//------------------------------//
// Chapter Seven: Sadly Ever After 
// Story: APP: The Fall of a Pink Pony 
// by Underwood 
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This room was disgusting. Mould lined the skirting boards, the floors and ceiling were warped and rotten, and dust was so encrusted into the fabrics that climbing onto the bed barely disturbed any of it. She didn't care. She deserved this. A useless pony in a useless house, just as abandoned as she was. She would never throw another party again. There was a sharp stab in her chest as she thought this, but the pain was less than before, numbed by the acceptance of her fate. This was her life now. Alone. Pained. Worthless.

Unexpected scratching at the door brought her mind back to reality with a start. Was it a monster? Timberwolves? Was this all an elaborate ruse by the small one? Had it left to get its friends a few hours ago? Was she about to become timber treats? Was this it? The end? A pause to the scratching and a few small whines stayed her paranoia. It sounded... sad. She rolled off the bed and walked to the door, cracking it open to cautiously peek at the visitor. Surely enough, she was greeted by the familiar, scarred face of her deserter, standing there with a mouth full of fresh mushrooms, just like before. His droopy leaf-brows perked up at the sight of the door opening, causing some of his delivery to drop to the ground in his excitement.

“You... came back.” A tired smile crossed her face. It had all been in her head.

	She leaned forward and scratched the timberwolf where his ear might have been, which he seemed to like, causing his mouth to open and drop the entirety of his bounty on the floor. She chuckled.

“You're going to need to show me where you find these.”

Sitting just outside the house, the two shared a meal as the sun began to rise; or rather, the pony ate her meal, while the timberwolf watched. Finishing her food, Pinkie returned to the well to test its viability, as she hadn't had a drink in some time. To her relief, the weathered bucket brought up a brimful of drinkable—if somewhat stale—water, along with some easily-removable algae. This wasn't Ponyville, she didn't have the luxury of being picky, but what this raggedy old hut lacked in charm, it made up for with the bare necessities. Winter could be problem, given the lack of insulation and blankets, but that was a problem for future-Pinkie, and right now she only wanted to live in the present.

As she stared off into the distance, the small timberwolf joined her at the well, seeming quite interested in the half-full, slowly leaking pail. Noticing him sniffing around—or whatever he was doing—by her side, she lowered the bucket down to the grass for him to inspect properly. Now able to get a good look inside it, Pinkie watched as the creature dunked its snout in and out of the container repeatedly, sort of like a bird. Not having a throat, she supposed it was absorbing the water directly through its 'skin'.  It made sense that he had to drink; trees need water too, even with their photo-whatever. She couldn't help but wonder what he was like on the inside... Was he nothing but twigs and wood all the way through, or did he have some kind of magic core keeping him together? She certainly wouldn't be the one to answer these kinds of questions. Somepony else would have had a field day, though.

The two sat in front of the well as they watched the rising sun slowly illuminate the windowed side of the house, casting golden rays over the cobblestone chimney stack and slanted wooden beams of the roof. As terrifying as this forest could be, there was an odd serenity in this clearing. The cold and earthy morning air felt like it was cleansing her mind, overwhelming her senses to the point that she couldn't feel the pain in her heart, or the voices in her head. She didn't feel alone while the wooden canine was by her side.

The couple sat in relaxed silence for a short while before Pinkie got up and returned to the house. She had left the door open in an attempt to air out the dust-encrusted room, though it was proving difficult without any circulation. It certainly wasn't as fresh as the air outside—even if it was just as cold—but her ability to breath without choking was a sign of progress. Making her way over to the bed, she began to pummel the mattress and sheets with her hooves, billowing large clouds of dust into the air. She was hoping to dislodge as much of the settled grime as she could, though she had to admit that it was pretty cathartic too. Losing herself in the emotional venting for a moment, she suddenly realised that she could barely see, let alone breathe in all this kicked up filth.  Running back outside as the stagnant wave chased her, she concluded that it would probably be best to beat them outside next time.

Hearing the commotion, the young timberwolf perked up and walked over to the coughing pony, who had just turned the corner.

“I'm fine, I'm fine,” she strained, still trying to clear the air around her.

With a determined breath, Pinkie returned to the doorframe, already having to squint through the freshly agitated atmosphere. Walking forward with one leg shielding her eyes and nose, she disappeared into the beige miasma, returning a few seconds later with the off-white pillow draped over her back. The curious wooden creature watched its pony friend whack the hay-filled object a few times, releasing additional clouds of dust into what was once fresh air. Not entirely understanding what was going on, the young pup edged his way back into the room, examining the particles in the air and recently assaulted bed-covers. Pinkie leaned around the doorframe to see what he was doing. After seeming to sniff around the area a bit, he walked over to the empty space opposite the coat rack and settled down. He didn't seem bothered by the thick dust filling the interior. She had to wonder again if he was actually capable of smelling. If timberwolves were simply territorial instead of predatory, maybe they didn't need to smell? Maybe it was some kind of... moisture sense? Or heat? She really needed to stop asking these unanswerable questions.

Waiting for the dust to settle and aiding its extraction by waving the pillow around, Pinkie finally made her way into the house and closed the door. She had done enough for today; she was tired, and her companion seemed to be as well, despite the sun rising outside. It was a little sad to see him curled up on a hardwood floor without anything to call his bed. She didn't know if timberwolves could even feel comfort, but it would at least make her feel better if she did something about it. Tomorrow, though. Making her way over to the bed, she threw the pillow back to where it had come from, once again kicking up a light cloud of grime. Stifling her coughs, she gingerly lay down on the bed, careful to not cause another dust cloud. The room was cold, almost as bad as sleeping outside, minus the wet grass, and now filling with morning light. It was a far cry from her accommodation one week ago.  

Curling up into a ball and carefully trying to make the most of the thin sheets, she closed her eyes and tried to ignore the shivering. She hadn't realised just how cold she was, probably due to all the panic and walking, but now that she was lying still, it was really starting to get to her. It was too bad that timberwolves weren't warm-blooded—being made out of wood—or they could have cuddled up together, even if he was made of sharp twigs. She considered starting a fire in the ample fireplace, but remembered stories from Sweet Apple Acres about aggressive timberwolves being fended off with torches. Like any moist or living wood, timberwolves weren't explicitly flammable, but probably fear fire more than your average wild animal. Her sleepy mind wandered further, wondering how timberwolves felt about wooden furniture and buildings. Was it offensive to them? Threatening? Perhaps they didn't even recognise it as wood anymore? How did they feel about trees? Were they like relatives, or just scenery to them?

It didn't take long for the weary pony's thoughts to carry her off to a deep, dreamless sleep. Morning followed with a cylinder of light cast through the east-facing window and some confusion. Had she only slept a few hours? No, the sun had already risen. Had she slept for a full day? Fresh scratches marking the now-open door suggested that was the case. Aching and light-headed, Pinkie rose from the cocooned sheets and made her way to the door.

“T- uh, Timberwolf?” She called out the best she could with such a dry mouth.

Squinting from the surprisingly warm glow of today's sun, the pink pony made her way to the well for a much-needed drink. Sure enough, it didn't take long for her reliable friend to return, once again burdened with edible gifts. Once she had eaten, the puppy delivered on her earlier request to see where he found these supplies, leading her to some edible berry bushes and mushrooms growing in hollow tree stumps. When they returned, Pinkie brought her dirty bedding outside and beat them a little more, before washing them the best she could in well-water and draping them over some fallen branches. While looking for suitable branches to prop the sheets up, she also collected as many bendy sticks as she could, with the intention of weaving them into a basket for her friend. The day ended with another food hunt, and a bitter pony cursing her still-damp linens.

The following day moved just as slowly as the first, starting with some breakfast scavenging—this time together—and attempting to make a sleeping-basket, with unfavourable results. By the end of the day, Pinkie had managed to weave a couple of twigs together, and finally had some dry bedding to sleep in. The day after was much the same: looking for food, drinking from the well, attempting to weave the basket, vain attempts at house-cleaning with a leafy branch, and trying to make the most out of the lumpy, straw mattress at night. This deep in the forest, so far away from civilisation, it was surprising how fast time began to lose meaning. Hours smeared into days; days into weeks; weeks into... who knew how long? Each day was bookended by a trip through the ring of poison joke that seemed to completely surrounded the clearing, though Pinkie never noticed any effects from the constant contact. Food and water were surprisingly plentiful, and the monotony of simply surviving day-to-day seemed to make her old worries fade away. Was this what it felt like to have no friends? She never could have imagined it before, but this... this wasn't so bad, was it?

… Was it?

Pinkie shook off her vacant stare, having been lost in thought once again, as was common these days. She was sitting across from her timberwolf companion, either side of a small colony of bioluminescent mushrooms they had found some time ago. He had been quite vocal about these not being edible when they first discovered them, though she didn't really need to be told that. When you've lived off the land for as long as she has, you pick up a sense of what's good and what isn't. Nature's little warning signs. But they weren't here to eat, it was just a nice place to relax after the sun had gone down.

How long had she been here, exactly, in this forest? There were no landmarks in time to grasp onto; no defining moments besides hunger, thirst and fatigue. Pinkie shook her head, trying to clear her mind of the dark, invasive thoughts that seemed to hang over her these days... weeks... months? She hadn't even come up with a name for her friend yet, after all this time. Yeah, friend. He was her friend, wasn't he. He might not be a pony or much of a conversationalist, but he was still here, by her side, however long that had been. She needed to remember that. She wasn't alone, and he deserved a name that was as important to her as he was.

“Kumquat.”

Her voice was a little hoarse from lack of use—again, no pun intended—and took the dozing lupine by surprise, causing him to raise his head. She didn't know why, but speaking that one word out loud made her suddenly realise just how exhausted she was. Despite her drooping eyelids, she looked across to her companion with a weary smile.

“It's one of my favourite words. Kumquat. It's fun to say.”

She knew he didn't understand what she was saying, and it would probably take quite some time for him to associate that word with himself, but she knew it was the perfect fit. This fatigue had really caught up with her, though. It was time to go home. She got up from the tree stump she was sitting on and walked over to her friend's side, who followed suit.

“I'd like it to be your name, a reminder of something from before... Something that brings a smile to my face. Something that hasn't been spoilt. If you don't mind it, of course.”

The newly named Kumquat looked up at her and tilted his head. Of course he didn't understand, why would he? She weakly smirked and rubbed his head with her hoof. The two set off back to the hut, leaving the faint glow of the mushrooms behind them under the starry sky.

She was so lucky to have found this place, she thought, as she sat on the edge of her bed, staring at the intricately carved fireplace through the pitch-black. Kumquat was curled up in his hoofmade wicker basket, already sleeping peacefully. She was so lucky. She couldn't even remember what there was to miss outside of the forest anymore. This was all that she needed. This was her life. Just her, Kumquat, and a lifetime of simplicity. No parties, no ponies, no pain. Just him, her, and the flowers...