Apples And Oranges
Citrus Blossom was not an insomniac by nature. From her fillyhood onwards, she had slept as peacefully as any angel from beyond the realms of Equestria. The Sandmare, up until recently, had welcomed her with open hooves, guiding her into the depths of her dreams of fashion and fame. If things had not occurred as they did—if there was nothing to pin this restlessness upon—the mare would have been concerned for her sanity.
That didn’t matter now.
Toss, turn. Stare at the west wall, towards the slumbering sun. Nothing. Toss, turn again. Stare towards the east, towards the triumphant rising moon. Towards Babs Seed’s wall. She pricked her ears, listening for the stomping of hooves, the opening of closet doors, hasty packing in the night. She listened for tears, screams, whispers, self-talk.
Nothing.
Anticipation churned in her innards, devouring her from the inside out. Citrus began to sweat profusely, her heart rate rivaling a marathon sprinter. She chanted mantras of calming within her mind, taking breaths deep and slow.
Tick, tick, tick.
True to her word, Citrus had retrieved that dreaded ticket from its safekeeping in her room, leaving it on the dining room table downstairs as Babs Seed emerged from the gardens back into the mansion.
Babs Seed had fire burning brightly in her eyes as they hugged, both sisters lost for any words other than, “Goodnight, I love you.” Babs seemed to shine in the dark as she’d crossed the corridor and trotted up the stairs, muzzle giving no clues as to her decision or demeanor. She seemed… guided.
Citrus Blossom had promised herself that she would let it go, that she would let Babs Seed have her choice. She was leaving the filly’s fate within her own hooves. She had led her sister to a fork in the road, abandoning her to choose the next path. She had vowed upon Celestia’s sun and Luna’s moon that she would absolve herself of all responsibility, abdicate her name of all influence on the ultimate turn of the cards. She was tossing the dice now, and possessed no magic to manipulate the fall of the cubes.
Tock, tock, tock.
Every memory she had ever formed of Babs Seed taunted her in her restlessness: the day the little foal had been born; her first tentative steps; her first garbled words; her first day of school. All the happy milestones brought a smile to her face, where she held them tight and vital.
Yet, for each saccharine sweet recollection, a painful past pierced and shattered through all semblance of normalcy and harmony—truths that exposed things as they really were.
Babs Seed had never fit in among all the empty square feet of the Orange Family Mansion. She never truly belonged. There were bad days and there were better days, but through it all ran an undercurrent that Citrus could not deny.
“Not every orange tree bears fruit,” Father Orange had once commented, and his eldest knew why.
Citrus Blossom was all that her parents had ever wanted: smart, elegant, loyal, respectful, courteous, conforming, eager to uphold the family mantle and wear the title of Orange upon her crest. Babs Seed was orange in coat and in heritage, but otherwise might have well been a visitor from beyond the stars.
And, though their parents must have meant well, it was their oldest daughter who took on the role of Babs’ guardian, protector, comforter, provider and parent more than occasionally. In her father’s case, this was by intent. Father Orange, though a great business-pony, did not know how to be a father, Citrus knew, especially to the wild card that had been dealt to him.
Mother Orange, on the other hoof, was bound not by the lack of parental instincts or personal feelings for the foal; instead, she was wrapped up in the demands and facades of the corporation, playing roles and wearing masks that stripped away the mare’s true self and kept her from truly being present in her daughter’s life. She undoubtedly regretted these distractions, but still the corporation needed her and her talents.
While trying to give them everything imaginable, the fillies’ parents had neglected to give them the most important things, the kind of things that no mountain of bits could buy.
In the absence of peace or calm throughout most of her young life, Babs Seed was tossed and to and fro’ by the winds of chaos and change, no stable footing on which to brace herself. She was brash, bold, wild, manic, and hungry for thought, feeling, and experience when she roamed in the light. When her days grew dark and lonely, she was despondent, quiet, moody, enraged, fearful, and reckless. There was no balance for her, no equilibrium, no harmony, no... normal.
Except… there was normalcy available to her, beyond the train tracks.
The days that had passed since she had touched that Ponyville dirt and licked it clean off her hooves had brought about an incredible, unimaginable change in the foal Citrus loved so dearly. In spite of the attack in the park or Father Orange’s wicked behavior, Babs Seed continued to shine, the light from within her awakened and radiant. She possessed a strength and aura that Citrus had never seen.
Babs Seed had transformed. Evolved. Reached a higher plane, a higher state of being.
And, the Citrus Blossom reasoned, if that was all true, and if she really would be so much happier living in Ponyville…
“Why does this have to be so hard?” Citrus Blossom sobbed, burying her face into her pillow, tongues of flaming-orange mane billowing around her and blocking the little light that remained.
She fought with herself, irrationality biting down on the rational, emotion and knowledge coming to blows, making each other bleed, until she could fight no more forever. Against her own wishes, sometime when the moon reached its highest point, Citrus Blossom could take no more of her internal violence, and fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.
~
Citrus Blossom woke with a start. She sat up straight in bed, gasping for breath. Fumbling for the clock on her nightstand, she hoped against all hope that it was still the time of the twilight, or at least the dawn. Unfortunately, the hands of the clock and rays of the sun betrayed her.
“Buck.”
It was 1003 on an autumn morning, and the sun was hot with vengeance, the light blinding with its demands of productivity, scolding her for her laziness.
Scrambling out of bed and barreling down the door—not even waiting for the release of the strike—Citrus cantered, no, she galloped down the stairs, down to the dinner table in the dining room, down to the wire.
Allspice was sitting half-asleep on one of the stools, her mane in curlers. A mug of steaming hot coffee waited beneath her forehooves, but hadn’t been touched. She was staring at the table.
“Allspice, I—“
“You’re too late.”
There were no three words that would ever define Citrus Blossom’s life as deeply as those. The entirety of Manehatten, Equestria, and the Earth itself shook with their magnitude.
The table was clear.
The ticket was gone.
~
Allspice followed in Greyhoof’s hoof-prints that Sunday afternoon, reading the writing on the wall and packing away her meager stash of belongings. The stallions beat her to it, fleeing with the morning mist once the news had reached them. Waiting and biding could serve them no longer; the road beckoned.
The three servants took the decision of their youngest employer as the final and ultimate sign, bushes in the western distance burning brightly with the voice of the Most High, beckoning them to lay down their yokes at last. Boom-and-bust towns had begun to raise their beams, bringing with them all sorts of service-sector labor. Even if it would be temporary, it beat their current monotony. Forgoing the “respect” of a two-week notice, the servant-ponies of Orange Family Mansion fled before Bernie Madhoof woke, heading to greener (if sandier) pastures.
A taxi-carriage waited patiently for Allspice beyond the gates of her longtime home. Twelve years had passed, leaving a gulf of time and memories behind. Some of them were quite happy in spite of everything, and she would miss the place that had created them. However, there would be no time for mourning; she was going west, where the skies were a little brighter all around.
Luckily, in her wage-slavery, her life’s possessions fit in one suitcase. Light and easy travel made the best travel, after all. She was grateful for minimalism in that moment.
As she double-checked under her bed in the servant’s quarters, making sure she had procured and secured every last sock, her eyes turned to Greyhoof’s empty bed, which remained in the same state as he’d left it nearly a week ago with one minor exception. A small piece of paper, previously absent, adorned the pillow, inviting her to cease upon it.
She trotted over, picked up the note in her forehooves, and began to read.
“Allspice—
I hope you read this note before you leave. And if you weren’t already planning on leaving… I think you should consider it. You deserve better than this. I think you could be a famous chef anywhere in Equestria. Although, you should probably make more strawberry milkshakes.
I know you probably don’t care all that much—I’ve always thought you were more of a professional than a personal kind of mare—but there’s something I want you to know.
I know I wasn’t the best filly to care for, and we never really were that close. I’m sure I added more gray in your mane than you could have ever imagined. But I just wanted to say thank you for everything you’ve given me. This mansion is lonely, but it always felt nice when at least you were there.
Maybe I’ll see you out west sometime.
Your friend,
Babs Seed”
The taxi carriage-pony beeped his horn with impatience. Allspice didn’t care. There would be plenty of time to run away. For now, she read and read, dotting the note with an occasional tear, until she was ready to meet the foal in the west.
~
The Orange Family guardians woke around noon that day, one with a hammer pounding in her skull and the other with a demonic grin on his face. Their remaining daughter met them downstairs at the dining room table and dropped the dynamite.
Libra Scales’ fury at Citrus Blossom was amplified by the pounding of her hangover, dehydration and nausea dumping salt into her new wounds. As the two mares began to scream and shout, rage building from the pony whose cutiemark symbolized rationality and reason, the stallion slicked quietly out the front door, appointments to keep and miles to go before his tormentors would sleep forever.
Mother and daughter continued in their onslaught against each other, kicking the issue around until it lay deceased on the ground, all logic and emotion drained from its veins. Tears were shed, truths spoken, and as a few hours passed, they came to a conclusion: it was for the best, and in spite of the distance, this was not the end. Their paths would cross again as always, the Oranges and the Apples. Such is the nature of family and Fate.
Before long, however, the two mares were not alone, a knock at the door shattering their peace. They crossed the corridor and threshold together, the quick trot over to the front entry feeling infinitely longer than it should have been.
Libra Scales opened the door, revealing a grizzled stallion dressed in a finely-pressed suit with a briefcase and a fine cane—expensive and regal, with a grand diamond as its pommel—standing in the doorway.
“Are youze Misses Bernie Madhoof?” the stallion asked, muzzle blank of all emotion.
“Yes, yes I am. And who are you?” Libra answered, raising an eyebrow.
The stallion set his suitcase on the ground, clicking its locks open, ruffling through a thick stack of paperwork. “Dat matters not, madam, but iffa youze jus' give me a sec heeya, I will get youze summat dat will answer all youze questions.”
Citrus cast a confused glance towards her mother, who merely shrugged in her own uncertainty. She had never seen this stallion before, and hoped that he was not some traveling salespony with a time share up his sleeve. Such encounters always proved draining, and Libra Scales had little energy to spare.
“Ah! Heeya youze are,” he said, passing a few leaves of paper to her. He bowed, and then added, “Iffa I were youze, Madame Orange, I would take the implications o’ dem papers ta heart. The West is always a good place ta hide.”
Voice shaking, Libra asked, “H-h-hide? From what?”
The stallion gestured again at the paperwork in reply, packing up his briefcase on the porch, locks snapping shut. As he turned, he added, “Oh, an’ next time youze see dat husband o’ youze, tell him I ain’t doin’ him no mo' favors. Not when he pays ma brotha before me. I still want ma gems.”
Trotting off down the pathway to the iron gates of the Orange Family Mansion, sliding out past the gates with the ease of greased lightning, their visitor departed as quickly as he came. Libra Scales led Citrus Blossom back into the kitchen after dead-bolting and chaining the door shut to deter any more slimy creatures who may arrive.
Together, the mares poured over the paperwork, jaws agape and minds reeling from the details of Bernie Madhoof’s treachery. Embezzlement and fraud, secret meetings with insurance sales-ponies and mail-orders of kerosene and gasoline were all reported in full, signatures and snapshots of other documents confirming the fullest extent of the stallion’s evil.
Silence passed between them after reading, ticking of the clock in the kitchen the only confirmation that they were still in the land of the real.
And then, Citrus Blossom said, “We should run away.”
Libra Scales nodded and replied, “Yes, yes, we should.”
Quickly, not sure of how much more time Fate had allotted them, the mares of the Orange Family Mansion—its only remaining occupants, minus the devil walking the Manehatten streets—packed away their most precious of belongings, compromising on two saddlebags each to tuck away their lives. Being a clever mare above all else, Libra Scales, using a claw hammer, pried away the floorboards of the master bedroom, and searched through the dark, praying with all her faith and hope that her salvation was still there.
Her hoof made contact with a cylindrical object, and she breathed a sigh of relief.
Libra Scales did not remember when exactly she had begun her bit-hoarding, whether it was before or after her husband had become a slave to the bottle and the business. It didn’t matter. The mason jar she retrieved, blowing the dust off the container as she removed it from the space under the floorboards, contained at least several thousand bits. It was not much in comparison to what she’d thought her bank account had amounted to, but it would get them train tickets and hotels for a few weeks until they could find work.
Citrus Blossom slipped through the door, joining her mother in the master bedroom, saddlebags full to bursting with her most prized of possessions. “What is that, Mother?” she wondered, pointing at the dusty jar Libra Scales was turning over in her forehooves.
“A nest egg, Citrus. The one that the mother bird protects in secrecy, and carries with her when the nest is no longer safe,” she answered mournfully, realizing that the rainy day she’d dreaded had come at last. She would have never guessed it would be a rain of fire.
Libra Scales looked up to her daughter, eyes shining with tears of both rage and despair, and whispered, “Are ya ready, kiddo?”
Citrus Blossom nodded and helped her mother to her hooves. “Where are we going?” she asked as they walked down the cursed stairs from the second level to the first for what would probably be the last time.
“Appleloosa. We can stay with Braeburn for a bit, if we need to.”
“… Why not Ponyville?”
“I don’t want to risk Babs’ life any more than I already have, Citrus,” Libra Scales choked, fighting the tears, reasoning that there would be plenty of time to feel once they had shaken this awful dust from their hooves.
Citrus Blossom nodded and did not argue. The two mares did not bother to lock the door behind them, dumping the keys on the porch, leaving the front gate swing wide and unsecured as they exited. All the thieves and thugs in Manehatten could loot the mansion now for all they cared, as long as they could get to the robber-baron who would soon be returning.
As Citrus Blossom and Libra Scales galloped off into the horizon, down Manehatten Hill and into the cobblestone streets below, Citrus realized, in the depths of her anguish as her hooves began to burn, that if it weren’t for her father’s forgetful nature and inattention to detail, they would be going down in flames.
And if it weren’t for Citrus' stupid, irresponsible, risky, reckless abdication of her own, letting the foal make the wretched decision, Babs Seed would have joined them in either their homelessness or their demise.
~
Bernie Madhoof came home to his dream.
He searched all the rooms, sure that he was fooling himself, sure that somepony must be hiding in one of the closets, or under a stairwell, or in the gardens, or in the servant’s quarters, ruining his existence with their haughty and inconvenient presence. He swept through the mansion with a fine-toothed lice comb, finding none of the servants, the fillies, or his wife.
Although he found many signs of disarray—drawers left open, perimeter doors propped, rugs moved into strange positions—the stallion could find no signs of a struggle.
However, he did find, on his desk in his throne room, a note from Libra Scales.
It simply read:
“Your lackey came by and told us everything.
Don’t come after us. You won’t find us.
Fuck you.
-Libra
P.S. Your lackey says you owe him his gems.”
Realizing his error, Madhoof panicked at first, wondering if there would soon be the strong hooves of the law barreling down his door. Then, he remembered his riches, and laughed a hearty laugh. Nopony could touch him, and with the departure of those awful iron hooves, nopony would hurt him again.
By forgetting a promise, the stallion had made all of his dreams a reality, and would be able to cancel his order of flammable liquids and a hired thug to do the dirty work. Fate had indeed smiled upon him with her dark grin, and he raised his hoof in triumph.
Bernie Madhoof had always dreamt of this: the absence of anypony else in his castle, the king no longer having to play the role of jester, wearing masks and dancing to amuse the lessers among him. Now, he was just the king. He had no more obligations, responsibilities, or burdens.
Regardless of why, Bernie Madhoof was finally free.
To his own surprise, as he sat in the master bedroom, bottle of Applejack Daniel’s opened in celebration, King Orange felt a hole in his soul, and soon found himself stumbling into his youngest daughter’s room with an emptied shot glass and a mind full of regrets.
Alone, in his castle, King Orange contemplated the emptiness, the draftiness here, the way the whole building seemed to plummet to tundra temperatures. The stallion was confused, alarmed by his strange feelings, and refilled the shot glass again and again, downing drink after drink, sin after sin, to push those odd emotions away.
In the hollowness of his victory, King Orange re-discovered his love of the bottle in the same way he had as a colt, lost in the shadow of his newfound freedom.
He would soon begin to see the world with yellow eyes.
~
Manehatten remained a city of angels and demons as much as it had ever been.
The Watering Hole, after dealing with a third rash of thefts, packed up its gates and shook the dust of Manehatten from its horseshoes. Patrons came in one evening to find the building empty, a simple note left on the bar counter reading, “Had enough of this shit.”
A highly-respected law enforcement officer was caught soliciting from a mare in the night by an undercover Royal Guard investigation. This led to a thorough “broken-window” operation, and all but a few of the law-ponies in Manehatten found themselves suddenly without badges, batons, or paychecks. During the transition between old firings and new hirings, the gangs and petty criminals found themselves in paradise, and the streets became even meaner.
Soon, with a few Royal Guard transfer jobs, Manehatten began to see its demons shrink and squeal, disappearing under the rug where they belonged.
~
The Manehatten branch of the Cutie Mark Crusaders outlived their founder’s absence.
Word had reached their ears of their leader’s departure, the rumor mill theorizing that the owners of Orange Enterprises had divorced and that the fillies had gone with their mother out to the West and the best. At first, the Manehatten Crusaders were hurt and enraged, their celebration feeling so short-lived as to be meaningless.
Rustler, however, stepped up to the hoofball plate, and calmed the others, explaining that their ringleader had only done the right thing. He was sure, he told them, that the choice she had made to leave had not been an easy one, and that she would have wanted them to continue in their quests and battles.
“Besides,” he reasoned, “iffa even Lucky Toss couldn’t take us, then we really are strong, togetha, an' we shouldn’t jus' leave the whole school unprotected, should we? Are youze really Crusadas, o’ not? Once a Crusada, always a Crusada!”
His speech was met with hoots and hollers of affirmation. Rustler made a silent promise to his former general, seeking to fill the big horseshoes she'd left behind, and fill them well he did.
A new wave of fillies and colts, just entering cutiemark age, found themselves struggling with the ancient battle between the have’s and have-not’s, and the four who remained welcomed them with open hooves. The Manehatten CMC was a refuge for those still on their own journeys of self-discovery, and the newcomers took up the cape proudly. Bullying wasn’t eradicated, but it was nowhere as vicious as before, and nopony got a manecut unless they wanted to.
They still spoke of Babs Seed with honor and respect, for if it had not been for her, they would still be lost and apart, rather than found and together.
~
Card Slinger finally made a date with the law for the first time after spray-painting Big Slick on the back of a chimcherry (or was it cherrychonga?) restaurant, broadcasting his signal in an attempt to organize his troops. His luck had run out, one of the Royal Guards testifying to this truth, hoofcuffs slapped across the colt’s fetlocks and batons beating him black and blue as he resisted, unwilling to face yet another failure. He was sent to a rock farm for a year to work off his debt to society.
Lucky Toss, in the absence of his ringleader and best friend, turned his attention to schoolwork, finding a knack within him for probability and statistics. He tossed dice rather than insults, and began to dream of opening his own casino. The Manehatten cobblestone soon held no more mystery for him, and he steered clear of the life entirely.
Fencer focused on her sport while Slinger was doing hard time. She won a few competitions and earned enough bits to buy her way into a fencing academy in Canterlot, jumping at the opportunity to leave Manehatten and regret behind her. She vowed one day to make it up to the foal she had tormented, and atoned each day with prayers to the Most High, begging for forgiveness. In time, she learned the dance of friendship in Canterlot, gathering her own little group, and pledged never to bully again. Fencer kept her eyes wide open for her victim, heart heavy and unforgiving of itself in the absence of true repentance.
Boone became one with his destiny, following his addictions and his cutiemark, drinking hard cider and whiskey as often as he could. The Royal Guard stopped him when his deadbeat father wouldn’t, and sent him to the rock farm as well. Boone and Card Slinger met and rekindled their friendship, making big plans for when they were released back into Manehatten.
Switch took up blacksmithing and abandoned the gang, unwilling to take the risks of lawlessness now that the Royal Guard took up Manehatten badges and her ringleader was slaving away in the quarry. Fortunately, the hammer and anvil kept her occupied, and even brought in a few bits from occasional clientele. She waited, biding her own time for the return of the colt of her dreams.
~
Powerful hindhooves sent a torrent of apples crashing from the trees, unshaven cherry-red fetlocks rustling in the breeze as iron met bark. The stallion moved from tree to tree, bucking the harvest, autumn wind warning him of the cold that was soon to come.
Big Macintosh was not alone in his work that Sunday afternoon. On the other side of the orchard, a strong orange mare and a little yellow filly joined him in the monotonous labor, all three gathering fruit as quickly as possible before the moon rose and forced them inside. He could see his sisters across the field pummeling the tree trunks with all their might, seeking redemption in their mindless task.
The quiet stallion couldn’t blame them. Seeing only two ponies return from that ghetto of Manehatten the prior afternoon broke his heart, though he'd shed his tears in silence and solitude.
Big Mac knew, however, that it was not good to dwell on the past, on what could have been. Time waits for nopony, and Life is what happens in between all of our navel-gazing and quiet contemplation. The Apple Family still had a farm to run.
Filling up baskets of apples, gathering them into a cart, and bucking until his hooves were sore distracted the freckled stallion from the unrelenting waves of his own thoughts.
He was zoning out so much that he swore he had begun to hallucinate.
There, in the distance, his eyes caught a flash of red-and-pink mane and orange fur, galloping towards them, a star shooting across the cosmos.
“Naw… it can’t be…”
Over the hills and through the ticket of apple trees, the blur came closer and closer, more solid than ever, and his heart nearly leapt from his chest at its understanding.
“APPLEJACK! APPLE BLOOM!” Big Macintosh roared, waving his hooves excitedly.
“What’s that, big brother?!” Applejack yelled across the distance.
“COME HERE, Y’ALL!” he bellowed, betraying his own reputation, making more noise than he’d ever remembered.
~
Four hours. She had paced, rubbing her forehooves together with enough force to light a fire and make her an arsonist, pleading, praying, waiting, nearly falling over in the cab as the train lurched and sped across the plains. She’d reached the station around mid-afternoon, sun still hanging high in the sky. It couldn’t have possibly been four hours.
She had worn herself out, exhausted by the steam of the engine, second-guessing herself with every breath. Napping in the train station passed another four hours by, until a thickly-bearded stallion had gently awoken her, wondering if she was alright.
Denying his assistance, she set her hooves towards her destination, hoping against all hope that she had made the right call and bet and choice.
The roads were not paved, held no cobblestone, and did not separate her from the source of her strength, cool Earth whispering to her with each step. Each hoofbeat and heartbeat that followed her as she ran filled her with nervousness and anticipation, a little voice within her mind chanting, What time but now ta make the right choice, kiddo? What time but now?
Now, indeed. She’d snatched the ticket and made her choice, following the piper out of the East, heading back towards Eden. The decision had been the most agonizing, terrifying, difficult choice she’d ever made in the time she’d blessed the Earth with her soul. That soul cried out with the burst of her hooves, struggling against its chains, rushing her out of the belly of the beast as the sun rose that morning.
Now, she would know if she’d been granted freedom, or built a new prison out of her foolishness.
Closer and closer she came to her destination, the red-and-white barn, silo, and farmhouse urging her through her pain and breathlessness. In the distance, two fillies and a stallion reaped the bounty of their harvest, releasing apples from their trees.
The stallion suddenly began to wave his forehooves frantically, calling out to his fellow laborers in the field. She galloped faster, her saddlebags hanging on by their threads around her shoulders as she ran faster than she’d ever imagined. Reaching the crest of the hill and going down, down, down with gravity, leaning back against the force of her momentum, she felt more alive than ever, heart beating in fluttering excitement.
On that stallion’s face, she saw elation, and she knew this was no longer a dream. And as she sped on through a thicket of apple trees, turning corners with impressive ease, she saw the mare and filly reach him, eyes wide as he pointed to her.
Then, they saw her, and the three ponies set off towards her, bolts of lightning across the fields, and she wished to be struck.
~
Apple Bloom was the first one to meet her, leaping with her forehooves stretched as far as she could extend them. The blur of orange crossed paths with the blur of yellow, and they joined in the middle, crashing into the ground.
“Babs! Oh, it’s really you, Babs!” she cried, eyes welling and bursting with tears of joy, holding the foal tight. “Ah thought Ah’d never see ya again, an’ Ah was ready ta write ya letters everyday, an'—“
Shushing her with a forehoof over her mouth, Babs Seed just smiled, blushing.
Apple Bloom felt her own cheeks burn, and nodded, helping her cousin to her hooves. Applejack and Big Macintosh met them, greeting the foal’s return with exclamations of reunion and joy.
The three Apples took a step forward to their newcomer, planning on ambushing her into a tight, welcoming embrace. A flash of light stopped them in their approach, her cousins all shielding their eyes from the sight.
“What was dat?!” Babs shrieked, seeing the light in her peripherals but unable to pinpoint its cause, eyes sweeping the scene, blood flooding her muscles as adrenaline pulsed and prepared her to defend those she loved.
The three Apples gasped in unison.
“Look, y’all,” Big MacIntosh said, gesturing to the filly’s flank.
There, in a union of destiny and will—of holding the cards she was dealt, and playing them well—the stars had aligned at last, and in a glimmer of light and magic, the bobtail foal was a blankflank no more.
There, the cutiemark appeared, revealing at last not only her special talent, but her true roots, her true self, shining for all the world to see.
It was a proud purple shield adorned with a shining red apple slice in its center.
The Orange had become an Apple, finding her own roots in the Earth, rising above her powerlessness and fear and sadness and anger and despair. Tried by the dark flames her of past, she had powered through and risen above it all; she’d been dragged down to Hell, but refused to be a demon. She remembered her savior’s words, and instead of becoming like those who harmed her and her family, she escaped.
She’d triumphed over her greatest foe with her choice, vanquishing her circumstances, becoming the master of her fate and the captain of her soul. Powerlessness lay fallen on the charred terrace, slain by her courage. By virtue of the victory, her true self shined through, at last.
Applejack, Apple Bloom, and Big Macintosh embraced her at once, their little seed having sprouted, bursting through the concrete and the cognitive dissonance.
The stallion grabbed her into a bear hug after the others retracted, lifting her up and spinning her around in the air as she laughed and laughed in dizzy glee. “I’m so proud o’ ya!” Big Macintosh exclaimed as they spun, chortling himself silly in his delight.
Finally, feeling nauseous, Big Mac set her down, both ponies seeing stars but still smiling, the fillies catching them until everything became clear again.
Babs Seed had just begun to see normally when she was tackled to the ground again, Apple Bloom crushing her into a hug. “Babs! Ya did it!” she gushed, squeezing her tight, feeling nothing but untainted joy. "Ah knew ya could do it!”
That hero of hers—to which Apple Bloom owed everything—had not only leapt into the dark unknown and came out in the light, but had emerged a new pony, a new soul.
Happy tears in her emerald eyes, Babs Seed turned to Applejack and asked, “So… I can stay, right? Dis is real?”
The Element of Honesty nodded, and said, “Welcome home.”
Over the horizon, Celestia and Luna met in harmony, one half of the sky coming alive with holy fire of orange, yellow, and red, the other a violet blanket dotted with shining, twinkling stars. Above the four Apples, three comets streaked across the skies, spirits of those they’d loved watching down on them, having never truly been lost.
Neither miles, nor twisted ties, nor even death itself can separate us from those we love. Home is where the heart is, where the love is, and neither of the twain can be bound. There are no limits to the heart and what it may hold.
The spirits of two mares and a stallion—two Apples, one Orange—gathered in the farm-house of Sweet Apple Acres with their children and Granny Smith, joining in the celebration and homecoming of the one who’d dared to find her own way.
Babs Seed was where she was supposed to be, the way she was supposed to be.