The light of the full moon lilts down through the boughs of the trees that reach across the expanse of Sweet Apple Acres. It is late enough that even the marmalade proprietor of the farm has at last retired, though this does not deter the tiny filly frantically darting between the trees, her rose-colored mane swinging gently in the autumnal breeze, unhindered by the scarlet bondage for which she so desperately searches. Anypony even vaguely familiar with the farm knows of the Stetson worn as a crown atop the golden tressed queen that tends her emerald and scarlet demesne. The garment is totemic to the eldest sister, more than just a piece of wear; it is another part of her single whole. Such is the way of the Apple family: Applejack has her hat, Big Mac his yoke, Granny Smith her shawl, and Applebloom ties back her mane with a pink bow as majestic as the wings of a butterfly. Or ‘tied’, as is the operative tense and prompt for the youngest Apple to be afield so long after her curfew. It had been an honest mistake, a romp with her fellow Crusaders that had been rougher than their usual pastimes, and it wasn’t until she had trotted in to answer the dinner bell, muddy, scraped, and glowing with the satisfaction of a day well spent that it had been pointed out her bow was missing, her rosy locks hanging tanged about her head.
What followed was pure anguish.
Try as they might, the Apples could only search so much with the failing sun, and there was dinner and the necessity of rest with another day’s work quickly approaching. A sniffling Applebloom was tucked in with gentle assurances that both her siblings would renew the search once Celestia’s charge rose once more, but for now they all needed to keep indoors.
It is not safe at night, after all.
In her defense, Applebloom had intended to sleep away the night and hasten the discovery of her beloved bow. Try as she might, though, dread thoughts of it being spirited off by the wind, a night bird, or even a passing vagrant staved off any rest. And so we find her having snuck away as slumber took her family, to retrace the winding road she and her comrades took as they made play, desperately trying not to imagine who or what could have made that twig snap or if it is indeed the wind growling as she searches for her missing keepsake.
The truth, that it is not the wind, is kind enough to elude her.
A little filly still, Applebloom does not recognize the signs of her being hunted. She does not see the citrine orbs that glint in the darkness, does not catch the faint odor of rot and mold over the earthen scent of her inheritance. She does not catch the flash of spotted fur that flits over the roots of her aboreal charges, nor the gleam of yellowed fangs dripping with anticipation. She does not realize that she is about to be predated.
And so, as she does not notice the furtive carnivore dogging her every move, why would she glimpse the second hunter circling above, invisible against the pitch of the sky, save for those brief moments when a midnight wing passes over the expanse of the ivory moon?
***
Scud loves only two things in this world: diamonds and pony meat. One is easier to come by than the other, and it is not the gemstones, hard as that is to believe. There are many silly ponies out there in the world, some dim enough to be caught even when they are guarded by dragons. But rarely do they wander beyond the boundaries of their settlements, and all pups of any litter are taught never to stray into those dens of wood and glass and stone. To cross that threshold is to invite retaliation, to bring the Unicorns and their battlesongs, the Pegasi and their lightning, or the Earth Ponies whose hooves alone are enough to rend the earth, exposing all the pack to the fury of their Fire Goddess. Death would be a mercy when compared to the punishment waiting upon the fangs of his brethren.
But this tiny pony is far beyond the safety of her den, nearly on the verge of the Everfree Forest. Even if the hunters did come, who was to say it was not the Woodhounds that took her, or any one of the other vicious things lurking in the darkness? No, this is too good to pass up. It was a rare thing to gorge oneself on pony flesh, and the night has made Scud bold. The Fire Goddess is at rest, and the hunter’s hour is upon them.
The diamond dog stalks the small pony, stifling giggles each time her fearful eyes whip around, looking wholly away from where he hides. He drinks in her scent (as sweet as candy), scarlet tongue lolling over the crags of his fangs to drip foul spittle against the peat that molds beneath his toes. He forces himself to wait, tradition leading over hunger, even as he is sure the moment approaches.
The small pony catches a glimpse of something within the roots of one of her trees and trots over to investigate, exposing her flanks, succulent with the fat of infancy, to the slavering hunter.
Now is the moment. Scud drops to all fours, slowly creeping forward. His prey comes within pouncing distance, and he gathers his hind legs beneath him, readying himself as a feral growl percolates within his chest. His tongue roils with the anticipation of sweet pony flesh…
…and the Night descends upon him in a thunder of midnight wings and shimmering stars. He recoils, his snarl warping into a wail of terror. He beholds the visage of the Fire Goddess, but wrong. She is lightning rather than flame, her eyes glowing ivory as her horn burns like a beacon, her misty mane filled with the whole of the starry sky.
He beholds her in all her terrible glory, enwrapped in the eldritch radiance of the moon, for a single instant.
Then darkness takes him, and he falls.
Scud falls forever.
***
There’s a sound like Rainbow Dash pulling off a sonic rainboom and the world lights up like high noon. Applebloom shrieks and whirls around, but just as quickly everything’s gone black. For a moment she fears some forest monster has struck her blind, but then her eyes adjust. There’s nothing behind her. The filly gapes, glancing all around, but the wind continues to moan as ever, twigs cracking in the distance. Nothing burnt, nothing broken. Her brow furrows, trying to puzzle out what just happened, when there comes another sound, much softer this time, like the jingle of wind chimes. Thoughts of ghosts flash to the head of her imagination and she turns once again, teeth grit and her heart pounding.
There’s still nothing behind her. No undead, no animate drywood. Nothing but a little pink ribbon draped over the lowest hanging branch of the tree.
A gasp of mixed shock and glee, escapes the filly as she plucks her bow from its resting place. Her exuberance pervades all thoughts of fear, overshadows the nagging insistence that the cracking twigs are getting louder, even as it does occur to her that the strand of cloth was not there a moment ago. Still, she has her bow again, and all is right with Equestria. It’s a familiar motion to tie back her mane, and properly garbed, Applebloom whirls for a third time, now to face the noisy hulk blundering her way. Dragon, timber wolf, windigo, or changeling: whatever it is she’s more than ready to take it and the rest of the wilderness on.
Or, so she thinks, courage wilting as she comes muzzle-to-muzzle with a livid Applejack.
“Applebloom!” her sister snaps, “What in tarnation are ya’ doin’ outta bed at this hour?”
“Sis!” splutters the filly, “I, uh, I couldn’ sleep, an’ I-”
“Ya’ delib’rately ignored my tellin’ you t’ go t’bed! Are y'outta yer darn mind?”
“But Sis! I found it!”
The younger Apple turns to display the rosy butterfly knot, grinning like she had won a million bits. Applejack, however, is stonefaced.
“But nothin’! I tol’ja to go t’ bed! I tol’ja it wasn’t safe out an’ ya didn’ lissen! Git yer keester back t’ th’ farmhouse right now, Missy! We're gonna have a long talk about this in th’ mornin’, ya see if we don’t!”
Dejected, Applebloom begins to trudge back in the direction of home, Applejack marching hot on her tail.
“I jes wanted t’ find mah bow,” the filly grumbles.
“ ‘bloom, I woulda been glad t’ help ya,” her sister replies, “But t’ain’t safe out at night, Sugarcube! Ya coulda been hurt, or worse!”
The younger sister scoffs. “I was fine out here all by mah lonesome for near on an hour. There’s nothin’-”
Whatever point she thinks to make is cut short by a shadow falling over them both. Applejack shushes her with a panicked look in her eye and presses the younger pony against a tree trunk. She casts her emerald gaze skyward as her ears pick up the heavy thrust of dark wings beating against the wind. Whatever it is, it’s big, and it will not get anywhere near her sister. Applejack scans the stars, wondering if they have time to make a break for it.
She’s still wondering when an equine form silhouettes itself against the eye of the full moon, ultramarine mane dotted with stars and sea green eyes glowing in the darkness, meeting a pair of emeralds. The Apple sisters’ jaws drop. And then Luna is gone, vanished once again into the sea of starlight.
Applejack and ‘bloom remain fixed against that tree for a good few minutes. And then the former nudges her sister in the direction of the farmhouse, saying, “C’mon Sugarcube. T’ain’t safe out.”
“I thought Princess Luna was nice again?” asks the latter.
“Safe for them, ‘bloom.”
“Who?”
“Anypony watchin’ us.”
Applejack is half right, allowing for the fact that not one of the dozens of eyes fixed upon them from the line of the Everfree Forest belongs to anything equine. But they keep their distance, regardless. It is not safe at night, after all.
Not anymore.