//------------------------------// // Year Two: Namesakes // Story: Sweet Apple Anthology // by Bad_Seed_72 //------------------------------// Year Two: Namesakes Applejack turned to the server-pony and asked, “Do y’all have any strawberry milkshakes available on board?” The server shook her muzzle. “I’m sorry, ma’am, we don’t.” Next to Applejack, two fillies groaned in unison. “Awwww!” “Applejack, youze promised me I’d have one!” Babs Seed protested, crossing her forehooves. “An’ Ah want one too!” Apple Bloom agreed, mimicking her cousin’s displeasure. Flustered, Applejack dismissed the confused service-mare, waving her off with a forehoof. “Thank ya kindly, ma’am. We won’t be needin’ anythin’.” She scolded the fillies, “Now, y’all behave! It’s a long ride ta Appleloosa. Don’t be harassin’ the help.” Youze said there’d be milkshakes. “Element of Honesty”? Pffft. Babs Seed harrumphed her irritation, watching out the window as the steam of the locomotive rocketed them towards the desert plains. School rang its last bell several weeks ago, ushering in the most beautiful season of all. The Cutie Mark Crusaders took full advantage of their freedom. Just last week, the four adventurers celebrated a joint birthday party—Apple Bloom and Babs Seed were born within mere days of each other. The two crossed the threshold between the continents of foalhood and marehood, meeting in that treacherous connector. They were thirteen now. Teenagers. Applejack sighed, ignoring her wards’ pouting, and buried her muzzle in a free newspaper provided by the train line. The letter had been vague. Applejack, it’s Braeburn. I need you to come out here and visit as soon as you can. His hoof-writing, like always, bordered on illegible. I can’t explain this very well through writing, but there’s a few ponies you need to meet. Please bring Apple Bloom and Babs with you. Curious, his knowledge of Babs's new home. Perhaps that signified the end of her search. Applejack had sent her own letters to Manehatten: angry, demanding scrolls, parchment soaked in her outraged ink. Aunt Orange, Uncle Orange, and Citrus Blossom possessed immeasurable gall. "Return To Sender" marred every envelope. Applejack swore she’d never hit an innocent pony, but once she got her hooves on those Manehatten mares, some vows could be broken. Braeburn's letter arrived just a few weeks before her own planned trip to Manehatten. Wondering if he possessed any leads of her own, Applejack switched her ticket from the East to the West. Applejack had told nopony beyond her closest friends about Babs Seed's choice. How, then, could Braeburn possibly have known? Unless… Applejack sighed, disregarding such a possibility. False hope is always a false friend, though it tries its best to charm away its lies. Losing her train of thought in an enthralling article about a new shop opening in Ponyville—offering quills, sofas, and parchment this time, in the spirit of competition—Applejack read the same paragraph over and over, until the words lost all meaning. ~ For six months, Libra Scales laid in the bottom bunk bed of Braeburn’s shack, unable to work. Her paralysis was provoked by a combination of physical exhaustion, throbbing injury, and despondence. Fate pulled no punches towards her. First, after the worst Hearth’s Warming she'd ever experienced, Braeburn caught a nasty case of pneumonia, ill for weeks. Citrus and Libra repaid his hospitality with caring hooves and enough vegetable stew to choke the poor stallion. Next, both mares’ income streams dried up in their riverbeds. Citrus and Libra felt the iron hoof of poverty bear upon them once more. Apples dormant under the frost, Appleloosa’s economy ceased to churn its fledgling wheels, leaving the three to cabin fever. Again, the mason jar drained, stallion sick, mares restless, broke and bored. She had all the time in Equestria to write, but Libra Scales mustered no words to parchment. Eloquence failed her once more. It was impossible. However, Libra didn’t despair; Babs Seed surely was surely safe and sound in Ponyville, and, soon, they would meet again. Once the train lines returned to their full capabilities after the snows melted three months after Hearth’s Warming Eve, she, Citrus, and Braeburn returned to the orchards and the general store. Libra Scales drove herself into the sands, necessity disregarded in her quest. One afternoon, she didn’t notice the cracking of bark, the splintering of heartwood, lost in her thoughts as she wandered through rows of apple trees. When the tree landed across her spine, everything went black. She awoke what must have been days later in the cramped cabin, Citrus hovering over her with worry on her muzzle. Every inch of her burned in throbbing pain. She craned her neck and muttered thickly, “Cit… Citrus…” Citrus whispered, “Mom, are you alright?” “That depends. What… what happened?” Her daughter frowned as she answered, “One of the trees fell on you when you were working in the orchards. One of the Buffalo found you, and brought you back here.” Libra Scales raised an eyebrow. “The Buffalo did?” At Citrus’s nod, Libra continued, “Wow. I’ll have to find a way to repay them. In the meantime, let me—“ Citrus Blossom pushed the injured mare back into her bunk. “No, Mom. Please, lay down and rest." Libra, ever the slave to rationality and reason, argued, “Citrus, I can’t miss work.” Citrus countered with wisdom of her own. “Mom, it’s alright. Me and Braeburn will make up for it. You’re hurt. You’ll just make this worse. You just need your rest for now, and—“ Scrambling to her hooves for a second time, Libra Scales barely took one hoof-step forwards before collapsing to the chilled floorboards. Splayed across the surface, four hooves failing to support her weight, she groaned and cursed, “Celestia dammit! Ahh! My back…” Citrus slipped under her, strong from her labors, and gently laid her back onto the mattress. Libra Scales realized through her pain that her daughter—once a glamorous, budding fashionista, poised to follow in her parents’ hoof-steps—was delicate no more. Adjusting her mother’s bedding, role of parent and child swapped in necessity, Citrus soothed, “Please, Mom, get some rest. Please. You’re hurting yourself. We’ll get through this slump. For now, just take it easy. I’ll make up for the bits. I promise.” Though her skepticism screamed otherwise, bickering against the better angels of her nature, Libra nodded slowly. “Alright, Citrus.” Libra Scales spent the six months of her recuperation on that bottom bunk, refusing doctors or transport to a true city with a true hospital. There were no bits to spare. Time promised to heal her wounds. She prayed in her agnosticism that this was something more than a mere proverb, that she would be well again, that she could work again. That she could see Babs Seed again, soon, and, maybe, be forgiven for her silence. Babs's birthday came and went, and the three of them sang, anyway. Spring turned to summer while Citrus Blossom toiled through her own torn muscles and aching bones, true to her vow. By the time her mother could rise from the mattress unassisted, new muscles tensed and flexed beneath her coat, and her mane bleached a shade lighter from the sun. She didn’t mind. In her dreams, she still was in Canterlot, modeling fine threads for everypony to gaze upon in awe of her beauty. Hoity Toity and Photo Finish joined her there, night after exhausting night, with their contracts and cameras. In reality, she came to see herself as less of an exile and more as a native, laboring alongside Braeburn and the other Appleloosians. Manehatten and its cobblestone belonged to another Citrus, a Citrus whom she’d cast aside for higher things. A Citrus who anticipated a hard day’s work, the pleasant tinkling of gold against glass, another gentle dawn and whispering dusk. A Citrus who didn’t shy away from a scratch, a pulled muscle, an aching back. A Citrus who yearned not for silks and rhinestones or praise and admiration, but reunion and rejoicing. Earth pony she truly became, fulfilling the promises of their magic, strong and resilient. Citrus Blossom began to forget the taste of an orange. ~ “So, have youze ever met Cousin Braeburn, Bloom?” Babs Seed asked, finding nothing of interest beyond the locomotive’s window. I forgot a book or anythin’. Buck. Dis gonna be good. Apple Bloom shook her head. “Nope! We’ll be meetin’ him fer the first time togetha, Babsy!” she declared with a giggle, nudging her in the shoulder. Babsy?! “Did youze jus’…” “Yes, Ah did.” Apple Bloom chuckled, the faint hint of a demonic smile streaking across her muzzle. Blushing, Babs Seed looked over to Applejack, who was oblivious to their little exchange. Reading the latest edition of the tabloid rag The Ponyville Enquirer, her elder cousin was lost in tales of scandal and shame. Truthfully, Babs Seed knew she had nothing to fear. Applejack never explicitly mentioned it—though it was heavily implied in the same “When yer thirteen, things get a lil’ different, Babs,” conversation—but Babs was certain that the mare wasn’t blind (though deafness was another story). Big Macintosh, Scootaloo, and Sweetie Belle also read between their lines. Apple Bloom and Babs Seed never spoke of it outright. No necessity demanded it to be so. Classmates either didn’t know, or didn’t care. Metal Crown and Brass Fork occupied the dark, it seemed, spreading no stereotypes about farmers and cousins. Babs refrained from violence, but promised herself, Now, there’s some lines I can’t let ‘em cross, an’ iffa dey do… dey’ll see. ‘Specially Tiara. What’s dat filly’s problem wit’ me, anyhow? Yeesh. “Oh, did Ah make ya blush?” Apple Bloom teased, wrestling Babs from the depths of her scheming and plotting of the best way to show a spoiled brat what big city life was really like. Babs replied uneasily, “Ah heh, heh, heh… maybe.” Gesturing to Applejack, she whispered, “Uh, Apple Bloom, has Applejack eva—“ “Ever what?” Stuttering, Babs said, “Um, talked ‘bout, uh, youze know, um…” “C’mon, Babs. They’re jus’ words. You can do it. First, one syllable, then another, then—“ Face-hoofing, Babs muttered, “What are youze, a dictionary?” Apple Bloom leaned over and stared at Babs's shoulders with a quizzical expression. This, of course, ignited and fueled the crimson across her cousin’s cheeks. “What are youze doin’ now, Bloom?!” “That’s funny. Ah don’t see any pegasus wings." “W-what?!” “Well, if yer gonna keep actin’ like Scootaloo, Ah’m gonna check an’ see if yer sproutin’ wings, too!” Apple Bloom tried only slightly to stifle her laughter behind her forehooves, while Babs just sighed, thoroughly unimpressed and confused beyond measure. Narrowing her gaze, Babs mumbled, “I still don’t get it.” Applejack exclaimed, “Will y'all hush?! Ah’m tryin’ ta read here! Tarnation!” ~ Braeburn Apple, akin to others of his namesake and heritage, despised liars. Nevertheless, he chose hypocrisy over inaction, and wrote to Applejack himself. He kept, however, the promise he’d made to Auntie Orange nine long months ago. Mentioning neither Citrus nor Libra, Braeburn simply urged Applejack to visit the settlement he adored so much. After the “pie incident,” (as he cataloged it within his own mental library) Braeburn corresponded with the Sweet Apple Acres clan in letters alone. He’d been silent lately, leaving room for Citrus or Libra to pen their own parchment first. To both his empathy and outrage, they wrote not one jot or tittle. He understood their intentions—some things are better left to muzzle-to-muzzle discussion, after all—but couldn’t delay any longer. Under the guise of a general-store run, Braeburn delivered his letter to the town’s post office. That was three weeks ago. Two weeks later, he checked his mail in secret, overjoyed to find a scroll from Ponyville. Braeburn nearly tore the parchment in his excitement. There, Applejack replied, curtly: “See you next week, Braeburn. Babs and Bloom will be coming with me. P.S. Hope the trees are doing good.” Today marked the first day that his beloved aunt could rise from the bottom bunk without howling in agony. Today also marked the seventh day since Applejack’s response. Today, the stallion hoped, would go down in his history as a joyous occasion, a time to dance on newly-healed hooves and make things right again. Braeburn Apple paced on the train platform, fidgeting with his Stetson, summer skies coming afire in the distance with shades of yellow, red, and orange. ~ Apple Bloom was asleep on her shoulder, but Babs Seed didn’t mind. Applejack urged her to sleep, but she found no refuge in slumber. Applejack matched her sibling’s snore, curled up in the train cab beside her. Surely it must be twelve hours by now. The train barreled into the West and the best, two of its passengers heading towards a new adventure. None of the other three Cutie Mark Crusaders had their cutiemarks just yet, and, even if they did, none of them would’ve passed up such a grand opportunity. Their fourth member was no different, particularly interested in what laid beyond the sands. Remembering the destination of a weathered Earth pony stallion, Babs Seed wrapped a forehoof around Apple Bloom and wondered, Maybe dis is where Greyhoof went. I wonder iffa Allspice an’ the othas ever got out heeya, too. I think dey would’ve. Apple Bloom smiled but didn’t wake, smacking her lips and mumbling, “Cutie… Mark… Crusader… lion tamers? … Nnngh…. Ah don’t think so…” Babs silenced a chuckle and waited, watching Celestia began to give way to Luna, lighting the atmosphere with a sea of holy fire in her abdication. ~ A grand, colorful locomotive pulled into the Appleloosa train station, wheels ceasing to a grinding halt, engine billowing clouds of steam into the dusk. Locking its brakes in place, the station’s guards-ponies trotted over to the vehicle and unlocked its doors. Swinging them wide open for passengers to exit, they called, “Arriving at Appleloosa Station!” ~ Within the train, Applejack yawned and stretched her forehooves. “Already?” Casting a glance at the slumbering fillies, entangled in their own hooves, she chuckled and said, “Heh, heh, ain’t that sweet. Well, no mo' naptime.” Applejack tapped them on the shoulder. “C’mon, y’all, we’re here.” This time, Babs Seed was the first to break the surface, and grumbled, “Five mo’ minutes, Applejack,” before closing her eyes again. Mimicking Big Mac's monotone, Applejack snapped back, “Nope. Git up. NOW.” Sighing, Babs huffed, “Fine,” and prodded Apple Bloom in the ribs. “What?!” Apple Bloom gasped, bolting upright on her haunches in surprise. “Oh, it’s jus’ you doin’ that, Babs. Ah thought Ah was—“ “We gotta go, Bloom." Babs Seed practically dragged the other foal behind her as they followed Applejack out of the cab. ~ Outside the train, Braeburn studied each muzzle of each passenger exiting the vehicle, ponies swarming out of steel and steam into sand and heat. He searched frantically, seeking a familiar face amongst the horde, ears pricked for a familiar drawl ringing through the clamor of voices. Finally, he heard, “An’ Ah know y’all are teenagers now, but ya got ta start wakin’ up when Ah say so!” “APPLEJACK!” Galloping across the platform, crushing the weak boards beneath his hooves, almost tripping over his woefully-long unshorn fetlocks, Braeburn shouted again, “APPLEJACK?!” “BRAEBURN!” There is was. The word held no accent, no dialect, no indistinguishable location from any other corner of Equestria. Its speaker could have been a Canterlot elite, a Manehatten tough, a Cloudsdale daredevil. He could never forget that voice, and recognized it immediately. Snaking past gaggles of excited visitors, reunions of all kinds commencing around him, Braeburn found the his visitors, one mare and two fillies. Braeburn threw his forehooves around Applejack’s neck. “Oh, cuz! It’s so good ta see ya! After all these years! How long has it been?!” “Two, Ah think,” Applejack answered, returning his gesture by squeezing him tight. “It’s been far too long, that’s all Ah know. Good ta see ya, too, Braeburn.” Releasing the mare, Braeburn leaned down, a wide smile on his muzzle. “Howdy, girls! Why, Ah haven’t see you since ya were a lil’ foal, Apple Bloom!” Apple Bloom trotted up to him, nuzzling his shoulder, the other awaiting his acknowledgment. The stallion hugged Apple Bloom gently, and then locked gazes with the other filly—her eyes as emerald as his own, if only more intense. "An’ you must be Babs Seed, cuz. Now… Ah must ask, on accounta ya bein’ a city-filly originally, but are ya a hoof-shake pony o’ a hug pony?” “City-filly originally”? How does he know dat? With a grin, Babs answered, “Hug-pony, o’ course.” ~ Libra Scales set the round table for three while Citrus Blossom sliced up a fresh apple pie. Filling each plate with a heaping serving, Citrus asked, “Shouldn’t Braeburn be gettin’ home soon, Mom?” Libra nodded and said, “I believe so, Citrus. Don’t worry. Sun hasn’t gone down yet. If it does, and he’s still not back, I’ll go take a look for him.” Cracking her back, spine limber now after six months of rest and relaxation, she added with a smile, “I need a good walk, anyway.” Placing the dessert back into one of the storage chests, Citrus stated, “I’m glad you healed up so well. I was afraid I was going to have to drag you to Canterlot or something. Have one of those unicorn doctors look at you.” “I would’ve fought you with all my might, Citrus.” “Do you have something against unicorns, Mother?” “Pish-posh. Of course not. I have something against wasting money,” Libra said with a smirk. “All I needed was a little bit of rest, and here we are. I’m fine.” Citrus Blossom countered, “But, six months is hardly—“ Knock, knock. Citrus turned towards the door, but Libra Scales dismissed her with a forehoof, assuring, “Oh, no, I’ve got it, Citrus. You finish with packing dinner away now. Maybe Braeburn's hooves are full with some things from the market.” Wandering over to the entryway, she mumbled, “Stupid stallion, so reckless with bits sometimes...” Libra Scales opened the door. There, instead of one lone stallion, his brow dripping from a full day’s work under an unrelenting sun, stood four ponies—one stallion, one mare, and two foals. One of them, bobtailed, orange, taller than she remembered. Both fillies were beautiful, grinning, looking up into her muzzle, irises shining with excitement. One, in particular, seemed to glow and shine, no darkness visible even within her pupils. Her foal. Libra Scales fell mute, and spoke with her forehooves instead, sweeping up Babs Seed and spinning her around and around, laughing, crying, all joy, no sorrow. ~ Libra’s healing seemed to be perfect in its timing. She danced and hopped and galloped and let Apple Bloom and Babs Seed ride on her back, no discomfort in her vertebrae. The appearance of her niece was a momentous occasion and another celebration in itself. Not since that dreadful night in Manehatten—the night the Reaper had come in search of two fillies, and left empty-hooved—had Libra Scales seen Apple Bloom. She held her tight, and her daughter as well, bloom and seed united with her under Braeburn’s roof. The six of them squeezed around the tiny table in the tiny shack, to the laughter of all and discomfort of none. They shared simple stories of both farms and fields, schoolfoals and cutiemarks. Libra beamed with pride. It was an apple that adorned her daughter's flank, instead of an orange. In a way she couldn’t articulate or comprehend, Libra Scales believed that this was no accident of Nature, no twist of Fate, no curse of a demon. Her Babs Seed was as she should be. After apple pie fell victim to six hungry mouths, Babs Seed released the elephant rampant in her mind. “Mom?” “Yes, honey?” Libra asked. “Where’s Da’?” Babs Seed asked innocently. Braeburn stopped in mid-rise from the table. Applejack and Apple Bloom exchanged worried glances. Citrus Blossom hastily finished clearing a plate, setting the platter down and rushing over to her sibling’s side. “Babs, dear, um, well, he’s—“ “No, Citrus, it’s alright,” Libra said quietly. She swept the room, looking at all but Babs, and requested, “Does anypony mind if Babs and I go for a walk?” Go for a walk? Alone? Oh… horseapples. Babs squirmed in her seat with anticipation. She’d never known her mother to be much of a secretive mare. Such reluctance to speak freely could only signify a difficult answer to the simple question she’d posed. Nopony objected. Libra Scales rose from her haunches, taking to all four of her hooves, beckoning Babs Seed to follow her. Looking to Applejack for an answer, who merely nodded in urging, Babs Seed left after her mother. ~ Rows and rows of apple trees, growing far beyond their native roots. By countless rounds of experimentation, cross-breeding, soil re-introduction, fertilizer mixtures, and, above all, the determination of a mare’s spirit in opposition to the elements, the apples grew. Appleloosa grew along with the harvest. Libra held her daughter close, explaining the history of the town. Above them, the evening star reigned supreme, a brilliant galaxy illuminating the orchard below. “You see, Babs, it was your aunt who learned first how to successfully plant and grow apples out here, out in this desert,” she finished, unable to contain her pride. “She was a special mare. My favorite sister.” “Sure sounds like it,” Babs agreed. “Wait. Favorite sista?” Nodding, Libra said, “I had two sisters, darling. One of them was your Aunt Barbara. She was Braeburn’s mother. The other was your Aunt Sunshine. Mother to Applejack, Big Mac, and Apple Bloom. Well… that wasn’t her real name. She was kinda embarrassed by her legal name,” she added with a giggle. “Oh. So… kinda like Da’, right?” Babs asked, steering the conversation back into a deep, dark thicket of woods, more twisted than the apple trees below them. Her mother sighed, closing her eyes. “Yes, Babs. Like your father.” The foal leaned back against her mother, patiently awaiting a response. Maybe I should ask her again. Maybe she’s tired, an’ she forgot the question. I mean, it’s nice hearin’ ‘bout Appleloosa an’ all, but— “Babs?” “Yea?” Libra released Babs Seed from her embrace, taking one hoof-step back. She was correct in her assumptions; the filly had grown at least a few inches taller since she’d seen her last, bandaged and bloodied. That gap in her left ear remained, but seemed to have healed perfectly. Her daughter soon would soon be swept by the winds of change, surpassing her in height and strength. She sat on her haunches, and looked the foal straight in eye, knowing that soon, mother would look up to daughter. Or, perhaps, she did already. “Babs… I love you. I love you more than I can describe. I love you no matter who you become, who you turn out to be. Who you love. What you do. You know this, don’t you?” Confused, Babs answered, “O’ course I do, Ma. An’ I love youze. I missed youze so much, I… I’m sorry I ran away…” “No.” Libra raised the filly’s chin to meet her gaze evenly. “You didn’t run away. You made the right choice, sweetie. You did the right thing.” “Iffa dat’s true, why didn’t youze o’ Citrus o’ Da’ write?” “I can’t tell you the entire story now, Babs. Not until you’re older. There’ve been some things you’ve dealt with that I can’t even imagine. Things no foal should have to endure. As far as this goes, well… I… I can’t burden you with it.” Babs paused to take a breath before she asked further, “Well… what can youze tell me?” Libra took a deep breath of her own, her exhalation dragon’s-smoke in the night, and began. “Babs, honey, when you love somepony, sometimes you become blind to who they really are. Love is a tricky thing. It wills us to find the best in each other. It calls us to look beyond our flaws. It asks us to forgive—sometimes more than we should. “Your father and I were married for twenty years before I truly began to see him as he was. And I didn’t like what I saw. I had enough. I gave him an ultimatum. And he countered with a solution of his own.” A chill crept down Babs's spine. Her consciousness brought forth a mental image of a blood-red colt with a mane black as night, bent on achieving his own “solution” to the problem of her own existence. No, it can’t be… no. He’s ma fatha. Dat’s ridiculous. “What… what kind o’ solution?” Quick on her hooves, Libra sputtered, “That doesn’t matter. The details don’t matter, hon, at least for now.” Skeptical, Babs Seed stashed away her dismissal, seeking to ponder it someday when the skies were a little brighter, and fewer questions remained. Noting the filly’s silence, her mother finished, blunt against her own wishes, “Babs… your father and I are no longer together. The three of us are not welcome at the Mansion. “Manehatten is no longer our home.” Babs Seed began to dig at the sand with a forehoof, searching for a spring below. “Darling, I love you. I always will love you. Citrus loves you, and, I think, somewhere, deep down, your father loves you, too,” she said, disbelieving her own final words. Bernie Madhoof did not know love. Stallions of his stature forgot it long ago, replacing it with figures and ventures. Beneath Babs Seed's fetlock, there was no water. “Citrus and I came here after… the divorce. Braeburn is a great nephew to me, and a great cousin to you. What will we do next? I’m not sure, Babs, but I know that we’re in a better place now. “And… from the sound of things, I think you are, too.” She dug deeper. The sand gave way to clay. Libra Scales grasped the muddy forehoof with one of her own, and nudged Babs Seed to face her. “What?!” Babs barked, gritting her teeth, fighting a spring of her own rising in her eyes. Libra said nothing in reply. She only embraced her again, tighter this time, letting them both find their peace through salty tears. Sometime later, Babs Seed said, “I am.” “You’re what, sweetheart?” Libra Scales whispered. Sincere, she declared, “I am in a betta place now.” Pulling away from the mare, only enough so that her guardian could see the smile on her muzzle, Babs Seed’s peripherals caught a comet streaking from above. Thanks ta youze, Aunt Barbara. The light the guided me then. The light dat watches us now.