//------------------------------// // Part 1 // Story: Reconciling Annabelle Smith // by Crowley //------------------------------// Two days (and to your frustration, two lost feathers) later, and you’re sweeping into the bustling Ponyville streets on a paid pegasus-drawn carriage from Canterlot. Sure, it’s more expensive than taking the train or an earth pony-drawn carriage, but money’s no object to somepony like you. Besides, it’s not like you could fly there yourself. Not with those feeble wings of yours, hidden from the public eye by the trench coat you cover them with (the light brown sort that was in fashion around the same time the saying “twenty three skidoo” was popular). You give the pegasi pullers a generous amount of bits for a tip before bidding them farewell. To get your bearings, you head towards the important-looking building at the centre of the circular plaza you find yourself in. That’s obviously the Town Hall. From there you cast your eyes outwards to the edge of town. Sweet Apple Acres was always a fair distance away from Ponyville itself, but then again, it’s been years since you've set hoof here. New buildings have been built in the place of old ones, and the town itself has grown considerably. Luckily, Ponyville doesn’t look like the kind of town that would turn an orchard into an apartment block. You adjust your trench coat. Its heat is near-stifling, but you have no desire to walk around displaying your weakened wings, nor the five remaining feathers, to the public. You set off in the general direction you remember the farm being in. Hopefully, it should still be there. ******* Wow. Yes, it’s there! It’s definitely there. More than that; several hills are covered in apple trees, and a huge field surrounds the noticeable barn house in the centre. To say that it’s grown a little since you were last here is an understatement. You don’t see your old friend anywhere. Of course, if she were still around, she certainly wouldn’t be ploughing the fields like the stallion over there; a gentlecolt with such a large physique that he seems to be pulling the plough with little or no effort. A thwack! A rustle. A tumble. You turn towards the source of the sounds to find an orange mare, a fine specimen by your account, bucking the nearby apple trees. A moment later, the apples would fall out from the rustling leaves and land with a collective tumble into the carefully-placed buckets below. Just as she takes a break to mop the sweat from under her stetson-clad brow, you decide to stroll up to her, while she’s taking a breather, so you’re not interrupting her actual workload. “Excuse me, miss-” Her heavy sigh cuts you off, “He’s down in the cornfields, workin’ with his hands, but please don’t get in his way. He still gets awful nervous when he’s surrounded by too many ponies he doesn‘t know, and if I were him, I personally wouldn‘t like it if ponies came from all around just to gawk at me, so…” “Pardon?” “Hmm?” The mare blinks twice, portraying a blank expression of confusion. A moment later, she shakes her head, as if waking herself up. “I’m awful sorry, mister,” she crosses a hoof over her heart, a habitual sign of sincerity, “I thought you were here for somethin’ else. Welcome to Sweet Apple Acres, by the way. I’m Applejack, and if you need somethin’, you need only ask.” “Well, actually…” a lump forms within the pit of your throat. Do you really want to ask the working mare the question on the tip of your tongue? Do you really want to ask her if your old friend even lives here? What if she says your friend moved away years ago? What if the ravages of time caught up with her, and she passed away? What if- No. No matter what the answer would be, it would still be a better path to take than just walking away and never knowing for certain. “Somethin’ wrong, sir?” the kind mare’s voice brings you back to reality. “Um,” your voice hasn’t been this hesitant for as long as you can remember, “I’m actually looking for a Miss Annabelle Smith. If she still lives here,” you add for the sake of lessening any awkward silences that follow. Fortunately, any silence is broken by the soft chuckle of the young lady; “Annabelle Smith, huh? That’s a name I ain’t heard anypony say in a long time. You’re not from around Ponyville, are you stranger?” “So she doesn’t live here anymore..?” “Oh, I didn’t mean it like that! O’ course she lives here!” the mare called Applejack chirps. You feel a tightening knot in your stomach when you hear that. “Folks around here just call her Granny Smith nowadays, I ain’t heard anypony call her Annabelle in a donkey’s age. I guess you‘re an old friend of hers, am I right?” You swallow dryly. “Yes. A friend.” The mare points you toward the homely looking barn nearby, telling you to knock gently before entering. “Granny loves visitors,” she adds, “especially ones she can catch up on old times with.” You’d remark on how alike this Applejack is to the woman you knew from another age, but that’s not as important as the real deal. Annabelle. She’s right there, in that house. Bidding a good day to the working mare, you trot across the dusty, hot courtyard, your mind swirling and your old body tense. Upon finally reaching the front doors - as ornate and brightly painted as the rest of the barn - you don’t even pause to consider before knocking briskly three times. Your body is functioning on autopilot right now; no matter what you could possibly think, there is no way you’ve gone this far just to turn back. Get it over with and get on with your life. What little there is left of it, at least. The wait, however short, is still nearly unbearable. Maybe it’s the heat, and the fact that you’re wearing that heavy trench coat over the remains of your wings, or the worry of coming face-to-face with Annabelle Smith herself after sixty years of being apart. Screw the Scarlet Wings and the monsters they faced on a regular basis; this is Annie Smith we’re talking about. The doorknob turns from the other side of the door before it opens. Your aged nerves squirm when you realise who’s pulling it open. An elderly earth pony, pale green in colour, stands in the doorway. Her mane is washed white, done up in an old lady’s bun. Her fiery amber eyes meet yours for the first time in decades, and you can see them going through so many expressions in so few seconds. A sleepy welcoming smile to the latest guest in her homestead. A moment of faint recognition - she knows you from somewhere, but can’t quite… A wide eyed intake of breath. Her lips part in disbelief. The memories come flooding back. Every single one of them. What else can you do? What else can you say other than… “Hello.”