooves of the yellow Apple, but the orange one was far too strong for his weathered muscles. Years of digging through the sands of the badlands, sleeping beneath a blanket of fire and ice, and his own skirmishes had taken a toll on the stallion. The moment he raised a hoof against one, the other would fight back, with iron or steel, and that would be the end.

Besides, he realized, the thought sending waves of sickness to accompany the agony in his chest and abdomen, the rest of his camp was sound asleep. Nopony had stirred through their current tussle. Nopony would wake if Fate decided to snip his thread short on this silent spring night in the wasteland.

He kept his muzzle low and closed his eyes, powerless.

Apple Bloom raised an eyebrow and glanced toward Babs Seed. “Should we….?”

Babs Seed spat on the sand and trotted over, pressing her muzzle against the stallion’s. She paused, waiting for him to meet her eyes, to strike her, to do something.

He didn’t.

Taking a cautious step away from the grizzled stallion, Babs Seed hissed, “Explain youzeself.”

On command, the stallion lifted his head and put his Stetson back on. He met their gaze, and began, choosing his words carefully, “Ma name is Skagway, but some ponies call me Soapy, on accounta—“

“Wait! The Skagway? The Skagway o’ Yukon?” Apple Bloom asked, incredulous.

“That’s right,” Skagway said. “Me an’ ma crew’ve decided ta git an early start on minin’ this spring. Normally, we’d be out even further west o’ here, diggin’, sluicin’, somethin’. But we were plum lucky, found some gold dust in the sand here a day ago. We’re jus’ gettin’ ready ta start diggin’ tomorrowa, actually,” he said, his eyes shining. A tear threatened to make him a fool amongst the three. So close. So close he was to striking it rich, but his failing vision and trigger-happy ways would make that dream an eternal one.

“Ah’m sorry. Ma eyes are goin’ bad, an’ Ah didn’t see y’all were mares, an’ harmless ones, at that…” He gestured to their saddlebags, as well as their obvious lack of any hostlers. “Well,” he added, staring at the orange brute, “Ah thought y’all were harmless.”

Ears flattening, Babs Seed rounded on the stallion. “Why, I oughta—“

“Babs!” Apple Bloom clamped down on the tip of her bobtail and yanked her backwards, eliciting a YIP! of surprise and a glare. “Let him talk.”

Youze is too nice fo’ youze own good sometimes. Ahhh. An’ still takin’ Ma too seriously. Rolling her eyes, Babs Seed muttered, “Continue...”

A faint smile forming at the corner of his mouth, Skagway said, “Anyway, Ah’m sorry fer runnin’ towards y’all. Ah thought you were some o’ the scumbags who keep rollin’ through here.” He gestured towards the plains. “All ‘round us are comin’ ponies o’ all shades an’ intentions… Many o’ ‘em are innocent, but not all. Some o’ ‘em, ‘specially wit’ those East tongues—“ he shot a scowl towards his attacker—“been tryin’ ta rob me o’ ma workers. Last time was a few months ‘go.”

“Well, Ah’m sorry we attacked ya, too, Skagway.” Apple Bloom mustered a slight smile to match his. “We jus’ left Appleloosa, an’ Ah’m sure ya’ve heard ‘bout the shootin’ there.”

He nodded. “Ah have. Which is why Ah wished Ah would’ve known y’all were Apples befo’ Ah jumped ta such… er, bad conclusions. Braeburn’s a right ol’ hero, an’ anypony related ta him must be o’ good stock.” He neglected to add, So Ah hope, with another glare towards the larger mare, but refrained.

Babs Seed snorted and rolled her eyes. Well, maybe we should wear giant “We're related to Braeburn!” signs befo’ we go anywhere else. All these ponies out heeya act like anypony wit’ ma speech is bound ta rob o’ shoot ‘em. “Dat’s puttin’ it lightly,” she grumbled, blowing her mane from her eyes. “Anyway… sorry ‘bout earlier.” Though youze can’t blame us. Horseapples.

Babs reluctantly extended a forehoof to the stallion. “I’m Babs Seed, an’ dis is Apple Bloom.”

Skagway slowly shook forehooves with the mare, surprised to note the firmness of her grip. “Nice ta meet ya.” He then completed the greeting with the other mare, who passed him his revolver afterwards.

The stallion holstered the weapon and sighed. “Not the best o’ ways ta meet, but Ah’m glad that’s cleared up. Now, what can Ah do y’all fer?”

“Um, actually, heh,” Apple Bloom said, twirling a forehoof in the sand, “we were, um, comin’ out ta Yukon ta find ya…”

“Oh! Y’all want ta be part o’ ma minin’ team?”

They nodded.

“After nearly breakin’ ma spine an’ shootin’ me wit’ ma own weapon?”

Slower this time, they nodded.

Skagway tapped his chin with a forehoof. “Y’all got some nerve,” he grumbled after a few moments, furrowing his brow. “’Specially you, Manehatten accent.”

Bracing her hooves in the sand, letting her spare rage dissipate in the tensing of her muscles, Babs Seed offered, “Well, iffa it makes youze feel betta, I’ll do mo’ o’ the heavy work. Least I could do, right?” An’ wit’ youze weak bones, somepony’s gotta do it.

He paused. Then, once his decision was made, Skagway said, “Oh, Ah’ve got somethin’ fer you an’ mind, bobtail. But fer now, let’s git some rest, shall we?”

Neglecting to wait on a reply, Skagway pivoted on his hindhooves and began to canter towards his camp in the plains. His visitors followed swiftly, their heavy hoof-steps a rhythmic metronome against the silence.

Apple Bloom ruffled through her saddlebag and retrieved three tightly-rolled blankets, a few stakes, a hammer, and a ten-foot length of rope. She carefully strung one end of the rope around a limb of a “W” cactus (provided with no other classification by Strongheart, she reckoned that this sufficed) and pulled it taut towards another. Once the other end of the rope was secure, tied around another strong cactus limb, she draped the largest and thickest blanket over the rope.

With Babs Seed’s assistance, they stretched out the blanket on opposite sides of the rope, creating a makeshift shelter that resembled an upside-down “V”. Apple Bloom hammered a stake in the four corners of the blanket and unrolled a second blanket beneath the structure. The two mares crawled into the shoddy tent and wrapped the last blanket around themselves.

Babs peered out through one of the open ends of the tent towards the rest of the camp. The rest of the miners had arranged their tents or lean-to’s in a circle around a fire pit. A few hardy souls constructed no shelter at all, sleeping under the moon with the starry night sky as a blanket. Skagway was one of these, his Stetson resting on his stomach, his revolver resting beside the boulder he utilized as a pillow.

These two cacti were a few yards to the side from the epicenter of the camp, giving the mares of clear view of their fellows. Must be at least ten otha ponies heeya, countin’ Skagway. Wonda what dat bastard’s gonna have me do. Bet all ma bits it won’t be fun.

Apple Bloom wrapped her forehooves around Babs Seed’s torso from behind and snuggled into her fur. “Mmm… ya like ma tent, sugarcube?” she whispered, closing her eyes.

“Heh, I do, Bloom,” Babs whispered back, returning the embrace. Rare desert snow or rain would be deflected by their shoddy shelter, while the expected dip in mercury would be battled by the three blankets between them and the night air. It wasn’t much, but it was enough. And the burgeoning nomads were willing to settle for enough.

“Hey, Babs?”

“Yea?”

“Ah’m gonna write ta Sweetie an’ Scoots tomorrowa. Remind me ta ask Skagway where the nearest mail-pegasi are o’ somethin’.”

“I will. An’ I’ll write ‘em summat, too. Speakin’ o’ letters, have youze heard back from Applejack yet?”

“No…” Apple Bloom lifted her head onto the mare’s chest and frowned. “Ah’m worried, Babs. Ah wish there was some way we could help her.”

“I’m sure we’ll figure summat out.” Least I could do. Fo’ all dis. With a meager smile, Babs Seed urged, “Let’s get some sleep fo’ now. I’ve got a feelin’ Skag’s gonna rouse everypony at dawn.”

With only an hour between them and a brush with the Reaper, and a few hours remaining before Luna retired to Celestia’s rule, neither mare could debate her suspicions, and they quickly fell into a deep slumber.

CLANG! CLANG! CLANG!

Babs Seed creaked one eye open, pulled from dreams of a mysterious stallion galloping far and away, just beyond her reach. She’d almost caught him when the annoying racket of metal-against-metal interrupted her egress. Groaning, she pulled the blanket further over herself and Apple Bloom.

CLANG! CLANG! CLANG!

A shrill soprano called out into the morning mist, “SOUP’S ON, EVERYPONY!” The rough clanging of a spoon against a pot continued, summoning all but two of the mining team from their slumber.

Apple Bloom yawned and smacked her lips, wrestling out of the cover. Babs immediately pulled it back over herself and groaned.

“Mmm… what time is it?” mumbled Apple Bloom, running her forehooves through her mane. After a few quick brushes, she deemed herself sufficient, and sought next to rouse her partner. She poked Babs in the shoulder. “C’mon, Ah think they’re startin’ breakfast.”

“It’s too damn early!” Sun’s barely risen, barely got any sleep… Babs Seed buried her muzzle under the blanket and slammed her eyelids shut.

Poke, poke. Babs Seed brushed the intruder away, who sighed, exasperated. “Babs, hon, we don’t have much o’ a choice.”

“Well, tell Skagway he can buck off! I’m goin’ back ta sleep!”

Apple Bloom shrugged and trotted out of the makeshift tent. “Suit yerself. It’s too early fer this anyway,” she muttered, shaking her muzzle.

In the middle of the camp, a curly-maned mare was serving a line of hungry miners bowls of oatmeal from a large, boiling pot. The pot simmered above a combination of a steady flame and a rising mercury. Dawn had just breached the boundary between Earth and sky. Already, Apple Bloom felt a few drops of sweat forming on her neck and forehead. She shook them off and took her place at the back of the line.

In front of her, a stern unicorn mare turned around and snorted. “Great fare, huh? You would think for ten bits a week, they’d at least throw in something better than oatmeal.”

She giggled. “Aw, Ah don’t mind. Ah’m jus’ glad ta git somethin’ ta eat. Last night was mighty… tirin’.”

“Pfft. I prefer buckwheat pancakes myself. Say,” the unicorn began, eying the other mare quizzically, “I don’t think I’ve seen you before. You must have just come in and talked to Skagway this morning, right?”

Apple Bloom rubbed the back of her neck with a forehoof. “Uh, ya could say that.” Changing the subject, she introduced herself, sticking out her other hoof. “Ah’m Apple Bloom. An’ you are?”

“Dyea,” she said, gently shaking hooves. Dyea smiled and inched forward with the serving line. “What’s a pretty mare like you doing out in this uncharted territory all alone?”

Giggling, Apple Bloom said, “Ah’m not alone. Ma partner is sleepin’ in our lil’ tent ova there.” She pointed at the makeshift tent, which was rising and falling in time with the exhausted snores of one stubborn mare. “She doesn’t wanna git up. Ah’ll jus’ save her somethin’.”

“Oh, I know the feeling.” Dyea fanned herself with a forehoof. “My husband was just like that. Always sleeping in well past breakfast time. I wasn’t as generous as you are, though,” she added, smirking. The mare’s smirk quickly devolved into a frown. “Oh, those were the years… until the bandits came.”

Apple Bloom paused, moving forward in the line. Only a few tired, exhausted-looking stallions stood between her, Dyea, and two hot bowls of oatmeal. “Ah’m… Ah’m sorry ta hear that,” she muttered, averting her eyes.

Dyea dismissed, “It’s not your fault. Wasn’t anypony’s fault. That’s just what comes with the frontier. You and your mare be careful, alright? And if you need any help today, just ask me. Skagway’s got a soft spot for me, if you catch my drift.”

Laughing at Dyea's wink, Apple Bloom nodded her understanding. A few minutes later, Dyea gracefully accepted the breakfast offered to her by the camp chef and whisked away. Next, came the Apple mare’s turn, and when she reached the head of the line at last, found something far more than just oatmeal.

The camp chef’s eyes met hers, forehooves frozen in mid-pass of a steaming bowl of oats. “A-Apple B-Bloom?”

Apple Bloom blinked, disbelieving. It couldn’t be. There was just no way it could be. Not after all of this time. Despite every rationalization, she couldn’t shake away the thought, the recognition.

Again, the chef stuttered, “A-Apple B-Bloom? Is dat youze?”

“Allspice?!”

Setting the bowl down on a stool, Allspice threw her forehooves around Apple Bloom, hugging her tight. “I thought I heard youze voice earlier! I knew it! Oh, Celestia, it’s so good ta see youze! Youze grown so tall!”

Squeezing her back, Apple Bloom pulled away and laughed. “Ya should see Babs, when she gets up, she’s really—“

Allspice interrupted, “Babs is heeya too?! Celestia! First I saw Citrus an’ Libra jus’ a few months ‘go, now youze an’ Babs? It’s right-ol’ family reunion out heeya, haha!” Allspice slapped her own flanks and chortled uncontrollably, clutching her sides. “Horseapples, I neva woulda thought—“

“Allspice!”

Skagway trudged over to his camp chef, set down an empty bowl of oatmeal, and snorted disapprovingly. “Hurry up an’ finish wit’ breakfast. We gotta break camp in ‘bout thirty.” The stallion nodded and trotted off towards a group of his workers, who, in the absence of instruction, dealt a quick game of poker between themselves. “Hey, fellas, got no time fer silly games!”

Rolling her eyes, Allspice passed the last bowl of oatmeal to her ward and remarked, “Guess I gotta get packin’ dis stuff. We’re gonna be headin’ out soon.”

“Ta where?” asked Apple Bloom, taking a quick bite of the breakfast. As expected, it was delicious. Allspice may have aged over the years, her locks of curly mane dotted sporadically with gray, but her skills were just as sharp as the chef’s knife on her flank.

“Whereva ol’ Soapy leads us. Good oatmeal?” Apple Bloom nodded. “Good. Save some fo’ Babs. Actually… iffa youze could manage ta get her up, dat would be great.”

Apple Bloom smiled. “’Course Ah can. Ah was jus’ bein’ nice. Gimme a sec,” she said, again putting down the bowl.

Allspice began to dissemble her camp cooking equipment, watching as the mare galloped over to a tent hung between two cacti and crawled inside it. There was a quick tussle, a rustling of blankets, and a dragging of a red-and-pink bobtail between a pair of displeased jaws, but, somehow, the remaining occupant emerged at last, rubbing sleep from her eyes and scowling.

“I told youze ta tell Skagway—“

“Oh, Babs!” called Allspice, waving an eager forehoof.

Babs Seed turned towards her, internal processes slowing to a halt. No! No way! It can’t be… but, is it? “A-Allspice?”

Allspice laughed into a forehoof, her beaming smile brighter than any desert sun. “Dat’s ma name, kiddo. Now, come an’ get some breakfast befo’ we hike out.”

Trotting up to her, Babs Seed began, “But, how did youze—“

“No time!” Allspice thrust the bowl of oatmeal into her waiting forehooves. “Hurry up an’ eat, both o’ youze, an’ we’ll have plenty o’ time ta talk once the real fun begins.”

Skagway rounded up his crew of twelve and led the way into the desert. The crew—eight stallions including himself, four mares, and only one unicorn amongst eleven Earth ponies—carried or pulled their camp on their backs. Along with saddlebags came hauling carts, pickaxes, shovels, building materials for a sluice, pans, barrels, rope, wrenches, and other mining equipment.

Skagway trotted them out about a mile from camp before he stopped. They arrived in a stretch of desert plains with a rare oasis in the center. He grinned. It hadn’t been an illusion after all. “Y’all see,” he said, trotting over to the oasis, “what Ah’m seein’?”

One of the miners piped, “Ya, but Ah reckon that’s jus’ the whiskey talkin’!” A clamor of laughter accompanied his drunken chuckles, the speaker swaying with morning buzz. It was always five o’ clock somewhere for some ponies.

Babs Seed, Apple Bloom, and Allspice brought up the rear of the pack, laughing even harder as Skagway strode up and smacked the offender across the muzzle. “Stupid drunk,” Babs muttered, snickering.

Skagway glared in her direction and snorted. He trotted back over to the oasis and dipped his forehoof into the water. Warm as expected, the oasis was nevertheless deeper than he'd assumed. Grinning, he exclaimed, “Got mo’ than enough water here fer sluicin’!”

Apple Bloom mumbled curiously to the camp chef, “Why don’t he offer ta have everypony fill up their jugs?”

“Youze don’t drink desert water,” Allspice replied. “Too stagnant. Celestia knows what grows in dem oasis out heeya. Jus’ drink cactus water. Youze do know what dat is, right?”

“Yea,” Babs answered. “Buffalo told us all ‘bout it.”

Allspice smiled. “Good.”

Skagway clapped his forehooves together, rousing his workers to attention once more. “Everypony, get ta yer assignments! We’ll be needin’ ta clear the ground first. At the same time, carpenters, build the sluice. We’ll need it 'specially once we break ‘bout twenty feet down, but might find somethin' befo'. That’s where the gold is. Allspice, set up fer lunch in a few hours, an’ ma two new miners, come ta me.”

With another strike of his forehooves resounding against each other, the camp set to work. Dyea and three other stallions gathered wood and nails from their sluice supplies and began to construct the device. Four grizzled-looking stallions began to sharpen their pickaxes and shovels, marking points of entry into the Earth with stones.

Allspice left her two long-lost friends with a wink. “Don’t worry, we’ll have plenty o’ time ta talk while youze is workin’. I have a feelin’, though, youze might not wanna talk, heh.”

Before Babs Seed could question why, the answer strode up to her, his gait hesitant and obviously pained. “Well, ain’t it ma favorite two new recruits,” mused Skagway, looking over the mares. “I s’pose y’all wonderin’ what I’m gonna have ya do?”

“Youze wondered correctly.” Babs Seed flexed her muscles and spat upon the ground, unflinching from the stallion’s suspicious gaze.

He flared his nostrils but said nothing, turning his attention to Apple Bloom first. “You ever built anythin’, Apple Bloom?”

Confidentially, she answered, “’Course Ah have, Skagway!”

“Please...” He chuckled as he said, “Call me Soapy. All ma friends do. Bloom, Ah think ya should help Dyea an’ the others wit’ the sluice. Ever built one o’ those?”

“No, sir, Ah haven’t.”

“Easy enough. It’s a simple slope we run water down ta search through gravel an’ clay fer gold. Just a long filter runnin’ down inta a collection box. Shouldn’t take mo’ than an hour o’ two ta build. Then, y’all be sluicin’ whatever our prospectors dig up. But,” he stated, shifting his gaze to Babs Seed, “we have ta have somepony ta haul all that earth from the minin’ site ta the sluice.”

Babs Seed tapped her chin with a forehoof. “Lemme guess,” she said sarcastically, “youze want me ta do it?" 'Cuz I kicked youze flank like it was nothin’?

Skagway laughed and smacked her back playfully (or, seemingly so) with a forehoof. “Hah! You flatter yerself, bobtail, bein' smarter than Ah thought! Yes, Ah want ya ta do it ‘cause, well, yer so strong, ain’t ya?” He growled, shooting her with an expression that could bore holes through the muzzles of lesser ponies. His newest hire merely blinked back at him and awaited instruction.

Skagway groaned. “Follow me,” he said, urging her in the direction of a cart stationed near the prospecting stallions, who had already begun to strike at the merciless sand with their tools.

Babs Seed began to follow, looking back at Apple Bloom. Apple Bloom nodded and ushered her to follow him. “Have fun, sugarcube!” she teased, trotting off towards the carpenters and Dyea.

“Gee, thanks,” Babs mumbled under her breath. She followed after the stallion, who waited expectantly beside a large, empty one-pony cart. “Say, Soapy—“

“Yer not ma friend, an’ ya can’t call me that,” Skagway snapped. He lifted the horse-collar off the cart and nodded towards it. “Git into position inta the cart an’ Ah’ll snap ya in. Yer gonna be haulin’ sand, ore, an’ gravel today. All o’ it goes inta the sluicer. Wait ‘till the cart is full ta bring another load ta the sluicin’ ponies, ya hear?”

His only reply was the mare lining up against the cart and slipping under the ropes connecting to the collar. Standing tall, matching him in height, Babs Seed accepted his challenge and lowered her neck. Skagway immediately snapped the collar around her neck and checked to ensure the ropes were secure. Once confirmed, he took a few steps away from the mare and laughed.

“What’s so funny?” she snapped, glaring at him.

“Never had a mare do this befo’,” he replied, his grin wide enough to split his muzzle in two. “Nothin’ ‘gainst ‘em, jus’ never did it. Let’s see how long the first one lasts.”

Babs spat on the ground and shot back, smirking, “Longa than youze think, Soapy.”

Skagway swallowed the urge to smack that indignant smirk off the mare’s face and turned away, taking to his hooves and more important matters. The rest of the camp demanded far more attention than the one he’d cast with the most tiresome task of all. Always a gambler, he began to place his own wager: how long before this one would beg somepony to relieve her?

He heard her call out behind him, “’Ey!”

“Yes?” Skagway asked, spinning around, countenance innocent as could be. Perhaps he wouldn’t need to place any wagers. Perhaps she would give up already. It was all he could hope. City-ponies were usually trouble—though Allspice had proved to be a worthy exception—and his aching ribs witnessed to the possibility that this one might be even more so.

“When do I start haulin’?”

The first day of mining work was the hardest. After an hour of putting around, twirling her forehooves and counting crows circling through the Heavens, Babs Seed was ordered to begin her duties.

She would pull the cart over to the new mining site, where four stallions, who were covered from snout to tail in sand, dirt, and clay as the day wore on, would quickly shovel ore and earth into the cart. The site was about ten-by-ten feet in size, and growing progressively deeper. There was always more than enough, and the cart would be filled until its contents spilled over the sides.

She would then pull the load, each hoof-step heavy and slow, about twenty yards away to the sluice. The sluice was fed water from the oasis down its track and into a deposit-box at the end of its waterway. Apple Bloom and the three stallion miners would sift through the sand, dirt, and clay, their forehooves and fetlocks muddying within minutes. Dyea would utilize her unicorn magic to detect anything that deposited in the box—gold dust or, hopefully, nuggets—before then emptying this, too, into a separate pile.

And so, the process repeated, hour by hour, with a break around high noon for lunch. Allspice whipped up a hardy meal of beans and corn, which Babs Seed devoured without hesitation. The hardest labor—constructing the sluice—behind her, Apple Bloom glanced worriedly at her mare, picking at her own plate. “Are ya alright, Babs? That cart looks awful heavy…”

Slurping down the last of her lunch, Babs nodded and rose to her hooves, clutching the plate as if it were her lifeline. “I’m fine. Nothin’ I haven’t done befo’. I’m gonna go get some mo’. Starvin’ out heeya.”

“Well, alright,” Apple Bloom tentatively replied, Libra’s promise at the forefront of her mind. “If ya start hurtin’ o’ anythin’, jus’ let me know an’ Ah’ll take over, alright?”

Trotting away, Babs called over her shoulder, “Youze got youze own work! An’ I’m fine!” Betta get some Celestia-damned gold outta dis. Skagway’s got it out fo’ me. Damn ol’ fool.

Meeting Allspice besides her simmering pot, Babs Seed held out her plate and begged with her pupils. Allspice chuckled and heaped a second serving onto her plate in response. “Got youze workin’ hard, ain’t he?”

“Sure is,” Babs said, plopping down on the sand. Bothering not for a stool or proper manners, she practically mauled her meal, a timberwolf brought far beyond the reaches of the Everfree. Allspice watched in a mixture of curiosity and revulsion, choosing only to shake her head and chuckle again.

“Youze need ta be careful. Celestia knows when we’ll hit gold. Iffa eva. An’ iffa we stay heeya fo’ a few days an’ don’t get anythin’, Skag’s jus’ gonna move us a few miles an’ try again.”

“Youze know,” muttered Babs between bites, “why don’t he jus’ get a unicorn who can detect gold?”

“Youze don’t think he’s tried?” Allspice shook her muzzle and crossed her forehooves. “Dyea’s the best we got, an’ she can only go through ore once it’s in the deposit box. She don’t have no mo’ skill than dat. Few years ‘go, when dis all began, a couple unicorns wit’ dat magic struck it rich an’ ran off wit’ mo’ gold than youze can shake a stick at.”

Licking her plate clean, Babs Seed arched her back into the sand and cracked her vertebrae, releasing tension. Ahhhh… nice lil’ break. “’Ey, Allspice, befo’ I forget… was wonderin’ ‘bout summat.”

Putting out the fire and beginning to tidy up her field kitchen once more, Allspice kept her gaze glued to the task at hoof and casually replied, “Go ‘head, ask me anythin’.”

“Where’s Greyhoof? Didn’t he go out heeya when he left?”

Allspice paused. Then, hanging her muzzle low, she answered to the sand, “Greyhoof… is no longa wit’ us, Babs Seed.”

“… Oh,” Babs said, sitting up on her haunches again. “Oh… dat’s awful ta hear. I—I always liked him.”

Allspice smiled sadly and, forcing herself to continue in her work, replied, “An’ he always liked youze. But, Greyhoof was an ol’ stallion, Babs. I was lucky ta see him a few times out heeya. He was workin’ wit’ anotha camp fo’ a while. I think he… I think it was jus’ his time.”

“I see. Do youze think he was happy?”

“Happy?” Allspice repeated. She met Babs Seed’s eyes, wide and full of hope, and couldn’t deny her. Nor she could deny it herself. Slowly, she answered, speaking of these things for the first time in years, “I don’t know. He died few years ‘go, an’ I wasn’t talkin’ ta him then. But, I’d like to think so.

"I mean, dis was betta than bein'… there, youze know?”

Babs Seed nodded. Oh, I know.

The unforgiving sun dipped and hid within its void in the horizon. Once the faintest of stars began to peek out from the cover of night, Skagway ordered his crew to put down their tools for the day. They did so with glee, prospectors especially, plopping aching backs and stomachs onto the rapidly cooling sand.

Skagway strode over to his hauler and removed the collar from her neck. Grinning, he taunted, “Had enough? Gonna call it quits yet?”

Her muscles burned with lactic acid, fibers torn and stretched without discrimination. Her bones ached from the marrow, joints sore and stiff from the repetitive burden across her shoulders, neck, back, and hooves. Her fur was drenched in sweat, dripping down her neck, muzzle, and chest, sparkling beads of salt and saline reflective in the dying embers of day.

“Absolutely not,” Babs Seed said firmly, shaking her head (which aggravated a brewing dehydration headache). She exhaled hot steam through her nostrils and smiled smugly. “I think I’ll stick heeya wit’ youze ‘till we strike gold. O’ youze run outta bits ta pay me, whicheva comes first.”

Scowling, Skagway hissed back, “Payday’s every Friday—which is tomorrowa, so you an’ yer marefriend be paid only fer two days first. Go an’ git some dinner befo’ ya fall down.”

He spun and departed, joining the rest of his crew as they assembled before Allspice’s cooking fire for the third and final meal of the day. Babs Seed stretched out her hooves and cracked her back, sighing. Celestia, dis is hard work. But it’ll be worth it. Jus’ gotta stock up some bits, an’ then—

Apple Bloom galloped up to her and nuzzled her neck. “Hey, how are ya—“ Her words were cut short by the mare’s wincing at her touch. “Babs, are ya alright?”

Babs Seed shrugged and shook out more of her tension, popping several joints. “I’m fine. Sorry. Jus’ a lil’ sore, heh. ‘Ey, sorry I wasn’t much fo’ talkin’ earlier. Jus’ kinda lost maself in dat work.”

“It’s alright,” assured Apple Bloom, joining her as they trotted towards the serving-line. “Ah wasn’t much fer talkin’, either. Kept ma eyes open fer gold, an’ we didn’t git any, not even dust. But yer sure yer alright?”

“Yes,” Babs said, unsure if she harbored a lie or let the truth set sail. Jus’ first-day soreness. Haven’t worked a plow in a few months. Jus’ rusty. “First day’s the hardest, dey say. We’ll be fine. Jus’ wanna get some gold an’… oh! ‘Ey, did youze ask Skagway ‘bout mail-pegasi?”

“Yeah, Ah did.” Taking their places in line, Apple Bloom beamed with excitement, visions of parchment and ink dancing through her mind. “He said there’s at least one who comes by every Friday! Ah’ll have ta write ‘em both tonight. Were ya wantin’ ta write ‘em, too, Babs?”

“O’ course.” I hope dey doin’ alright, Sweetie an’ Scoots. All dis talk ‘bout the East bein’ bad is makin’ me worried.

For the next four months, Babs Seed and Apple Bloom settled into an exhausting, yet freeing, repetition. The timing of Allspice’s fire-cooked meals—reminiscent of both home and hearth—marked the three stages of their days. First, there was breakfast, usually oatmeal or toast with peanut butter or jam, that awaited Apple Bloom after successfully rousing a usually-reluctant Babs Seed. Then came lunch (beans most of the time, with some vegetable) about two hours into work, when Babs Seed's back and Apple Bloom's forehooves began their daily ache. Finally, dinner completed their day, hearty stews and casseroles subjecting them to carbohydrate-induced bliss and lulling their muscles to repair.

They exchanged letters between Clousdale and Canterlot the most, though Ponyville and Appleloosa remembered them as well. Scootaloo had almost completed her academy training and was living in the dorms with Featherweight, who set his eyes on a photographer job with the Cloudsdale Gazette. Sweetie Belle was about half-finished with her first album, Sapphire Shores eagerly assisting in the production and development of the record. Apparently, her special somepony followed her to Canterlot, though the two did not live together. Silver Spoon attended university nearby, enrolling in writing and debate classes.

To the West, Citrus Blossom continued to accumulate savings, waxing excitement about her plans for the clothing store. No precise date had been nailed down, though she wrote of it as if the time was immediately at hoof. (Such is the language of dreamers.) Libra maintained a steady job as the general store owner's accountant upon his store's re-opening and Braeburn reported no more suspicious activity than the frequent bar-brawls and petty thieves (locks had become mandatory, and thieves with them). Appleloosa, to Babs’s and Bloom’s relief, remained standing, waiting patiently for them when and if they would return.

Further West, Applejack wrote that the crops were flourishing as expected, though sales remained stagnant. There was enough to keep operations running. Smoothly would not be an accurate description of affairs. “I am hoping that, soon, a new town or bar or something will spring up and demand our business,” she wrote, her hoof-writing staccato, deep, words crossed out and re-written over her original intent. Both her recipients made note of this and whispered of it amongst themselves.

“Youze know what I’ve been thinkin’ ‘bout, Bloom?” asked Babs Seed one evening, stretched out on the sand.
Apple Bloom was working knots and kinks out of her back with strong but gentle forehooves. Stubborn she was, and she pulled that cart, day after day, load after load, even as Skagway moved them from one site to the next, chasing gold, chasing dreams.

“What, Babsy?” Apple Bloom whispered, digging her hooves into her back. Babs winced and groaned. “S-sorry. Are ya sure ya don’t want me ta switch jobs wit’ ya? Ah can ask Soa—“

“I’m fine,” Babs dismissed, exhaling. “We’re gettin’ close, I’m sure.”

Four months had passed, 320 bits earned between them and not one drop of gold to show for it. Perhaps, she reasoned, the bits would be enough. An’ soon. “Anyway, I was thinkin’, ya know, ‘bout what’s goin’ on wit’ AJ an’ everypony at home…”

Sighing, Apple Bloom confessed, “Ah’ve been thinkin’ ‘bout that a lot, too. Ah wish there was some way we could help. Ah notice a lot o’ these prospectors an’ such drink. Maybe they’d be interested in some Apple Family fare?”

“Exactly. I’ve noticed it, too.” Lotsa ‘em are drunks. An’ drunks need dey sauce, but youze can’t find dat in a cactus. “Maybe… maybe we should think ‘bout puttin’ up stakes somewhere. Build a business o’ summat.” Babs Seed craned her neck to look back at Apple Bloom, smiling. “I know youze can build anythin’.”

Blushing, Apple Bloom dismissed, “Oh, Ah’m not that good. Ah jus’ try ma best.”

“Youze build sluices like dey was nothin’!”

“’Cuz they aren’t, Babs."

“Well, there was the clubhouse, an’ the barn roof, an’ what ‘bout dem blueprints fo’ Citrus?”

Apple Bloom paused briefly, then begrudgingly accepted the praise. “Ah… Ah guess Ah do know somethin’ ‘bout that. But what we’re ya thinkin’, sugarcube?” Massage completed, she curled up next to her and guessed, “Maybe a store?”

Outside, the wind howled, teasing sand, sending it flying into the atmosphere. June would soon give way to July, the hottest month of the year in Appleloosa and the desert plains that laid lawless beyond it boundaries. Babs Seed remembered a rush of wind, a cloud of dust, a dark night seven years ago. She remembered a structure that housed an angel of the Most High itself, an angel in white apron and black bowtie and Manehatten accent.

Tools and paintings of country life inside, and rows and rows of labels upon his shelves. A space that filled her with awe and wonder, more home than she’d known in years, if ever. And the best, truest manecut she’d ever received, and would always wear, in memory of him and all that she had overcome.

A place where the water and the whiskey flowed freely, not one speck of innocent blood entangled within the mix. A place where—although she did not yet know it—the shadowy figure of her dreamland had found his freedom and his destiny, called past the horizon and into the wild.

The Waterin’ Hole.

Whispering low, fear and excitement bound into one breath, Babs Seed replied, “No, Apple Bloom. Not a store.

“A bar.”

Closing Credits And Notes

Thank you to everyone who read, favorited, voted, or commented on this story. This story was an exercise in another style of writing and a personal challenge: i.e. could I show Babs Seed and Apple Bloom growing up? Could I show their jump from the ending of "Tangled Roots" to its Epilogue? And what of everypony and everywhere else--from Appleloosa to Manehatten? I hope, dear readers, that I have done this journey and these seven years justice. Truly, I feel as if I have grown as both a writer and a person from writing it.

The trilogy will conclude in "Severed Roots". This story returns to the typical story format (instead of the anthology format) and I hope you all enjoy the final installment. Some of our favorite (and not-so-favorite) OC's will be returning, including some faces we haven't seen since "Tangled Roots".

A Note On OC's And Canon Characters

The following characters in this story are original characters drummed up by my imagination:

-Card Slinger and Boone
-Doctor Triage (Bernie Madhoof's physician)
-Bernie Madhoof's assistants, bodyguards, and (otherwise unnamed) King's Knights
-Aunt Barbara (Braeburn's mother)
-Sunshine and Pa (deceased parents of Applejack, Big Mac, and Apple Bloom)
-Chief Brutus (Manehatten Police Chief)
-Pickaxe, Skagway, Dyea, and various Appleloosian background characters (fellow miners, unnamed Buffalo, etc.)
-Turner the bartender/barber ("Libra's stallion," reunited with Babs Seed in the Epilogue.)
-Allspice the camp chef

The following characters in this story are referenced in the canon, but their appearances, personalities, backstories and experiences have been created by me:

-Citrus Blossom (in the canon as the nameless older sister of Babs Seed);
-Aunt Orange/Libra Scales (in the canon as Aunt Orange, with a different appearance that I assign to her):
-Uncle Orange/Bernie Madhoof (in the canon as Uncle Orange, with a different appearance than I assign to him).

The following characters are canon characters that I have used in this work of fanfiction, altering/using their backstories, personalities, actions, and experiences for the purpose of this story:

-Sheriff Silverstar
-Braeburn
-Babs Seed
-Apple Bloom
-Applejack
-Big Macintosh
-Granny Smith
-Sweetie Belle
-Scootaloo
-Diamond Tiara
-Silver Spoon
-Filthy Rich
-Featherweight
-Pinkie Pie
-Rarity
-Rainbow Dash
-Sapphire Shores
-Little Strongheart
-Chief Thunderhooves

Thanks again for all the support, feedback, and for reading!