//------------------------------// // In the Halls, II // Story: Equestria's End // by Aquillo //------------------------------// Had I but breath inside my lungs, I’d sing again the ancient songs. Rebirth them with my withered tongue And shout them till the rafters rung So all would know that I still live, As do all those with such a voice. That I lay not within my grave But took as much as I had gave And walked in death under the earth, King of the mountain underneath. That I knew what the bond was worth, Yet took it, ‘fore the world went worse. For yes, I lied, because I knew Just what would wake if we were slow. That day by day threat of it grew Till all would end when it was through; And so I made the bond with them: Bound all our race onto its kin. Surrendered all our p’wers of fen And field and glade: we lost them then, And — empire turn (to?) dust, Watched all — south be lost. For I took — (earth?) — trust And gave it — (knew?) — To — End — (was?) — From the Canterlot Archives of Rustic Poetry, circa 1400 BB. Author unknown, most likely unicorn. Piece found carved onto a crystal fragment recovered from the Canterlotian Mines, 462 MB. Most likely pre-Classical/late-Dissonant era graffiti. Considered incomplete: sixth, seventh and further stanzas rendered unreadable by fractures in the crystal. Applejack woke with a start, bed covers sliding aside as she rose, and immediately wished she hadn’t. Every inch of her hurt, and hurt hard. The tendons in her arms strained to keep them bent, and a dotted pattern of bruises across her chest and back twinged under each stretch. There was a hollow in her stomach boiling under acid, unattended to indigestion eating at her chest. The bed had been too soft, too, months of camping without bedding having inured her to hardness, making the comfortable coarse. She had told Braeburn she’d’ve been better off sleeping on the floor, and by the feel of things, she’d been right. “Darn it... Complacent,” Applejack muttered to herself, stretching against her body’s urge to relax and rubbing heated relief into her arms and legs, fur piling up before and hind her hoof. Her tail ached too, the hair-fibres feeling loose and badly in need of combing. She shook it out, wincing as a fine spray of sand scattered into the air. They pinged off walls, curtain and ceiling to the sound of a murmured rustle. She paused; there was no sound of annoyance from Braeburn. She figured he must still be asleep. Grabbing her adopted hat off the tip of the bed pole, she rolled out to the floor. The room she was in was a shadowy thing, painted in those quiet greys of the early morning. Her neck panged as she looked round, still sore and stiff. It was the only room in the house—this one having no upper floor—which had left Braeburn sleeping opposite her on an oddly shaped settee. The covers were half wrapped round him, half trailing onto the floor as he lay on his back, legs folded over his stomach. A corner of his mouth was shiny with dribble. She looked away, fiddling with her hat. It wasn’t as scratchy a thing as her replacement for the first, but wasn’t as sturdy either, being flimsy to the touch. Still, it fitted just fine, and Braeburn had been right: she hadn’t felt the same without a hat upon her head. She tossed her mane round, feeling the thud of it going from one neck-side to the other, and smiled as the hat stayed on. She looked around again, not wanting to go back to bed but not able to stray too far away from her cousin. She sniffed once. The room and bed were musky, stinking of unwashed Braeburn. Her eyes darted round before latching on to a nearby window, lurking behind the curtains. There. She opened them outwards, letting the milder air of Appleloosa in. The sun glinted out at her, a gold sliver on the horizon cut jagged by the Macintosh Hills and lip of Ole Childe’s Barrow. The town itself was near-empty, with only shop keepers prowling about, preparing for the oncoming day. Applejack gulped greedily at the air, sighed and then twisted herself back in. Braeburn was still a bachelor—very much against the best efforts of the mares around him—and so his house was kept in that type of squalor known only to privacy. Applejack’s frown deepened as the light revealed a bin overflowing with rubbish and a scattered assortment of clothes across floor, furniture and—by dint of the curtain rails—ceiling. Hoofprints formed from sand and ash marked where she had been. Something else, though, held her eye. There were four bumps around the room: four parts standing proud from the floor, white cloth covering all of them. Applejack grabbed one of the covers in her teeth and tugged, dust filling her mouth, nose and the air about. It was a waggon wheel, large and dull, set into the floor with an axle holding it in place. She reached out and pushed at it, the rim much thicker than her hoof. It failed to move. A spark danced across her mind, filling it with memory. She looked round the room with new found appreciation: she could remember what this'd looked like years ago, in motion, moving. She lifted her hoof up again and rested on it, the oily smoothness of the metal contrasting with patches of old dirt and fossilised grasses. She could remember the day when the waggons had come to Ponyville. They’d rolled past just as promised, metal wheels sparkling in the dusk and engineering so fine only the bent grasses after betrayed their passing. Big Macintosh had ferried her out upon his back, this being in the days when she was still small enough to carry, about the same age as Apple Bloom was now. She’d placed her hooves on his yoke, stretching up high to see just that little bit further, a froth of emotion in her chest. A fete had been set up around Town Hall to greet the expedition, filled with tents packed with candied apples, popcorn, candy floss and other sweets whose aromas ruled the memory. There had been other foods, too: tables piled under with apples, hays and pies, but Applejack had been young, and the sweets had owned her attention. More so because she'd had to wait to get at them. The expedition had been an Apple affair, built by Apple hooves and funded by Apple bits, and so the Apples of Ponyville had come out to meet their cousins who ran it. They’d left the fete behind, crossed over the bridge and rejoined their family halfway, between a static town and a mobile one. Granny went under a mob of cackling old mares instantly. Her hoof had been shaken more than twenty times before they dragged her over to join the other matriarchs. Applejack had jumped off Big Macintosh’s back as the stallions called him over, empty saddlebags strapped to their sides and trailing sacks clutched in their mouths. The talk amongst them had been of supplies and distances, of whether to try crossing the Bogg or play it safe and go through San Palomino. Voices had risen and fallen as the debate went back and forth. Applejack had followed them, dancing between legs like moving tree trunks and trying to keep out of the way. They’d spotted her and, laughing, let her tag along, a sack of her own dragging through the dirt and tangling up her hooves. Braeburn had been with them too, wiry and teenage, his teeth like marble and mane-stubble like a leafless tree. He’d been Macintosh’s age, maybe older, and had spent the most time with her brother, all talk and close distance. A shared uncle, watching, had called out something that made him blush; she couldn’t recall what. It couldn’t have been that bad, though, for the uncle was a kindly sort. Applejack regretted not being able to remember his face: it’d been him who’d slapped her first ever hat upon her head. The waggons were as big as houses up close, some bigger. The spokes of their wheels were thicker than her, formed of Everfree heartwood over an iron core. Spurs of wood stuck out from the front, forming a triangle with the earth: harnesses for the stallion team who pulled it. She’d asked to enter one, and Braeburn had acquiesced. The ladder had been hard to climb, not made for foals, and she’d scrabbled up the last few steps with Mac’s head pushing her behind. The inside was a house, with holes for windows, chairs bolted to the floor and great fur-piles for beds. They’d told her, coming out, that the waggons would be made into houses when they got there, the wheels sunk into the ground and chocked. There were no resources in the desert; they were bringing all with them. Hours had passed trailing back from waggons to town, with the fete inside getting louder and more alive each time they came. The sweet piles grew smaller too, and seeing her expression, her brother had let her off two rounds before the end. She stuffed her mouth with cotton candy, plastering her face with it. Cup Cake had stifled a grin as Carrot Cake’d led her over to a trough filled with water. She’d turned round, and sometime between her eating and her dunking, the land about Town Hall had become packed with ponies. Granny Smith had danced creakedly under the rising moonlight, all wide eyes and gasping smiles. The air itself was laughter, stomps and music. Applejack had hidden beneath a table with a bunch of other foals, and a fussy white-unicorn she now figured as Rarity. She had watched the crowd blur past, too old to dare loose into abandon her individuality, and far too young to have known of its benefit. But a different type of bond had formed behind the flickering tablecloths. A bright-blue pegasus of three had begun to cry from hunger and sleep somewhere past eleven, and Applejack and two others had slunk out to solve one of them. They’d crept back minutes later, plates upon their backs and food atop of that. The crying'd stopped as munching started; laughter and gossip had followed that. Somepony’d spotted bright eyes inside a tent across the dance. She’d crawled her way over beneath the hidden shade of the tables, grass tickling her belly and the scent of trodden food filling up her nostrils. Nopony had been there. Later, when the night was out and flecked with stars, she’d walked home with her family, Big Mac too drenched with sweat to ride on. The air’d been cool and carrying the party’s dregs up to them: sounds of music and the stink of tomorrow’s cleaning. She’d looked back occasionally to see lights like sparks weaving their way from the fete to where the waggons stood in a wide semi-circle past the bridge. She'd waved out the hat her uncle gave her, and was sure some of the shadows waved back. They'd gone by the time she’d reached the hilltop next morning, only the dirty village and a line of compressed grass gone south showing that they’d been. Her brother’d found her there half an hour later, and nudged away the disappointment through the surety of pancakes. The promised letter’d arrived one morning during breakfast, years later. It’d been a warm day, lit under the golden light of the early summer sun—just seven weeks before the thousandth Summer Sun Celebration. The crumbly taste of toast laden with butter overrode her memory briefly, poignant in its vividry. Granny had brought the letter in, hooves clacking on the wooden floorboards with a creak now and then where one had loosened. They’d called Apple Bloom down and then’d gathered round the kitchen table, eager for news. It'd been short: a telegram, sent by Heliograph. Length would’ve been expensive, so it cut straight to the quick: “We’re here”. They’d laughed and drank a pint of fresh apple juice from their best trees to celebrate. Apple Bloom, giggling, had chased Winona round the table before beginning a two hour pleading session with Granny Smith to save up funds for tickets. Big Mac had chewed on his stalk contentedly, his eyes dull but the slow smile spreading ‘cross his face more than revealing his emotions. Applejack had nodded, and then gone out to check the orchard.   She’d walked through it calmly, the grass wet with dew and cuckoo spit, and the air about alive with the calling of birds: a meadowlark had trilled out nonsense as she passed. A few pegasi above her’d trailed through the washed out air of morning, shunting clouds to and fro and scattering the early mist with a crack of vibrant tail. She’d reached a tree, paused and— “Cuz?” She shivered, pulled roughly out the memory, and turned. Braeburn was blinking sleepily at her, still upside down with legs curled to his chest. "What cha' doing with that wheel?" he mumbled, mouth only half working. Applejack tore her hoof away as if she'd just been caught stealing it. "What? I ain’t doing squat to it." Then, a few seconds later: "I’m rememberin’." She walked away, passing between the strait of bed and sofa and over to the table in what passed as the kitchen. "What ingredients've you got for breakfast?" Scraps and parts of other meals were what he had, but Applejack had spent enough time cooking pre-apocalypse to know how to make it work. She was lucky in that most of his eggs smelled right and only a few were clear in their whites. Likewise, his mushrooms didn’t stink as much of the cabbage near the bottom, though she doubted anything could. Regardless, minutes later the oven was alight and the smell of cooking omelets filled the room, waking Braeburn fully and agitating Applejack’s stomach. He set the table, pulling cutlery and plates from places Applejack hadn’t known existed. After having been exposed to the rest of the house, she wasn’t quite sure if they were clean, but a quick inspection proved her wrong. She slid her food onto it. Braeburn, of course, started talking as soon as he was completely up. The conversation drifted aimlessly until he finally asked her just what she was doing in Appleloosa in the first place. “Got a friend to meet in Manehatten.” She pushed a cut of omelette round her plate, eyes tracking it. “I was down round Los Pegasus, and thought I’d pass through here on the way.” “Well that was right nice of you. How long you stayin’ for?” “Wednesday morning, latest.” Braeburn de-enthused. “Now that right there’s a shame. We’ve got the Harvest Moon Festival all set and ready for this Wednesday evening—or at least, we will have. Shame you’re gonna be missing it. Sure this train of yours leaves morning?” Halfway through cutting into her omelet, Applejack paused and inspected the fork. There was a slice of stained-on gristle caught between the prongs. Scratching it off with her knife, she returned to eating, unconcerned. “Eeyup.” A memory stirred. She smiled, then refocused. “I’ve got things to be doing in Manehatten ‘fore Friday, and that’s the only train going through here that’ll get me there before then.” She didn’t mention why. Braeburn was seated to her right, mouth filled with food that sprayed out as he talked; thankfully, none hit her. “Right shame.” He spun his fork round with one hoof. “The Harvest Moon festival’s a big event for Appleloosa this year. Been five whole years now we’ve had a harvest. Longest anypony’s been able to get anything to grow down south since the days of the Lyin’ King. Why, when I heard you were down here, I thought you’d come down just for it.” Applejack swallowed. “Nope. Just passing through, Braeburn.” He looked heartbroken, so she decided to throw him a bone. “Scheduled a whole extra day for you, though. Set aside today and yesterday for my favourite cousin.” He bounced back like a ricochet: “Well I guess then, seeing that Monday’s gone, we’ll have to cram as much Appleloosa into today as we can!” He swallowed, eyes then swivelling downwards. “After breakfast,” he amended, foregoing fork and employing face. His voice, slightly muffled, continued to rise out: “Gosh darn it if you don’t cook the best grub I ever tasted. Why, I don’t even think we’ve got chefs here that could beat you.” He led up with another question: “So why aren’t any of your friends here in Appleloosa?” She thought of the long nights scouring train stations. Of the hours spent wandering round a city in riot, calling and searching. Of the sight of white sails in Balitmare sinking into the horizon, of the Tall Tale skies dotted with volcanic flames and hailstorms of pumice. She hadn’t understood why Pinkie’d refused to go with them at first. She figured she knew now. “It’s complicated,” she replied through a mouthful of egg and toasted mushroom, then dropped into silence as she swallowed. Something tickled at her scalp. Reaching up, Applejack hooked out a mangled piece of twig and leaf. She looked down at her arm and noticed, amongst the bruises, earth-stains large enough to make her seem skewbald. “You got anywhere to clean up round here?” Braeburn looked up from his plate, omelette still not finished and with specks of it sprinkled round his muzzle. “Sure! There’s a water trough round by the side, the one nearest the mill next door. You can’t miss it!” Morning had dawned, leaving the room’s colour spliced somewhere between gold and pink in a ruddy wash of light. She laid her hooves on either side of the table and pushed, rattling her plate and both of their cutlery. She trotted to the door and, swinging it open, went outside. Morning may have dawned, but Appleloosa was still deserted: the shopkeepers from earlier having long since set up and retreated inside. The deck grumbled under her as she paced over it, taking the downwards steps two at a time. The sun, now risen, glared at her, but her new hat succeeded at keeping it from her eyes. She looked around; the mill was to her right, sails already cutting through the air. Parts of it creaked at times, but other than that it was strangely silent. A charm, perhaps; she considered it for a moment before realising that she didn’t much care. She found the water trough quickly, a stone thing underneath a tap and makeshift shade next to the mill that probably wasn’t built with Braeburn’s sanitary requirements in mind. She dunked her head into it anyway; the water was lukewarm and saturated with sand across its bottom, but it was fully up to the task of cleaning her. She pulled out, leaving drifting leaf fragments and brown, underwater clouds behind. She carried on washing, scooping the water out and rubbing it across her legs. The sun grew warmer across her back, its heat feeling like it was falling onto sunburn, fiery against the tenderness, contrasting strangely with the mild water running over her coat. A creak up from the deck alerted her to Braeburn’s exit as she was busy soaking her left hind leg. “Whoa. Well, I can’t right say I’ve ever seen somethin’ like that before.” She didn’t look round, and it took her a while to realise that she probably should’ve. Water still dripping from her mane and muzzle, she tossed a look over her shoulder. Braeburn was on the deck, his hoof one step down and the rest of him in frozen motion. His mouth was open and his neck was craned back, eyes scanning over the sky under a halfway frown. The curls of his mane drifted in the breeze. She knew what he was looking at; its novelty was long since lost on her. Still, he expected things that weren’t, and she hadn’t the heart to tell him the truth. She looked up. The whole sky was the almost orange of dawn or dusk round the horizon. It was a weak sort of pink right now, but over the coming week that colour would ripen, growing hard and more intense. Had she any drama in her soul, she’d have called it the thickening of blood or the reignition of an ember blown upon and not cared about the actuality. But she hadn’t, and called it as she saw it—that same sort of colour you get when you close your eyes and look at a lamp: that glowing pink of the inner eyelids. “Yep.” Applejack swallowed, staring up. The coat of her face, flattened by the water, crinkled as she frowned. “Ain’t never seen anything like that before today.” The stairs squeaked; Braeburn was mobile. She broke her gaze, blinking. “Do you reckon it’s down to the sandstorm or something?” Braeburn said, approaching. “Sky that colour ain’t normal, that’s for sure.” She pretended to consider it, her face long since used to handling an almost lie. “Could be,” she ventured. “You’re right, though. It sure ain’t normal.” She shook, water arcing off her in a stream of rainbows, and returned to washing. Braeburn joined her and, without much ceremony, dumped head, hat and mane into the trough. Bubbles blossomed round his neck for a few seconds before he pulled back out, sparkling like a unrefined jewel. Applejack snorted. “You quite done?” she asked as Braeburn leaked before her, water tumbling out his ears. “Reckon so!” He beamed, teeth dazzling in the early sun. “Ain’t nothing like a head dunking to wake you up after sunrise. Phew-wee.” “So.” Applejack kicked at the ground, spared a glance for Appleloosa, then looked back to Braeburn. “Whereabouts are we going first? Appleloosa don’t look like its changed that much.” “Hold it for one apple-bucking minute there, Cuz,” Braeburn said. “You’ve gone left that watch of yours back inside the house. Saw it laying on the floor just under the bed as I walked out. Want me to go ‘n get it for you?” “Nah. Forget about it,” Applejack replied. She started walking, and a heartbeat later, Braeburn followed. “I ain’t gonna be needing it for a while yet.” Appleloosa stirred around them, curtains twitching apart and doors swinging open—foals, stallions and mares walking blinking out to stare into the sky. It was bigger now than when she’d been here first: still as open to the desert, but no longer quite as empty. Shacks and smaller houses had sprung up round the greater buildings, and the huge waggon wheels that’d been propped up everywhere were now long gone. Braeburn cut ahead of her, obviously leading them somewhere. She followed. Dust clouds formed around their heels Ponies called out to them as they passed. A few struck up talk about the sky, most blaming yesterday’s sandstorm, but a bright-pink mare from out of town laying blame upon a volcano out over the sparkling sea, which was a new one to her ears. Hats of sizes large and normal bobbed up and down as the conversation flowed back and forth. Braeburn did most of the talking, leaving Applejack’s mind and eyes free to wander as they meandered slowly down the street. For the first few minutes, Applejack tried to wonder just where Braeburn was taking her, before realising she didn’t much care about that either. It was a relief just to walk with someone, to listen to ponies talk nearby and not fear replying. As long as she was smart, what she did here wouldn’t matter; she’d be gone long before tomorrow. Her hoof stirred up a pebble, bouncing it before her. She aimed, then gave it to the air, soaring. Bored again, her mind turned to the immediate past. She remembered a pole, tall and straight: a wooden curiosity in the middle of a desert. She spoke: “Braeburn? I got somethin’ I wanna ask you about. I saw this... this pole-like thing in the desert. Wooden—about half a house tall. You know what it is?” Braeburn’s face was disappointingly unconcerned. “Ain’t never heard of or seen anything like that, cuz, and I know near everything both in and round Appleloosa.” He paused to wave at two ponies leaving a house up ahead, their faces tired and blinking and staring skywards. She opened her mouth to press the issue, but paused as her sense of duty kicked in, angrily. It proclaimed her sidetracked: distracted. Breaking the promise she’d made to herself whilst limping out of the orchard not a single night before. Less than a week from now, all of this would be gone, rewritten: exchanged with a mirror image. The world wouldn’t be saved through her sweating small stuff. As harmless as it seemed, a slip—any slip—could potentially end her and thus doom them all. She focused. Braeburn turned back, mouth half-open. She spoke before he could: “Forget about it. Ain’t important.” He was eyeing her strangely, so she lifted something else from her mind to occupy him: “Where’re we going now?” The look faded as Braeburn grinned. “Well, as I see it, if you ain’t gonna stay here for the Harvest Festival, we’re just gonna have to get you involved in the making of it. Appleloosa’s more than just a collection of buildings and an apple orchard. It’s the ponies who live in it. I’m plannin’’ on introducing you to them all.” Applejack was bemused. “So your plan for showing me Appleloosa is roping me into helpin’ with setting up a festival for it?” “Sounds about right.” Braeburn flashed a smile at her, sunlight glinting off his teeth, then struck the ground with his hoof. As dusty sand rose round them, he said, “Come on, now. They should be settin’ up things down by the orchard, and I want to get there early so I we can be as much use to Appleloosa as we can!” The orchard. It’d be a deathtrap of almost broken branches and loosened trees now, given Monday’s sandstorm. She could remember what’d it’d been back walking through it the night before, back when they’d passed beneath an unattended section. Each creak had been like thunder, and each snap louder still. She’d been a fool to go in there before, but that idiocy was sourced from sleeplessness. There was no chance of her going back in there now. Head shaking, she stood her ground. “I can’t Braeburn. I’m sorry, but I just can’t.” He turned, his look confused. “What? C’mon, cousin Applejack. We’re going to be late.” His head lowered, ready to drive into the side of her. Legs muscles tightening, she twisted as he pushed, shaking him off. “I said I can’t! Look, I... I can’t go in there.” She swallowed, thoughts racing internally but not finding one easy excuse. She could think of no reason she could give him but the truth: bold, honest and dangerous. He couldn’t be allowed to know; she wasn’t that cruel. So she gave a part of it: “Look, I’m needed in Manehatten. Really, really needed. That orchard’s going be darn close to falling to pieces right about now. I can’t risk going in there, I can’t risk not gettin’ to Manehatten. It’s important, Braeburn.” “But cuz! We’re needed in there to stop it from falling to pieces! There’s a whole festival going on in there tomorrow evening: everypony in the whole town’s gonna be beneath them branches, and we’re needed to make sure they don’t fall down.” He stomped a hoof. “The reason you don’t wanna go in there’s the very reason we need to in the first place!” She shook her head, the hat upon it feeling almost constricting, tying her mane down. Its edges scraped against her ears. “I can’t,” she said, and prayed it was enough. And eventually, it was. Braeburn kept on looking, though; she could feel his eyes upon her, burning. At long last, he sighed his disappointment out. “Guess it ain’t too right of me to be askin’ you in the first place,” he muttered, and Applejack felt of a part of her twist. “Ain’t fair to expect somepony else to put themselves in harm’s way for another, even if they’re family. You commend ‘em if they do, but ain’t no call to be mad at ‘em for not.” Applejack swallowed, her eyes avoiding his. She felt wrong. She done similar things before—turned down help to those who needed it, walked without a qualm through a city burning—but doing it to family, to one she knew, felt different. Was different. It was easier to slip, here: easier to think that life was normal. Which made it all the harder to act knowing the truth, “Ain’t no reason we can’t get you helping out with something else, though!” She looked up. His grin—that unquashable part of his character engraved in near every memory she had of his face—was back and beaming. “Given that grub you rustled up this morning, I reckon the food from the kitchens is gonna be a whole heap load of better with us two inside it. C’mon!” He trotted past her, jerkin flapping lightly. With a smile of her own—weak and quivering, yes, but present—she followed after. They walked in silence, though it wasn’t oppressive, being more the type of mood which words would weaken. Strange, given her companion was Braeburn, but welcome. They passed by Salt Block tavern, tipping their hats to the ponies leaning against it and an old mare brushing sand from off its deck. They nodded back. There was a crowd up ahead, fussing in a semicircle. All ponies member to it were dull earth colours, being bay or chestnut with a few buckskins amongst them. Their manes, unbound by clothes or orn’ment, swayed back and forth like the grasses of a prairie; their coats gleamed with sharp white bands under the light of the risen sun. Their voices rose too, getting louder and gaining distinction as Applejack and Braeburn passed by. Scraps about damage to the apple orchard and the off-colour of the sky blurted out from the wash of noise now and again, startlingly clear. A feeling nagged at her hindbrain as the corner of her eye noticed something wrong. She looked to the side opposite the crowd to see Braeburn keeping pace with her, his ears flat and his head lowered, eyes tracking the ground. She looked back round, and her eyes caught hold of another's within the pack of ponies, bright green and staring. Not your buisness she told herself, head angling back. Just keep on walking. Can’t risk yourself. Can’t be complacent. Just wait out Tuesday and then go to Manehatten. “You,” a voice said, and the babble silenced. She looked over her shoulder. The crowd was parting. A dark colt—no, a wrinkled stallion: old and bald, with an absence for his mane and a stump of silver tail—walked out from that. All eyes were on them, now. Most were fixed on Braeburn. The stallion nodded to them. “I wasn’t aware that you’d be here.” His voice was dry, deep, and it carried. They stopped, sand flying from their hooves. Braeburn coughed, then spoke: “My town, Nut Cone. I haven’t really got anywhere else to be.” “Not you.” He nodded again, slower this time, the direction clearer. “I’m speaking to Honesty.” Applejack stared out at them, lips pursed. Whatever this was, it wasn’t friendly. There was a texture in the air between them, a conversation held in shifting stances and blown out snorts. It was the sort of tension Pinkie would’ve loved dissolving with a suddenly popped balloon or some other method of bang. “Element of,” Braeburn corrected from next to her. “And she don’t need to be informing the Seeders of anything, now does she?” Seeders... He was telling her who they were, she realised. Cluing her in. She glanced over the crowd’s heads and saw them: the travelling carts of the wandering pilgrim ponies—the Seeder carts of her great grandpa and grandma, coated with baskets and bits of plant that dangled off them “Perhaps not.” The stallion—Nut Cone, Braeburn had called him—was speaking. “But still, we have no interest either in her status.” He looked at her, his eyes the dark green of a tree viewed from in its branches. “You planted the tree, didn’t you? The... The ‘Bloomberg’ I believe you named it.” Her eyebrows shot up. “He’s what you’re here for? You’ve come down here to take seedlings from Bloomberg?” Her surprise doubled at the lack of denials from them. “I knew he was a good tree and all, but I didn’t think he’d been enough to attract Seeder attention.” “The pattern growth of the trunk may be unique in all of Equestria,” Nut Cone said. “So yes, we are here for ‘Bloomberg’.” The skin about his eyes tightened. “Though it appears the tree is not what we expected, being ferried as it was several hundred miles south from the Heartlands.” “Well you can't go round getting huffy at me for that,” Applejack retorted, ears springing up from the horizontal position they’d adopted as his conversation went on—it felt strangely like she was being scolded by Cheerilee for some misdemeanor. “Bloomberg was a gift for my cousins down here, not some special tree for y’all to come and look at.” The crowd bristled back. “That 'gift' is quite possibly a one of a kind specimen,” Nut Cone replied. “Uprooting it from its orchard and carting it by train to a completely different clime is—” “Unnatural!” someone from out the crowd erupted. Nut Cone’s lips peeled back, teeth baring as he turned around. The gap in his speech, however, was deafeningly present, and yet more voices rose to fill it: “Not normal,” somepony else cried. “You’ve angered the Liar!” from another. “Yeah, it’s your fault the sky’s gone—” “Don’t be absurd!” Nut Cone barked, and the crowd shrivelled before him. The three brown seeds stamped on his side flashed as he paced before the crowd. “That tree was brought here six years ago! How could it have any effect on what’s happening now?” He stopped, drawing himself up. The crowd shrank further; he seemed more and more like an angry teacher to Applejack’s eyes, his voice cowing like a promised lash. “And I’ll hear no more talk about The Liar from any of you. We may be in his lands, but we shall not grace him with our thoughts.” His head roamed across the crowd, and Applejack could tell where he was looking from the gazes they averted. “Don’t be fools,” he hissed. “He is a bogeyman, and nothing else.” He turned. His manner changed, voice quieting: “Applejack of Ponyville, isn’t it?” He nodded to one side, and a colt with a quill & ink cutie mark appeared out of the crowd, paper clutched in one hoof and a pen held in his mouth. “If the tree does turn out to be unique, then we’ll be needing your name for the records, so your being here does somewhat make up for wasted time.” He blinked at her as she said nothing. Applejack was still lost in the change of events. “Confirm your name, please.” The words were drawn out, each syllable stressed. “Oh, is that what you’re after?” Applejack blew out a half-whistle from her mouth, and smiled. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m Applejack. And I’m the one who raised that tree from an apple-pip.” He nodded, the colt scribbled and, with only a few glares back—aimed more at Braeburn than at her—the crowd turned away, closing inwards like a clam. Braeburn set off immediately, seeming more than happy to be out of the situation. Applejack followed after him, with only a few glances back at the retreating crowd behind, still chattering out talk into the morning’s air. “Cuz,” Braeburn said moments later, when the babble of the crowd had fallen to a distant murmur. She nodded, and he continued, “D’ya reckon you could help me get a letter off to one of the Princesses? Either the royal ones or that Twilight friend of yours? Them Seeders been nothing but trouble ever since they got here.” “Can’t.” Though she briefly wished she could and then hated herself for slipping, for forgetting it’d make no difference. “Only way to talk to the Princesses is through Spike, and he’s over in Canterlot right now. And I admit to not being quite sure where ‘bouts ‘my Princess’ Twilight is right now.” Helping save the world, if she knew her. Twilight might be many things, but Applejack trusted her in a way she didn’t trust the others. When Twi had turned away from the search, she’d known it was for the best and not because she’d given up hope. “That’s a shame. I was hoping you could help get rid of ‘em for us.” Applejack glanced over. The face on Braeburn was glumness itself. “Well, at least you know that they wouldn’t be here if Appleloosa weren’t something special.” He straightened up, head rising as she spoke. “They’ll have only come here because they know how important the place is. Seeders don’t show up for any old copse of fruit trees.” “Something special’s right,” Braeburn agreed, his stance on Appleloosa’s greatness the same as it’d always been. “Did you know we had the Princess Luna herself down here for last year’s Harvest Festival to help out with the Singing Moon, and she said there ain’t been anything half as successful as this place for longer than she’s been alive.” “O’ course, she has missed more than a thousand years of it,” Applejack pointed out. “So I wouldn’t be putting too much trust in her being right.” Braeburn pooh-poohed her. “She’ll have asked her sister, and besides: you reckon she didn’t look down once during all that time she spent on the moon? And that if she did, that she’ll have looked down anywhere other than where Appleloosa’d be? Naw, what she says is right: Ain’t never been anything like Appleloosa in all of Equestria. We’re making history here just by living.” Applejack glanced over at him, snorting a little at the smug prance to his walk. There was no better way to get Braeburn out of a bad mood than to get him talking about Appleloosa, even if his thoughts on Luna being as dedicated to the place as he was were misplaced. Perhaps intentionally; those last few lines had stank of self-mockery. The town opened up in front of them into an wide field of light grass and loose sand. A few ponies were on it, hatless, with their manes bound onto their necks and their tails bunched up so tightly they looked almost cropped. There were sticks in their jaws: thick wooden things with indentations along the end, grooves inside the wood. A few were dressed in white robes that were seemingly torn to pieces, bits of them looking one sharp tug away from coming off. And they were dancing. Slowly and moving to differing rhythms, yes, but dancing still. They twisted in place, rearing up and battering their hooves off of their partner’s before dropping back down with a thunk onto the ground. A pair twirled and slammed their sticks into the earth, birthing dust clouds in time to an invisible beat, before breaking and beginning to move again. Spinning, twirling—dancing. They looked ridiculous. Stifling a snort, Applejack asked, “What’s with all the Piaffe dancers?” She glanced over to Braeburn when no reply ame, and then laughed openly, her voice higher and louder than the dancers’ bashing hooves. “Oh, Braeburn, no! You can’t be telling me y’all went and invited some Piaffe dancers to your festival?” “They’re an Earth pony tradition,” Braeburn responded. Applejack smile failed to fade. “They’re as much a part of the Harvest Festival as the feast and the bonfire! Of course we gotta have them.” “Have they put the bells on yet?” Applejack replied. “And done the jingly jangly dance?” Braeburn snorted air—though there was a grin on his face, she knew it—and strode off. “Has one of ‘em started dressing up as the ‘beast’ yet? Are y’all missing any foals?” There was no response given, but still Applejack laughed, following after. It felt good to laugh. She had missed this, she realised: talking to and bantering with another pony. It was like a void in her soul being filled. “Hey!” They stopped, both of them, and turned. There was a mare trotting towards them from the dancers, a sort of lemonish-lime colour to her coat under a cobalt mane and red neckerchief. She blinked at Applejack, eyes narrowing before they widened. She said “Applejack?” at the same moment AJ said “Fiddlesticks?” Braeburn stepped into the confusion: “You two know each other?” He turned to Applejack, a quizzical half-smile on his face. “Cuz, I didn’t know you knew Fiddlesticks.” Applejack knew her only vaguely. She was from around Ponyville, but not really a part of it, her work as a Canterlot Archiver keeping her moving across Equestria. She opened her mouth to state this, getting as far as “Well sure I know her, she’s—” before Fiddlesticks interrupted. “Her friend!” Applejack found herself pulled into an impromptu hug, the neckerchief tickling her nose. “We’re good friends from Ponyville, yes we are. Me and your cousin? We’re the best of pals, really, the best.” Fiddlesticks turned to her; their eyes met. “Right, Applejack?” She knew that look, both having given it and having received it from her friends. ‘Play along,’ it said. ‘Please, just play along.’ Before she could organise a response in her mind, Fiddlesticks was speaking: “I’ve, erm, left my... my hat over by the fence! Would you mind if Applejack came with me while I’m picking it up? There’s... There’s girl things that we really, really need to catch up on together, so—” “No need.” Braeburn’s left hoof was up with the flat of it pointed at them. “Gentlepony like myself ain’t gonna let two ladies walk all the way over there when he’s got two good sets of legs. I’ll go and fetch it myself.” She looked, and saw where he was pointing. The distance was too large. Applejack started, moving forwards abruptly, Fiddlesticks sliding off her in a rush of protesting muscles. “No, Braeburn, don’t you dare!” “Cousin Applejack, mind your manners.” He was trotting off, eyes closed and not looking back. “You stay right here, you hear me! Keep ahold of her, Fiddlesticks!” He was gone. “Applejack, listen, we don’t have much time,” Fiddlesticks hissed. “Just keep on playing along, I swear it’s for a good cause. I’m not trying to trick your cousin or anything, really.” Fiddlesticks paused. Applejack spared a moment from watching Braeburn leave to glance over to her side. Fiddlesticks’ lip was between her teeth, rolling in and out of her mouth as she chewed at it. Fiddlesticks’ saw her watching, spat it out then wailed, in one long, extended sentence, “It’s just that you cousin’s really nice and cute and male, and I’ve been alone for ages now, and he’s not taken and neither am I, and I know it’s only been one day and I’m probably coming off as really strange right now, but he’s so gorgeous and it’d be really, really, really useful if he thinks I’m your friend because that way we get to talk and hang out more without him thinking I’m doing it just to spend time around him, which could be seen as creepy, and it also makes it more likely he’ll realise that I’m really the one for him and—” She ran out of breath explosively, cheeks bright red and pulsing as she sucked air in then blew it out. Her eyes, wide and with a desperate edge to them, were locked on to Applejack’s, unblinking. It was the most unnerving thing she’d ever seen. “It’s okay. I ain’t gonna tell him.” Because it really didn’t matter. Braeburn had left, and she’d been foolish to think his company mattered. She’d been complacent. “Your secret’s safe with me.” “So’s”—huff!—”yours!”—phew! Fiddlesticks tilted her head back and gazed upwards, catching her breath. She looked adorably silly. Applejack’s ears perked forwards as she smirked back, amused despite herself. “And what secret’s that, Sugarcube?” Fiddlesticks’ head remained pointed upwards. “That I saw you in Ponyville Sunday evening, and it ain’t possible for you to have gotten here before tomorrow by normal transport.” Something cold settled in Applejack’s chest as their eyes met, Fiddlesticks' head turning downwards. She couldn’t remember that Sunday anymore, what she’d been doing or what it had been like. It was all too far away in time. “Only two trains from Ponyville to Appleloosa between now and then, and one’s Sunday and the other’s later on today. And I was one of the only ponies on the Sunday one, so I know you sure as hay weren't. It’s okay, though. I ain’t gonna tell either.” She stopped, and looked back up at the sky. “Element of Harmony business, right?” “Sure.” Applejack looked at the floor, away from Fiddlesticks’ face. “Element business.” She looked up. Fiddlesticks’ head was down again—her breath re-caught and tethered into order—and her gaze roamed over Applejack’s face, openly curious. Applejack stared back, her gaze shifting by degrees into a glare. It was getting harder and harder not to hate this mare who taken Braeburn from her. Harder still when she was being staring at. “Element business,” Fiddlesticks muttered, looking away. “Huh. That sounds—” Hoofsteps, loud amongst even against the dancer’s backdrop, reached them, interrupting her. They looked up. Braeburn was approaching, a second, pure-white hat bouncing atop the first on his head. Fiddlesticks’ head turned suddenly towards her, hissing, “Where are you two going?” Applejack replied “Kitchens” without thinking, and then Braeburn was before them, flicking the hat from off his head to a neat landing right on Fiddlesticks. And there was a frown on him, like he was angry about something but not sure what. She’d seen that look before, on the face of her granny, brother and sister. She knew just what it meant. He looked over to her, and realised. “So,” Fiddlesticks started, and the two of them looked away, back over to her. “I’m going to be helping out in the kitchens today.” She smiled, eyes wide and trying to catch his. “Where are you two working?” “AJ’s working in the kitchens,” Braeburn replied, nodding over to her, frown gone and familiar grin back in place. “But I ain’t gonna be.” Fiddelsticks’ eyebrows shot up. “I,” she managed, but Braeburn was still talking, and no interjection could dissuade: “Some of us have got to help out in the orchard, clearing out the branches some of us are a mite too scared off to help out with.” He nodded at a Fiddlesticks who was wide eyed and staring, her mouth making these little ‘O’s just to break them seconds later. “Good thing they we came across you, Fiddlesticks! If you’re going to the kitchens, then you can take AJ with you and free me up for getting down to the orchard.” “I...” Fiddlesticks managed again, the syllable slightly stronger this time, but without any accompaniment. Braeburn, though, seemed to take it as the start to an oddly pronounced ‘yes’: “Then it’s all settled then!” He broke off, trotting away from them. “See ya tonight, AJ,” he called out, not looking back. Applejack’s ears were flat, but her voice was flatter: “See ya, cuz.” For the first time, she felt truly glad to be leaving come the next morn. But still. It didn’t matter. Finding Fluttershy did. She just needed to keep her head down and wait out Tuesday. Getting supplies could wait for Manehatten. “But... But...” Fiddlesticks, meanwhile, was still a different type of lost. “He was meant to be going to the kitchens!” “Well, he ain’t.” Applejack felt the urge to act, to move, and did so, kicking out her limbs and stretching the memory of Fiddlesticks’ weight off of her back. “Seems like you’re the one doing that now.” Fiddlesticks continued to look both lost and young. Applejack tried to remember just how many years younger she was, before figuring it was pointless: the cycles would’ve surely changed that number by now. Her companion pulled the hat off her head, ran it over a hoof mournfully and then looked over to Applejack. “This isn’t even my hat,” she whimpered. Applejack took pity on her. “Just leave it here; its owner will find it sure enough.” She put it down next to the side of a building where near abouts anyone could see it. “C’mon. Let’s go. We’ve got ourselves a kitchen to find.” The Hedgehog Category: Non-hostile unless exposed to naked flame. Most likely a result of magical misfires during the Discordian era. Considered well integrated, unlike most monsters of the Paronomasia subgenus. Habitats: Equestrian Forests. Occasionally, within farm orchards. Often seen wandering between woodlands along well-worn tracks tragically mistaken for roads. Attention, Monster Enthusiasts! If the road you are on is empty and surrounded by broken vehicles, it is likely not a road! Get off! Lack of a track does not guarantee an absence of wandering Hedgehogs. They are considered migratory and will often create their own paths, so watch out! Diet: Grass, water and bushes. Has been known to eat trees. Will not eat dead wood or other Hedgehogs. Description: Has that bush been rustling for too long? Are those trees moving without permission? If so, you are probably dealing with a Hedgehog. Or a Hydra. Turn to page thirty-two if the monster has more than one head. The Hedgehog is made of the same stuff as a Timberwolf (page fifteen), being primarily formed from wood. Unlike a Timberwolf, though, the Hedgehog is made from living wood, leaving its branches leafy-green and full of life. It is known to flower in winter, the fruit of which ripens in spring and is considered a delicacy by Griffin chefs. Appearing in shape as a large boar or sow, the Hedgehog wanders between Equestrian forests seeking sustenance for itself. And that’s where you come in, Monster Enthusiasts! A Hedgehog will head along direct routes between forests regardless of ponies or smaller buildings, but despite its Ursa Minor-esque size, it is not a significant threat! If a Hedgehog is encountered in your local area, please do your best to keep the locals calm, controlled and out of the way. Do not attempt to use fire to ward the Hedgehog away or direct it elsewhere: Hedgehogs treat open flames as a significant threat, and they will stomp violently upon any seen. A young or baby Hedgehog is referred to as a Twiglet, and is roughly the same size as an average pony. Be advised: approaching a Twiglet for snuggling is a good way to get on the sow’s bad side, and she will not hesitate to stomp on both you and loved ones! Keep a cautious distance at all times and tether foals if necessary. Excerpt from ‘The proper care and feeding of Monsters’, part of a series by the company who produced “That’s where all that extra rainwater comes from!” and “Your horn and You: A foal’s first guide to magic”. The series was outlawed in 973 MB by The Canterlot Court for claims over inaccuracy and bad advice, though surveys show many are still in use within rural libraries.