Limestone woke up from her bed feeling hoarse and dry. Her eyelids stuck together from her weeping. She had to get to the bathroom first, before anypony found out she had been crying.
She took one step out into the hallway and knew the bathroom wouldn’t be a problem—they’d already left. The normal warmth of home felt drafty and hollow. Her steps echoed awkwardly as she marched to the sink.
She turned the faucet on and heard the telltale thunks of the water pump. The trickle of water sputtered and spat as the air was released from its bondage. She placed her hooves into the cold stream and brushed the gleaming drops across her eyes.
An odd whistle caught her ear. It was coming from the rafters. The wind. She never heard the house by itself before. Soon the whistle turned into a moan. Limestone sighed. She would show that fucking loose shingle something to moan about. After breakfast. Breakfast!
She raced down stairs and was greeted with a perfectly clean table and kitchen. No pony had left her anything! She had to make breakfast herself. The table shifted in the air as her hooves kicked in a huff. Luckily, the table was used to this kind of behavior and didn’t shatter like its predecessors had.
The grumbling mare opened up cabinet after cabinet searching for something she could make. Then it dawned on her. That dumb fuckhead friend of Pinkie’s had given her a gift for Hearth’s Warming.
As if that would make up for nearly destroying Holder’s Boulder. Still, it promised to be interesting.
She found the bag and instructions where she had placed them. She knew if she didn’t hide it then Pinkie would have eaten it, probably without cooking it first. The instructions said, “Howdy, sorry about last year. I didn’t mean to cause you such trouble. This here is my own famous flapjack recipe. Nothing better fer a fine breakfast. Share them with the family, cousin. AJ.”
The annoying mare had signed it with a heart. Or was that an apple? The lousy penmanship made it hard to read. But Limestone could make out the ingredients and the order in which to put them. She set about making her breakfast.
One burned hoof, one cracked, offending pan, and a few blackened trials later, Limestone was ready to eat. The bag had some sticky stuff in it as well: some sort of syrup that came from a tree. She poured it on top of the “flapjack.” She didn’t trust trees, but she tried nevertheless; after all, she’d already come this far.
The round, fluffy, sponge-like substance entered her mouth. As soon as her tongue touched it, it felt like she was punched by something Pinkie had made. The sugary flavor filled her mouth and blocked all her senses. Her mouth puckered up in response and her body shook slightly. How could ponies eat this stuff? However, Limestone had no alternative as her hunger took over. She quickly devoured the glucose laden, carb-filled disc.
Then she felt a strange, full sensation in her stomach.
“Ugh, what is this stuff?!” she whined to the empty chairs. “It’s like I swallowed a brick, and it keeps getting bigger!”
The floor came rushing to aid and caught her face as she collapsed. Its cold surface tried to help ease her suffering. It offered a nice hard friend to lean on.
Limestone just felt pain, from both her stomach and her head. The world spun from the glut of sugar, and she was pinned by excess carbs. She tried poking her tummy to remind it who was boss; the belly showed her who was really in charge.
“She tricked me. That stupid cowpony!” shouted Limestone. “Argh… I can barely move.”
The wind blew against that shingle again. It mocked her with its happy wail. At least Limestone thought it sounded happy. She would show that thing just as soon as she could move again. The downed mare struggled and wriggled, but in the end succumbed and fell asleep. The three remaining flapjacks waited for the fate they knew would befall them when she woke.
***
A blurry eye opened after what could have been hours later. Its owner shakily lifted herself off the floor and looked at the clock. It had been ten minutes.
Limestone prepared to take on the daily chores. The rocks in the south field had to be rolled. The north field boulders were ready to be broken. The crystals they grew were prized by the dragons in the north—the Pies had been dealing with them for generations.
She shifted her shoulders and prepared for a long day. Then she remembered: Pa had said to tend the farm, not the fields. She was supposed to be sick. She didn’t have to do anything but rest. She was free to do whatever she wanted, and nopony would even know.
Ten minutes later, Limestone found herself in the north field. The work still had to be done. She didn’t actually want to do it, but she knew it was her farm. If she was going to run it, she had to show the family that she could do it alone.
The wind had picked up, kicking up dust in massive clouds. The dust scratched along her flanks to the skin. She began breaking the ripe stones anyway; the wind should know better than to mess with her.
A mighty gust nearly blew her over as she raised her pick. She brought it down with a dull twang. The wind had stolen her momentum.
“Why, you fucking stupid weather?” shrieked the rock farmer. “I am harvesting this field!”
She quickly began chipping away at the largest specimen. The pick struck home but she needed a pry bar to crack the geode open. “Marble! Give me the pry bar,” hissed the stubborn mare. She didn’t dare remove the pick or the pressure would close her opening. She reached her hoof out for the pry bar that never came.
“Goddamn it, Marbleena, where is my fucking pry…”
The memory hit her like the pick in her mouth. Marble wasn’t there. No pony was there. This rock would have to be broken through sheer force. The hatred welled up in her. This was her farm. Her body. Her will! It should all listen.
A large crack was stolen by the wind as the rock revealed its bounty. Limestone stared at the split sphere. A smile of satisfaction spread across her face but was immediately pelted by sand borne by a gale. A storm was brewing in the distance. Darkness was surging its way towards the little farm. There was no way a bit of rain, sand and wind was going to stop her.
Limestone leapt back to work. Each small round boulder found its doom under the swing of her pick. The sand did not sway her. It poured on her ears and filled her mane. The pick did not stop. Mighty whacks cleaved the ore allowing the crystalline center to show through.
The wind was not impressed. It sent more sand, dust and debris at the hardworking mare. It would not let some mere earth pony defy its might. Sand blasted her. Each gust stripped Limestone’s patience, exposing her raw fury.
“You think you can beat mmphth—” she screamed as her mouth filled with sand. “I’m Lime ppthhf—“ another mouth of sand. “Limest pppth—” and another. “Dammit!”
But it did. Limestone dragged her pick through the stinging sand and sheer wind. She grumbled quietly to herself. This was not the way to show she deserved the farm. She wasn’t used to losing, but was smarter than she was stubborn.
She dropped her pick by the door in case the storm let up soon. A strange glow caught her eye and she wondered if she was delirious. Was Holder’s Boulder glowing? It was slight and only lasted for a second. Maybe it was just the way the sand reflected the light. She shook her head and entered her home.
A cold shower was normally a pleasant experience for the farm pony. It normally soothed her sore muscles and washed away any aches she had. The water normally exhilarated her. This time it just made her cold. Worse, it found its way into all the little open wounds and cuts that the sand had left. It didn’t make her feel good today, it just added to her misery.
The fireplace was lit and Limestone wrapped herself in a quilt. She sat in an armchair and sighed. This was tougher than she thought. The warmth of the covering made her sleepy. It was warm and comfortable in her cocoon against the storm. The shingle howled its protest but Limestone ignored it. She wasn’t going to get to it today. She wasn’t going to do anything today.
A familiar scent wafted up from the quilt. It was an old fragrance that sparked her memory: Grandma.
It was Grandma’s quilt.
She could almost see the old mare, sitting by the fire, weak limbs coiled under the quilt as she tried to absorb every last bit of warmth. She looked so small. So pathetic. She was always alone. Limestone hated seeing her. But now she understood why.
The scene before her seemed so inevitable, it almost felt set in stone. She would be here, alone, while the rest of the family lived their lives. She would grow older, and more angry and bitter. Soon they wouldn’t visit. She would be an old mare and no pony would even know her passing. She felt so old. And annoyed that there was still sand in her butt.
Time moved infinitesimally slow. The shingle yelled its call through the house. The sad mare shifted in her quilt. A gurgling sound reminded that her body needed nourishment after all that work. She had no energy left to make food.
Then her eyes alighted on the remaining flapjacks.
***
“Aargh! Why did I eat two?!” she writhed on the floor with her stomach bloated, feeling dizzy. “I even put that sticky stuff on it again!”
Limestone writhed on the floor once more. But she knew why: Dealing with this was easier than that quilt and chair. She knew she needed to change. She just didn’t know how.
The shingle screamed an awful scream. It was shrill and clear. It got louder and ended in a large crack. Limestone glared at the roof. How had the wind done that? It was just the wind, wasn’t it?
“Aaaaaaaaaa, heeelp! Somepony help!”
That wasn’t the shingle. It was a pony. Somepony needed her help. The pains of the flapjacks fled instantly. She was at the door peering through the darkened, sand-filled farm. “Hello?” she called out into the darkness.
“Hello? Is somepony out there? I need help!”
The voice was coming from Holder’s Boulder. Some mare was out there in this and touching Holder’s Boulder. She could feel it.
“I’m coming. Just don’t touch Holder’s Boulder!”
“What?! This rock is the only thing keeping me from falling off this cliff!”
“Alright, just don’t hurt it!” the farm pony assured. The wind and sand whipped at her face. She could see Holder’s Boulder and a small tuft of neon blue. “I see you! I’m almost there! Hang on!”
“No shit!” cried the blue mass. Limestone smirked. Finally, another pony not afraid to use profanity. She found a pair of blue hooves clinging tightly to her beloved landmark.
Strong rock-breaking hooves grabbed at the ones in front of her. Limestone strained and pulled the tuft up until it became a full-fledged pegasus. She didn’t stop to look and threw the pony around on her back.
For such a small creature, the pegasus weighed a lot. She must have been all muscle; Limestone could tell this was a strong pegasus to even try to fly in a storm like this.
Still, Limestone could bear it. She was tough. She walked with slow, steady plods into the farmhouse.
The rock-strong mare nearly collapsed into the home. She forced her legs to hold her through sheer will. No way would she show any weakness now. She gently placed her charge on the ground.
Limestone then realized that the blue she had seen before was actually a uniform. The pony beneath it was yellow, with a mane streaked in the same yellow and bright orange. Limestone could see that one wing was sticking out awkwardly.
This was a Wonderbolt; Limestone wasn’t so backwater that she didn’t recognize the uniform. However, she had no idea who this was, and the pegasus wasn’t talking. The mare had passed out from the strain.
Limestone sighed. She needed to get the Wonderbolt out of that uniform and set her wing. It was going to be very painful.
She felt a smile creep across her face.