//------------------------------//
// Chapter 7 
// Story: From Canterlot with Love 
// by Sagebrush 
//------------------------------//

The days that followed in Fiddler’s Plain ran by and ran together, running into weeks.  Each day was a little shorter than the last, a little cooler, and more and more the manifold colors of Fiddler’s Plain yielded to the reds and golds of fall.  Over the course of those days, responses to the guardsponies’ letters trickled in, adding some flickers of green as well.


Nomde began her letter to Storm by telling him about all of the exciting things that had happened since he had left, and did it in one very short sentence, because she didn’t think there were any.  She made mention of her friend Villanelle, mainly in terms along the lines of ‘predatory coquette,’ and warned Storm that she was preying on one of his coworkers.  He assumed that the tone was written at least partly in jest, though without hearing her deadpan or seeing her flat affect, it was hard to tell when she was joking.  Nomde then went on to tell him that her fireflies had been a bit listless in his absence, that it seemed that they missed him, and perhaps, just maybe, she might even miss him as well.  She ended the letter by asking how his journal was coming along.  Storm, wishing to read her words in her writing upon his return, asked Febre to store the letter somewhere safe.  When left by Febre to puzzle over just where that would be, between the warzone of Gray Mane’s lab and the hooves and, more importantly, eyes of his cohort, he eventually requested that the letter be mailed back to Nomde, deciding it to be the safest place to keep it.  He added a few sweet words to go along with it (to which Febre, of course, replied with sour), adding a promise to share his journal if Nomde didn’t mind about twenty pages of corn.


Check Mate’s parents were relieved that his travels were going well, though he was dismayed that they didn’t express any thoughts about travels of their own.  However, he was surprised to learn about their impromptu meeting with Rosetta.  They sang nothing but praises about his fellow guardspony, telling him all about a discussion of theirs regarding discrepancies in nuance between original and translated texts.  But, it wouldn’t be a letter from the parents without some small embarrassment at the end.  It came in the form of his mother noting how wonderful it was that there were other intellectually stimulating ponies in the Guard’s ranks, and how Rosetta was such a lovely mare, and had he been seeing anypony lately because he was of an age where it would be perfectly normal to think about it, and, again, Rosetta was such a lovely mare.


Although he was in a small part impressed by the not-so-subtle suggestion of what would be considered mésalliance in his parents’ circles, he was for the most part flustered.  He decided to save his next letter home for when he knew what to do with it.  In the interim, he continued his chess game with Luna during the nights, and kept her apprised of his and the others’ plans.


As for Crack Shot’s dialogue with his brother, Skyway let him know that the weather was, in fact, decent where he was and asked if it was the same for him.  Crack Shot then pushed the discourse into previously unplumbed intellectual depths by asking if the Wonderbolts uniform ever rode up.


And between all of these letters, a harvest somehow managed to occur as well.  As it finally came to an end, it left everypony feeling proud, accomplished, and, most of all, grateful that it only came once a year.  However, although the fields were cleared, that didn’t mean the days to follow weren’t occupied.



---


One afternoon a week before Nightmare Night, a pair of pegasi crossed the skies above Fiddler’s Plain with heavy bags slung over their withers, as they had been since that morning.  In appearances they were nearly identical; however, if one were to take a closer look at their pale coats (and inadvertently violate some personal space in the process), they might notice a difference in coloration appearing near the roots.  One of the two lagged slightly behind the other.

“Engh, how many of these trips do we need to make, dude?” Crack Shot shouted.  This was to Storm, who was flying just ahead of him.

“Well, let’s see—they’re expecting about forty or so foals to show up at the farm, right?” yelled Storm, without glancing back.

“Yeah, somethin’ like that.”

“And we’re picking up enough for sixty so that we have extra to spare, right?”

“Ugh, yeah.”

“And we’ve already made four trips so far, so that puts us as good for thirty-two, right?”

“Dude, what—are you giving me a pop quiz?!”

“Consider it a work out for your mind as well as your wings.  So, how many trips are left?”

“Too many!”  

The two of them had just departed from Hazelnut’s shop, laden with pumpkins stuffed into large hessian saddlebags.  They were large, heavy pumpkins:  the kind a foal could hollow out, carve a face into, and perhaps crawl into for use as a hiding spot.  The two pegasi were ferrying them, four apiece, back to Allie’s farm.

Crack Shot spied a creek coming up below them, and beat his wings quickly to come alongside Storm.  “Hey, let’s drop down for a sec,” he said.  “I want to grab a drink.”

The two alighted by the small ribbon of water and shifted the pumpkins off of their withers.  Crack Shot then plunged his snout between the cattails of the creek and drank contentedly, something he would not have done at the start of their journey.  It had taken a fair amount of work on Kettle’s part to convince the guardspony that the water found winding through miles of idyllic hills from distant snowcapped peaks might be potable without going through a few hundred yards of old plumbing as well.  Eventually Crack Shot had relented, taken a sip, and admitted that it wasn’t bad, albeit a bit lacking in a pleasant metallic aftertaste.  Now, after quaffing several large gulps, he threw his head back with a satisfied gasp.

After wiping his lips he asked, “So, how’d we get saddled with this job, anyways?”

“Probably because we can do it the fastest,” answered Storm, in between sips of his own.  “Though if we take too many breaks, that’ll be up for debate.”  He looked up with an evil smirk.  “It’s not too much work for you, is it?”

“Nah, not after picking all that corn.  It’s just, like, so many friggin’ pumpkins, dude, and they’re huge.  And we don’t even have a wagon that can get airborne so we could at least cut down on our trips.  Couldn’t they, I dunno, like settle for some squash or somethin’?”

“Maybe, but that’d be missing out on part of the spirit of Nightmare Night, wouldn’t it?  Didn’t you ever carve a pumpkin in celebration of it?”

“Eh, sorta.”  Crack Shot shrugged and fell back into the wild grass beside the creek, closing his eyes as he nestled into it.  “My folks liked to wait until after the holiday to buy the pumpkins.  Matter of savin’ some bits and all.”

“Huh.  That’s… pragmatic.”

“You know it.  Though after we got done carvin’ them up, it meant pumpkin for dinner for the next few days, and that gets old fast.  Always had to make sure we had enough trick or treat candy to balance out our diet.”

Storm took one last sip from the creek then brushed a hoof across his lips.  He lay back into the long grasses beside Crack Shot, listening to the water gurgle softly as he stared into the sky.  A pair of frogs hidden somewhere in the reeds lent its chorus, one of the last for the year.  The sun was farther south than when they had left Canterlot, and it left colored spots in the corners of his vision when he closed his eyes.  A few clouds drifted slowly to the west, taking their time in going wherever it was that clouds went.

“Hey, Crack Shot,” said Storm.

“Sup?”

“Does that cloud look like a rabbit to you?”

Crack Shot opened his eyes and shielded them with a hoof.  “Which one, dude?”

“That one right there.”  Storm gestured with a forehoof towards a spot of cumulus.

“Hmm…”  Crack Shot narrowed his gaze.  “Mm-hmm…  Yeah, I’d say it looks like a cloud to me, dude,” he said with finality.

Storm stuck out his tongue.  “Oh, har har.”

“Heh.  A rabbit though, huh?  I don’t know about that.  Kinda looks more like a hare to me.”

“A hare?” Storm raised an eyebrow.  “Don’t you think you’re splitting hairs?”

“Ugh.  But yeah, hares are supposed to be bigger right?  Cloud seems a bit big to be a rabbit.”

“Well, yeah.  It’s a cloud.”

“My point exactly, dude.”

“We could ask those guys we're meeting a few days from now, see what their artistic vision was.”

“Nah, that takes out the point of guessin’.  ‘Sides, one’d probably say it was meant to be a chinchilla or somethin’.  Hey, what about that one”—Crack Shot pointed just east of the cloud in contention to another scudding behind it—“it sorta looks like a turtle, don’t it?”

“Gee, I don’t know, Crack Shot,” said Storm in mock uncertainty.  “It might be a bit big to be a turtle.  You sure you don’t mean a tortoise?”

The two pegasi spent another few minutes like that, calling out shapes, picking out the cotton menagerie that exists if one bothers to look for it.  The turtle, or perhaps it was a tortoise, gradually overtook the rabbit, or perhaps it was a hare, and the sun kept pace behind the both of them, imperceptibly following the hour.  Eventually Storm stood and shifted his pumpkins back over his shoulders, and Crack Shot reluctantly followed suit.

Storm stretched out his wings and gave them a few flaps.  “Alright, we’re more than halfway done, so let’s get back to it,” he said.  “We don’t want to keep Allie or Hazel waiting.”

“Hey, speakin’ of Hazel,” began Crack Shot, as the two of them took flight, leaving the melody of the creek behind them, “Ket said a while back that she’s got the hots for Pimento, right?”

“So he says.”

“And this is the same Hazel that waved us off just earlier by winking and blowin’ us each a kiss?”

“The very same.”

“Huh.  How the heck does Pimento not catch it?”

“I think you might’ve answered that question already.”

“Gosh, how that heck did I miss that?”

Storm rolled his eyes.  “It makes sense if you think about it—”

He paused as a breeze began to pick up, and turned into it, riding it higher into the sky.  He waited until Crack Shot had caught up before continuing.

“—If she’s that, well, friendly with everypony, Pimento probably wouldn’t catch on if she wanted to be extra friendly with him.”

“Maybe.  Still, if he’s interested, he should step up his game.  I mean, the two ravens and that kickin’ bod—how cool is that?!  She looks like a freakin’ war goddess or something!”

They flew for another minute or so before Storm cleared his throat.  “Crows, actually,” he said.

“Huh?  Wait—are you still on this, dude?”

“Well, I’m just saying.  They’re a bit small to be ravens.”


---


Meanwhile, in another part of Fiddler’s Plain, two unicorns, a stallion and his younger companion, were taking part in a nature walk.  This was not wholly remarkable, because in Fiddler’s Plain a nature walk was what happened when you walked more than fifty yards from your front door.  But, the two of them had packed trail snacks, water, and the Pandect of Plant Life, and they were set to get as much walk and as much nature as they could.  Sprite had a thick, gray, woolen scarf wrapped around her neck; Check Mate followed with bags slung over his withers as she led the way into a wood of aged oaks a couple of miles south of the farm.  The oaks’ gray bark was painted green with colonies of moss, and shelf mushrooms climbed their hollows like the rungs of a step ladder; beneath them, wild currants rose defiantly in their shade.  Sunlight, stained amber by the aging leaves above, filtered down in golden patches onto innumerable species of flora.  With the Pandect floating shakily before her, Sprite made a point of naming every one.

“Hmm, lessee…” she began, tracing a hoof across a linen page, “‘Oyster mushroom.  Species name, um, plea-your-ought-us… ohs-treat-us’?”

Check walked beside her and knelt by the mushroom, lifting it to examine its gills and stem.  “Yes, I do believe that you’re correct,” he said with a nod.  “Although, I think the correct pronunciation is ‘pleurotus ostreatus.’”

“Aww, dang it.”  Sprite kicked at the ground.  “This’d be a heck of a lot easier if all these letters sounded a lick what they look like.”  She looked up from the book.  “I was close though, wasn’t I?”

Check smiled and nodded once more.  “Yes, yes you were.  And I’d add that you did an exemplary job of finding its entry all on your own.”

“Thank you, sir.” Sprite paused.  “Uh… exemplary is good, right?” she added, causing Check to chuckle.

“Ah, pardon me.  One meaning of ‘exemplary’ is ‘worthy of imitation.’  So yes, it is very good.”

“Exemplary…” Sprite repeated, getting a feel for the word.  “Neat.  So, I gotta ask: how’d ya pick up all your fancy jargon?  You use a dictionary as a pillow or somethin’?”

“Heh, no, not exactly.  When I was younger, around your age, I relied primarily on my parents’ library to entertain myself.  Whenever I encountered an unfamiliar word, I made a habit of learning its definition, writing it down, and using it in conversation.”

“Yeah?  To impress teachers and friends and what not?”

“Honestly?  Not really.  There would have been better ways to do that.  Verbosity doesn’t turn heads so much as it turns them on their sides.”

“Huh.  Then just for the heck of it?”

Above them a gentle wind stirred the canopy, causing the faint, diffuse shadows around them to skit and dance to its psithurism.  Check Mate looked up, watching the branches sway with a slow rhythm.

“Yes, that would be one way to put it. Hmm… how else would I explain it?  For instance, did you know that there is a word for the rustling of leaves?  That there is a word for the scent of freshly fallen rain?  Ponies must have thought that such phenomena were important enough to be given names, and even if these names have fallen into desuetude, that is to say disuse, I still think they’re valuable.  They represent conscious efforts to communicate our world.”

Sprite leaned her head to one side and then to the other as she weighed this notion.  “Yeah, I guess that makes sense.  Though I figure the world does a pretty good job of communicatin’ those things itself.”

“Ha!  Perhaps you are right.”

Another, stronger gust blew through the boughs above, scattering a few leaves from their perches.  Check watched one spin and weave through the air, then took a step forward and extended a foreleg, the sole of his hoof turned upwards.  The leaf landed neatly within it.

“Say, I’ve read about an event called ‘The Running of the Leaves’ taking place in some more bucolic communities,” he said, as he let the leaf slip to the ground.  “Supposedly they herald the end of fall by clearing the trees of their dead leaves through a race.  Does Fiddler’s Plain have such a tradition?”

“Yep!  Mom and Uncle Kettle do it every year with the rest of the older folks, and someday I’m gonna do it too.  Why’d ya ask?  Don’t they have one back in Canterlot?”

“Not that I have experienced.  Canterlot is more architectural than arboreal.  Although there are gardens and parks scattered around the city, there are more than enough joggers to take care of those incidentally.  We do not have woods such as these.”

“Really?”  Sprite furrowed an eyebrow, trying to imagine living somewhere that didn’t have a spread of woodland to get lost in.  “Then what the heck does anypony do for fun?”

Check smirked.  “Oh, somehow we manage.  There are museums, theatres, and many other cultural features.  It is also the seat of a great deal of magical study.  In fact, Princess Celestia herself heads an academy for especially talented young unicorns, which has produced a number of notable magicians.  Have you perhaps heard of it?”

“Erm, a couple of my teachers might’ve brought it up… Is that where you went to school?

“No, not I,” Check chuckled.  “I didn’t have the ethereal affinity to qualify.”

“The what now?” asked Sprite.

“My magic wasn’t strong enough.”

“Huh?!”  The pages of the pandect fluttered with Sprite’s surprise.  “With that big ol’ brain of yours, how could you have trouble with somethin’ like that?”  She immediately bit her tongue.  “Um, no offense,” she added, “but I’ve seen you usin’ spells.”

“Don’t worry, no offense was taken.  I’ve since added to my repertoire and I know how to be clever with it.  But yes, my magical ability has never been particularly noteworthy.  When I was around your age, I could barely light my horn, let alone levitate a heavy book as you’re doing right now.”

“Er—” Sprite’s face flushed, and the book hit the ground with a dull thud.  “Sorry.  I ain’t tryin’ to show off or nothin’.”  

Check quickly shook his head.  “Sorry?  Don’t be!  That’s a wonderful gift of yours.  There’s no need to be embarrassed about it.”

“I guess…”  Sprite looked down as she dug the tip of a hoof into the forest floor.  “It ain’t all that great.”  With her head ducked, she didn’t notice Check raise an eyebrow.

“…Well, I shall not press the issue.  Anyways, we’ve been hard at work for a while.  Shall we find somewhere to enjoy the lunch that your mother was kind enough to prepare?”

Sprite gave a small smile.  “That sounds good.”

The two of them followed the wooded path until they found an area of undergrowth with a decent patch of sunlight cutting through the foliage above.  Check removed a blanket from his bags, checkered red and white in picnic tradition, and laid it out.  He then placed a small basket, wicker woven in picnic tradition, on top of it.  All of this picnic tradition didn’t go unnoticed, and a number of squirrels began to gather around from the nearby oaks, looking as expectant as squirrels could look.  Sprite took a small parcel labeled ‘Varmints’ from the basket and tossed it towards them, which they quickly tore into, scattering afterwards with several sunflower seeds.  One of them returned a moment later and left a few acorns behind at the edge of the blanket.

“A show of gratitude?” asked Check, as he levitated the acorns for scrutiny.

“Uncle Kettle says they believe in free trade,” said Sprite, picking her piece of bread apart.

Check shrugged, leaving it at that before dividing a couple of pieces of cornbread between them.

“Are you looking forward to the upcoming holiday?” he asked.

“I dunno, I guess,” replied Sprite.

After a few seconds she added, “But I ain’t dressin’ up in a costume or nothin’.”

“Oh?  And why is that?  Won’t your siblings be doing so?”

“Yeah, but they’re little kids.  I’m gettin’ too old for that kind of foolin’ around,” she declared.

“Even though you’re only about a year older than your sister, correct?”

“I’m older than that,” she huffed.  “It’s a year and four months.”

“Ah, well that is quite the difference,” agreed Check, solemnly.  “And how did you come to such a momentous decision?”

“Neither Mom or Uncle Kettle ever dress up.  Not really, anyways.  It doesn’t seem like somethin’ that grown-ups care about that much.”

“Mm, you might be surprised.  You may not know this, but Crack Shot already has a costume prepared.”

“Oh.”  There was another pause as Sprite pondered over how to form her next response.  “But he’s not really like a grown up,” she said carefully.  “More like a giant colt.”

Check laughed, startling both Sprite, and a flock of robins from the branches overheard.

“What’s so funny about that?” asked Sprite, slightly upset.

“Aha, pardon, you must forgive me.  It was just a very forthright statement that was very true in many regards.  Crack Shot is indeed quite childlike.”

“I thought that was a bad thing.  Folks always say you shouldn’t act childish.”

“Yes, one would do best to avoid being childish.  However, being childlike is different.  There’s a slight nuance there.”

“What’s so good about bein’ like a child instead of, um, ish a child?”

“Well, there’s an audacity, a daringness, inherent to youth that seems to get lost as we get older.  We begin to worry about appearances.  We don’t want to look silly, we don’t want to say incorrect things, we don’t want to ask simple questions, we don’t want to be wrong.  To paraphrase somepony somewhat liberally, we find it better to keep our mouths closed and leave ambiguity as to our foolishness, rather than open our mouths and remove all doubt.  Crack Shot doesn’t have these fears.  Even if some think that he’s a fool, and there are certainly those that do, he is smart enough not to give them any stock.  And he’s certainly not afraid of being too grown up to wear a costume for Nightmare Night,” Check added with a wink.

“Hmm…”  Sprite lay forward and crossed one hoof over the other, resting her chin in a tail of her scarf.  “What’s he goin’ as?  Y’all aren’t just tradin’ off digs like my mom and uncle, are you?”

“No, his costume is entirely original.  He was given an old bedspread by Miss Hazelnut, and he has cut five holes out of it for his eyes, wings, and tail,” said Check.  “I believe he means to go as a ghost, though it will be a unique interpretation of one, if I may say so.”

“I dunno, that sounds kinda standard to me.”

“Perhaps.”  Check poured some water from a canteen into a small wooden cup and took a sip.  “Though, I don’t know how many ghosts have calico patterning.”

Sprite giggled.  “What about you?  Are you gonna wear a costume too?”

Although he had not given any great amount of thought to the idea prior to that day, Check said, “Yes, I believe that I will.”

“Hmm…”  Sprite lay in thought, watching one squirrel chase another that had cheeks bulging with seeds, apparently anxious to debate the current distribution of wealth.  “Maybe I’ll do it too then, I guess,” she said.  “At least for one more year.”

“I think that is a fine decision.  Such moments will become memories, and you’ll have your whole life to worry about growing up.”

Afterwards, the two continued their lunch, peppering it with small conversations about Sprite’s coursework, the types of plants they had encountered, and a little about Canterlot.  By the time they finished, their small patch of sunlight had shifted away from them and diminished into a small, reddening spot, and the whisper of wind above began to speak of a chill.  The afternoon would soon turn into an evening.  Sprite stood up and pulled her scarf a little tighter, and Check started gathering their supplies.  After everything was packed away, they began to make their way back.

“So do you got what you’re gonna be for Nightmare Night all lined up?” asked Sprite, fidgeting and trying not to shiver as the air cooled.

“No, not yet.”  Check levitated the picnic blanket from the basket and draped it over her.  “I imagine that inspiration will strike some time before then.”

“Ah, okay.”

Sprite followed Check in silence, the undergrowth crunching and snapping beneath their hooves.

After a couple of minutes she added, “And if it doesn’t, I bet we got some white sheets we could loan ya.  If you wanna be a proper ghost an’ all.”


---


The afternoon a couple of days before Nightmare Night, Storm found himself sitting alone on the twill couch in the main house living room.  Kettle had left to pick up the foals from school, Check and Crack Shot were out gathering costume materials for the former, and Allie was working on the foals’ last-minute costume selections (to their credit, they had gotten their orders in earlier than normal; usually it was the night before, or, as on one hectic holiday, the day of).  Although Storm had considered going with the other guardsponies to pick up whatever it was that Check needed, he ultimately decided to help keep an eye on the fort.  As a guardspony, it wouldn’t do to get rusty after all.  So there he sat, skimming through the pages of a large scrapbook that he’d taken from one of the shelves, and listening to the colorful language that filtered down from upstairs whenever a piece of fabric got snagged or a thread got tangled.

The scrapbook was a mishmash of random things as scrapbooks always are:  drawings and fallen feathers, photos and songs that didn’t quite rhyme, all of the little sentiments and memories which add up to make a life.  He flipped ahead towards the latter pages, which he found to be mostly blank, but there were a few that held a stray photo or letter.  If there was an order to the arrangement, Storm couldn’t tell what it was.  He returned to where he had left off, a photo of an embarrassed Kettle in front of a smoking stovetop, and turned the page.  He found one of Sprite’s report cards; it had straight A’s which didn’t really come as a surprise to him.  It was certainly different than those that he had gotten when he was younger, which were at times a bit more representative of the rest of the alphabet.  The next page had a sketch by Airy which was pretty good for a kid her age; in its sketchy charcoal lines he could recognize others such as Kettle, Allie, and her siblings.  Both of the latter had been drawn with horns, although her brother’s were of the more demonic variety, and she had taken the liberty of giving him a spaded tail.  The page that followed had a slip from one of Flip’s teachers; apparently he had tried to bring a beehive into the classroom.  On the next page Storm’s eyes widened.  Dried and pressed into it was a single blue flower.

“The first one he ever gave me, though I’m glad to say not the last.”

Storm spun towards the voice.  Looking over his shoulder was Allie, who quickly took a step.

“Whoa there, sorry ‘bout that, Storm.  Didn’t mean to sneak up on ya.”

“Oh, it’s, uh, it’s fine, no worries…  ‘He’?”

“My husband.”

Allie walked around the sofa towards the fireplace, and carefully removed the photo of her, her brother, and the darker stallion from its mantle.  She sat beside Storm, set the photo down for him to see, and traced a hoof over its glass.

“His name was Gentian.  My gentlecolt.”

Gentian… Storm recalled the flower wilting in his saddlebag pocket and suddenly felt very aware of having committed a great trespass.  The flowers, the tree, the symbol carved into it that he thought had been a ‘6’, the number below which he was now realizing could have been a date—

“I’m sorry,” he blurted out. “I think I may have taken something of his, of yours.”

“Oh?”  Allie looked up from the photo and tilted her head.

“A couple of weeks back or so I found a hill near the edge of the fields.”  As he said it, Allie closed her eyes and gave a small nod.  “I’d never seen flowers like those before and so I picked one… I wanted to know what they were.  I didn’t know whose they were.”

“Mm, I think he would’ve been flattered that you took an interest.  Those flowers were his pride and joy.  Well, one of four, I suppose.”  Allie’s gaze returned to the small frame and its contents.  “That hill you found is a special place.  It’s where we ended our first date and where he eventually proposed… Now, it’s where he finds his peace, and I like to think where he still tends his flowers.  I’m glad it was able to bring you some happiness as well.”

“What—er…”

“What happened to him?” asked Allie, finishing the thought that Storm didn’t dare to.

“Excuse me.  It’s not something I should ask.”

“No, that’s natural.  Even when I learned the answer I still found myself askin’ that question.  I spent a long time thinkin’ about the ‘what’ and the ‘how,’ tryin’ to work my way towards a ‘why.’  A long time bein’ very angry and very sad, lookin’ for the sense in somethin’ that didn’t have any.”

She took in a breath and let it out, staring up at the ceiling and at nothing at all.

“It was his heart.  Later, after it had happened, the doctor named things like aneurysms and arrhythmias and all kinds of other reasons that didn’t do a lick to lessen the shock of findin’ him in the middle of our field, collapsed and not breathin’ and never to get up again.” 

“That… it must have been terrible.”  Of course it was terrible.  Storm chided himself for saying it.  He wished he could have said something wiser, something more meaningful.  “I’m sorry,” he said once more, sincerely, and wondered if that was enough.

“Yeah, I ain’t gonna lie.  Ket took it just as hard as I did.  He and my husband were close as could be growin’ up, and when Gentian popped the question, I think he was just as excited as I was to have him in the family.”

Allie gave a small smile as she picked up the photo and stood from the sofa.

“Heh.  Sometimes I think that if Gentian hadn’t ever proposed to me, Kettle would’ve gone and proposed to him himself.”

“Were the foals alright?” asked Storm.  “Jeez, I can’t even begin to imagine what that must’ve been like for them.”

“Truth be told, I don’t think they really understood what had happened at the time, but kids at any age are gonna pick up on when somethin’s wrong.  Sprite was about three and just thought that her father had gone off somewhere far away.  Kept askin’ where he went.  But, I made sure to love ‘em twice as hard, and to try to keep the smile on my face until the rest of me agreed with it.  Kettle’s always been great about bein’ there for us as well.  I don’t think it really hurt the little ones too much, because they just didn’t have enough time to know who their father was.”

Allie replaced the photo on the fireplace mantle.

“…I really wish they could’ve though.”

She looked at the photo in silence for a moment more, before turning towards Storm with a small apologetic smile.  “Sorry ‘bout that, Storm,” she said.  “I just talked your head off, didn’t I?”

“What?  No, not at all!” Storm stammered.  “I’m, well… I’m honored that you’d share all of that with me.”

Allie’s smile warmed.  “It’s kind of you to say so.  Sometimes it’s nice to talk about these things.  …Hmm, I’ve been wonderin’ somethin’.  When you boys first arrived, it didn’t seem like y’all had a whole lot of stuff with you.  Are y’all really set to be out roughin’ it?”

Storm, lost in thought, was caught off-guard by the shift in conversation.  “Oh, uh, I think we will be, though there are a few things we’re going to buy before we leave.”

“Hmm.”  Allie tapped her chin in thought before placing her hoof down, having come to a decision.  “Mind comin’ with me for a moment?”

“…Yeah, sure.”

Storm stood up and followed Allie as she led the way out through the kitchen.  A group of hens scratched at the ground nearby, paying little attention to the two ponies that stepped outside when it was clear that they had no food to give.

“You said you had a mare waitin’ back home for you, didn’tcha?” asked Allie as they rounded the house.

“Yeah, her name’s Nomde Plume.”

“Nomde Plume… that’s a nice name.”

A few yards from the house, Allie came to a stop at the wooden doors of a cellar.  A simple piece of wood was placed through each door’s handle, pinning them shut.  It was all the security that was needed in Fiddler's Plain.  Allie bent down, yanked the piece of wood free, and pulled the doors open, allowing the afternoon light to flood inside.

It was cold down in the cellar, and there was a strong earthen smell; motes of dust stirred to life as they entered, flittering in the sunlight like the flakes of a snow globe.  Stacks of firewood dominated one corner, adding the pungent scent of dry timber.  It was near the back that Allie found what she was looking for: a large canvas bag with bulging pouches on its sides; it had a strange bouquet of its own, a floral scent like linseed.  She beckoned for Storm to take a closer look at it.

“Gentian liked to be out more often than in, and before Sprite was born he loved to go camping during the summer months.  Heck, he didn’t really mind the other months for it either, now that I think about it.”  Allie thumped a hoof against the bag.  “This was the gear that he used:  it’s got an oilcloth tent that’s dang near as tough as a dragon’s hide, along with a canteen, blankets, some cookware, and flint.  If it would help you boys out at all any, I’d like you to take it with you when you go.”

Storm’s mouth fell open.  To his credit, he was quick about trying to make some words come out of it.  “Wow, that’s—are you sure about that?”

“Without a doubt.  Do me a favor though if you do?”

“Yeah, of course.  Anything.”

Allie placed a hoof on Storm’s shoulder and, with a smile, said, “Just bring ‘em back in one piece.”

Storm returned the smile and nodded.  He lifted the bag of camping equipment over his withers and fastened it into place, feeling out the balance of their weight.  Once he had finished, he followed Allie back out of the cellar.  Outside, a set of high voices began to carry faintly from the lane in front of the house.

“Sounds like Kettle and the little ones are back,” said Allie.  “I’m gonna go on ahead and greet ‘em.”

“I’ll do the same in a bit,” said Storm, “just let me put this upstairs.”

“You betcha.”

Allie waved him off and trotted back towards her kitchen, while Storm walked to the guest house.  Upstairs, the bags that he had taken with him from Canterlot sat at the foot of his bed.  He unfastened Gentian’s camping equipment and, very carefully, set it beside them.  Tough as a dragon’s hide, Allie had said, and perhaps that was true.  Storm still felt it appropriate to treat it with due reverence.

When Storm returned to the main house, he found Kettle and Sprite in the kitchen trying to make a meal of some plants the latter had gathered with Check’s field guide.  Kettle gave a quick greeting then returned to trying to help his niece turn a random mix of grass, leaves, mushrooms, and no small amount of dirt into something presentable and, hopefully, edible.  In the living room, Flip and Airy were already busy telling their mother all about their day, and Allie was trying unsuccessfully to get them to take turns.  When Flip saw Storm enter the room, he decided generously to let Airy have their mother’s other ear and trotted towards the guardspony.  He looked up and gave a firm salute.

“Just the stallion I was lookin’ for,” he said.  “Well, one of three, actually.”

“Hey there, Flip, what’s up?” asked Storm.

“It’s a matter of my future mill-tree career,” replied Flip, maintaining the salute.

“Ahh, I see!  How can I help you with that?”

“Well, the way I figure it is that if I’m gonna get in, I’m gonna want to have a competitive edge.”

“There’s no harm in thinking ahead, I suppose.”  Storm noticed Flip starting to wobble on the forehoof not placed against his brow.  “Uh, at ease, soldier.”

“Thinkin’ ahead at ease?  What the heck kinda edge is slackin’ off supposed to give me?”

“I mean you can stop saluting.”

“Oh.”  Flip placed his hoof down.  “Why didn’t you just say so?”

“Anyways, what kind of edge are you talking about?”

“I figure it’d look good if I could show the Guard some fightin’ techniques.”

“…Fighting techniques?”

“Yeah, you know!  Like a secret move where you poke somepony in just the right spot, then when they take five steps their head explodes?”  Flip thrust a hoof into some imagined foe, shouting a war cry that’d be more at home on a playground than a battleground.

Storm winced at this grim sciamachy.  “If we have any secret moves like that, they’re a big enough secret that I haven’t heard of them.  Why in Equestria would you want to do something like that?”

“To keep the bad guys from runnin’ away!” said Flip with a frown, as if this should have been patently obvious.  “Ain’t nopony gonna run if their head’s gonna blow; heck, you wouldn’t even have to lock ‘em up!  So you’re tellin’ me y’all ain’t got nothin’ like that?”

“I’m afraid not,” said Storm.

“Well, dang!”  Flip stamped at the floor.  “But there’s gotta be somethin’ you can teach me right?  I wanna make an impression!”

“Hmm… maybe I can.  That depends on a couple of things, though.”

“Like what?”

“First, you have to promise that if I teach you an attack—and it’s still an ‘if,’ mind you—you’ll treat it as a last resort and use it only in defense of yourself or others.  No using it to threaten or bully, okay?”

“Of course not!”  Flip looked affronted.  “What kinda stallion do you take me for?”

“Secondly—“

“Name it.”

“—You need your mother’s permission.”

“Got it.  MOM!”

“Indoor voices, Flip,” said Allie automatically as she looked over a drawing that Airy had done that day.  She glanced up and asked, “What do ya need?”

“Is it alright if I go practice the Royal Guard’s secret killin’ techniques with Storm?”

“Secret what now?”  Allie quirked an eyebrow.

“I was thinking I could teach him to throw a kick,” answered Storm with a shrug.

“Really now?”  Allie’s eyebrow climbed ever farther.  “Hmm, well as long as you promise not to do it inside the house, Flip, go on ahead.”

“Yeah, yeah, I promise, Mom,” said Flip.  He rolled his eyes.  “Jeez, with all these rules I ain’t ever gonna get to use anythin’ I learn.”

Storm tussled Flip’s mane.  “That would be a good a thing.  Now, you heard your mother: let’s head out back and I’ll teach you a move.”

Storm and Flip walked back through the kitchen, where Kettle watched with uncertainty as his niece employed the tried and true culinary strategy of drowning everything in butter and garlic.  Storm paused in the doorway and took a look back.  In the living room, Allie was giving Airy’s drawing a place of honor in their scrapbook.  There in the kitchen, Kettle was, while trying to stay out of her way, helping his niece to cook. Here was a family that had been wounded but not broken, a family tempered by tragedy and proven strong as wrought iron.

As they walked outside, Flip tapped Storm on his side.  Storm looked down and a corner of his mouth curled up:  looking back up at him was proof that Allie and Kettle had done an excellent job so far.

“Yeah, Flip?  What’s on your mind?”

“I was just wonderin’: does ‘self-defense’ include when one of my sisters—”

“No.”

“Dang.”


---


For such short notice, Check Mate felt that his costume was coming together rather well.  The trip to Hazel’s shop had provided all of the necessary components, and she herself had taken a special interest in the project.  She waved off Check’s offers of remuneration since most of what they had used had been things that she couldn’t sell otherwise, and instead contented herself with being among the first to see the final product.  Crack Shot had watched with a befuddled amusement as the whole thing came together.  Watching his friend try it on, he fought to keep his mouth shut.

“Thank you, Hazel, for your assistance and for your generosity,” said Check, admiring their handiwork and how it fit on his withers.  “I must admit that this came out even better than I had expected.”

“My pleasure, sugar,” said Hazel.  “It’s been a slow afternoon so far, and you made it at lot more interestin’ than it would’ve been.”

“And my thanks go to you two as well, Hugh, Mooney,” he added towards her two crows.  “This project would not have come off the ground if not for your contributions.”

Hugh and Mooney each squawked loudly and gave a flap of their wings.

Crack Shot scratched the side of his head.  “So, uh, what are you goin’ as again?”

“Something fitting to my character,” said Check.  “I shall be playing the role of a chess piece.  A knight, to wit.”

“…A knight, eh?”

“Indeed.”  Check beamed.  He turned in place, showing off the large sable wings fastened to his back. “I had first considered playing a bishop, but, given our profession, I felt a knight would be more apropos.”

“Huh.”  Crack Shot curled in his lower lip.  “…Wouldn’t have been my first guess…”

“Oh?  What would that have been?”

Well, there was no use keeping it in.  “Yeah… you’re kinda rockin’ the princess vibe, dude.”

“W-what?”  Check froze in place, and his cheeks began to pinken.

“Mm-hmm,” hummed Hazel.  “When you said you were makin’ a pair of wings, I figured that was what you were goin’ for.”

Hugh and Mooney cawed in agreement.

“B-but, in both traditional and contemporary designs, wings are prominent features of the knight game piece.”  Having conquered the territory of his face, Check’s blush now advanced upon the tips of his ears.

“Yeah, I’m willin’ to take your word on that.”  Crack Shot gave Check a commiserative pat on the shoulder.  “But the point is, well, the point is stickin’ out of your forehead, dude.  Horn. Wings.  Princess.  Dunno how you of all ponies didn’t see that comin’.  Seriously, how many ponies do you know that are workin’ all of those features?”

“It’s very progressive, if you ask me,” said Hazel, helpfully.  Hugh and Mooney cawed again.

“But there—well, I suppose that’s true—but there must be some way to distinguish myself.  Perhaps if I were to fashion some sort of greaves or criniere to match?  Some sort of dark accoutrement to clarify my role as a black knight?”

“I dunno, dude. Addin’ fancy digs might be one step forward and two steps back.”

Check sighed.  “I’d prefer one step forward and two steps left.  Oh well… should I be thought a, er, princess as you two suggest—”

“—You totally will, dude,” said Crack Shot.

“—There are worse figures to emulate.  I suppose I should take no offense.”

“Ha!  Well said, sugar.”

“Thank you, Hazel, for that and for everything.  Now Crack Shot and I should be on our way soon.  May I once more try to offer recompense for your services?”

“Honey, to help a cutie like you get his wings, a bit of glue, some branches, and molted feathers are worth the price of admission.  Mm, you know, you’re even cuter when you blush like that.”

Check swallowed.  “Erm, thank you, Hazel.  I wish you a pleasant rest of the day.”

“You are most welcome.  You boys take care now!”

Crack Shot waved a wing.  “Peace out, Haze.  You too, H and M.”

After Check had placed his faux wings into his bags, being careful not to dislodge their feathers, he and Crack Shot began their return to Allie’s farm.  Crack Shot started to whistle as they trudged through the grasses of the hill leading towards the main path.  He took in Check from the corner of his eye.

“Just a heads up, dude: if your face gets any redder, ponies might just think that you’re goin’ as a fruit bat instead.”

“Knights, princesses, and now fruit bats.  Who would have ever imagined that I’d fashion such a versatile ensemble,” grumbled Check.

“Just lettin’ you know.  Hey, on the subject of princesses, what’s Luna got goin’ on for Nightmare Night?  Is she gonna kick it in Canterlot this time around, or go out and terrorize another small village?”

Check shook his head.  “Honestly, Crack Shot.”

“Oh, relax, dude.  Last I heard she was a total hit over there in, what’s it, Ponytown?”

“Ponyville, and I suppose you are right; she was.  In fact, as I understand it she shall be visiting there this year as well.”

Crack Shot nodded.  “Classic Nightmare Night strategy: goin’ where you know.  Back when we did it, me and my brother had worked out all the houses that gave out jumbo-size candy.  By the end of the night we’d always have a couple of pillow cases packed with the good stuff, guaranteed.”

“You’re rather serious about this holiday, aren’t you?”

“Heck yeah, it’s the best!”

“Better than birthdays or Hearth’s Warming Eve?”

“Oh, they’re fine.  I’ve just never gotten an IOU for Nightmare Night before.  Anyways, why don’t we leave a message with Febre and the geezer wishin’ them, Luna, and everypony else a happy holiday or somethin’ when we get back?”

“I think that would be a very nice idea,” said Check.  “Presuming the sentiment does not get lost in translation.”


---


Dinner was… well, it was a dinner, debatably.  It was presentable.  It was, by definition, edible, in that it wouldn’t kill you if you ate it, though you’d wish that it had.  It may be said that all of the flavors blended together, though this would be because there were only two flavors to speak of, those being grease and garlic, and they didn’t have a choice.  It also had texture, another important aspect of gastronomy.  Crunchiness, chewiness, and stickiness all harmonized to add to the gustatory experience as would, say, biting into a gum eraser which had been dipped in epoxy and thrown into a gravel pit.

All said, it wasn’t very good.

All said, Sprite had worked very hard on it.

Everypony made sure to eat every single bite.

After they had all finished, Sprite was the first to get up from the table, happily gathering every empty plate with her magic and depositing them in the sink.

Allie fought back a hiccup and said, “Sprite, thanks for… thanks for that.”  Sprite beamed.  “Now, if you, Flip, and Airy are keen on it, y’all can go on up and try on your costumes after you’ve bathed and brushed your teeth.  Sprite, Airy, I just finished yours up this afternoon, and you can find ‘em sittin’ on the table in my room.”

“Yes, Mom!” sang the two fillies, before scampering upstairs.

“What about mine, Mom?” asked Flip.

“It should still be hangin’ in the closet where you left it.  I haven’t touched it since last year.”

Flip nodded, satisfied, and trotted on after his sisters, his mother following behind him.

Kettle approached the sink and began scrubbing a dish.  “So how’d it go over at Hazel’s?  You fellas find what you were lookin’ for to put together a costume?”

Check took a spot beside him and dried the dishes as they came to him.  “We did.  In fact, the finished products are sitting within my bags just in the living room.”

Crack Shot began putting things away as Check passed them over.  “You know, it’s kinda funny.  I don’t think any of us has actually paid for anything in all the times we’ve gone over there.  What about you, Storm?”

Storm, wishing to be helpful, pushed in a chair.  “Actually, I can’t say that I have.”

“Heh, sounds like Hazel for ya.  It’s a wonder that she stays in business.”  Kettle passed another fork to Check and fished his hooves around the soapy water.  “Looks like that’s the last of ‘em.”  He unplugged the drain and rinsed his hooves.  After everything was put away, the four of them retired to the living room.  “So how ‘bout that costume of yours?” he asked Check.  “Mind if I see it?”

“Certainly.  I’d be happy to receive your critique.”  Check levitated his bags from beside the front door and unfastened their buckles.  As he pulled out the wings, Kettle whistled appreciatively.

“Hoo-boy!  Y’all really did a bang-up job with those, didn’t ya?  They look dang near like the real thing!”

“Thank you, Kettle.  Creating them was actually quite trivial.  The greatest difficulty was in finding two branches of an appropriate size which also matched a pegasus’s skeletal structure.”

“Well, ya done good.  So I take it you’re goin’ as Princess Luna or somethin’?”

Crack Shot snickered.

“That,” sighed Check, “seems to be along the lines of the current consensus.”

Storm craned his neck forward to get a better look at the wings.  “Really?  Knowing you, I would’ve figured something chess related.  In this case, like a king or a knight.”

Check turned to Storm, his eyes wide and bright.  “Yes,” he said.  “Thank you!”

“Or a queen,” added Crack Shot, cheerfully.

“Oh, hush,” said Check, as he put the wings back in his bag.

They were interrupted by the sound of scampering hooves from the second floor, and a moment later the source came tumbling down the stairs.  They were met by a gold-painted garden pail with two mismatched eye slots cut out, a set of tin armor and boots to match, and, somewhere in the middle of it, by Flip.

“Hail!” he shouted.  He then threw a salute.  He threw it a little too hard, in fact: the pail rattled and spun around his head.

Crack Shot hopped off of his seat and walked towards Flip to take a closer look.  “Hey, lookin’ good, little dude!”

A “Thanks!” echoed out of the pail.  “I made the helmet myself!” reverberated after it.

“So.”  Crack Shot scratched his chin.  “What are you goin’ as?”

Flip spun the pail back around so that his eyes were visible and proceeded to narrow them.  “What the heck do you mean ‘what am I goin’ as?!’”

“Easy, buddy, I’m just pullin’ your tail.  Like I said, the armor really does look good.”

“Just like the kind you guys wear?”

“Yep.  All you’re really missin’ is the mane and coat color.”

“Oh.  Well I’ll bet we got some paint in the barn—” Flip made a gallop for the kitchen before his uncle stepped in front of him.

“Nuh-uh,” said Kettle, scooping up his nephew with a hoof and depositing him on a spot of couch beside him.

“Why not?!”

“I think it’d be for the best if you kept your costume limited to somethin’ you can take off at the end of the night.”

Flip, not about to allow incidental minutiae shoot down a good idea, decided to argue his case.  “Paint thinner’d take it off,” he said.

“Paint thinner’d also take off your coat.”

“So?  It ain’t like I don’t got another one of those growin’ in all the time.”

“No, Flip.”

“Dangit.”  Flip pouted.  Wasn’t that just typical adult behavior?  The minute you try to plead your case, to use logic, all they gotta do is say ‘no’ to completely kill the argument.  It just wasn’t sporting.

While he fumed over what was now to him an incomplete costume, Sprite and Airy came cantering down the stairs in theirs.  Sprite wore a wide-brimmed, floppy hat with straw sewn into its inside like long, stiff strands of mane.  A pair of overalls and a checkered flannel shirt complimented the look, with extra straw sticking out of the latter.  Airy wore a brown leotard covering her body and all but a lock of her mane, and four feline paws over her hooves; behind her, a barbed tail bounced every which way as she walked.  Flip pulled himself onto the back of the couch and appraised his sisters.

“Hey, Sprite, I thought you said you weren’t gonna dress up this year,” he said.

Sprite gave an embarrassed smile.  “I, um, changed my mind.”

“Glad to see ya came to your senses.”  Flip then looked at Airy and his face bunched up.  “What the heck are you supposed to be?”

“I’m a manticore.”  Then, because she thought this should’ve been clear, she added, “Duh.”

“‘Duh’?  What do you mean by ‘duh’?!”  Flip’s ears flattened and his tail began to swish; Kettle sighed and pinned it down with a hoof.

“It’s short for dummy.”

Flip leapt at his sister and made it about a foot before learning that his tail wasn’t coming along for the ride.  “Let go!  Lemme at her!  The honor of the Guard is at stake!”

“Is it?” asked Kettle.

“I don’t know.  I think the Guard’s honor has faced worse insults than that,” said Storm.

“Yeah, like any time we’re stationed in a public area,” added Crack Shot.

Flip pulled himself as far over the couch as his tail would yield and pointed an accusing hoof.  “Ain’t manticores supposed to have a mane?!” he shouted.

“The girls don’t, dummy!”  Airy stuck out her tongue.

“Don’t call your brother dumb, Airy,” warned Kettle.

“Yeah!  And besides, what you said don’t make any sense.  You, Sprite, and Mom have manes!”

Sprite, wishing to stay out of this debate, pulled her hat as far down her head as her horn would allow.

“But we ain’t manticores,” explained Airy, irritably.  “Nightmare Night excludin’.  Are you sure you even know what a manticore is?”

“Course I do.  It’s a scorpion with some wings and lion bits stuck on the front.”

“Yeah, and them lion bits is why the girls don’t have a mane!”

Flip noted with horror that he was losing this argument.  He tried a different tactic.  “Well, I don’t think manticores can talk, either, and you sure are flappin’ your gums a lot!”

Airy growled.  This had nothing to do with the costume; she would’ve growled anyways.

Kettle stood up.  “I think,” he said, just loud enough to let the foals know trouble might be on the horizon if they kept it up, “lion linguistics aside, your mother worked very hard on each of your costumes.  Do y’all really wanna fight about the job she did?”

Flip and Airy hung their heads, their ears pinning back.  Their uncle had come into a sticks and stones level argument and just dropped a bomb on it.  Flip’s tail sagged; Airy’s scorpion barb continued bouncing because that was just the way it was attached, though it did so a little more listlessly. “…No,” they said in unison.

“I’m glad to hear that.”  Kettle smiled.  “Now, it’s gettin’ late and y’all got one more day of school tomorrow, if I ain’t mistaken.  Why don’t y’all go on and brush your teeth and get cleaned up and ready for bed?”

Flip and Airy shared a look before staring at their uncle.

“We already brushed our teeth and cleaned up,” said Sprite.

“…You did?”

“Mom asked us to, right after dinner, remember?”

Kettle looked to the guardsponies.  They each nodded with varying degrees of subtlety.

“And they’re given us the three-day weekend,” said Airy.

“And it’s only, like, five o’clock,” added Flip.

“Huh.  Well, dang.”  Kettle scrunched his face on one side and scratched his head.  “That really just felt like one of those moments.  One where there’s a tussle followed by a lil’ bit of catharsis, and ya can just go, ‘Now scamper on up to bed, ya lil’ rascals,’ you know?”

They didn’t.  They continued to stare at him.

“Eh, you’ll understand when y’all are raisin’ foals of your own.  Speakin’ of which, where’s your mother?”

“I think Mom’s lookin’ at the scrapbook,” said Sprite.  “She brought it upstairs with her.”

“…Gotcha.  Well, tell y’all what: how ‘bout we all play a board game to pass the time?”

The foals definitely understood that.  With peace restored, Flip and Airy ran upstairs to fetch their favorite game and put an end to it.

This time, it was not only Flip, Airy, and Crack Shot playing.  Sprite, Storm, Check, Kettle, and, a little later on, Allie decided to join in as well.

They played late into the evening, that game and others, burning through lamp oil and neglecting bedtimes.

But, that was okay.

After all, it was one of their last opportunities to do so.


---


When yawns had begun to dominate the conversation, and heavy eyelids caused young heads to dip, Allie decided that it was time for everypony to get some shuteye.  Kettle had decided this about an hour ago and lay snoring in his chair.  After tossing a blanket over her brother, she wished the guardsponies a good night, and the foals groggily did the same.

Upon snuffing out the paraffin lamps of the living room and gathering Check’s bags, the guardsponies made for the guesthouse, Check’s horn lighting the way with its dim glow.  Once inside, Storm struck a match to light a candle, one from a surplus meant for the jack-o-lanterns, and then went upstairs to retrieve his journal and quills from his bag.

“What have you got there?” asked Check, pausing on the way to his bed and casting some illumination onto Storm’s newest bag.

“Ah, Allie lent that to us.  It’s camping gear.”

“Really?  How thoughtful of her!  What does it include?”

“Um, let’s see.  A tent, pans… bedding among other things, I think.  I haven’t really taken a look inside.”

“All the bare essentials, eh?” said Crack Shot.  “Nice.  That oughta make us look like we know what we’re doin’.”

“Goodness.  I hope she didn’t put herself too far out of her way.”

“Yeah… so do I, Check,” said Storm, leaving it at that as he walked back downstairs.  It didn’t feel like the moment to tell the others about Gentian.  He wasn’t sure when that moment would come, if it were to come at all.  He set his journal in front of him, turned to the next empty page, and began to write, grateful to have a means of pouring out his thoughts and clearing his mind.

Upstairs, Crack Shot threw himself onto his bed and tapped a rear hoof against the headboard.  He stopped as a thought came to mind.

“Hey, we didn’t send a holiday message to everypony back at the castle yet.  Mind if I bust that out?”

“By all means.”  Check levitated the smart stone and its stylus from his bag and over to Crack Shot, the light from his magic cutting the darkness of the room into ribbons of shadow.

“Shweet,” Crack Shot slurred around the stylus after snatching it out of the air.  He started writing.

Hey, Febs.  You there?


He blew the message away and waited.

After waiting about fifteen minutes or so with no response, Crack Shot started tapping the upper panel of the smart stone.  “Hey, do you think this thing is busted?” he asked.

“I think it is more probable that Febre hasn’t yet taken notice of your message.”

“Oh.  Yeah, that makes sense.  Man, it’d be nice if these things rang or somethin’.  Maybe I oughta bug ‘em about adding some more bells and whistles.”

Storm came back up the stairs and, after feeling around for his bags in the gloom, placed his journal and writing utensils back in their pockets.  He climbed into his bed and rolled onto his back, fanning his wings out beneath him.  “What are you guys up to?” he asked.

“Crack Shot is sending holiday salutations on our behalf to those at the castle,” answered Check.

Storm yawned.  “Mm, that’s nice,” he said.

“Yeah, if Febs would friggin’ respond.”  

“Hope he doesn’t take too long,” said Storm.  “We’re meeting those weather pegasi tomorrow afternoon, remember?  We’ll probably want to be fresh.”

“Yeah, yeah.  What’s that all about again?”

Storm rolled onto his stomach, wrapping himself in his sheets.  “I’ve got no idea,” he said.  “Something about helping with the Nightmare Night festivities.”

“Huh.”

A faint emerald glow lit the underside of Crack Shot’s face.

“Oh hey, finally.”  Crack Shot looked down at what was written.

That is a question I could not answer honestly in the negative.


You know, you could always just say ‘Hi.’


No, I couldn’t.  What do you need, Crack Shot?
 
Not much, dude.  Me and the guys just want to wish you and everypony else a Happy Nightmare Night!!!
 
Oh.  Well, thank you.

A minute passed.

Then appeared:  What do you mean by ‘everypony’?
 
You know: Luna, Celestia, the other guards, anypony else I’m missing.  Heck, I bet old Gray Mane must *love* the holiday.  He probably doesn’t even have to dress up.
 
I see.  And in your well-wishing, how exactly am I involved?
 
You’re sending out our messages, right?
 
…And you want me to go through each and every hall and wing of this castle, meeting with every single pony to let them know you say hello?
 
No, that I say ‘Happy Nightmare Night!!!’  And yeah, if you could.


It took a few minutes for Febre to reply, but the reply he eventually gave was a lot more pleasant than it could have, and perhaps would have been normally.

Fortune smiles upon me, because one of your fellow tin soldiers, EKG, I think it was, has just shown up asking how you three are doing.  See about getting him to run this ridiculous errand; I need to teach Table the difference between a beaker and a graduated cylinder.
 
Okie doke.


Crack Shot thumped a rhythm against his mattress and waited for the hoofwriting to change.

Hey, Crack Shot, right?  This is Ikebana.  Febre just shoved that stone of his in my face and said you had a job for me?
 
Hey, dude, yeah, the three of us wanted to wish you and everypony else a Happy Nightmare Night!!!  Can you spread the word around?
 
Is that all? Huh, the way Febre was acting so worked up, I thought it’d be a bigger deal.  Yeah, I’ll let the guys know.
 
Don’t forget the princesses.  It’s Luna’s big night, right?  Maybe you could get her a card.
 
Uh-huh.  Well, I don’t know where I’d get one at this hour, but, if I somehow get the chance, I’ll tell her that you wish her well.
 
And that we say Happy Nightmare Night!!!
 
I don’t think it’s physically possible for me to convey that many exclamation points.  Is Check Mate there?
 
Yeah, just a sec.


“Hey, Check, it’s for you.  Ikebana says hi.”  Crack Shot flung the smart stone and its stylus towards Check, whereupon they landed on his bed a couple of inches from his face.  Check didn’t flinch, but he did frown slightly.

“You should really be a bit charier in how you treat those,” he said.

“Relax, dude,” said Crack Shot, as he kicked his covers over himself and splayed out.  “It’s not like I’d have missed.”

Check shook his head and picked up the stylus.

Greetings, Ikebana, this is Check Mate speaking.  It is a pleasure to hear from you again.  Have you some news to share with us?


No, I just thought I’d hazard stopping into Gray Mane’s lab try to say hello.  Crack Shot just asked me to wish Princess Luna a ‘Happy Nightmare Night!!!’ on behalf of you guys, though.  Should I drop this rock off with her so you can do it yourself?
 
If you would like, though I think she might appreciate hearing such words as well, and, if she is occupied with preparation for the holiday, hearing them may be more convenient for her.


I don’t know.  Delivering this thing seems more like ‘official business.’  Disturbing her just to wish her a happy holiday?  Not so much.  As a princess, she might not appreciate the informality.


Perhaps.  Though, as a pony, she might.  I will leave it to your discretion.  Anyways, it has been while since last we spoke, so tell me:  how do things fare?


Well, the upcoming holiday has things getting pretty lively.  The Staff Sergeant is going to have more of us out on the streets.  Just in case anypony finds themselves in the mood to give part of the city an egg yolk patina.
 
Vigilance where it is due, I see.  But what about you?
 
Me?
 
Yes, how have things been for you in particular?


A few minutes passed.

Pretty good, actually.  With our new training, I found a pretty awesome way to make use of my talents.  Thanks to Feathers, we’ve come up with what we think is a really effective ghillie suit design.  Not sure if we’d ever need one, but still.  I’m proud of it.


That is splendid, Ikebana!  And have you also been able to practice your talents beyond military applications?
 
Do you mean floral arrangement?
 
Yes.  If I may inquire, that is.


Another few minutes passed.
 
Yeah, I do when I have the chance.  It’s trickier this time of year when things are going out of season, but I make do with what I can find.  At least when I’m not busy training and patrolling and those kinds of things, you know.
 
I am glad to hear that.  While ghillie suits are well and good, I would be disheartened to learn that you had abandoned a passion if you felt it unsuited to your career.


And once more, a few more minutes passed.
 
How about you guys?  I hear you’re all finally hitting the road again in a couple of days.  Are you excited?
 
To be honest, I’m not sure how much actual road there will be to hit, but I am looking to forward to seeing where Luna’s map takes us.
 
Will you guys be set on shelter, water, and that kind of stuff?  It seemed like you left the castle a little light-hooved.
 
I believe we shall be prepared.  A town on the periphery of civilization seemed likely to have the means necessary for venturing outside of it, and indeed we’ve been able to acquire most of what we would require.  As for comestibles, I shall trust in the knowledge I’ve gleaned from Ms. Grylls’s work.  It was as comprehensive as you said.


Did you read through that entire book already?!


Indeed, although it took a bit longer than average, to be honest, in between its level of detail, and the labor we found ourselves engaged in on the farm that is hosting us.
 
Wow.  If I had more of a heads up, I could’ve just given it to you for the weekend and saved you the trouble of lugging it around.  Well, I hope it still proves useful to you guys.
 
It has and it shall, I am certain.


Time passed without further communication and so, thinking the conversation may have ended, Check folded his hooves together and rested his head upon them, closing his eyes.  He had begun to drift into a light sleep when a faint shift of color behind his eyelids stirred him once more.  He blinked to clear his vision and peered down at the smart stone.

Hey, I went and spoke with Luna.  She sends her thanks, and wishes for you guys to have a pleasant holiday as well.  I’m surprised that she’s so approachable.  Not that I’m complaining.  She also asked me to tell you ‘Q-E-7.’  Any idea what that means?


Check yawned and then thought for a moment.  “Oh dear,” he whispered, before picking up the stylus.

It means that I’ve just lost a bishop.


After some small conversation, Check wrote his farewells, put the smart stone away, and closed his eyes once more.

Outside, a rooster announced what was, technically, the start of a new day, but the guardsponies slept too deeply to hear it.


---


It was pleasant late in the following afternoon.  In fact, all of the afternoons had been pleasant.  Since the guardsponies had arrived in Fiddler’s Plain, it had been all sunny days with just enough clouds to give the sky some texture.  This, of course, could be credited to the local weather team.  So argued Hop Seed, de facto leader of the weather pegasi tetrad by virtue of being the loudest.  From their perch on a cloud high in the sky, he was currently pontificating to Storm and Crack Shot on the subject.

“And, as I’m sure you two can imagine, the four of us here always got our work cut out for us, simply as a matter of course,” he said, his head held high and proud.  The other three weather pegasi were shaking theirs.  “There’s a balance to it, including, but not limited to—”

Storm watched him speak with fascination.  He recalled Hop Seed as the pony that had slammed into the table the very first night they had arrived.  In fact, he had learned in later visits that this was not an uncommon occurrence, and there had been some especially nasty crashes which had made even Storm’s feathers clench.  However, that first night stood most vivid in his memory, which shows that there is something to be said for first impressions, particularly when those impressions are left in a hardwood table.

Hop Seed continued.  “—and you two probably wonder how we can manage so many consecutive days as fantastic as this one.”  This was untrue.  “You wanna know how we do it?”  They didn’t.

“By gettin’ the first day right and leavin’ the rest of ‘em alone until somethin’ needs fixin’.”  This was from Maple Seed, Hop Seed’s sister.  Hop spun towards her and gave her a dark look.  She met it with half of a grin.

“Dangit, Maple!  Say it like that and you’re gonna make us look lazy!”

Maple rolled her eyes.  “Dunno who you think you’re foolin’.  They’re pegasi.  I’m sure they got an idea of how it goes.”

Another stallion, Whirlybird, spoke up.  “Nah, Hop, there’s no use tryin’ to dress it up.  Still, we do keep busy one way or another.  As for myself, I’ll sculpt a cloud every now and then, try to shape it into whatever’s on my mind.”

“Like a rabbit?” ventured Storm.

Crack Shot elbowed him in the shoulder.  “Or a hare?” he added.

Whirlybird looked upwards, bit his upper lip, and slowly shook his head.  “Mm, nah…  I go more for things like, mmm, like ennui… or solipsism.”  He pursed his lips.  “Folks never do seem to recognize ‘em, though…”

“Now don’t forget the growin’ season,” continued Hop, not to be deterred.  “There are acres of farmland around here which need just the right blend of sunlight and hydration.”

“Naturally, the irrigation helps with that.”  This came from Jacaranda, Jackie to her friends.  Maple snuck her a smile.

“Stop makin’ it sound like we just sit on our flanks, would ya?!  We still need a good rainstorm every now and then—not just for the crops, but for everypony’s general mental wellbein’.  Y’all know how nice it is when it’s pourin’ buckets outside, beatin’ a rhythm on the roof, and you’re all wrapped up in a blanket with a good book.”

“A book?  When’s the last time you read somethin’ that didn’t have a centerfold?”

“Dangit, Maple!”

“Heh, alright, that was a bit of a low blow.”  Maple turned toward Storm and Crack Shot.  “But our job probably ain’t nearly as excitin’ as half of what y’all see in your line of work”—Storm and Crack Shot each decided not to address that—“occasionally we gotta reel in a thunderhead or two if one rolls over the northern mountains, but that’s about it.

“Thunderheads?” asked Storm.

“Just a part of livin’ on the edge of civilization,” explained Jackie.  “With nopony to control the weather out there, it kinda controls itself.  The mountains usually keep it fenced off, but when they don’t, it’s our job to go in and bust it up.”

“Unless of course we can use it, in which case we all just take the day off,” said Whirlybird.  He bit his lip once more and got a distant look in his eye.  “Tends to be more usable on weekends, I reckon…”

Hop dragged a hoof down his face.

“So… why are we here?” Crack Shot asked him.  “You said somethin’ about Nightmare Night when you caught us at Pimento’s, unless that was the salt talkin’.”

Hop perked up.  “I’m glad you asked!”  He snuck a sideward glance at his companions.  “…Real glad you asked.  For the holiday, me and the others like to help set the mood for the young’uns by givin’ ‘em a dark and stormy night—”

“The night helps a bit with the dark part,” added Jackie.

“—and we wanted to know if you fellas wanted to join in.”

Crack Shot shrugged and said, “Sure, why not?”

Storm, a little less certainly, agreed as well.

“Great!  Now we ain’t got no thunderheads ready to go, but there’s a pond nearby we can pull some vapor from to saturate some of the cumulus around here, or to make a few new ones if we need to, though I don’t think we will.  Me and the others will round some up, and you two can take the one we’re standin’ on.  Afterwards, we’ll charge ‘em and see how they fire.  Sound like a plan?”

“Yep!”

“Uh, okay.”

“Alright, we’ll be back in a jiff!”

The Fiddler’s Plain weather pegasi took off in separate directions from the cloud, leaving Storm and Crack Shot alone for the time being.  Crack Shot turned to his friend.

“What’s up, dude?  You look more like you’ve got a cloud over your head than under it.”

Storm rubbed the back of his head sheepishly.  “Yeah… clouds are one thing that I never really got down,” he said.

“Huh.  No kiddin’?  Didn’t you once say you did weather work?”

“Yeah, but I didn’t say I was good at it.  Whenever I tried to make a cloud by hoof, I’d just end up with, well, fog, my snowflakes always came out as hail, and don’t get me started on lightning.”

“Pfft, don’t sweat it, dude. Doesn’t sound like we’re actually makin’ clouds, let alone snow, and lightning’s all in the hooves.  You got this.”

The weather ponies returned a couple of minutes later, pushing swaths of cloud before them.  Hop’s head popped over the top of one them.

“Y’all ready to do this?!”

Crack Shot lifted an eyebrow at Storm.  “Ready?” he asked.

Storm inhaled, held it, and let it out.

“As I’ll ever be.”


---


In the end, it was the lightning that did it.  Actually, it didn’t just stop at the end.  The lightning pretty much did it everywhere, Storm’s front, sides, top, and bottom included.  Crack Shot and the weather ponies winced collectively as Storm Stunner tried once more to buck out a bolt, only to have it curve elegantly through the air, around the cloud, and into him.

“He, uh, doesn’t have any metal fillings in his teeth, does he?” asked Maple.

Crack Shot shook his head.  “Nah, don’t think so,” he said.

Jackie hissed as the cloud zapped Storm again.  “And just so I’m not mistaken, his name does end in an ‘r,’ right?  Not a ‘d’?”

Again, Crack Shot shook his head.

“Still, you’d think that with a name like Storm...,” she trailed off.

Hop Seed was on the border between pity and pride, feeling bad that Storm couldn’t manage the thundercloud, and feeling great that the Royal Guardspony from Canterlot couldn’t do it better than him.

“Well, it’s just like I was sayin’, isn’t it?  It ain’t an easy job that we do out here, nossir.”  He was punctuated by a thunderclap.  “Phew, dang if he ain’t persistent though.”

“Think we oughta do somethin’?” asked Whirlybird.  He had used the Common We, the antonym of the Royal We, which is to say Anypony BUT Me.

“That cloud can’t have that much more of a charge in it,” said Maple.  She shielded her eyes too late against another flash and blinked away the stars.  “Huh.  Didn’t think lightnin’ could arc like that.”

The cloud eventually gave off its last spark, and Storm, singed and sullen, slumped into it.  Crack Shot landed beside him.  The cloud crackled just slightly as he did so.

“Nice try, dude,” he said, patting Storm on the shoulder and getting a minor shock for it.  “’A’ for effort.”

“Seems like ‘A’ for amperage might be more fittin’,” whispered Whirlybird.  Maple and Jackie shushed him.

“…I don’t think lightning is just in the hooves,” Storm groaned.  “I think it was everywhere.”

“You were probably just overthinkin’ it, dude.  We’ll work on it some time.”

Hop Seed alighted behind them, followed by the other weather ponies.  “Not a lot of time between now and tomorrow, though,” he said.  “I don’t mean any offense, but uh, you might want sit Nightmare Night out, least on the weather end of things.”

“Yeah… I guess that’d be for the best,” Storm sighed.

“Now don’t feel too sore about it,” said Hop, quickly.  “They could probably use some help on the ground.  Heck, maybe you could dress up in a scary costume or something; you know, spook the foals a bit!  I bet they’d love that!”

“If it’d help, I guess I wouldn’t mind.  But I don’t have a costume, let alone a scary one.  I’m not sure what I could throw together by tomorrow.”

Crack Shot stared into the distance, as if weighing a great decision.

“…You… you could borrow mine, dude,” he said at last, soberly.

Storm stared up at Crack Shot blankly for a second.  “You mean that bedspread with the daisies printed all over it?” he asked.

Crack Shot nodded.  He looked like he might cry.

“I’ve got an old gorilla mask lyin’ around that I ain’t been usin’ lately,” interjected Whirlybird.  All of the ponies turned towards him.

“Why the heck do you have a gorilla mask?” asked Maple.

“Mind your business, Maple,” said Whirlybird.  “Anyways, you could use it if you’d like.  I just gotta rinse it out.”

“Uh, thanks.  I think,” said Storm, scratching his head in between smoothing his frazzled mane.

Whirlybird tipped his head.

After that, there was nothing left to do but call it a day; the weather ponies went on their way and the guardsponies went on theirs.

“So that’s what you meant about lightning, eh?” said Crack Shot, breaking the silence.

“Ye-p.”

“Still, that’s pretty impressive, dude.  There aren’t a lot of ponies that can get zapped like that and keep on kickin’.  Speakin’ of which, why did you keep on kickin’ that cloud?”

“I wanted to see if I could get it right, I guess.”

“Huh.  You know, if this guardspony thing doesn’t work out, you could always try gettin’ a job as a lightning rod.”

For the first time since that futile endeavor, Storm smiled.

“Heh.  I’ll remember to use you as a reference.”

The flight back to Allie’s farm was a quick one, and a helpful breeze made it even quicker.  The yellowing rows of corn stalks and the paths winding through them lay silent and still but for the stir of the wind, awaiting their last day of activity before winter came to claim them.  As the guardsponies passed over the main house, they spotted two small figures in the back yard: Flip and Airy, the two of them in their Nightmare Night costumes.  They were hunched over something.  Storm and Crack Shot landed a few yards away, though the foals were too focused on what they were doing to notice.

“Sup, guys, what’cha up to?” asked Crack Shot.  As he approached them, he saw.  “Ooh… ouch.”

Between the two foals lay the flattened remains of Flip’s tin helmet.  Flip was trying to whack it back into shape.

Storm took a seat beside the two.  “What happened?” he asked.

“Nothin’ I can’t fix,” said Flip, his face screwed up with concentration as he worked.  “Me and Airy were messin’ around, my helmet fell off, then she rolled over it with her big butt.”

Airy opened her mouth to say something, before thinking better of it.  She had smashed his helmet, so that earned him a pass.

“Your mom gonna be happy with you guys gettin’ dirt all over your costumes like that?” asked Crack Shot.

“I don’t see why she’d mind,” replied Airy.  “I bet livin’ out in the wild, manticores get covered with all kinds of things.  A bit of dirt prolly adds some authenticity.”

Flip lifted his helmet; it had become less a piece of armor and more a piece of shrapnel.  “I think it’s lookin’ a lot better,” he said.

The guardsponies stayed their tongues.  Airy, like most foals that have just witnessed a sibling doing their absolute best at some difficult task, said, “Here, you're doin' it wrong—get outta the way and let me do it.”

Flip hugged the smashed tin close to his body and fervidly shook his head.  “No way!  You’ll ruin it again!”

Airy crouched low and ready to pounce, her wings flared and her scorpion barb bobbing behind her.  “Come on, give it!”

“I’ve got another idea,” said Storm.  “Wait right here.”

The foals ceased arguing as Storm walked off towards the guesthouse, curiosity dwarfing contention.

Inside, Storm bounded up the stairs and to his saddlebags.  He had already been given or lent so many things; there was no reason he couldn’t pay it forward.  He pulled out his champron from within his bags, gave it a loving polish, and brought it with him outside.  Flip’s eyes widened when he saw it.

“Whoa!  Is that for real?” he asked.

“The genuine article,” said Storm.  “And if you promise to be careful with it—no rolling on top of it—you can borrow it until after Nightmare Night.  You promise?”

Flip sat there, stunned, before nodding so rapidly he would’ve shamed a woodpecker.

“Okay then, take good care of it.”

Storm presented his champron to Flip, who looked at it as though it would at any moment turn into steam and melt away.  The colt lifted it with both hooves and lowered it carefully, reverentially, onto his head, which promptly disappeared inside of it.

“I think it might be a little big, dude,” whispered Crack Shot to Storm.

“Mm, maybe,” said Storm.  “Wear it with pride, Flip.”

“Will do!”  Flip threw a salute, which clanged against the top of the helmet.  His mouth, the only feature of his face still visible, split into a grin at the sound.  It was a far cry from the old tin-bucket rattle he was used to.  “Dang, I can’t wait to get one of these of my own.”


---


Nightmare Night started early in Fiddler’s Plain.  It started so early that it probably didn’t deserve the second part of its name.

Allie, Kettle, and the guardsponies had just finished breakfast and started to set out the pumpkins, tables, and carving supplies from the barn, when a pair of foals and their parents arrived.  Flip and Airy had leapt from the couch to meet them, and the four foals had then run out back to discuss this year’s costume selection.  The parents thanked Allie for her hospitality and gave her a tray of glazed carrot bread.  Allie graciously accepted it and set it outside, where it lasted for approximately five minutes before the foals had destroyed it.

A few of Sprite’s friends arrived next.  Upon seeing her scarecrow costume, there was a moment of hushed whispers and glances which made her tilt her head.  Afterwards, and by unanimous decision, they declared her costume as ‘okay,’ ‘not bad,’ and ‘alright’, none of which actually mean ‘good.’  They all agreed, however, that it would have been so much cooler and much more fitting if she had gone as something like a wizard, or a mage, or a thaumaturge if they had known the word, given that she could use magic.  She smiled, nodded, and led the way outside, her sagging tail the only thing betraying her feelings.

Over the course of the day, zombies, demons, eldritch horrors, and of course their parents as well filtered in, and by the late afternoon the Corn residence was a din of conversation, shouts, and laughter.

While Allie spoke with one of Sprite’s teachers, Kettle and Check Mate went outside to help the foals get started with their pumpkins.  There was a knock at the front door, which must have been solely for appearances, because right after it ended Hop Seed stepped inside, followed by Maple, Jackie, and Whirlybird.  Storm and Crack Shot, who was draped in his costume, went to greet them.

“Howdy, Storm,” said Hop.  “And, uh, that you under there, Crack Shot?”

“Heya, dude,” replied Crack Shot, muffled slightly by the cloth hanging over his snout.

“I take it you’re goin’ as a mattress or somethin’?”

“Nah, dude, a ghost.  Man, ponies have been sayin’ that all day.”

Hop tilted his head.  “Iffin’ you say so.  Anyways, once the sun sets we’re gonna go grab those thunderclouds and start settin’ up.  Your, uh, costume ain’t gonna get in the way, is it?”

The front of the floral-patterned lump that was Crack Shot wagged, which Hop took as him shaking his head.

“Speakin’ of costumes, here’s that mask I promised ya,” said Whirlybird.  He pulled the gorilla mask from a bag and offered it to Storm.

Storm took it and looked it over.  It had yellow, bloodshot eyes set deeply beneath gray brows, and a sharp-fanged grimace which stretched and folded into different expressions of malice as he turned it over in his hoof.

“You ain’t gonna feel left out when we’re makin’ the thunderstorm, are you?” asked Jackie.

“Nah,” said Storm, not completely honestly.  He tucked the mask behind a wing.

“Well, we’ve still got some time before we gotta get to work,” said Hop.  “I say we rustle up some grub before we’re stuck having to bob for it.”

“I’d figure you’d wanna save room for the salt at the after party,” said Maple.

“Ah, hush up.”

The pegasi stepped outside to kill the time and their hunger, walking past the tables where most of the foals were working on their pumpkins, and where the chickens were gorging themselves on the pulp and seeds.  Flip had finished his pumpkin early, having settled for carving out a crude disc and calling it the moon. Airy was still at work on hers, and had just finished sketching the two-point perspective of her preliminary draft.  With foals coming and going from the tables and scattered through the yard, nopony had given thought to the absence of a single unicorn filly.

“Hey, Check!” Kettle called out, “You mind grabbin’ another pumpkin?  Cabbage here needs a do-over.”

Cabbage, an eponymously dressed earth pony filly, stared with a quivering lip at the remains of her masterpiece and the pieces it had become.

“Certainly,” Check called back.  “Just give me one moment—” Check returned his attention to the filly he was assisting.  “If you’ll pardon me, I shall return shortly to assist you in carving out your pumpkin’s grin, young miss.”

The filly smiled up at him and said, “’Kay, Your Majesty!”

Inside of the barn, the remaining pumpkins sat in a large pile in the corner closest to the entrance.  He sorted through them, appraising each one carefully, and finally settled on a fruit that was squat with a wide, flat base; the only way it’d roll away would be if it were turned on its side like a wheel.  He was about to step back into the yard, when a faint noise on the opposite end of the barn caught his attention.  He stood still and listened.

Sniff.


He set the pumpkin down and approached the location of the noise, the sound of his hoofsteps muted by the straw spread across the floor.  Behind a haystack he found its source: there Sprite sat, whimpering and plucking the straw out of her hat as it floated before her.

“Sprite?  What’s the matter?” he asked, taking a seat beside her.

She didn’t look away from her hat, but she began to speak in a quavering, uncertain voice.  “Can I ask you a question, Check Mate, sir?  About magic?”  She sniffled once more and plucked another straw from her hat.

“Well… yes, of course.  I will try to answer it to the best of my ability.”

“You said that they study magic a bunch in Canterlot… how many kinds of spells are there?”

“How many?  Goodness, I don’t think I could give you an exact number.  There are spells to conjure illusions, to alter the perception and flow of time, to animate objects, and there are always more being discovered.”

Sprite nodded slowly, imagining possibilities.  “And are there spells for changing things?  For turning one thing into another?

“…Why do you ask, Sprite?”

Sprite swallowed and looked up at Check with reddened eyes.  “Are there any that could turn a unicorn into an earth pony?”

“Sprite… what happened?”

“Lots of things,” she answered, dabbing her eyes with her hat.  “My friends treat me like a magic show, my teachers keep sayin’ I should go to Canterlot to get tested, everypony acts like usin’ magic is so great.  But they don’t get it!  There are things you can’t do with it!  I wouldn’t be able to grow a whole field of corn on my own…

“I remember last year, Mom gave each of us a pot with some parsley seeds in it that we could grow for her garden.  I watered mine every day, gave it fertilizer, kept it in the sun, sang to it, and still it didn’t even come close to measurin’ up to how Flip’s grew!  He didn’t even do it right!  He poured hot coffee in his in the mornings to ‘wake it up,’ and kept it inside at noon so it wouldn’t get sunburned!  It grew because he wanted it to!

“I don’t care about spells, I don’t care about fancy cities, I care about this place, and it’s like I don’t even belong…”

“Because you don’t feel that you could tend to a farm like your earth pony relatives?”

“Yes.  No.  Well kinda.  There are all these incredible flowers and trees and mushrooms and grasses growin’ around here, and it’s all ‘cause of ponies like Flip and Uncle Kettle and Mom and everypony else.  They’ve got a link to nature that I’ll never have.”

“Perhaps…”

Sprite’s head sank into her hat.

“…but you still were able to grow your parsley, weren’t you?  Everypony has limitations, Sprite, and yes, sometimes they can hurt.  Very much so, in fact.  But that is only if we let them.  My two closest friends are both pegasi: they’ve each the ability to explore the heavens in a way that I cannot.”

Sprite sniffed.  “Is that why you’re dressed up as a princess?”

“Er, that was more that I appreciate the utility of the chess piece represented by my cutie mark, though I haven’t been very successful in getting the point across.  But that is irrelevant.  Even though I do not have wings, that does not mean I cannot fly.  For instance, I could take to the air in a dirigible.  Or, my friends could carry me.

“If your dream is to stay here, to make things grow, I do not think that is beyond you.  You may have to work harder, but if given water, light, the proper soil, and care, a seed will sprout, regardless of who tends it.  And remember that you are surrounded by those who would help you.  I don’t think you should discount that.”

“I guess…”

“Also, although you may not think highly of your magical abilities, others around you do, and it would be unfair, and perhaps unwise, to dismiss their opinions so readily.  Be wary about how quickly you cast your gifts aside, for they could be additional arrows in your quiver.  They may be worth fostering.”

Sprite’s eyes widened in horror.  “Are you sayin’ I should move to Canterlot?!”

“No, but I am saying that you should have an honest, candid discussion with your instructors and your mother about the development of your talents.  Perhaps she or your uncle could even take you to visit Canterlot so that you would have a stronger basis for your thoughts about it before coming to a decision.  I don’t think it’s such a terrible place.”  Check smiled.  “Having spent some time there myself.  Will you promise me that you’ll at least talk to them about your concerns?  And that you’ll at least leave a few pieces of straw in your hat?  I do believe the floor has enough as it is.”

Sprite blushed, and the glow around her hat dissipated, allowing it to drop softly into the straw spread across the floor.  “…Alright, I promise.  Can I ask you somethin’ else, though?”

“But of course.”

“Is it true y’all are leavin’ tomorrow?”

“Indeed it is.  Our duty calls.”

“Ah…”  Sprite reached down to take her hat in her hooves.  “I’m gonna miss identifyin’ plants with you.”

“As will I, Sprite.  Now, there is a young mare waiting outside for her pumpkin, and I would be remiss to keep her in anticipation.  Will you come with me and rejoin the others?”

“Yeah, alright.”  Sprite placed her hat back on, its brim creasing around her horn.  “And I guess maybe I could carve a pumpkin too.  For plant identification purposes and all.”

“Of course.”

Check levitated Cabbage’s new pumpkin, Sprite levitated one for herself, and the two of them returned to the festivities.  After giving Cabbage her pumpkin, Check weaved between groups of foals and adults towards the guesthouse and made his way upstairs, where the smart stone lay on top of his bags.  He picked it up and wrote a brief message, before taking another item from his bags and returning downstairs to help a filly give her pumpkin its smile.  The message read as follows:

Hello, Febre.  If you would be so kind, please request that the castle treasury deduct the price of one copy of Mare Grylls’s Pandect of Plant Life Pabulums and Panaceas, 5th edition from my wages for payment to the castle library.  If there are any issues with this request, I will do whatever is possible in order to mitigate them, and accept any reprimand this may incur.  Also, please tell Ikebana that I send my apologies; there is somepony that could use his book even more than I.



---


As night fell and with it the sun, the weather pegasi and Crack Shot brought their thunderheads over the corn maze of Allie’s farm.  This was not as impressive to the foals as Hop Seed imagined.  This is because one can squeeze a considerable amount of sky between and around just five clouds.  However, the clouds did make a lot of light and a lot of noise, and their parents seemed to hate it, so the foals gave them their tacit approval.

More impressive was the moon hanging grand and imposing above the eastern horizon.  It was bright, full, and honey colored, a cabochon of clouded amber.  Luna had outdone herself.  And, because the full moon wasn’t actually due for another few days, she had done it early.

Storm had been lurking through the corn maze, stalking unsuspecting foals and leaping out to frighten them, deriving an amusement from it that he promised himself to feel guilty about later.  He crouched behind a bend and awaited the approach of his next victims.  After about ten minutes he was about to give up and change locations, when he heard the clop of approaching hoofsteps.  He tensed himself and listened.  They came closer, closer still, and once they were right at the corner he leapt.


“GOTCH”—WHACK!—“AUGH!  Jeez!”

Storm stumbled to the ground, his left forehoof knocked from beneath him.

“Eat that, monster!”

Storm tore off the gorilla mask and lifted his head to face his attacker, who was just turning back around to do the same.  Knelt down, Storm was at eye level with him, not that it would matter for the gold-plated helmet blocking the view.

“Flip?  What the heck was that for?!”

Flip pushed the helmet up, and his pupils shrunk upon seeing the recipient of his deadly blow.  The helmet dropped back down.  “Uh.  Self-defense, sir?” he suggested.

Behind him, Sprite had her hat pulled over her face in embarrassment, while Airy, no stranger to sibling scraps, swished her manticore tail excitedly and waited for Storm to take a swing.

“Self-defense?  That seemed pretty offensive to me!”  Storm shook out the stricken hoof, the pain ebbing into a dull throb.

“Well when somethin’ comes leapin’ out at ya, there ain’t a lotta time to think!”

Storm rubbed the bridge of his nose.  “Okay.  Point taken.  I probably deserved that anyways.  Jeez, that smarted.”

“So, uh…”  Flip hesitated.

“Yeah?” asked Storm, giving his hoof another shake.

Well, the damage had been done.  Flip decided to see how it rated.  “That means my kick was, um, pretty good then, huh?”

“I’d hate to be on the other end of it when you’re older.”

“So why are you down here instead of up there makin’ lightning?” asked Airy.  “You’re not afraid of it are ya?”

“Of course he ain’t afraid of it!” yelled Flip.

“How do you know, Flip?!”

“Easy guys,” said Storm, stepping between them.  “As for your question, Airy, it’s not that I’m afraid.  I like lightning just fine.  The problem is that it likes me just a little more.”

“Huh,” she said, wondering how that could possibly be a problem.

“Anyways, do you guys know how to find your way out of here?”

Sprite nodded.  “If you always go left, you’ll find an exit.  I think.”

“I thought you were always supposed to go right,” said Airy.

“Why don’t we try goin’ right and left?” suggested Flip, trying to economize their efforts.

“Tell you what,” said Storm, “how about I walk with you guys?  It might save me the trouble of getting another hoof to the shin later on.”

“You don’t need help gettin’ out, do you?” asked Airy.  “I mean…”  She flapped her wings for emphasis.

“No, I’d just like to take a walk through here.  We’ve got topiary mazes back in Canterlot; who knows, maybe I could bring back some suggestions,” he added with a smile.

“You’ve got mazes like this one?” asked Sprite.

“Sure, though they’re made of hedges rather than cornstalks and they can get pretty tall.  We’ll run through them every now and then for practice.”

“Wow,” said Flip.  “I bet if you can do that, you could find your way around anywhere!”

“…You’d think that wouldn’t you?”

Storm followed behind the foals as they ambled through the maze, keeping his mouth shut whenever they debated on which way to go.  For most of their trek the air had rumbled with the sound of thunder, but by the time they reached the yard behind the house it had ceased.  Crack Shot and the weather ponies had finished up, and it was time for Nightmare Night to come to an end for the foals of Fiddler’s Plain.  After a few protestations made hollow by the yawns that came after, they followed their parents down the lane from Allie’s farm, a strange and unlikely cast of creatures and characters off to rest until next year.  The flickering grins and three-corner eyes of their jack-o-lanterns saw them safely off, as did the honey-colored moon just above.


---


Nightmare Night at Pimento’s was like any night at Pimento’s.  Hop Seed had already crashed into a table, and things were in full swing.  The faces were all the same except that half of them had masks on them, and Pimento hadn’t bothered with a special menu because he didn’t see a problem with the one he had.  Some of the regulars who were probably more regular than was healthy were surprised to learn that it was a holiday.

Kettle called out a toast to the guardsponies, lauding how the Royal Guard put out some of the best dang corn harvesters he’d ever seen, and everypony joined in with shouts and cheers, even if they all weren’t entirely sure of what they were toasting.  Hop then added, “But not some of the best dang weather ponies!” which came out as, “But-dang-whether-ain’t-no-cloud-GUHAW!” and then he rolled onto the floor.

Storm excused himself from the others to look for the more coherent of the weather ponies, so that he could return Whirlybird’s mask.  He found Jackie and Maple Seed seated in an isolated corner of the tavern sharing a mug of spiced cider.  When they saw him approaching, they waved him over.

“Howdy, soldier, enjoyin’ the party so far?” asked Jackie.

Before Storm could answer, Maple blew a raspberry.

Jackie frowned.  “What?  You get a piece of hair caught in your mouth?”

“’Enjoyin’ the party’?  That’s such a stereotypical question, Jay,” teased Maple.  “You gonna talk about the weather next?”

“Nah, I won’t talk work at a party.  Beg pardon, Storm, pull up a seat if you’d like.”

Storm smiled and shook his head.  “I won’t intrude.  I was actually looking for Whirlybird.  Have you two seen him?”

“Mm, he’ll probably be droppin’ on by a little later,” said Maple.

“Ah.  Well in case I miss him, can you give this back to him?”  Storm unfurled a wing, dropping the gorilla mask onto the table.

“Can do,” said Jackie.  “So how’d it go down there?  A little less painful, I hope?”

“Ah, heh, yeah, I’m not too sure about that.”


---


Meanwhile at the guardsponies’ table, a stallion had stumbled over to offer to buy Her Royal Highness a plate of salt, and Check Mate had given a polite, though clipped, refusal.  Beside him, Crack Shot spotted Hazel Nut stepping through the tavern doors across the room, followed by Hugh and Mooney, a broad-brimmed hat shading her face, and a dark cloak cascading off of her body like a river of ink.  Recalling earlier conversations, he came to a decision.  After taking a swig of water to clear his throat, he stepped off towards the bar, the edges of his costume leaving a trail in the sawdust on the floor.  He lifted the sheet over his head and tapped on the lacquered wood to get Pimento’s attention.

Pimento looked up from a tray he was working on.  “Can I get you somethin’?  You want another bowl of chili to inhale?”

“Nah, I’m good, dude.  I’ve got a question for you, though.”

“Ask away.”  Pimento continued carefully levitating bowls and glasses to the tray.

“Why don’t you make a move on her?”  Crack Shot nodded towards Hazel.

A consummate professional, Pimento didn’t drop a single dish.  However, his cheeks did get a lot redder.

“Uh, is your face burnin’ up because you’re embarrassed or gettin’ pissed off?”

“I ain’t decided yet, but let’s bank on the latter.  What business is any of that of yours?”

“I’m just wonderin’.  I heard that you like her, and that she likes you, so what the heck, dude?”

“Heh.  ‘Likes me.’  So the mattress—”

“Ghost.”

“—is playin’ cupid, huh?  Well, you’ve seen how she talks to other stallions.”

“Pfft, don’t know why you’re even freaking over that.  Sounds like that’s how she talks to every stallion.”

“Every stallion but me.”

“Oh.”  That little detail could’ve complicated the conversation if a pony was complicated enough to let it.   Crack Shot powered on.  “Well, so what? Carpe diem, dude.  Or noctem.  Or whichever—the point is, why don’t you give it a shot?”

“Why don’t you mind your own business?!”

Crack Shot saw that he was getting nowhere with this.  He would have to try another strategy.

He turned around and started walking towards Hazel.

“What are you—dangit, get back here!”

Crack Shot ignored Pimento and called out to Hazel, who smiled warmly upon seeing him.

“Hey there, sugar,” she said.  “Glad to see you could make a costume of that old sheet, though I’m even gladder you’re not lettin’ it cover your handsome face.”  She followed this with a wink.

Well, Crack Shot assumed it was a wink.  She was wearing an eye patch over the other eye, so he couldn’t be certain, but it definitely felt like a wink.

“Hey, I just want to double check somethin’ here,” he said.  “Is it true that you’ve got a thing for Pimento?”

Hazel’s face reddened as much as Pimento’s did, but Crack Shot doubted there was any anger behind it.  She seemed like the type to consider anger a waste of energy in lieu of other passionate expression.

“…Well, now.  Where did you hear that?” she asked.

“Let’s say that a little bird told me.”

Hugh and Mooney tilted their heads.

“Neither of those two.”

“Well… I suppose there’s truth to that.  Pim’s frank, hard workin’, and who doesn’t like somepony that can cook?  I don’t think it’s reciprocated though.  At least, he’s never hinted otherwise and he’s the kinda pony that always speaks his mind.”

“Maybe it’s ‘cause you kinda flirt with everypony else?”

Hazel let out a full-bodied laugh, which, with a body like hers, filled the room with its melody.

“I consider it well-meant teasing, bein’ silly,” she said.  “But Pimento, well, that’s a serious stallion.  He wouldn’t appreciate it.”

Crack Shot gave her a flat stare.  “Have you tried?  Heck, he’s probably all spazzin’ out right now because I’m talkin’ to you about this.”

Hazel would’ve leaned around Crack Shot to get a better look if she weren’t able to look right over him.  She made sure that the brim of her hat was low over her eyes as she snuck a glance:  Pimento, while putting together an order, kept biting his lower lip and pausing to sneak glances their way.

A smile crept unbidden to her lips.  “Well, who woulda figured…”

For the sake of diplomacy, Crack Shot chose not to answer that question.  Instead, he gave her a pat on the shoulder (although he had to reach for it) and stepped out of her way.  She took a minute or two, perhaps to gather her courage and work out which words to trip over, and finally strode towards Pimento like a model down the catwalk.  Crack Shot doubted she could do it any other way.  ‘Cupid,’ Pimento had said, which hardly seemed fair.  Crack Shot no doubt had much better aim.

As he went to rejoin the others, another thought struck him.

He tapped a stallion on the shoulder.  “Hey, dude, do you know what time it is?” he asked.

The stallion took a sip of his cider and said, “Well, I reckon it’s just about time to get a watch.”

“Awesome, dude, you know you coulda just said no?”

“Mm-hmm.”

Crack Shot tried again with somepony else and was told that it was about 12:37 in the morning, which would have made it a Sunday.  That was around when Kettle had wagered, wasn’t it?  Or maybe Pimento and Hazel were twelve hours early.  Kettle never had specified AM or PM.  That was the trouble with civilian time.

Back at his and the others’ table, Crack Shot knocked back a bowl of the jet fuel Pimento called chili and, assuming that Pimento wasn’t tied up with Hazel (which would be a rather big assumption), resolved to order two more if he got the chance.  It was a party after all, and he had just done his good deed for the day less than an hour in.  If that wasn’t something worth celebrating, what was?


---


The day after Nightmare Night, for the very first time since the guardsponies had arrived, a rooster crowed at daybreak.  Storm Stunner and Check Mate slowly sat up and rubbed the sand from their eyes, and, for the lack of an available snooze button, Crack Shot did the same.  After putting on their armor and making sure all of their items were secure in their bags, they made their beds for the last time and stepped outside into the cold dawn air.

Allie and Kettle were already up and in the kitchen, working on a breakfast of grits, muffins, oats, coffee—everything, really.  The foals were still asleep upstairs, but as the scents from the kitchen wafted into their room, their minds filled with dreams of cinnamon buns and powdered toast, and their stomachs rumbled for the reality.  Minutes later, with everypony seated at the table, they ate, and talked, and took their time, allowing the day to warm up.  When the meal was finished, the dishes washed and put up, and there were no more excuses to stay, the guardsponies shouldered their bags.  Together with Allie, Kettle, Sprite, Airy, and Flip, they stepped outside and walked off to the northern edge of the farm.

“I guess this is it, then, huh?” said Kettle.  “Gotta say that it’s been a pleasure havin’ y’all.”

Allie nodded.  “Thanks for all of your help,” she said.  “Y’all really went out of your way, in all kinds of ways.”

“We’re glad we could,” said Storm.  “Thank you for the warm welcome, the hospitality, and everything else.”

He extended a hoof to Allie, to which she laughed.  “Oh, no you don’t,” she said, before pulling him into a hug.  “Be safe out there,” she added as she let go.

More words and embraces were exchanged between each of the ponies.  Even Flip, who thought this all was reprehensibly mushy, eventually relented and joined in.  Their farewells finished and with the Corn family waving goodbye, the guardsponies turned towards the northern mountains and began the next leg of their journey.  Check Mate took their map from his bag and began reading it over as they trotted towards the tussocky expanse swaying in the breeze ahead of them.

“Aw, crap,” groaned Crack Shot, as they walked, “I totally forgot to get some souvenirs.”

“Well, at the very least you’ll have some new stories to tell,” said Check.

“Yeah, maybe, but I should probably grab something some time to go along with ‘em.”  Crack Shot glanced back and waved one last time.  

“We’ve still got a ways to go,” said Storm.  “I wouldn’t worry about it.”

“Yeah, though I doubt there are any gift shops on the way.  Hm, you know somethin’ else, guys?”

“What’s that?” asked Storm.

“This probably would’ve looked so much friggin’ cooler if we were walking into a sunset.”