He sent me a letter rather than ask me himself; he's no doubt planned some big surprise and fears he might give up the game should I see him eye to eye.
My dearest Valerian,
I would be ever so honored if you would join me for a picnic breakfast in the wood this morning next. And, if it be not too bold of me to ask, might you bring some cress and basil from your garden? I believe that fresh, they would complement most excellently the food I shall prepare.
Oh, please do not say 'no'!
With fondness,
Cast Iron
"With fondness," he says. To another mare, it might suggest love lacking, but I know my Cast Iron. He has modesty enough for three ponies. How perfect this shall be!
Somepony clears their throat and reminds me then that I have been standing with my front door open and poor Dark Roast has been waiting on me all this time with some expectation.
"My apologies, Dark Roast; is there something I might help you with?"
He draws a hoof through his shockingly unkempt brown mane.
"Yes, Miss Valerian," he says without looking upon me. "It's just that I wondered if you might have any sleep herbs available for me."
I need not look to my shelves to know the answer.
"Dark Roast, you know as well as I that they shan't be ready for another month at the very least!" I laugh to lighten the bad news; I know how he gets upon hearing my denials. He clears his throat and I can see his eyes searching across my doorstep.
"Yes, Miss, but I just thought perhaps you could provide some to me early. It's only that I've been having difficulty sleeping again, you see."
"Dark Roast, you know that asking prematurely is never the answer." I shake my head sadly. "My poor friend, I simply cannot let the herbs be used until they have achieved peak ripeness! To partake of them so soon would be to blunt their effect! I do have some dried—"
"Dried isn't strong enough!" he snaps, and I take a step back, buffeted by the vehemence of his words. He comports himself immediately, fixing me with a pleading look. "My apologies. I was only hoping that you might have enough fresh herbs for me, just for this evening."
I shake my head once more. "Dark Roast, I have pity for your situation, but I absolutely will not sell herbs that have not achieved perfection. To do so would be akin to practicing as a mountebank!" I step back toward him and give him a gentle nudge. "The moment they are ripe, I shall see that you have all you need. Until then, why not try some chamomile tea before bed? Or read one of Feather Pen's treatises on unicorn magic; they always put me right out!"
He does not find my joke amusing, nor share in my laughter. With a sigh, he mumbles something about having tried chamomile and turns to leave.
"And do try to freshen yourself up!" I call after him. "It will do you worlds of good to make yourself presentable! Fresh on the outside, fresh on the inside, is what my grandmother always said!"
If he has heard my advice, he does not indicate it. I can but hope he understands I am merely looking out for his well-being. Still, I call after him, not wishing for him to leave my doorstep in a foul mood.
"Thank you for the letter, Dark Roast! Have a nice day!"
He says nothing; I am beginning to catch some of his foulness. With a shake of my mane, I put the darkness from my thoughts. I have herbs to harvest in preparation for my anticipated breakfast meeting on the morrow!
"These woods are so lovely in the spring, wouldn't you say?"
Birds chirp and throw moving shadows amidst the wending shade of the trees. The sound of rushing water is muted here, but provides a pleasant proof against the quietude of the forest.
"Indeed," he says, and gives me a smile that warms me from poll to pastern. "I chose this spot so that I might view you framed against Winsome Falls." He places a hoof to his forehead in mock despair. "Alas! I cannot see them."
I turn, and look behind me. "But surely the Falls are right there, clear as the morning air?"
He laughs. It is rich and hearty, as he himself is. He is nearly twice the size of a normal pony, and so can add a depth and strength to his laughter that few can hope to match.
"I only meant, my dear, that your beauty has eclipsed that of the Falls."
I am taken with such a rush of heat that I find I must deploy my hoof-fan to cool myself lest I swoon.
"Cast Iron, you flatter me so!"
"It is an indulgence," he says, leaning close to me, "the pursuit of which I do not shy from. We have courted these many long months, and I feel I can no longer still my tongue." His teeth flash, and he moves as though with sudden fever, grasping my free hoof in his. "You are the most beautiful mare I have ever met, Valerian. The sight of you fills me with a lightness that I have never before experienced. If you deem me worthy, I would that you stay by my side for the rest of time."
His eyes, dark and rich, a brighter shade of blue than his midnight coat, stare into my very soul with a palpable fervor. I am fanning as fast as I can, but I fear it is not helping; I am to be overcome.
"Yes!" My voice is the merest squeak. "I do and I would, Cast Iron!"
"Then kiss me!"
"Yes!"
Our lips meet and I am indeed overcome by that very lightness which he has but spoken of. I had anticipated some excitement would happen this morning, but this? Never in my wildest dreams would I have thought that he would render our love at last indelible! I am crushed by happiness, and wish only for it to crush me again.
I can hardly catch my breath to speak. "I love you, Cast Iron."
"I love you too, Valerian." He draws back and reaches into the basket in which he has brought our lovely breakfast. I had thought, upon seeing it, that it appeared rather laden for its simple carriage of plates and salads. Now, as he draws out a package wrapped in simple brown paper and tied with twine, I understand why I might have had such a thought.
"I crafted these for you, over the last fortnight, in the hope that I might present them to you upon this morn, as a testament to our love."
With great care, I unknot the twine, coiling it gently and laying it aside. Using measured movements, I unwrap each fold of the package, laying the paper flat. I am barely able to contain my excitement, but I must, lest I mar this wonderful if simple wrapping that my dear has taken such great pains to render unto me.
When, at last, I reach the prize at the end, I behold a set of four horseshoes.
"Cast Iron, they're lovely! But..." I hesitate, unsure if criticism would be welcome at this juncture. "They do not match." I can only hope that confusion is apparent upon my face, and that it blunts the sting of my disappointment.
He smiles and reaches over, spreading them out. "They match not each other, but we two. Won't you try them on, and I shall explain."
I nod and slip the first on my hoof. It is, I am pleased to see, a perfect fit. Truly, I would expect nothing less from him. As I don them, he recites, as though a poem.
"The first is spotless steel, a tribute to your perfect beauty.
"The second is wrought in red, to honor our love.
"The third shines with gold, a symbol of our future together.
"And the last—"
"Is rusted!"
Dismayed, I drop it, and it clinks to the ground. I can only think of how much effort was put into crafting these otherwise lovely shoes, and this one now ruined thanks to the throes of wind and weather. Oh, my poor Cast Iron!
But again, he merely laughs, taking the shoe up with his magic and fitting it to my right forehoof.
"The last has a spot of rust, to remind you of the flawed stallion who asks for your heart to be his."
"Flawed?" No such flaw exists within the heart of this noble stallion, this simple, marvelous blacksmith who has won forever my affection.
"You have no reason to bear shame, my dear, dear Cast Iron," I say, and touch his face. He smiles, and his eyes move to the ground. He speaks with a ponderous weight, as though he is far away from the me and the effort of speech requires great exertion.
"I have, in my life, crafted many an item that has been declared by many a pony to be of exquisite beauty or possessed of extraordinary talent. I have also learned, in my life, how pridefulness can ruin a pony, and thus I strive to be humble in all that I do." He lifts his eyes to mine. They burn with a righteous passion that I have never previously seen in him. "But for you, all sins are worth committing. I would do anything for you, Valerian. I will that we never part. My love shall stay with you always."
The fierceness of his words takes me aback, and I am struck dumb for a moment.
"Thoughtful, loving, dear, dear Cast Iron... " I inhale, feeling words slip from my grasp. "Let me save your humility, then, and not waste my breath on praise. I shall honor your love and your craft by wearing them always." My vision has gotten misty. "Not that I need such tokens to keep you close."
True to my word, I wear the shoes from dawn till dusk on each day that follows. They clink and jingle as I trot the stone paths through my herb garden. They shine in the noonday sun as I make my way through the shops of the town, planning our wedding. At night, they hang upon a pegboard at the head of my bed, which my darling Cast Iron has crafted for precisely this purpose.
Yet try as I might, I cannot fully appreciate this wondrous gift, for the presence of that single spot of rust. It is ever so small, when one looks at it, on the bottom of the shoe. In this position, it cannot try me bodily, yet it grates upon my mind like a squeaking hinge upon a gatepost.
As I walk the stores, browsing dresses and other finery, my shoes draw the attention of others on the town. They praise the clean steel of the first, the deep and emotional red of the second, the bright and shining gold of the third. Yet invariably, when they come upon the fourth, their reactions are the same.
"Oh my. That one seems by comparison so very... plain. And is that a spot of rust I see?"
Whereupon I must explain that the set was a gift from my beau, and as he is an artist, he possesses that singular vision that artists often do, and that his designs are not always apparent to the common pony. This satisfies many questioners. Those it does not satisfy, it offends, so that I need not bother with their company.
But this answer offers no assuagement for the guilt which I feel. Shame comes upon me through the judgment of other ponies upon the perceived imperfections of my gift. That shame is multiplied by my very act of being ashamed. That I am shamed by the horseshoe that represents my fiancée shames me further.
A fortnight after our engagement, I receive another letter from Cast Iron. It is much like the first, save that it is not Dark Roast who delivers it, but a stallion I have never met before. He explains that Dark Roast is ill and won't be delivering the evening post until at least a week hence, whereupon I resolve to visit him at his home and bring him some of my dried sleeping herbs. He claims they do not suffice when dried, but I would wager a healthy dose would be just what he requires to get some much-needed sleep.
First, however, I must attend to my fiancée's request: another picnic in the woods. Oh, surely he has devised some other grand method of showing his love! Be it steel or words, I care not, only that I can see him again and have his love lavished upon me.
Feeling weak at the knees, I spend the day tidying my cottage, for there is little else that can take my mind off a prospect so exciting other than imposing order upon the chaos of dust and grime which accumulates regardless of effort or desire. I clean well into the night, yet accomplish but a fraction of what I had wished to. I realize that I am, in some small way, preparing my home to become our home. Oh, I do hope that I shall have enough time to get everything set perfectly before our wedding!
In the morning, I wake, don my horseshoes, and trot to the forest with a clink and a jingle, stopping only to gather a few of my more fragrant herbs and place them in a bundle behind my ear. I spend perhaps more time than I ought to crafting the bouquet to look precisely like my cutie mark, but it is, I feel, time well spent if it means looking my best for Cast Iron.
The air is clean and pure, for there was a rain shower scheduled over the night. All the flowers are kissed with dew and sparkle in the sunlight. Even the cobbled streets seem brighter than usual, and I feel a lightness and a vigor in my step. I can only hope that Cast Iron feels the same.
I make my way into the wood, the thin trees dappling my pale coat with spots of shadow. The place where Cast Iron and I met last is but a short way up the path, yet I see no sign of him there. Thinking that perhaps he has chosen a spot with a better view of the Falls, I trot gaily onward, enjoying the foliage of the trees and their tiny pink and white flowers.
After ten minutes, I still have not spotted my love, and a slight touch of fear begins to crowd the happiness I have felt since waking.
"Cast Iron? Where have you gone? If you are playing a prank upon me, the jig is up and you may come out now!" I call his name again and again, and each time, I feel a weight sink further down my chest. My trot slows to a crawl.
Something moves in the trees. I turn to see what it is, but catch no more than a moving shape. If it is a pony, then he is much smaller and slighter than Cast Iron.
I am about to call his name once more when I again hear that crashing through the undergrowth. A heavy weight comes down atop me and I find myself pressed flat to the leaf litter and dirt of the forest path.
"Got you!"
I recognize the voice immediately. "Dark Roast? You're meant to be sick abed!"
"Silence, wretch!"
He pants like a mad timberwolf, his eyes afire. Again and again, he glances around as though expecting an attack from any and all sides.
"Dark Roast, please stop! You frighten me!"
"Do you have my herbs or not?" He snarls and bares his teeth at me. I feel I shall burst into weeping at any moment.
"I told you, they are not yet read—"
"I don't care!" He bends down, moving like a scorpion, and bites me upon the ear. The pain brings me to tears. "You give me excuses about ripeness and perfection, but all I want is a decent night's sleep!"
"Which you shan't get if the herbs are not at their peak!" I wipe at my eyes and sniffle. "Nor if you persist in this fiendish assault upon me!"
"Me, me, me." There is a hint of laughter in his voice. "That's all you ever talk about, Valerian. You need to have everything perfect because that's what you want, and a horse's apple to the next pony!" He draws his muzzle close to my ear; the bouquet has fallen upon the dirt beside me. "Well, I've had enough. I'm sick of not sleeping, sick of being unable to ply my trade because of insomnia, instead reduced to the groveling insipidness of a mailpony! Today, you'll see what your perfection costs you!"
He places a hoof to his mouth and lets forth an ear-splitting whistle. I can hear someponies moving from further up the path, approaching us, though I cannot see who they might be around Dark Roast. It seems as though two ponies are struggling with a third. After a moment, I realize that the third in this struggle is my dear Cast Iron.
"What is going on? Dark Roast, stop this!"
He slaps me across the mouth. Pain renews and brings with it a redness. "Shut up!"
Dragging my poor, sweet Cast Iron into sight are a pair of the roughest looking stallions I have ever laid eyes upon. Both are dirty and mussed of coat; one has a scar across his eye, that has turned it a putrid shade of yellow. They jab and prod at my love, but though they are each of them smaller than Cast Iron, they have hobbled him, and so he is able to render only a paltry resistance to their attacks.
"Gentlestallions," says Dark Roast, "I thank you for your patience."
"Can we do 'im now?" asks the one with the unmarred face. Dark Roast smiles, and it is the least mirthful smile I have ever seen in my short life.
"Should she not acquiesce to my demands, you are free to do with him as you wish. I want her to see what her vanity has wrought!"
Panicked, I try and fail to right myself. Dark Roast, in all his maddened rage, is too strong for me to fight.
"Please, don't hurt him!"
"Oh, we'll hurt him all right," says the stallion with the scar. His companion draws forth a blade from a sheath and my heart turns to ice.
"I don't understand!" I wail. "Who are these stallions, Cast Iron? Why would they wish you harm?"
"I told you once," Cast Iron says, voice quiet and countenance still despite his dire situation, "that I have learned a difficult lesson about pridefulness. It seems my past has caught up with me at last."
"That's right, mate!" says the stallion with the blade. "It's time to pay your dues."
"Only if she doesn't concede!" Dark Roast shouts. I realize, with horror, that though he has initiated this action, he has lost whatever control over these stallions he once possessed.
"Horseapples to you, mate!" says the scarred one. "Our employer's paid us far too much for us to be worryin' about your petty gripes."
"He'll still pay you handsomely for setting us on this catch," says the other, gripping Cast Iron's mane and pulling his head backward. "Once we've sent his head by post, of course."
The blade flashes in the dappled morning sun. I scream, thrash, and shout in desperation, "Please, somepony, help!"
Suddenly, the weight upon me lifts. Dark Roast is running. Cast Iron screams half of my name and then falls silent.
I cannot make sense of what I am seeing. Dark Roast shouts something and bucks the one holding the blade; but too late. Helpless, I catch a glimpse of Cast Iron's head, his body unattached, sailing through the trees and out towards Winsome Falls. It smiles at me, and then fades from sight.
The cry loosed from my throat feels as though it might tear me apart. Vaguely, I see Dark Roast beating the two stallions senseless.
"You idiots! How could you? Now she'll never give me what I want!"
"None of us is gettin' nothing if we don't find that head, mate!"
My eyes are water; my mouth is fire; my heart is ice. I look to the lifeless body of my love, lying profanely upon the ground, and all I can do is gasp the same words again and again: "Somepony... Anypony... Please, help..."
Something in the wind changes. There is a thunderstorm within me, and the forest crackles. I feel the trees stand up and whisper, Yes.
Cast Iron's body rises on unsteady hooves. Dark Roast notices instantly; his mane changes from deep brown to pure white in a heartbeat. With a strangled cry, he runs screaming into the forest, the path darkening around him. The two stallions exchange a frightened look. One tries to attack, but finds himself somehow stabbing the other through the heart. The stallion with the scar coughs red and tumbles to the forest floor, where the roots and stones rise up and then grind him into the earth.
The other backs against a tree as the living, moving, unyielding body of my Cast Iron stalks him. As the first hoof raises, I look away, but I can still hear the wet noises, the crack of bones breaking, as the one whose life he took wreaks terrible vengeance upon him. Soon, the stallion is consumed by the forest also, leaving only we two.
I look up. The body of Cast Iron moves toward me, as though nothing were wrong. It approaches me, and my heart seizes with fear. Where his head should be, there is but a blackness.
No head! He has no head! How can he be moving if he has no head?
Something that had kept me rooted to this spot breaks, and I am running as fast as I have ever run, back down the path the way I came to this cursed spot. Behind me there are hoofbeats, pounding faster and faster, driving me to desperate exertion. The air in my lungs burns, and I cannot see for the tears blinding my eyes.
With the mouth of the forest in view, I stumble. There is a clink and a jingle. I right myself quickly, and then I am out of the woods and running for home. From the edge of the trees comes a pained whinny, from a pony who has lost everything he once held dear.
I wake to sore eyes, a tired chest, and a clean house. I cannot help feeling that this house has somehow grown hollow. It is a most fervent wish that everything I have witnessed on this day be but a dream, a fiendish nightmare brought on by overexposure to bare moonlight. But I know that what I saw was real. My Cast Iron was killed, and then rose again to deliver vengeance upon his killers.
And now I am here, alone, without even the proper tokens to remember him by.
The horseshoes!
In my grief, I had not noticed those precious gifts disappear. I have but the one of spotless steel upon my hoof. Where could the others be?
Mania seizes me as if by hoof. I may have lost my love, but I shall not lose the greatest gift he gave to me. Quickly, like a mare possessed by lightning, I run to my bedstead, only to find the pegboard empty.
Of course; I was wearing them today. No doubt I just dropped them in my haste to leave the...
The forest. I can't go back there, not tonight, not after what I saw. I'll just look upon the path I took; surely I will find them with no trouble.
I retrace my steps to as near the forest as my quaking heart and trembling knees will allow me. Nowhere can I see the slightest hint of any horseshoe. Even the sight of the rusted one would fill my heart with much-needed joy.
I ask townsponies who are out; none has seen anything. A few comment on the awful noises they heard coming from the forest the night before last. Has it already been more than a day since that dreadful incident? My heart grows cold with shame and fear and I retreat to my home.
My home; of course! Perhaps I hadn't put the shoes on at all this morning! They must still be here, somewhere! I dash to my bedstead, but the pegboard is empty, nor do I see them beneath the bed. They are not in my bureau, nor in my closet. I flip the mattress over, tear off the sheets, rip the stuffing from my chair and smash the gas lamp.
Where could they be? I have to find them. I must, for he that made them for me is dead, dead, dead, and it is all my fault.
My fault.
It is all my fault. I did not love him enough. I was shamed by his final gift to me. I took him and his love for granted. I do not deserve horseshoes, or love, or friends, or gifts. I am not even worthy of life!
Yet as I stand among the ruins of my bedroom, the shards of the lamp glinting cruelly in the sun, I cannot bare the thought of taking my life. I have witnessed so many deaths today; mine will add nothing to the world. But I cannot simply continue on with my life as if nothing has happened.
Dazed, I stumble through my house, bumping into the shelf where I store my dried herbs. The jars clink together and the one on the end rattles to the floor, shattering. I pick up the lid, cutting my lip on a shard of glass, and read the label. This bottle held sleeping herbs, the same damnable sleeping herbs that started all of this!
I throw the lid across the room. I stomp with my shoed hoof the glass shards until they are but pearls of light against the wood floor. The herbs powder before me. My hoof lashes upward and strikes the shelf again; more jars come loose and smash onto the floor. I stomp and pound and jump and strike, and soon I am covered in herb dust and glass.
From outside my front door there comes a clink. I rush to the door, pry it open and curse its slowness blocking my path. There, upon the doorstep, is a single red horseshoe. The forest whispers to me.
The second is wrought in red, to honor our love.
Scarcely able to believe my fortune, I slip it on my back left. It fits perfectly.
Suddenly, I am overcome with a dreadful lethargy. My skin hurts. I am cold, and too hot, and I itch. The walls are close around me, and I feel it has gotten dark far too early in the day. I need the sun!
I rush out my back door into my herb garden. These plants are my only friends now; they wave softly in the wind and invite me into their midst. I see now the plumping leaves of the sleeping herbs. Their motion, guided by the hooves of the breeze, calms me and soothes my aching heart.
I am so very tired.
Without stopping to think, I reach down and bite the first leaf off the plant. The taste is grassy, with a hint of sage and a velvety texture that is most pleasing to the tongue. I take another, and another. Before long, I have eaten half of my crop, stems and all. Stumbling, I wander back into my house; I cannot make it further than the kitchen.
My lids grow heavy and I sleep.
I wake to stiff limbs, a deep hunger, and the scent of must and mildew. With much difficulty, I push myself from the floor. I am in the kitchen of my home. It has grown quite dusty somehow; I must do something about this.
Standing, stretching, I groan against the protestations of my limbs. As I move to fetch a broom, my hooves clink-clop, clink-clop across the floor.
My horseshoes! I must find them!
I open every drawer, search every cupboard, move every bit of furniture that is not bolted in place. The oven holds no answers, nor does the broom closet. None of my pots or pans contain that which I seek. Where could they be?
Frustrated, I slam my hooves against the table, cracking one of the legs. The chairs likewise turn to kindling as I vent my frustration upon them. I smash the broom and crack the floor tiles.
Then, from my front door, there comes again a soft clink. I rush to open it. I see the glint and hear the voice of the trees.
The third shines with gold, a symbol of our future together.
The horseshoe fits my back right perfectly.
I have just woken, yet I feel tired. I seem to recall having eaten much of my stock of sleep herbs once. Perhaps I should check on them.
I move to my herb garden, with a clink-clop-clink-clink, and find that somepony has let it grow over with weeds. The sleep herbs have grown back, at least, but I fear I shall never get this growth cleaned out in time to plant more. This simply will not do.
But the sleep herbs, they are lush and full, and they wave to me. Weeding can wait for another day; what I need now is sleep. I take the leaf of one in my mouth, chew, and swallow. The flavor is like cress, with a hint of lemon balm. I wander back into my home, reaching the living room, and fall into darkness.
I wake to an ache in my entire body, and the darkness of my home. Somepony has boarded the windows over while I was asleep; how rude of them!
It is quite difficult to stand; my limbs do not seem to want to move the way they should. My hips are heavy, my rear legs like lead, and it is with great trouble that I finally force myself upright.
Before me is a window, floor-length and narrow, and in the dimness, I can just make out somepony looking from it at me. Where is a match? I must have light, else how may I see?
There is an oil lamp on a table nearby; I light it, and gaze at the window, which is in truth a mirror.
Yet a mirror it cannot be. The pony who gazes back upon me is old, wrinkled, weathered and ravaged by time. Her coat has faded to a dingy grey, her mane to a flaxen white. Her jowls droop and her forehead sags with warts that sprout thick hairs. One of her eyes has closed halfway, and her teeth are misshapen and protruding. Furthermore, she wears but three horseshoes, when I have four.
My horseshoes! I look down, and see only three horseshoes upon my hooves. I must find the others, I must! They were given to me so long ago, and I need them!
I smash the chairs and unstuff the pillows. No drapes, besmirched and moth-eaten, escape my search. Loose floorboards are easily pried up, but still I find nothing!
Perhaps last is in the forest? Oh, but I couldn't go there; it's so dark and forbidding. Surely I would be lost, much the same as my poor horseshoe. As I stand at my door, peering through the boards nailed across it, the forest peers back at me.
I turn to look at my home. It is dark and dusty. Dirt smears the walls. Mushrooms grow in the corners. I can hear the sound of nesting animals in the eaves. There are no horseshoes here for me; the forest whispers again.
And the last—
I am overcome with tiredness, yet I am so close to having found all four!
With great effort, I break the boards binding my doorway. Something shatters behind me and soon the smell of burning wood follows me. But this does not trouble me, for my goal lies in the forest, I am certain of it.
Clink-clink-clop-clink.
There is nopony on the road as I travel to the wood. The trees seem to close in around me; I can feel them beckon me. This is the right way to go.
Clink-clink-clop-clink.
The path is overgrown, the way dark and murky. I cannot see the Falls from here. The trees are bigger than I remember, and they loom and lurk, suspicious in the darkness. My footing is hard to find, yet I must press on; I feel my goal is so close.
Clink-clink-clop-clink.
The path winds and bends, and I do not recognize where I am. All I have to do is find the reminder; the reminder of a brave, sweet stallion whose name I have forgotten. The reminder of why it is I have come to this forest and lost myself within it. Then I can go home and rest. That's why I want to find it; to remember. I have forgotten everything but that token, that tribute. Where is it?
Clink-clink-clop-clink.
Who has it?
Clink-clink-clop-clink.
Who's got my rusty horseshoe?
Clink-clink-clop-clink.
Do you?