//------------------------------// // Down, Feather // Story: Appledashery Vol. Two // by Just Essay //------------------------------// Crickets. The distant howl of Timberwolves. A sliver of starlight pierced the darkness. With a prolonged creak, the wooden doors to an old barn opened slowly. The silhouette of a healthy farm mare stood in the entrance, hitched to a wagon. She took one long look at the barn's familiar interior, inhaled the scent of old hay... and quietly trotted in. Shuffling to a stop, Applejack dutifully unhitched herself from the wagon and parked it in the corner of the place. She stood in place, lingering, observing the bushels of unsold apples still resting in the back of the wagon. The fruit was no longer ripe; their skin had lost their gloss. Pig's feed... Applejack's nostrils flared. She ran a hoof across the surfaces of the fruit. The skin wasn't as soft as she expected. She knew more, now. With a cold shudder, Applejack threw a tarp over the crate, turned around, and slowly exited the barn. She closed the doors with a dull rattle and returned the interior to darkness. The floorboards of the Sweet Apple Acres household groaned lightly under Applejack's hooves. The bottom floor was pitch-black at night; she proceeded as quietly as she could. A light glow emanated from the living room. Applejack couldn't help but have a look-see. Granny Smith lay asleep in her rocking-chair, as always. She snored lightly. Before her, the fireplace was dying. There was a slight tremble to the elder's wrinkled limbs. With a calm smile, Applejack shuffled in deep and placed another log into the fire. She stoked the flames, and the room warmed a bit. She added a finishing touch by tightening the quilt around Granny Smith's body. A contented smile crossed the old mare's face. Applejack leaned in, kissed her forehead, and left for upstairs. Big Mac was snoring. Applejack could hear it through the walls. Somehow—she expected—he had relaxed more in Ponyville than anypony who had ventured to the Gala in Canterlot that weekend. She wasn't particularly jealous; just quiet. She lingered beside the door to Apple Bloom's room. Slowly opening it, she peered inside. Apple Bloom lay quietly under a sliver of moonlight. She was still as a fuzzy stone. Applejack could tell that her blanket needed some tucking in, but... She closed the door instead. The mare stood there, alone on the second floor to her family's house, flanked by familiar portraits. So many faces amidst so much silence. Big Mac's snoring breaths redoubled, waking Applejack to the moment. She remembered how exhausted she was, and so she limped into her bedroom. In the moonlight, it glinted. Every fibrous strand. Blue and bluer. Applejack lingered at her bedside. Squatting. Hunched over. Her hat lay limply in both forelimbs, and she stared at the lone, tiny feather nestled within. She could scarcely move. Breaths and more breaths... At last, Applejack removed the feather from her mind by closing her eyes. Her thoughts wandered to a few hours before. The train ride home... The arrival at Ponyville station... ... Rainbow Dash hadn't said a single word the entire trip. Not to Applejack... not to anypony. She was dead tired... mostly asleep... and decidedly devoid of enthusiasm. What difference a night makes. Applejack had to wrestle with a heart-stabbing quandary: which was the 'real' Rainbow Dash? The one that was drunk? Or the one who suffered afterwards? Was there any 'truth' to Rainbow Dash when she was under the pressure of her own consequences? Applejack had saved her from a life in pony penitentiary, and only she knew about it. The weight was crushing—but she was still Applejack. What was Rainbow's excuse? A bitter lump formed in Applejack's chest, and it leaked upwards into her mouth. She frowned... shook... and finally found the strength to thrust the hat away. She plopped it firmly down atop the bedside table... and let loose a tense sigh. Bedtime. Limply, Applejack stood up, crossed the room, and settled at her vanity. She began the long, laborious task of un-ribboning her mane and brushing it straight. With each gesture, she couldn't help but wince. Each strand of hair—strands she had felt and managed all her life—suddenly felt very course and rough to the touch. She ignored it to the best of her ability and brushed with wild abandon. She avoided her own eyes in the mirror, settling for the shadows that lingered off the penumbra of moonlight. With a deep sigh, Applejack settled into bed. She pulled the covers up to her pony chest and... ...existed. "... ... ..." Her eyes traced the wooden ceiling of her wooden room. Everything was familiar, and yet she didn't feel like she belonged in there. An imposter had arrived home, and it was getting more and more difficult by the minute to shake her loose. The mare gnawed on her bottom lip. She looked towards the window right next to her bed. A brisk wind blew over Sweet Apple Acres. The trees shook, and in the distance Applejack could see gray stone shapes stabbing back at the moonlight from the top of a hill. With a foalish trilling sound, Applejack immediately turned to face the rest of her room, her back to the window. She saw galloshes lingering beneath a desk. A length of rope hanging over the corner of her bed. A raincoat and a saddle and... A bulletin board rested against the far wall. Several ribbons and medals were pinned to the surface, representing different years, all blue. Applejack held her breath. She knew something bluer. Breathing in and out... Trembling... ... She reached a hoof over to her bedside table... ... ... ...and turned her hat over. The feather rotated as the article shifted. Just as quickly, it shifted to a stop, catching the moonlight again. Soft and vibrant. Precious... but also precocious. It didn't belong there. It shouldn't have even made the long, crazy, secret journey there. And yet... here it was... And Applejack stared. And Applejack sighed. And Applejack remembered... Trembling little forelimbs. A tender heartbeat. Silk-soft hair... ...and a tiny voice—once brash—but now bleating. Cracking. Confessing. Six little words... then clinging. Applejack didn't know when or how it had happened, but she had brought her pillow down to her chest—and she was squeezing it tightly. Tenderly. With eyes locked on the feather, she leaned in and even nuzzled it, bathing her own freckles in rosy warmth. It wasn't quite as soft... but it didn't matter... ...the memories were fuzzy enough. And for one frighteningly lucid moment, there were no tears. There were no sighs. Only a smile... anchored safely in the sanctum of Applejack's room. It weighed her muzzle even deeper into her pillow as she surrendered to that meager softness... and was carried to slumber by the color of those fresh memories. Innocent and shameless.