THERE IS NO JUSTICE. THERE IS JUST US
-Terry Pratchett, “Reaper Man”
~~~
Granny Smith glared into the darkness of her room. Oh, most ponies would tell her she was just imagining things, but Granny had never put much stock in what other ponies said. That might make her crazy and paranoid, but when you got old, you were pretty much crazy anyway, so a little more couldn't hurt.
"If you don't stop lurking about my bedroom, it'll go poorly for you," she announced. "I may not know any fancy martial arts, but I know enough to kick your flank."
What emerged from the shadows was a frail creature, frailer than even the most book-obsessed unicorns who never saw the sun. The pony was pale, thin, and had no Cutie Mark. The mare looked to Granny, offering the earth pony a smile that nevertheless put up the old farmer's hackles.
“How did you get in here? It’s Applejack’s job to see the doors are locked.”
The pale pony considered this response for several moments. “I have never found locked doors to be a particular hindrance to my movements,” she replied.
“You better not be here to steal anything,” Granny Smith growled. “The silver’s locked up tight.”
There was another long silence. Granny Smith considered poking the other mare with her hoof, but the idea struck her as a very bad one; Granny Smith had not gotten old by ignoring her instincts.
At last, the other pony shrugged. “I have no intention of stealing your silver.” She sighed, letting her head fall. “But I am going to have to ask you to come with me.”
Granny Smith set her hooves and glared at the other pony. “A kidnapper, eh? I’ll have you know, my granddaughter and her friends have beat Discord and Nightmare Moon and a mean old Changeling Queen, so you’re in for a world of hurt.”
The mare’s stance didn’t waver, but there was a sense of wariness in her expression, a worried sense to her sharp blue eyes. “Miss Smith, I apologize for my vagueness, but this is a delicate matter, and I do usually attempt to approach it with some semblance of tact-”
“Oh, I know. Someponies just won’t take a hint.” Granny nodded sympathetically and trotted to her bedside to pick up the fireplace poker.
The other mare’s eyes narrowed “Miss Smith, attacking me won’t get you anywhere. You are dead already; I am here for the, ah, clean-up.”
“I knew that.” Granny grinned back at the Pale Horse, and bit through the handle of the poker, teeth passing through it entirely. “I wasn’t fixing to make things any easier on you, though,” she added matter-of-factly. Before the Collector of Souls could reply, she pushed on, well aware that while mouthing off to the hippopomorphic ponification of death could be done, there were limits, and she approached those limits the longer this took. “After all, I’ve been ready for you a long time. And I don’t think my daughter was.”
The Pale Horse’s expression softened just a hair, and the creature settled itself, sitting on the floor of Granny’s bedroom. She watched the elderly earth pony with careful attention, but Granny kept her expression fixed. She wasn’t going to make this easy; she’d decided on that a long time ago.
“Every living thing is afforded one lifetime, Miss Smith. I do not determine the length of that lifetime. I do not take the life, only the spirit once it has departed. I am, as I have alluded to, a custodian.”
“Horseapples. You can be bargained with. Everypony knows you’ll play a game for a pony’s life.” She hardened the glare she had practiced for this moment.
It didn’t seem to work. That is, the Pale Horse did not stutter and apologize, as Granny had imagined. Instead, she stormed closer, and as she drew near, Granny could see a wild tinge to her eyes and a frantic tension to her face. “What do you want me to tell you? That they did not fight to stay behind with their foals? That I decided to take them without allowing them a chance? Whose fault do you want their deaths to be? What good will it do you to have somepony to blame? What good will that do you now?”
There was no satisfaction in seeing the Pale Horse’s consternation. Granny Smith watched the unsteady movements of the other mare, finding the moment disconcerting. Yes, she had always expected that she could find some explanation for the unfairness of it all. She had hoped for a confession, an admission, an apology, or yes, even just somepony to blame for it all.
She hadn’t expected that Death herself knew no more than her.
“If there ain’t a reason, what’s the point of all this?”
And that question, at least, seemed to reach the Pale Horse, as her movements slowed, and when she turned to Granny Smith, she had regained her composure. In fact, the stiffness and wariness that had marked their interactions was gone. Death’s smile was softer than the first Granny Smith had seen, and her eyes were shining wet.
“Life is the point, Miss Smith. They had lives. You had one, too. No matter how long, or short, it was, you lived it. Just because it ends doesn’t mean it has no point. In fact, I should say the exact opposite is true.”
Granny Smith bent her head at the words, and felt the brush of feathers, surrounding her, warming her, and bringing an end to what, from this side of life, seemed like a very long day.