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// Reverent Abandonment 
// Story: The Forsaken Reminder 
// by The Lunar Samurai 
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	The Cutie Mark Clubhouse, that old wooden treehouse had been the headquarters for the Cutie Mark Crusaders as each one of the three fillies tried to find their destinies. When it was used, the trio would liven up the place and keep it clean, well as clean as three rambunctious fillies could keep anything. The exterior was always kept nice and tidy. The windows remained clear of grime, the wooden planks were sanded and painted every now and again, and the tree itself was kept pruned once Scootaloo had learned to fly. It was something to be marveled at back in its days of loving use, but now it bore the signs of the years of abandonment it had seen.

Most of the windows had been smashed long ago, their ethereal structure reduced to shards of meaningless by a hapless bird or mischievous rock. The red roof had sprung leaks and was beginning to warp around the persistent growing of the tree on which the clubhouses’ foundation had been lain. The orange-pink paint of the exterior was all but completely worn off, with only a few determined patches of color clinging to the weathered wood. Portions of the porch had collapsed under the rotting supports that had once held three bouncing fillies and whatever treasures they might have found. Even the tree was nearing its end. Its bark was withered and sickly and its leaves were nearly as sparse as the paint of the treehouse itself.

The clubhouse was the same familiar escape that Applebloom had known for a majority of her foalhood. In her life it had been redeemed from a ramshackle old building to a mighty fortress of self discovery and then abandoned once more and left to die as a rotting safehouse of bittersweet memories. It had seen its better days, that fact was certain, but the sentimental value it had in Applebloom’s heart had stamped an everlasting love for it in her mind.

“I can’t believe it’s been nearly a dozen years since I last set hoof in that treehouse.” Applebloom whispered as she continued to take in the sight before her. Ever since Scootaloo had left the group to follow her passion of racing, and Sweetiebelle moved on to join the ranks of pop singers in Manehattan, Applebloom had given up on keeping the clubhouse out of disrepair. The other two fillies she had grown up with had left and never returned to visit. The bonds of their friendship had been tested against the strain of distance and had failed.

Applebloom sighed as she cast a glance at her own cutie mark. The dusty pink picture she had once been so proud of had become a symbol of the Cutie Mark Crusaders division. When there was nothing left to discover, the discovery ended. This seemingly obvious fact was something that had skipped the minds of the three idealistic fillies. A lifetime bond of friendship is not something foals grasp well, if at all. That idealistic mindset resulted in the apathy fueled demise of their relationship.

She walked to the half rotting chicken ladder. The same ladder she had ascended hundreds of times during her constant struggle to find her very own stamp of destiny on her flank. She carefully tested the wood to make sure it would hold her weight. Carefully she made her way up the old wooden boards that had once been the entrance to their castle, their place to plan for their next adventure, their clubhouse. It had been a place of security for them, but now it was just an empty shell of wraithlike memories that rested atop an old dying tree.

I thought this tree house was bigger. Applebloom stepped into the cramped treehouse and sat down onto the frame of the old bed. A few termitic pests scurried across the floor, disappearing into the walls of the old clubhouse. The interior had fared little better than the rest of the small suspended shack. The floor displayed impressive amounts of moss, mold, mildew, and mangled floorboards that had warped themselves loose of their nails. Its paint had clung to the walls, but it still bore the stains and tarnishes of the wilderness on its yellow surface. Almost everything had been stricken by the brutal forces of nature.

The glass of the windows were not the only splintered objects that lay on the floor. Shards of hoofmade clay pots lay haphazardly strewn around the mantle that had so prominently displayed them years ago. It was one of their countless attempts to discover their special talents and the stamp of approval that came with it. The craft brushes and pencils had been toppled from their seat on the window and into the floor where they had remained ever since as nuanced items forgotten by their once caring owners.

“I never thought those countless hours of searching were all meant to discover the things that would drive us apart,” Applebloom whispered as she picked up one of the pieces of broken pottery and gingerly ran her hoof along its sharp edge. “Sometimes I wish we never found what we were looking for.” She let the piece slide out of her grip and clatter to the floor. “Maybe then we would still be together.”

The small picture frame that had once held a picture of the trio lay face down on the floor. Applebloom spotted it and began to reach out, but hesitated. The photo couldn’t have lasted this long. She thought as she tried to pull her hoof back, yet something told her to try. With baited breath she lifted the frame from the ground and peeked at the front. The glass was cracked, but not shattered from its fall, but the picture had not shared the same fate. Years upon years of water damage had completely destroyed the fragile image that had once rested on the now weathered paper.

Everything was gone. Their creations were destroyed. Their clubhouse was forgotten by time. Their memories were faint hazes of the past. And their friendship was all but over. Applebloom sniffled back a tear as she tried in vain to find anything that would remind her of those fillies who had changed her life. “Just give me something, anything,” she pleaded as her eyes began to well up with tears. “I just want to see them again.”

She looked up from the marred photograph to the podium that sat haphazardly on its side in the middle of the room. Its nails barely held its painted wooden siding together. Scootaloo had never been good with a hammer, and the podium was one of the most prominent displays of that fact. Several hammer indentations still marred its surface from her near misses. Applebloom could almost hear the little orange pegasus’s angst filled grunts as she would repeatedly miss or bend a nail.

The memory made her snicker despite her tears. Although the clubhouse, and nearly everything in it, was all but destroyed, the memories remained. They were the one thing a few decades could not take from her. Maybe not all is lost. She thought as she precariously rose to her hooves, the back of her mind still telling her that the floor could collapse at any moment. With careful footing she walked over to the very corner of the clubhouse. Something had caught her eye. On the ground was a little crumpled ball of red fabric.

Now what could this be? She thought as she carefully lifted the ball from the ground and began to unravel it. Slowly the realization came upon her as the cloth unfolded before her. The small cloth was one of the red capes Sweetiebelle had created for the crusaders. Applebloom held the napkin sized cape in front of her and laughed. “I can’t believe I used to fit into that,” she said as she draped the cape over her back. The cloth was itchy, just the way she had remembered it. Sweetiebelle had never been exceptionally skilled at fashion and her fabric choices were always chosen based on look over comfort.

A deep rumble of thunder echoed across the countryside. A distant storm was being born on the horizon. Well this old thing won’t help keep me dry when that storm comes. She thought as she tied the cape around her neck and took one last look at the clubhouse she had grown up in. Its battered structure threatened to give way at a moment’s notice, but for now it held. Its resilience through years and years of neglect stood as a reminder to the challenges the Crusaders had faced in their youth. The soft patter of rain began to tap against the roof like an impatient hoof. A few stray drops made their way through the holes in the roof and landed on Applebloom.

“Time to get inside,” she said as she stepped out into the slight drizzle and began to canter toward the house. She took one last look at the clubhouse, that old decrepit tree house where she had built so many memories. “At least we all found what we were looking for.”