Epilogue
Pinkie Pie Gets The Last Word
Tales had managed to wrangle a place to sleep at Sugarcube Corner. They weren’t in the business of renting rooms they said, but in his case, they could make an exception. It was a store room really, and he was sleeping on flour sacks and that meant a sneezing fit every time he turned over, but in all honesty anything was better than a park bench. He might be used to sleeping al fresco, but that didn’t mean he enjoyed it.
He was up bright and early, the moment light crept through the small, dusty window. He hopped up off the pile of sacks and brushed the flour off his coat. Then he patted it out of his mane. Then he had to upend his bowler hat to empty it. God, it was worse than the dust at Burning Mare festival.
He tip-toed through the empty cafe, hoping the Cakes wouldn’t mind the trail of white hoof prints. He opened the door as quietly as he could, and was about to leave, when he heard a creak behind him. He turned, to see Pinkie sitting on the stairs, quite calmly. Tales winced. He expected her to go off at any minute and start yammering, but strangely she stayed still.
She smiled at him oddly instead. That was probably worse.
“My parents always used to tell stories, every night,” she said quietly, casting her eyes low, “to me and my sisters.”
Tales was, for a moment, stuck for words.
“That’s... nice,” he said, edging out the door. He’d had a good run and all, but he really had to go...
“And there used to be caravans that came past the farm every couple of months. Roamer travellers. Gypsies. They always used to tell stories too...”
“Uhuh, uhuh,” said tales, still trying to get away as politely as possible. “Look, I have-”
“Stop leaving, I’m trying to talk to you,” said Pinkie, flashing Tales a glare that... well, he didn’t want to see it again in a hurry. He wondered where mares learnt such sharp looks. Pinkie bit her lip and looked bashful for a moment. “I just wanted to say, it’s nice to hear them again like that. Thank you.”
“Uhuh?” said Tales, his voice wobbling in disbelief. He’d had it all wrong. Here was someone who had always known the right kind of storytelling. She was a kindred spirit. She was a fellow northerner. His mind raced for the right words.
“All this time, then?” he said at last. “You knew?”
She shrugged. “I wanted it to be like the first time. I wanted to show everyone what it was like.”
Tales nodded, slowly. She was smarter than she looked.
“One thing, though,” he said, head tilted. “Where are you-”
“Near Herd’s Hollow,” she said, simply. “So I’m not that northern.”
He nodded sagely.
“Well, it’s been... an experience,” he said, smiling. “I’ll tell them all the proper story of Nightmare Moon at Connemara.”
“You better,” said Pinkie, smiling back. “Oh, and one more thing.”
She trotted down and slid a box off the counter and passed it to Tales. The label read ‘Cupcakes. Party-grade. Do not drop’. Below that, it said ‘For: Peppermint Twist (birthday)’, but someone had crossed that out. With pink crayon.
“For the road.”
Tales must have been a proper storyteller, because he took them without a thought. He held the box by the strings.
“Thanks,” he said, around his new burden.
“No problem,” said Pinkie, her smile growing into a grin. Tales could see the spell of calm was wearing off, so he chose his moment to go.
“Goodbye, madam Pie,” he said, bowing his head and holding his hat to his chest with a flourish. Pinkie giggled and bowed back
.
Tales gave her a wink, and left with his swag. He trotted out of the door, and into the early morning sunshine. It looked like they’d make it a nice day today, with a clear sky and warm air. Say what you want about the south, they knew how to put on a good summer.
He headed down the road east out of Ponyville, the road that led to the the coast, and led from there, to the boat to Connemara. It seemed so... straightforward when he thought about it like that.
Too straightforward, really. Maybe... maybe he should take take the long way around. There were a few small towns between here and there he fancied visiting. Plus, he had some new stories to practice now. Whyever not, he thought.
That too, seemed like a good idea at the time. Maybe it was.