//------------------------------// // Inevitability // Story: Little Sapling // by -SBRS //------------------------------// The sapling had grown.   Large, strong, powerful, and yet, the sapling was now a memory, like the rest. A reminder of bygone days and hapless eves. Its leaves were once hope, dying in the autumnal wind as green became red, and blood dried brown.   Where had the days gone? Where had the years gone, seemingly vanished in the air of summer’s breath? Twilight had planted the sapling in spring, only to find it a dying tree on a winter’s eve.   Yet, was death so bad, when it was simply an inevitability? Something strong, something forceful, something that no pony could ever resist?   Well, of course those luckless few, strained by the binds of time, could resist it, in some manner. Yet, death, time – it affected them still. Pain, loss – it was no stranger to the likes of them. Horns, wings, it was all simply a bastion against time itself. A blessing, and a curse.   Princess Twilight Sparkle looked around the old town, the gathered ponies watching like fireflies in the night. Familiar old houses, the same cobbled streets – it was all simply a reminder. Of the past, and of the morrow. Red houses now blue, and fresh brick now cracked. Time forgot no thing, no pony.   On the way to the tree, Twilight had taken notice of several marks. The old sugary bakery, for one, had lost its life, no longer a vibrant theme of confectionary sweets. It was dull, plain – just another house on the street, taken by yet another family that, in all honesty, Twilight knew nothing of.   The farm, Sweet Apple Acres, was still as pleasant as ever, yet Twilight had seen more ponies there than she ever had in the past. Workers, apples, old mares and all. Yet, the princess had not seen a familiar face amongst them – not a hat to be seen, and not a blonde mane to be had.   The skies had been clear that day, yet Twilight swore that most days she had been in Ponyville, one could have seen a single bit of fluff, the markings of a small castle apparent upon it. No cloud was to be seen, and no rainbow to be had. The last rain had been several weeks ago.   That was as far as Twilight had borne the nerve to see – she had not the bravery in herself to tour the rest of Ponyville. Time would belay her, as it had belayed all the others. In essence, she was afraid. To see, in truth, how her home had changed, day by day. Month, by month. Year, by year.   But, in the end, to see her little sapling, grown and matured like them all, and now dying, was to have seen the inevitable, and known it. Was it all a sham, really? Those years ago, when Twilight had declared to herself the meaning of the sapling – were they fake, false, nothing but old markings upon bark?   Indeed, Twilight had hoped for the sapling to be a happy signal for the future, but it had become a painful memory of the past. Of lost friends, and dearly departed adventures.   She could have questioned where it had all went, and where her memories had run off to, yet Twilight knew the truth. They were gone. Swallowed by time, as the sapling had swallowed the precious land’s nourishment.   A cough, a cleared throat, grasped the princess out of her memories, and she looked down to see a young mare. She was not yet accustomed to looking down upon her fellow ponies.   “So, um… princess!” The mare declared, her voice that of a nervous official. “Princess Sparkle! Has the town been to your liking?”   Twilight knew this mare, knew her so well – and yet, she did not. That same brown coat, that same dyed mane. All upon the same pony, yet different under the flesh altogether. She was not Mayor Mare, and yet she was.   “Yes,” the princess said simply, her eyes hiding sorrow. Her voice sounded so different, than that of the little unicorn she had once been. Deeper, greater…   Since when had she sounded so musical, so motherly?   “Yes,” Twilight began again, turning to face the mayor. “I remember it so well.”   A lie, in truth. She remembered it well, but she did not know this town.   “Excellent!” the mayor declared, anxious excitement toning her voice. “Well, if you’d like to tour the rest of Ponyville, then just let me know!” By Celestia, she sounded so much like Maybelle Mare, yet…   Twilight shook her head. “No. I am fine. I had best be off to Canterlot soon. The other princesses will need me for—”   Her voice caught short, her eyes glistening. The mayor tweaked her head, wondering why the Princess of Friendship had ceased her talk. Following the princess’ gaze, she found them on three ponies, so familiar, and yet so different. “What?”   A cool-headed filly, her wings kept clean. Her coat was a bright cobalt, her mane iridescent. A mare stood behind her, a pearly white hoof upon her daughter’s shoulders.   A green little colt, brash and confident. His pink mane fluttered in the wind, strong hooves sat firmly upon the ground.   A stocky, young mare, red ribbons in her blonde mane. Her coat was a full yellow, like the sun she worked long under. A trio of ponies, blue, brown, and pink. Two bounced eagerly upon their hooves, while the third sat quietly, diminished and subtle.   They knew not their forebears, besides those odd pictures and tales from so long ago. Yet, when her eyes gazed upon them, Twilight understood. They were the New, the Next – if memories were heirlooms, then those three little ponies wore many treasured baubles upon them. Through those small little ponies, she could remember her old friends - years to be treasured, and memories to be kept close to her heart.   Twilight smiled, turning back to the mayor. Tears threatened to pour through, her thoughts focused on those dearly passed friends, yet she blinked them away. “Oh, nothing. Simply an odd idea.” A few paces away, a chariot landed, two armored pegasi strutting fancily upon the green grass. “Actually, I might be back soon. I’ve a few ponies I’d like to meet.”   She knew she wanted to meet them – perhaps there were more, hiding within that dense crowd. They were the sapling, the offspring of Time. The sapling was a truth, and the truth was a memory. We lose them to Time, but Time brings them back.   The Old begat Time, and Time begets the New.