Year One: Hearth’s Warming Eve
The desert in all its beautiful contradiction partnered winter and summer in rapturous eternity, four seasons morphed into two. Harsh sun and sand tested the resolve of those who dared to labor and live beneath its angry countenance. Nine months out of the year, the settler-ponies of Appleloosa knew naught but sweat and heat and so, so much work. Though these apple trees were of a particularly hardy breed, there was one element that they could not overcome.
The frost.
Beyond the reaches of a true city, Citrus and Libra spent the first week of their arrival scouring the town for income. There had been little time to further celebrate the reunion of Apples and Oranges. The winds hissed of winter’s impeding arrival. Hearth’s Warming Eve would soon be upon them, and they were determined to make it to Ponyville for the holiday. Thankfully, Braeburn vowed to find his aunt and cousin work, and kept his promise.
In the mornings, Citrus Blossom and Libra Scales assisted the owner of the town’s general store with stocking shelves, tracking inventory, and handling customers. The bits were small in number, and sporadically paid—far less than Manehatten minimum wage—but they found a home in Libra’s mason jar regardless.
A week after this acquisition, Braeburn returned to his shack and the mares with most excellent news. “Auntie! Citrus! There’s some mo’ work fer y’all, if ya want it!”
“What is it, Braeburn?” Libra asked.
He answered excitedly, “Apple-buckin’! Winter’s comin’ soon, an’ we need some mo’ help wit’ the orchards! Sheriff says extra help be gettin’ twenty bits a week fer five days' labor.”
Mother and daughter exchanged uncertain gazes. Turning to her cousin, Citrus asked, “Twenty bits… for a whole week?”
“That’s right.”
Silence.
Braeburn’s muzzle fell to the floorboards. “Ah know it ain’t much, but… Ah know y’all are tryin’ ta save up. Ah’m sorry if that was insultin’,” he muttered, ashamed. Twenty bits? Twenty bits in the city purchased a few milkshakes sans the cherries. Twenty bits for unrelenting labor under the sun was, well, ridiculous.
Beggars, however, have little room for choice. Placing a forehoof on her nephew’s shoulder, Libra let a gentle smile speak her forgiveness. “We’ll do it, Braeburn. Thank you so much.”
Four weeks had passed since the mares accepted their second job. Apple bucking was intense work. Every night, Citrus Blossom massaged the knots and kinks out of her mother’s aching limbs and back as Libra groaned in absolute agony, cursing her age.
For nearly a month, Libra collapsed into their shared bed at Luna’s arrival, muscles she’d long forgotten burning with lactic acid, cells torn and crying out in a plea for mercy. She could offer them none. From dawn until dusk, mother and daughter labored, foregoing but the most minimal of meals and all the bells and whistles of materialism.
With the jingle of each golden coin as it kissed the jar, Libra Scales urged herself to continue into a new day in spite of the pain. Soon. Soon there’d be enough for two tickets—no, three—and she would see her foal again.
~
Big Macintosh patrolled the perimeters of his family’s land, a bright lantern between his jaws guiding his path. He checked the locks of the barn and cellar, securing both animal friends and provisions for winter’s harsh embrace under tumbler and strike. That winter barreled upon them now, the night skies darkened with a thick cover of clouds. He exhaled, his breath visible steam against the chill.
More than cold enough to bring the frost crashing to Earth, all Ponyville needed was a little moisture for a snowy Hearth’s Warming. There hadn’t been one of those in years. It always seemed to fall a few cruel days after the last gift had been unwrapped and the last carol’s notes faded into the night.
On the eve of the holiday, Big Macintosh completed his rounds, loyal Winona by his side. The hound chased a few squirrels into one of the barren apple trees, but otherwise detected no danger. Satisfied that all was well on Sweet Apple Acres, Big Macintosh returned to the farmhouse.
He crossed the threshold and closed the door behind him. The wind howled in protest, churning the atmosphere beyond the security of their perimeter oak. He surmised with a knowing grin that the prospect of snow may not be much of a foal’s dream after all.
Big Mac trotted towards the living room in search of warmth to comfort his aching bones. Winona sped past his hindhooves, seeking her own refuge within the farmhouse. Chuckling, watching the hound ascend the stairs, Big Mac turned to his destination at last. His wish was granted, the fireplace lit and blazing bright, popping and crackling a few logs in its combustion.
“See anythin’ out there, Big Mac?” Applejack asked. She sat on a stool beside the fire. On the floorboards next to her sprawled his little sister and young cousin, both foals roasting marshmallows over the flames.
Shaking his muzzle, the stallion answered simply, “Nope.”
“No timberwolves o’ nothin’?”
“Nope.”
“Not even a—“
“Everythin’s fine, AJ,” Big Mac said. Looking down his muzzle to the fillies, he asked, “Did y’all save some marshmallows fer me?”
“O’ course, big brother!” Apple Bloom giggled. The stallion joined them in front of the fireplace, relaxing on his haunches, stretching his tired limbs next to Babs Seed.
Hearth’s Warming Eve had snuck up behind the elder Apples this year. There had been extensive holiday preparations to complete on top of the usual farm chores: obtaining, wrapping, and hiding gifts from each other and the fillies; sending out letters to the far corners of Equestria and their myriad network of family and friends; and, of course, locating, chopping, transporting, and decorating the beautiful pine tree that stood proudly in the center of the living room.
Diagonal from the hearth, safe from the embers that occasionally popped and hissed outside their bounds, the conifer towered to the ceiling. Babs Seed and Apple Bloom spent the entirety of the previous day decorating the majestic tree with Granny Smith and Applejack. Strings of popcorn, shrouds of blue, gold, and red garland, and ornaments of all colors and sizes added immeasurable wonder to its beauty. At the very top, a shining golden star pointed humbly towards the Heavens above, seeking the blessings of the Most High.
Apple Bloom had asked while they decorated, “What did ya do in Manehatten fer Hearth’s Warming, Babs?”
Babs Seed hadn’t had much to say in response, deflecting the question with a quick change of subject.
The hiss of the hearth’s warm blaze hypnotized her into the waiting forehooves of reminiscence. Babs took a long glance at the Hearth’s Warming tree, thoughts trailing off into its branches. Da’ neva had a tree in the mansion. Said it brought in lots o’ needles an’ dirt. Ma’ wanted one so bad. Citrus, too. I remember… I remember she’d take me ta look at other ones, in shops an’ such. So I guess… I guess dis is ma first real one.
In awe, she concluded, It’s beautiful.
“Can ya pass me some marshmallows, Babs?” Big Macintosh's baritone words wrestled Babs from her contemplation, irises a deeper shade of emerald piercing into her own.
Shoving the bag of treats his way, she replied, “Heeya youze go, Cousin Mac.”
“Thank ya, lil’ one.” He chuckled, ruffing her short mane. Though he was selective in his words and slow to launch into the long, expository speeches his sister was so fond of, Big Macintosh let his love shine in his gentle gestures. And love Babs Seed he did.
Babs Seed settled in quite smoothly throughout these six weeks. Demands of the harvest and impending final season occupied most of Big Mac’s attention. More than once, he’d found Babs Seed waiting for him in the orchards, the barn, or the fields, offering a tiny forehoof to assist him in his labors.
She’d not yet reached the age or ability to buck apples, pull the plow, or repair the fencing—to perform more strenuous work in general—but she did what she could. It never escaped his notice, nor did the smile on his muzzle.
Spearing a sugary cylinder, Big Macintosh let his mind ramble like it always did. Within the confines of his consciousness, he was contemplative, skeptical, philosophical. His soul shouted what his vocal cords could never articulate.
Adjacent to him, Apple Bloom and Babs Seed pulled their marshmallows from the fire, munching on burnt sugar with glee.
Things were so simple now. The chaos of Manehatten left its demonic hooves at the ghetto’s gates. From this angle, he could see that Babs Seed’s ear had healed completely as well. There would always be the gap, the mark, the scar, but nopony who mattered would care.
Big Macintosh chewed and swallowed his marshmallow in one bite, an unspoken toast to the hero giggling beside him.
Turning to Applejack, Babs asked, “Where’s Granny Smith? Aren’t we gonna be unwrappin’ presents ta-night?”
“She’s finishin’ up her nap right now. Don’t worry, Babs. She’ll be comin’ down ta celebrate wit’ us soon,” Applejack said. “Ah promise, we’ll unwrap our presents befo’ midnight.”
Apple Bloom nudged her cousin and explained, “Applejack always says we have ta finish befo’ midnight, ‘cuz then we can wish each other a happy Hearth’s Warmin’ right on the dot!”
“That’s right, lil’ sis!” Applejack praised with a grin. Ruffling her mane, Applejack pulled her sibling into a tight embrace. Her little sister was growing up so fast.
Although Babs Seed smiled, heart warmed by more than just the flicker of the flames before her, she couldn’t cease the wanderings of her thoughts. They took careful hoof-steps initially, but soon galloped against her mental cobblestone, plunging back into the deep.
Six weeks. Six weeks an’ not one letter back…
Are dey mad at me?
~
A few days before Hearth’s Warming Eve, the frost came, snow falling as a thief in the night. Appleloosa lay dormant and stagnant under the blanket of blinding white. A few apples remained in the town orchards, but nopony dared to venture into the cold to free them from their prison among the branches.
Out here, beyond the reaches of Manehatten and its king, the thermometer dripped as low as the mercury would allow. The settler-ponies huddled in their crude shelters, wind howling with a vengeance and a new layer of snow dusting their desert.
Citrus, Libra, and Braeburn clamored together for warmth, bunk beds forgotten in their cold. Two mares and a stallion utilized every inch of blankets, sheets, and warm clothing. It didn’t matter; they were frozen to their marrow, frost unrelenting.
On the morning of Hearth’s Warming Eve, Braeburn braved the tempest, galloping into the white in search of the train station. He secured Aunt Orange’s mason jar of savings in his saddlebags and trudged on, blankets secured around his shoulders, flanks, and abdomen.
“Jus’… a bit… further…” he urged his own reluctance. Appleloosa slumbered under a blanket of its own, Celestia’s star lacking the radiance to melt the ice and snow or cease the storm swirling around him. His hoof-steps were slow yet steady. Braeburn squeezed his eyes shut, relying on instincts to lead him towards the station.
An eternity later, hooves met platform, and Braeburn shielded his gaze as he opened his eyes.
He was alone.
“What in tarnation!”
He swept the scene with surprised pupils. Nopony. Not a single conductor, train-guard, or ticket-taker. Not a single passenger or waiting family member.
Not a single train, either.
Braeburn swallowed, an unseen stone settling into his stomach and wrecking havoc in his innards. “No… no… it’s… it’s Hearth’s Warming Eve…”
There should have been a train; there was always one this time of year. No, there always were many trains out of the West and the best, locomotives rushing towards the East and the beast, the cities and establishments.
Vagabonds may have strayed and settled here, but even the most zealous of wanderers still had family to visit. The stallion promised the two he sheltered—swearing under holy oath—that all of their labor would be rewarded today. Today, he would purchase two tickets to Ponyville on their behalf… and one on his own. He was not the only one missing somepony.
Panicking, Braeburn searched the platform for hide or hair of anypony. He thundered his hooves on the door to the abandoned ticket booth, ignoring the screaming, “ROUTES CANCELLED DUE TO WEATHER CONDITIONS!” sign posted across the glass. In sheer disbelief, he paced and paced, staring down the train tracks.
Surely, a train would be coming. Surely, he would soon see the familiar sight of steam and steel. Surely, this was just a dream.
He wasn’t sure how much time passed. He could’ve waited for a minute, an hour, or an eternity.
Soon enough, Braeburn felt his hooves begin to burn, frost nipping and biting at his fur, skin, flesh and keratin. His body betrayed him, beckoning him to seek shelter. His Stetson pulled low in shame, the stallion pointed his hooves back towards his shack, caring not for his pace, the atmosphere freezing his tears on his cheeks.
Braeburn felt anything but alive and well, though the storm did not take him on his return journey.
~
Five Apples sat on their haunches in a circle, taking turns to open their gifts, one-by-one. Tradition demanded that they unwrap their Hearth’s Warming presents this way, just as tradition demanded that they take part in the gift-giving on the eve of the holiday.
Granny Smith tried to explain the reasoning for this particular quirk to a curious Babs Seed, but Babs didn’t digest much beyond, “An’ that was the year Uncle Apple Strudel fell asleep in the pumpkin pie, an’ yer great-grandmother made him wear it as a hat fer the rest o’ the night ta make up fer it…”
Her attention was deficit now, mind planted firmly at the iron gates of the Orange Family Mansion. Nothin’ from dem yet, not a present o’ a letter o’… o’ anythin’…
Each Apple had received several presents, some from the others in the farmhouse, some delivered by pegasus wing from the farthest corners of Equestria. Babs Seed had the smallest pile of them all—her change of address had been sudden, and, for the most part, unknown to most of the extended family—but she didn’t mind.
She received a Daring Do book from Applejack (courtesy of Twilight’s recent book sale), a photo album from Granny Smith (filled with embarrassing photos of all the Apples, of course), and a box of apple tarts from Apple Bloom (promised to be better than the filly’s attempt at cupcakes). They were wonderful gifts.
Barely registering Big Macintosh receiving a book on “fancy mathematics” from Applejack—to the stallion’s baritone laughter—Babs Seed thought three ponies in the East. What are dey doin’ now? Did Da’ finally let ‘em have a tree? Are dey exchangin’ presents, too? Is it snowin’ in Manehatten?
Babs Seed wrote letter after letter to her old address. For the first few weeks she’d become the fifth member of the farmhouse, she’d looked to Applejack with wide eyes after the mare checked the mailbox. “Did dey write back? Did dey send anythin’?” she’d asked. Applejack always shook her frowning muzzle.
After the third week, she’d stopped asking.
Applejack didn’t think I’d see ‘em, but, I did. The letters in the garbage out back. Mine. “Return to sender,” scribbled on the front. Maybe I have the address wrong, o’ maybe—
“Babs? It’s yer turn ta open, honey,” Applejack said, gently tapping her on the shoulder.
Shaking her mane rapidly, Babs Seed was ripped once more from the deep within. “Oh! Sorry.” She grasped the final gift in her forehooves. It was a large, rectangular box wrapped in green-and-red parchment. Looking at the tag, she announced, “It’s from Big Mac!”
“Eeyup!” With a proud grin, the stallion urged, “Go ‘head an’ open it, Babs. Ah think ya’ll like it.”
Four pairs of eyes watched with baited breath as Babs tore into the paper, shredding waves of crimson and forest-green everywhere over the floorboards. A white box beckoned below. Slowly, Babs Seed opened the container.
Her breath caught in her throat.
Apple Bloom leaned over and gasped. “Wow! Big brother, Ah didn’t even know ya—“
Inside was a small bolo tie with a purple shield and red apple slice for its central ornamental crest. Babs gently held it between her forehooves, noting the intricacy of its design. The tie itself was constructed of braided rope, dyed orange. The crest was ceramic, and matched Babs Seed’s cutiemark down to the last detail.
“Could make things like that?” Macintosh finished. “Heh. Eeyup, Ah did. Ah’m not jus’ one fer buildin’ big things, like gazebos, ya know,” he added with a wink.
Two sets of irises, both green but devoid of any envy, met in silence. And then, Babs Seed spoke, her words trembling, “Cousin Mac, it’s… it’s beautiful.”
The stallion opened his forehooves to her, and she leapt into his embrace.
Holding her tight, Big Mac whispered, “Ah know it ain’t much, an’ yer jus’ a foal, so ya won’t be wearin’ it fer a while, but… Ah thought a filly like ya deserves somethin’ pretty ta wear.
“Ah know Ah don’t say much, Babs, but yer family ta me, special ta me, jus’ as much as anypony else here. An’ Ah’m glad yer back.”
Hearth’s Warming Eve never was intended to be a time for tears. Intention was disregarded. There wasn’t a dry eye in the farmhouse.
~
“Braeburn! Did youze get the tickets?” Citrus asked. She snuggled up close to her mother, both ponies incapable of sacrificing any inch of precious, life-saving warmth.
In their hasty packing, they’d neglected to remember the dark side of the desert’s moon. There’d been no room in their saddlebags for coats or scarves. Luckily, Braeburn had a few extra, and they thanked him endlessly for his generosity.
Braeburn removed his Stetson, shaking the snow off its brim and hanging it by a hook on the wall. He did not reply. He merely strode to the bottom bunk and sat on his haunches beside his aunt and cousin, staring intently into the floorboards.
They watched him, waiting, the room thick with their anticipation.
Then, with a deep breath, his words dripping with the most foul, staining taste of regret, the stallion whispered, “No. No, Ah didn’t, Citrus.”
Libra scrambled to her haunches, casting off the covers in spite of her discomfort. “What did you say, Braeburn?!”
He turned to his aunt, alarmed not by the anger flashing across her muzzle. “Ah didn’t get the tickets, Auntie Orange. Ah’m sorry. Ah’m so, so sorry."
A pair of aching forehooves grasped him by the vest and thrust him forward, pulling him snout-to-snout with her.
“Don’t you lie to me, Braeburn Apple!”
Libra shook her nephew violently in her incredulous rage. “Don’t you lie to me! Where are they? Where are the tickets?!”
“Auntie! Ah told ya! Ah didn’t get ‘em, they were—“
SMACK!
Blood boiled and threatened to surpass the boundaries of the veins within her depleted muscles. Finding new strength in her fury, Libra Scales raised a forehoof again towards the lying stallion trembling in her grasp. “LIAR!”
“MOM! STOP IT!”
Citrus Blossom rose from her disbelief and charged straight into Libra, forcing her off the mattress. Both mares landed on the floor of the shack with a dull THUD! Daughter pinned mother’s forehooves and pleaded through her threatening tears, “Stop it! Stop hitting him!”
The full weight of her actions crashed upon Libra Scales, a bushel of apples and bits landing on her chest. Crushed under the combined gravity of her body’s betrayal and her nephew’s failure, Libra did not resist, staring straight up into her daughter's sorrowful eyes.
Braeburn rubbed his muzzle, feeling the bruise began to rise, but stayed quiet. There would be no opposition from the stallion who’d broken the most vital of promises. He deserved it.
Together, the three shared a moment of mourning, the youngest among them beginning to weep.
Finally, aunt turned to nephew and apologized, “I… I don’t know what came over me. I’m so, so sorry, Braeburn. I…”
“It’s okay, Auntie Orange,” he soothed. Ashamed of his own actions, the stallion continued to speak to the oak below his hindhooves. “Ah should’ve bought ‘em befo’ it got this bad. Routes are canceled ‘till the snow clears. Ah tried everythin’, looked all over the station, but… nopony.”
Libra bit her bottom lip, securing her sadness within. “Braeburn… don’t blame yourself. You did the best you could.”
“No, Ah didn’t. Ah should’ve gotten y’all better work. Ya would’ve been able ta leave weeks ago if Ah did. Now look at yerself, Auntie Orange! Right near runnin’ yerself into the ground, an’ fer what?”
Citrus Blossom released Libra Scales from her grasp and assisted her shaking mother to her hooves. Joining the stallion on the bottom bunk, Libra reached over his shoulders with a forehoof and whispered, “You’re doing the best you can, Braeburn. And I thank you for that. I should’ve planned this better… planned a lot of things better…”
On the opposite side of the injured mare, Citrus said, “Mother, you’re doin’ the best youze can, too. How were you supposed to know this would happen?”
“I could’ve written them, at the very least,” Libra snapped.
Nearly fourteen hours of work a day, coupled with her own fears, prevented the mare from putting ink to parchment. How exactly was a mother supposed to explain to her daughter that the foal’s father had attempted murder, and that her mother and sister were homeless? That they could never go back to Manehatten again? That even the police couldn’t save them? Libra Scales had no answers.
Libra Scales longed to see her youngest filly again, to hold her close in her forehooves, to tell her everything would be alright in the end.
To tell her that they could be a family again.
This time, however, there would be no salvation in steam and steel. Desert’s winter wrought its howling vengeance upon Appleloosa and the Oranges, abandoning them miles and miles away from the saviors at Sweet Apple Acres and their beloved foal.
If only Libra Scales worked harder. If only she had saved more in her grandiose wealth. If only she could summon the courage and the eloquence to assure Babs Seed that mommy was okay, that mommy would see her soon, that mommy would explain everything.
If only.
She’d bet all her chips blindly, and at the flip of the cards, lost everything. Assaulting her long-lost nephew couldn’t save her. Neither could weeping. But Libra Scales did both.
On Hearth’s Warming Eve, Braeburn and Citrus comforted their guardian.
Though the frozen landscape beyond their door and the overwhelming rage of the heavens prevented her from doing so, Libra Scales wanted nothing more than to gallop into the snow and release her inner timberwolf. She longed to howl at the moon, wondering if it would howl back.
Wondering if, beyond the reach of the traitorous desert sands, Babs Seed was looking at the same moon.
~
Applejack led her brother and grandmother out of the farmhouse door, the stars above aiding in their escape. On her own back clung Apple Bloom, little forehooves wrapped around her neck. Behind them, Big Macintosh offered transport and security to Babs Seed, who wore her Hearth’s Warming gift proudly, the ornament sparkling in the moonlight.
Both foals willed themselves awake through their yawns. Midnight beckoned its arrival, eve poised to ascend into day at last. “Don’t fall asleep, Babs,” Apple Bloom warned her cousin, her eyelids drooping in hypocrisy.
“Don’t youze fall asleep, either, Bloom,” Babs Seed shot back. “Youze look tired.”
“No Ah’m not! You are!”
“Nuh-uh! Youze are!”
Granny Smith mumbled under her breath, “Ah should’ve been asleep five hours ago…”
“Don’t ya worry, Granny! It’s almost midnight!” Applejack said. She glanced over her shoulder and chuckled. “C’mon, now, Apple Bloom, jus’ a few mo’ minutes!” Her sibling merely yawned in response.
Big Macintosh checked to ensure his own ward was still awake. Babs blinked sleepily back at him. “What? I’m fine, Cousin Mac!”
“Heh, heh, o’ course ya are, Babs.” He laughed.
Before Babs Seed could make a case for her own insomnia, the three elder Apples reached their destination: the crest of the last hill on the edge of Sweet Apple Acres.
From this hill, their livelihood—rows and rows of apple trees—laid in wait for winter’s embrace, bare branches reaching towards the Most High. The red-and-white farmhouse and barn became a masterpiece now, a painting fit for any Canterlot museum, slumbering under the stars, the skies heavy with the snow that was soon to come.
Applejack exhaled, her words becoming dragon’s breath, “Ain’t it beautiful, y’all?”
The most beautiful farmhouse in Equestria. “Eeyup,” her brother agreed.
“Tarnation! Ain’t it midnight yet?” Granny Smith groaned. She felt her eyelids droop alongside her granddaughters’, both fillies targeted by the nimble hooves of the Sandmare’s beckoning.
Above them, Princess Luna rose her parish lantern to its highest point, one day melting into another. Luna proved herself to be a fine artist, her galaxy of lights illuminated by the glow of her brightest star on this most wondrous of nights.
As the four zeros flipped, Babs Seed felt something cold land on her snout. What the—
“It’s snowin’!” Apple Bloom forgot her fatigue and threw her head back, sticking out her tongue to catch the snowflakes that began to trickle down. She giggled with delight at winter’s first kiss, tiny ice crystals cool and crisp.
Babs Seed caught a snowflake of her own, savoring its taste. “Wowza! I’ve neva seen it snow on Hearth's Warming befo'!"
“First time fer everythin’, Babs,” Applejack said with a smile. “Happy Hearth’s Warming, everypony.”
Exchanging hugs and declarations for a very happy holiday indeed, the Apple Family stood in comfortable, warm silence, watching the snow begin to dot and blanket their fields and orchards. They caught snowflakes on their tongues, flavor of a new day sweet and saccharine, Sweet Apple Acres painted slowly white and wonderful.
Watching a comet streak across the sky, trail pointing towards the far west, Babs Seed decreed within her soul, Happy Hearth’s Warming, Ma, Da’, Citrus. I love youze… an’ I miss youze.
The last snowflake Babs Seed remembered tasting was bittersweet.