//------------------------------// // Evening Star // Story: Tangled Roots // by Bad_Seed_72 //------------------------------// Evening Star Watching her mother slink away through the cold mansion, heading up to the master bedroom, Citrus Blossom shut the front door behind her, securing every latch and chain available. Though her heart had ran wild with fantasies of a burglar or worse—and she found that source of fear to be only Libra—she could not shake her paranoia. Citrus had heard many tales about the Manehatten streets. A few were bound to be too tall for their stature, but as for the rest… she didn’t want to gamble it. Assured by the satisfying click of secure strikes and armed tumblers, Citrus sauntered casually over to the dinner table, catching Babs Seed in the midst of an exciting story, Allspice listening intently. “An' then, I kicked the winnin’ goal, right befo' the bell rang! Saved by the bell again! POW!” Babs motioned with her hooves, imitating the proudest moment of her day. “An' then Rustla an' the others said, ‘We’ze gotta meet up every recess, Babs, an' show ‘em what the Manehatten CMC are made o'!’ Tough as nails, dat’s what we are!” Chortling heartily into her now-tepid bowl of root vegetable stew, Allspice caught eyes with Citrus Blossom and choked, “D-Do youze hear dat, Citrus? Our little seed has become a regular ol’ athlete now!” “It sure sounds like it,” Citrus said, smiling uneasily. Taking an empty stool at the dinner table, she turned to the foal with green eyes full of magic. “So, I take it that you had another good day, then, Babs Seed?” “O’ course! An' youze know what’s the best part, Citrus?” Allspice nudged Citrus, gesturing towards the pot of hot stew still simmering on the burner, inviting more ponies to come and lose themselves in its flavor. Citrus shook her head, knowing that any amount of food in her stomach would later betray her. Shrugging, Allspice rose from the table, grabbing another warm bowl while it lasted. “Sorry about that, sweetie.” Strands of her mane falling in her eyes, Citrus Blossom leaned down and urged her sister, “What was the best part?” “Boone an' the others. All o’ dem. Dey jus'… left me alone.” At the mention of the name Boone, Citrus Blossom braced herself, prepared for tales of another bloody battle or relentless teasing. But his name had graced the foal’s muzzle with nothing but a wide smile, as if he were her best friend in the world. Confusion racked her mind. Had not that colt been the same one whose comments had driven her to the edge a little over two weeks ago? Had not those foals made her sibling’s life a living nightmare for, as Babs had said, almost two years? Why would they just fold their cards after having thrown so many chips into the pot already? It made… it made… “That makes no sense, Babs,” she blurted, flabbergasted. “These… these are the same bullies as before, right?” Babs nodded. “Youze got dat right.” “… Do you know what caused this?” Babs Seed shook her head. “Not a clue in Equestria. I ain’t complainin’ though, Citrus. How can I? Things jus' got a million times betta, between dis an' the Manehatten Cutie Mark Crusadas.” Citrus Blossom could not deny this truth, though it was a hard pill to swallow. She had a habit of celebrating early, of counting her chicks before their beaks had even begun to chip at their eggshells, and she wanted to dance and sing and spin her sister around in joy. Things like the orange tree in the garden and the recollection of a shivering foal in her hooves crashed the party before it even started. ~ Before releasing her into the grip of homework, Citrus Blossom had warned Babs Seed that she would be knocking at her door later, that she had something important she wanted to talk about. Chills ran down the foal’s spine at the latter fragment, knowing that phrasings like that preceded nothing easy to say. Sometimes the right words followed those kind of introductions, sometimes not—but the right way is never the easy way. Breezing through a round of physics papers decorated by her instructor with diagrams of foals as objects in motion meeting brick walls at rest (the stallion’s dark humor never leaving her without both a laugh and a sideways glance), Babs sat on the ground, bouncing a ball against the wall of her bedroom, bored out of her skull. Across the Orange Family Mansion, in the master bedroom, she could hear her parents raising their voices, and accelerated the pace of her play. Throw the ball at the wall. The wall tosses it back. Catch it in your hoof. Throw it again. Rinse, repeat. Lather, rinse, sanitize, dry. Babs heard a crash and several more minutes of loud voices before the cries were silenced. Throw the ball again. And again. Welcome to Boredom, population Babs Seed. Several minutes passed before her hoof connected at an odd angle, sending the toy rolling under her bed. “Aww… c’mon!” She groaned, unwilling to wage war against years of dust bunnies that called the space between floorboard and box spring home. She had never been one to order servants around, and felt violated when their schedules demanded that they tidy up her room. None of them seemed to remember to dust under the bed, and she didn’t seem to care enough to mention it. Now I need ta get a new ball. Dat one’s good as gone. Sighing, she rose from the floor, trotting over to the window. The light-keepers had just begun their rounds, putting a few torches to streetlamps, the greatest star of all beginning to ebb and fade with the tide of oceans far beyond. Wind teased a few leaves from some trees in the gardens below her height of heights, sending them on a trajectory down the cobblestone streets. Sometimes… I look at these streets, an' I feel at home. In spite o' everythin’… I feel at home when I think o' runnin’ again. Wind through ma mane, silence o' the dark envelopin’ me, like a blanket o' stars. I… I know I shouldn’t, but… Babs Seed had not forgotten her nightmare—the cold, dark void in Card Slinger’s eyes appeared in her mind when she least expected it, rushing adrenaline through her veins. The line between reality and fantasy began to blur the more she thought on it. The cobblestones had been as solid as they ever were, the night air as tempting as it had always been. She could still feel the pierce of alcohol-stained glass against her throat, expecting to fall inside the black once the colt had had his vengeance… Though the wind possessed no bite, she shivered. No. Stop it. Youze is scarin' youzeself. Shaking herself out of it, Babs Seed rose from the window and headed over to her work desk in the opposite corner of the room. “How could I’ve forgotten?” she wondered aloud, nearly smacking herself. “I still need ta write dat letter. The fillies back in Ponyville will be so happy ta get it!” Digging through a box of school supplies and finding her weapons of choice—a sheet of clean parchment and a sharpened graphite pencil—Babs set to work putting hoof to paper. She scrawled quickly, expecting at any moment to hear the thundering of Citrus’ hooves on her oak and face the waves of anxiety that churned against the cliff-faces of her soul. Feeling pragmatic (and wanting to say a few specific words to only one of the three Ponyville residents), Babs Seed addressed her letter to Apple Bloom. “Apple Bloom, How are you and the girls doing? I hope the CMC is having a lot of fun back at the clubhouse and you got a lot of crusading in. I hope, too, that Diamond Tiara and Silver Spoon keep their dirty hooves out of it. If they didn’t get the message the first time, just let me know and I’ll come and show ‘em how we do things in the big city. Heh, heh. No, but seriously, have they wised up yet? You wouldn’t believe what’s happened here! Greyhoof, our butler, quit a few days ago. He…” She paused, wondering if writing to Apple Bloom could be as safely free as speaking with her. Wouldn’t Applejack be able to open the letter before she could see it? Of course she would. Applejack had the farm to run and her hooves within reach of the mailbox all day, while Apple Bloom had school to attend and would be at least a mile out of the cross-eyed mailmare’s delivery. Maybe I shouldn’t… but… Applejack wouldn’t read a letter dat wasn’t addressed ta her… right? Dat is kind o’ dishonest. Remembering her cousin’s Element, though still reluctant to spill the beans all over the ink, Babs Seed settled on a compromise in her composition. “He’s had enough of it here. I’ve heard whispers at school that there are big things happening out west right now. Not west as in Ponyville, but way beyond there. Appleloosa and beyond. Speaking of which, have you ever met Braeburn? I never have, though Mom says we’ll head out there someday. Citrus says he’s sweet, and that he’s close to the Buffalo tribe. I wonder what they must be like. Anyhoo, I’ve started the Manehatten branch of the CMC here, and I have FOUR members! FOUR! Can you believe it, cuz?! I’m a leader now. It still sounds strange when I say it. The foals trust me now, and even let me join their hoofball games at recess. I’m one heckuva athlete, I guess—we won today. I hope things are good back home, and I hope I can see you and Sweetie Belle and Scootaloo and Applejack and Big Mac and Granny Smith real soon. Oh, and Winona. And I can’t get over that apple pie. Seriously. Allspice could never come close to it. —Babs P.S. Don’t show the next few lines to anypony." Blushing furiously, she scanned over her shoulders, searching for watchful eyes in the shadow of the setting sun’s dusk. She was alone, hunched over her desk, pencil smashed against paper. Nopony would be able to read any of her words unless she allowed them. She was safe. Babs blushed anyway, turning an even deeper shade of red. “P.P.S. I think about the last night sometimes… I miss you. When are you gonna come up here, or am I gonna have to come to you again? I don’t think I can convince Dad to get me another train ticket. P.P.P.S. Seriously, you didn’t tell anypony about that, did you??” The room suddenly grew very hot, and Babs had to run to the open window, taking in deep hits of the night air within her lungs until she didn’t feel as dizzy. ~ Knock, knock. Oh, heeya we go. Knock, KNOCK. “Comin’, Citrus!” ~ Madhoof held the bag of ice between his legs, clenching his teeth so tightly he could feel his molars beginning to whittle down enamel on both halves of his jaws. Two of his lesser servants—both black stallions with greased-back manes and finely pressed suits—tended to his every need, bringing him everything but liquor. Libra had been firm in her instructions. He rolled back and forth in his fetal position on the floor, feeling rays of moonlight illuminating him, highlighting his humiliation for all the world to see. “More ice,” he cried, his body a furnace that melted away his only source of relief. “Of course, sire,” one of his nameless cronies replied, bowing, stepping back into the dark. They had sworn by their necks not to speak a word of this. Their master knew they would keep their promises, as long as they valued the sight of the rising sun or the sensation of breathing. Libra Scales had made arrangements downstairs in one of the guest bedrooms, seeking shelter from the storm that began to churn in the high seas, gathering speed by the minute. With every drop of blood and sweat, the waves climbed, threatening her with a tsunami. No sirens or strobe lights were needed to get her to evacuate. She would huddle in the dark, listening for signs of betrayal, until the storm passed, until the time for mourning had gone away and the time of rebuilding drew her near. Bernie Madhoof, however, had other ideas, and every neuron that fired electrical signals of agony, from his forehead to his hooves, only fueled his fantasies. ~ Listening to the crickets begin their symphony, a chorus of insects raising their fiddles to the rising of the moon, Babs Seed and Citrus Blossom laid on the foal’s bedroom floor, searching for patterns among the accent walls. Babs Seed had asked to go down into the garden so they could identify the constellations, but Citrus had demanded as gently as possible that they needed to stay indoors, and in Babs's room specifically. Accent walls were nowhere as wondrous or vast as the canvas of Princess Luna, but they fit the bill well enough. “I always thought dat corner looked the most like a dragon,” Babs explained, pointing towards the southwestern intersection of drywall. “Hmm… I guess…I guess I see it.” “Youze have ta look pretty hard. Prolly won’t see it unless youze give it enough looks.” “Ha, you’re probably right. I always wondered why you liked these colors so much, sweetie. Red, orange, yellow. The colors of sunset, aren’t they?” “An' flame,” Babs said, watching her sister’s reaction from the corner of her eye. “Fire. Dat’s what I think o' when I see sunsets. It’s like the entire atmosphere is on fire, like the sun’s fallin’ off the edge o' the edge an' takin’ everythin’ down wit' it. Dat’s what I used ta think when I was littler. Dat the sun was on fire.” Citrus giggled. “You have quite an active imagination.” Laughing back, Babs Seed said, “Yea, I guess youze is right. I’ve had a lot o' time ta think fo' myself, youze know? Lost in thought an' all o' dat.” “Yeah.” Citrus exhaled, turning to face the foal. “Speaking of which, I—“ “Dis is 'bout the dream, right?” Babs said, anticipating Citrus Blossom's next steps in this tango of words. “Youze wanted ta know what I was dreamin’ 'bout last night.” Taking the foal’s forehooves in hers, Citrus began the dance, leading with grace and subtlety. “Well… actually, I was going to share my dream with youze. It was rather interesting, too. But, now that you mention it, dear, I am quite curious. You were quite distressed, after all.” Cornered like a beast fat for the slaughter. Plucked like a ripe grape off the vine. Card Slinger’s eyes grew wide and dark. “... Finish what we started,” he said, his voice smooth as saw blades, carving the glass into her as if she were a weakened tree with dried-up roots… Citrus caught the flash of reminiscence in her sister’s eyes, a spark before the wildfire. “Honey, I would never, ever,” she began, squeezing one small orange hoof between her two cream ones, “ever make you talk about anything you don’t want to… I just… I’m worried, alright?” “When are youze never worried?” Babs snapped, reaching deep into the corners of her mind with a broom and dustpan, sweeping up all semblance of blood-red colts and broken cider bottles. “Please! Don’t be angry,” Citrus said gently, letting her mask chip away. “I just want to help, Babs.” “Help what?” “Youze. You’re not happy, are you?” … Don’t go there… “Are youze deaf? Things have been goin' great!” Babs retracted her hooves, brushing off the intimacy, gesturing wildly at the accent walls. They were her audience of choice now, eyes refusing to meet the mare beside her. “I’ve got ma own branch o' the Cutie Mark Crusaders, been kickin’ flank on the field, ‘nother meetin’ scheduled fo' Friday—can’t wait, by the way—an' dem bastards at school act like I’ve up an' gone ghost. Hay, the only thing dat could make things better is iffa Greyhoof came back, but I wouldn’t do dat ta him.” “There!” Citrus snapped, rising from her back to her hooves. “There! You see? Greyhoof! Is that what you’ve been dreaming about?” … I don’t wanna insult the stallion, he was a nice guy an' all, but I would never think o' him like… dat... “Youze is ridiculous, Citrus,” Babs said, sticking her tongue out in disgust. “Greyhoof was like, what, sixty?” Blushing at the innuendo, Citrus Blossom felt her cheeks begin to match her mane. “That isn’t what I meant! You know what I meant! I mean, what happened between him and Dad, how do you feel about that?” Babs hesitated. She had not given much thought to the words of her father, to the force of his hooves against the butler’s cheek. In spite of the stallion’s venom and the sight of his fangs, Babs could not crush this adder beneath her hooves quite yet, could not dismiss her “old man” completely. Though she knew what it was like to feel abandoned, Babs Seed could not yet toss that burden upon another, even a stallion like her father. What am I supposed ta feel? When he isn’t gone, o' locked up in his room, like he usually is, he doesn’t say much ta me… an' when he does, it’s never pretty. “I’m happy fo' Greyhoof, sis. Even if dat would have never happened, he’s got the wild callin’ ta him. Youze have heard 'bout the west, right? The mines an' fields?” Citrus nodded as Babs continued, “Well, there youze go. He wants a fresh start. An' he don’t deserve what Da’ has done ta him.” Silence. Citrus sighed, reluctant to declare that her hopes had been dashed, Babs a much more experienced dancer than her, sashaying around topics that were too deep and difficult. She wanted to grab Babs Seed by the forehooves and pull her into the depths. Instead, she happily pony-paddled in the shallow end. “So… there’s nothing wrong, then?” Focusing on memories of the hoofball goal and the Manehatten CMC’s first group high-hoof, Babs Seed smiled and answered, “Nope.” There was one card that Citrus had not yet pulled from her sleeve. Citrus tended to side with the voice of conservatism, looking to tradition for guidance. Tonight, however, she needed everything hidden in her bag of tricks against this magician of a foal. Citrus cast her spell. “Okay, then, answer me this… did anything happen in Ponyville to cause the nightmare, then? Is there something that happened there that I don’t know about?” Babs's smile sank like a stone in the sea, feeling her heart begin to race. Oh, Celestia, does she… how could she… no, it’s impossible! I— “Anything at all, Babs?” Sputtering, feeling her cheeks begin to match her own mane as well, Babs gasped back, “L-like wha? W-what are youze t-t-thinkin’?” She felt the thundering foal within her ribcage stretch and stir, beginning a steady uphill climb, sweating through her coat. Oh, c’mon, Babs, youze can deflect dis one… youze don’t needa tell her dat jus' yet… Babs rose to her hooves and began to dig one of them into the floorboards beneath, as if the room was a desert and she was searching desperately for a spring below the sands. Citrus Blossom eyed this behavior curiously, not sure of what it might imply. “Well… I just want to make sure those fillies—Metal Crown and Brass Fork, weren’t they? No? Oh, well, that, whoever they were, that they hadn’t… done more than you said—” “No! Diamond Tiara an' Silver Spoon? Pfft!” Babs let a hoof flop at her sister, pushing away her anxieties as she realized that Citrus Blossom had no idea what had been running through Babs’ mind. “Dey’re nothin’! Why, youze shoulda seen their faces at the train station, Citrus! Dey won’t be givin’ Apple Bloom an' her friends any guff iffa dey know what’s good fo' 'em!” A slight twinge of relief vibrated across Citrus's heartstrings. “That’s good, sweetheart. I’m glad. I was just worried, youze know? I mean, nightmares are never good. Dreams are the way our mind works out our own fears and desires, and bad ones mean… well… they mean something’s off.” Giving her one last opportunity to fess up to some real or imagined trauma, Citrus Blossom waited. And waited. A minute passed. More silence. Sighing, Citrus rose on all fours, stretching her limbs. She looked down at her sibling, searching for lies escaping from those green windows. She detected no fibbing in those pupils. “See?” Babs said, as if she had been suddenly blessed with telepathy. Trotting to meet her sister in the slowly rising moonlight, nuzzling locks of Citrus's mane, she added, “Youze worry too much.” Citrus pulled the foal into a hug against her hooves, brushing one long strand of mane out of Babs Seed's eyes. “That’s what Mom says, too.” “Maybe we should listen ta her more, o' summat.” “Probably.” “Oh! Befo' I forget, Citrus…” Wiggling out of the embrace, Babs Seed happily trotted over to her desk, returning with a tightly-wrapped scroll in her mouth. “Can youze send dis ta Sweet Apple Acres?” Gently taking the scroll, shaking saliva off it as she did (to her sister’s awkward grin), Citrus Blossom nodded. “Of course, sweetie. I’ll send it first thing in the morning. I’m sure Applejack and Apple Bloom will be happy to get it.” “I sure hope so,” Babs Seed whispered as her sister began to turn and trot away, feeling all kinds of nerves begin to fire again within her chest. ~ Hoisted into bed by the two lesser beings, Bernie Madhoof could no longer fight against the call of the Sandmare. He still ached, but after emptying both the kitchen and basement ice chests, he felt that his blood had cooled enough to allow him rest. As a final request, one of the servants brought a fan into the room, angling it to chop and cool the air where it counted. Without a single word of thanks, Bernie Madhoof dismissed his subjects from his throne room, the king wishing to recover from his battle-scars in peace. 75-25. Those four numbers broke all treaties, a banner of warfare flying rebelliously in the sanctity of his own four walls. 75-25. Mutiny. “It should be 0-100,” Bernie Madhoof muttered, the whirring of the fan his only companion in the dark. ~ The night was so beautiful, so pristine, incredible beyond the boundaries of language. There was no way it could have been real. The hooves of the night alicorn must have commissioned it herself, giving up her talents to the Most High. And the Most High never failed to deliver, creating a masterpiece that brought tears to the deep-blue alicorn’s eyes. She shared it with all of her subjects, young and old, male and female, beckoning them with winking stars to join in its revelry. Babs was powerless in the grasp of true beauty. She wandered the cobblestone roads, searching for a companion. This most wondrous of nights demanded love cast its spell beneath the skies, and oh, how she ached for love in all its forms. She searched the alleyways, peeked around all corners, finding nopony, the last remaining survivor in a post-apocalyptic scene of wonder and terror. She laid down in the middle of the street, weeping. Her heart was breaking in all its broken places, and cracking in what little solid foundation that remained. She had tried so hard, searched both high and low, and what did she find? She was abandoned, again. Left alone to suffer and cry beneath a mocking blanket of stars. The cold, hard ground, then, was her pillow, and she laid her head down, closed her eyes. Slumber did not grace her, but somepony else did. Lifting her muzzle at the trotting of hooves behind her, she turned to see her savior, her messiah, her rescuer, her superhero, her first friend in all of the cobblestones of Manehatten. White-aproned and bow-tied, the bartender and barber stared down at the filly lying at his hooves. “Turner!” Babs leapt to all fours, shaggy bobtail and expertly-shaped mane waving excitedly in the night breeze. “Oh, Turner, I’d thought I’d neva see youze again!” The stallion said nothing, stoic, unmoving. “Turner?” His eyes met hers, saying nothing. His maw was expressionless, his deep, brown irises staring somewhere off into the distance. Fearing he had gone deaf, the foal took a step towards her savior. She was greeted by a wall of flame. Fires hissing with the rage of dragons sprang inches from her hooves, sending her flying backwards onto her haunches. A few spirals of burning heat became tenfold, surrounding her in a circle, separating her from the stone-cold stallion. “Turner! Turner, help me!” she pleaded, feeling the flames begin to glow with white-hot intensity, waves of heat making her nauseous, making it hard to breathe. “He won’t help youze.” Turning on the diameter of a bit, Babs screamed, muzzle-to-muzzle with her greatest enemy. Card Slinger stood before her, unaffected by the flames. Unwavering in the face of the heat, Card Slinger laughed cruelly, his teeth razor-sharp and blindingly white in the darkness. “Don’t youze get it, bitch? Youze broke youze end o' the bargain, an' now, youze is all mine.” “He is right,” Turner called from beyond the wall, his voice booming like the voice of an ancient god. “We had an agreement, kid. You broke your promise, you rotten foal! Do you think you could torment three little fillies and get away with it? And you had the nerve to get funny with one of them on top of that?” “Turner, please!” She felt tears begin to flow down her cheeks. “I didn’t mean ta be such a bad foal, such a bad seed! I... I was jus' scared, an' angry, an' tired, an'—“ “What does it matta, blankflank?” Slinger hissed, his eyes becoming pools of deep, dark nothingness, a void that threatened to swallow her whole. “Vows are vows. Even lowlifes like me know dat. Youze picked youze poison, youze made youze choice, an' now… it’s time ta pay the piper.” She felt the full weight of him barrel down against her, trapping her on the cobblestones, one forehoof revealing a large, jagged, black dagger, the other pressing down on her trachea. Eyes full of tears, she looked up at Turner, only to see that he had been joined by several other ponies. Father and Mother Orange, Citrus Blossom, Greyhoof, Allspice, Applejack, and even the Ponyville CMC joined him. Their eyes became shallow pools of blackness, drilling into her, watching with emotionless muzzles as she struggled against the colt’s hooves. “Your sins have brought you here,” Turner bellowed, his voice shaking the Earth, “and they will take you away with them.” Card Slinger brought the blade into the moonlight. ~ Bolting upright, Babs Seed felt her chest rise and fall rapidly, her lungs burning with need. She gasped, a fish out of water flailing under the unforgiving blaze of the desert sun. It’s jus' a dream, she thought, repeating the phrase as if it were her salvation. It’s jus' a dream, jus' a dream, jus' a dream, jus' a DREAM! She shoved her face into her pillow and screamed, feeling sobs begin to wrack her from the soul outwards through her bones, blood, muscle, nerves, and fur, unleashing a torrent of fear and anger. Weeping into the pillow until the down feathers within it were soaked, she collapsed, exhausted. Somewhere in the Heavens, the guardian of the evening star, the mare in the moon herself, began to stir.