"Mown meadows skirt the standing wheat;
I linger, for the hay is sweet,
New-cut and curing in the sun.
Like furrows, straight, the windrows run,
Fallen, gallant ranks that tossed and bent
When, yesterday, the west wind went
A-rioting through grass and grain.
To-day no least breath stirs the plain;
Only the hot air, quivering, yields
Illusive motion to the fields
Where not the slenderest tassel swings.
Across the wheat flash sky-blue wings;
A goldfinch dangles from a tall,
Full-flowered yellow mullein; all
The world seems turning blue and gold.
Unstartled, since, even from of old,
Beauty has brought keen sense of her,
I feel the withering grasses stir;
Along the edges of the wheat,
I hear the rustle of her feet:
And yet I know the whole sea lies,
And half the earth, between our eyes."
Before I realize myself to be awake, the poem has first escaped my lips. And, while so, I feel myself to have been swimming in a dream so described by the woven words. It must have been before this drowsy state of mind, where my consciousness danced from sleepiness to rousing, when my lover kissed me by my eyelids goodbye and set off to her morning chores, in her place leaving a lone thornless rose. Half of me wishes she had not done it; the scent of the flower petals overtakes what fragrance she left on the bed. Yet the image of her tiptoeing to leave a rose on my side incites in me a glamour that makes me blush.
It's the poem speaking, I think to myself.
Rolling the flower in my hooves, I return my attention to the red book entitled AppleJill–a play, no doubt, on my lover's name. Her nom de guerre, perhaps? It is not at all a coincidence that this lone leather bound is what steals my attention from all other articles in my lover's room. Beside the few ledgers of accounts and manuals on farming, this alone is covered with a red sleeve, bordered of golden leaf engravings, wrapped with protective plastic, and carefully, purposely, hidden behind the bedside drawer. Until I have turned the first page, I had not known that this is a poetry book.
I turn several more pages of poetry, all written in the careful cursive script from an absent author. I read aloud:
"When the last fight is lost, the last sword broken;
The last call sounded, the last order spoken;
When from the field where braver hearts lie sleeping,
Faint, and athirst, and blinded, I come creeping,
With not one waving shred of palm to bring you,
With not one splendid battle-song to sing you,
O Love, in my dishonor and defeat,
Your measureless compassion will be sweet."
Wow! I think. Why would she hide such talent?
And here I thought that my dearest has no way with words.
It is a fighting struggle to close the booklet and read no further. The words which I have read, I now so wish spoken from her lips. How frightened could she be, that the poor dear has yet to utter to me a line of rhyme and song? Must she think it too feminine–too out of place–for the rough lifestyle of the farm? I believe that it only takes a little push from me to her before she unveils this talent. And even if not to the whole world then to me, alone, would suffice to hear of her romantic whispers.
But must I be so explicit? Surely, humility is not the only reason for Applejack's concealment of her gift in written verse.
It is much more polite, and entertaining for my part, if I am to tease her talent out of her.
Armed with the excitement of this newfound knowledge of my lover, I am stirred awake. That dwindling consciousness has stopped dancing and landed on complete attention.
The morning sun, which has failed to rouse me, now stings my eye to beckon me up from the bed. I replace the booklet where I found it–on the floor where it had tumbled to after last night night's frolics–and wrap my body with the still-warm sheets to hide the red chafe of my lover's love bites.
With cautious hoofsteps, I make my way down the stairs. The necessity of having to care for the noise is proven useless as, there, in the kitchen, the early rising Apple family is wide awake and all ready for the morn. Big Macintosh sits at the table reading a newspaper and Granny Smith is preparing the breakfast in the kitchen; they both see me, and they both smile. Adorable little Apple Bloom does not notice me yet, with all her attention proportioning milk in cereal. Big Macintosh points out the porch and Granny Smith imitates the same gesture with a nod of her head.
I walk outside, to the blue misty dawn, and there I saw her.
Applejack is tilling the land, pulling on her back the steel plow against the recalcitrant earth. Even from afar, I can see the sweat of hard work trickle down her coat and mix in with the raindrops. Her chest puffs out with every breath she takes in the momentous effort it takes to finish her arduous task.
But, noticing me there, Applejack stops. She takes off the girdle of the plow and trots to me.
"Mornin', Rarity," she says.
And still, even after all we have done together in the past week, I am still unable to break away from the shell of timidity she secured me in from her last night's embrace. "G-G-Good morning..." I stutter.
She hesitates for a moment, but then cups the back of my head and tries to pull me in for a kiss. I fight it back, if only because of my embarrassment.
"S-stop..." I say, pressing my hoof against her chest, "I... I haven't even washed yet..."
Applejack laughs, knowing all too well that it matters to neither of us. She pulls me in again, receiving my lips, and this time I make no effort to stop it. She pulls back, gently afterwards, as if she is being cautious that I am to fall if she lets go too abruptly.
"Dearest, what are you doing working out here in the rain?"
"It ain't a rain," she laughs. "Just a mizzle. Mighty easier plowing some part of the lands when it does."
"Well, I don't want you getting any cold."
"That's least of mah worries," she laughs at the apparent impossibility of my remark. "Why don't ya stay in the house. Let Granny Smith fix ya some breakfast. She makes some mean pancakes."
She grabs me by the shoulders and it takes out the words from me. I can only nod in response.
"Ya seem to like that rose, too. Looks like there's no need for me to get you another one."
I look at the flower in my hoof. I did not know I have it.
"I'll be back when mah works done," she says, "then ah'll escort ya back to yer place. Ya don't mind waitin' do ya?"
"Oh please, don't mind me," I manage to say. "If ever, I'm the one intruding."
"Ah won't be long. Promise."
As she turns around, I call out immediately.
"Jacqueline!" I call out–my pet name for her–a little too loud.
She turns around and raises an eyebrow. "Yea?"
"You know... before we started going out... I never thought you had a romantic side in you."
"Really? Ah never thought mahself to be the romantic-kind."
I hold up the rose to her.
"Oh, that," she laughs. "Ah just reckon ya don't want wakin' up on the bed on yer lonesome while ah set up for work."
"Still... it's very..."
"Thoughtful?"
"I was going to say romantic again, but if you insist..."
Applejack returns to her home and busies herself once again to the demand of her task. I accept her invitation and proceed to join her family for breakfast where a bowl is already waiting for me.
At the Apple family's center table, the nutty aroma of cashews and almonds fill the air alongside that of steamed milk and coffee. Apple Bloom pours freshly milled oat and barley to my bowl as she speaks exorbitantly about an art project she and Sweetie Belle are working on, before hurrying out to be first in class. Granny Smith, attentive to my needs as well, sets aside a glass of orange juice and a plate of toasts before leaving to attend to something in the living room.
The courtesy only serves to embarrass me that, even after the two mares left–one mare and one filly to be precise–I am left more ill at ease that they hoped to be. And with Big Macintosh's impassive expression eyeing me, I only become more conscious of myself.
Even prior to last night–when Applejack invited me to spend the night with her–I have been assured of Granny Smith's approval. And I have relied on the old mare to instigate the next day's heartwarming conversation for my first morning with the Apples–perhaps hear of her approval of my relationship with Applejack firsthand. But left alone with Big Macintosh, I find his indifference overwhelming. I cannot even find it in myself to speak a word to him, not knowing what he thinks of me. I have always categorized him as 'the silent type' but I half-hoped for at least some body language in exchange for an idle chat. The fact that he refuses to even look at me–his eyes straight forward, distant–suggests his possible disapproval.
But, if true, then for whatever reason?
"So..." he says, suddenly, as he reaches out for the sugar cube, "Ya've been with mah sis for a week now."
"Pardon?"
"It's been a week with you two?" he asks.
"Two weeks," I answer, "...and two days."
Big Macintosh suspends the cup of black coffee inches from his lips. Still holding it there, he says, "Been awhile since AJ been with somepony this long."
"Two weeks!?"
"Mostly mah sis just have fun with'em for a day at most."
"With'em... with them?" I ask. "I take it that Applejack has had many relationships in the past."
Big Macintosh sips his coffee, before putting the cup down. "She didn't tell you." It isn't a question.
"We don't talk about previous relationships."
"Ah won't call what she had relationships. Ah recognize that a healthy grown mare like her has needs. Though she try to be discreet 'bout it, ah know mah sis more than anypony else."
"W-Well... Now that I'm here taking care of her, you don't have to worry about Applejack jumping from one relationship to another. I promise that I–"
"You ain't listenin'," he turns to me, eyes sharp. "Ah wasn't tellin ' ya to take care of mah sis. Ah was warnin' ya."
"Warning? Against what?"
He does not answer the question. "Ya serious about mah sis?"
"E-Excuse me?"
"Are ya in-love with Applejack?"
"Please, Big Mac. I am not at all comfortable discussing this with you so... boldly. I mean... If you disapprove–"
"If Applejack hasn't told ya then it's only right for me to give ya yer fair share of caution so ya won't hate her so much when the times comes when ya do: ah don't really care whether ya love AJ or not, cause frankly AJ can't love ya back."
"What!?" a gasp breaks out of me. It is as though I heard the same air which I breathe does not exist. "Why won't she?"
"Ah didn't say she won't. Ah said she can't."
"Well... why can't she?"
Big Macintosh hears me, but refuses to answer. Even if I am under his roof, this crude presumptuous demeanor by which he expresses his disapproval of me and my love is something I cannot stand for.
"Well, Big Mac," I say, controlling myself from throwing a glass of water to his face. "I am sorry that you have to think that, but you are wrong"–his face remain unchanged–"if you see what effort your sister goes through to please me, you will realize that these inventions of yours are unfounded. Applejack loves me wholeheartedly. And I, if you don't mind my saying so, love her equally if not more."
And even as I try to stare down his visage, I cannot find the subtlest change in his face that shows a lowered confidence of his previous statement. Except, perhaps, that small imperceptible drooping in his eyes that cannot be anything else but pity for my ignorance.
"Don't say ah didn't warn ya," he says, returning his eyes to the newspaper, not to rise again.
A few seconds later, Granny Smith comes out of the living room into the kitchen. "Ah hope ya like pancakes," she says, "cuz ah made enough to fill everypony up till lunch."
* * *
"Thanks for walking me home, dearest," I say, standing on the threshold between my house and the milky night. "This is very sweet of you."
"Don't sweat it. It's the... uhh... sweet thing to do. Wouldn't want ya tumblin' on yer way back."
"I appreciate it, really. Pinkie's party took quite the toll on me."
We remain silent for a few seconds, with me prodding my hoof on the ground and she tilting her hat to the side. It is not that I do not know what to say–I do, in fact–only that there is a candid overtone in my intentions.
"Well," she says, "ah guess ah better get going–"
"Would you like to come in...?" I blurt out. "F-For coffee, I mean. Sweetie Belle is away in our parent's house and I'm... all alone."
"Coffee," she repeats, smiling, "ah reckon that won't give me much sleep."
I step aside; Applejack steps in. I close the door behind her and jump her from behind.
"Oof," she groans, following a laugh.
How quick is this transition, I think, stuttering one second and into each other's embrace in the next.
Applejack turns around to me, lifting me by my haunches and laying me down the red couch. She eyes me for a few seconds and kisses my neck. Only after the first few taps of her lips against my coat, had I realize that this kiss carries with it a small love bite that tickles me.
I begin to laugh with each one of Applejack's pecks against my skin. And she, too, I can hear giggling.
Then, seizing me by my shoulders, Applejack releases her hold of me and gently pushes herself back. We lock eyes for a moment as our laughter dies down, as though she is searching for something in my eyes.
"You know, Rares," she says, running her hoof on my chin. "Ah never thought ya have this side of ya."
"What side, dear?" I ask, cupping her hoof in turn.
"This. Ah always thought ya were an uptight haughty mare. Didn't think ya were actually this cute, gigglin' and blushin' little filly when it comes to bein' with a pony."
Not just any pony, I think. "Well," I pout, "i-it's your fault for making me this way. I... I mean... if you weren't so... aggressive..."
"Aggressive!?" Applejack laughs. "Aggressive, you say?"
"Well, it's true! The first time we got together you were the one who carried me back to my place and attacked me with your... with your aggressiveness."
"Well... that's only because you were pulling me in and couldn't wait. You're an impatient little filly, aren't you?"
"I am not!" I say, my voice squeaking. "And you make sound so..."
"So...?"
"So perve–... You know what I mean!"
Upon seeing the irritation that reddens my face to a cherry pink, Applejack laughs again. This time, it is a loud boisterous belly laugh that sends her back against the sofa.
"Awright, awright," she says,trying to compose herself. "Let's take things slow between. We don't have to do nothin' tonight."
"Nothing? As in we won't..."
"Yeah." She scratches her head. "Much as ah'd want to, ah'd really want somethin' else. And that's gettin' to know ya better."
As Applejack sits up on the couch, she pulls me in that our bodies touch and my back is pressed on to her chest. She embraces me from behind.
"But... well..."–I try, but Applejack kisses my ear–"Fine. But what are we gonna do, then? We've already spent several years here in Ponyville together, and adventures after adventures after that. What's left to know?"
"Ah dunno, maybe nothin' really. Maybe ah just wanna keep holdin' ya like this till morning."
"You'd fall asleep within the hour if you keep using me like a pillow."
"You did invite me in for some coffee."
"I have some red wine if you want."
"Coffee's good enough for me."
I stand up. But as soon as I am divorced of my physical contact with Applejack, she grabs my foreleg and pulls me in for a kiss to my lips. The kiss lasts for a few seconds before she–not I–is momentarily satisfied enough to pull away.
I try my best not to hop to the beat of my heart as I walk into the kitchen. With my chest fluttering so, I may have been prancing my way inside. Though we both agree that we will not spend the rest of the night in each other's embrace–a prospect I highly regret–I am sure that there is no shortage of kisses from which we can compensate. And if Applejack is to test my impatience, as she calls it, then I am willing to let her do all the kissing tonight to prove her aggressiveness.
As I wait for the kettle to sing, I find myself thinking of what conversation I might stir. Should I bring up what Big Macintosh told me this morning? I think. Surely not if I want to maintain a peace in their household. The last thing I would wish from Applejack is for her to get into a quarrel with her brother.
"AJ can't love ya back" that stallion's rubbish returns to me.
Because surely, Big Macintosh is wrong in his estimation. How can it be possible that Applejack not love me after everything she has given and everything we have done.
If Big Macintosh only knows how romantic Applejack is...
Romantic...
The word carries with it a long thread of music and poetry. And, at that instant, I am able to drive away the pessimistic pondering about Big Macintosh's disapproval and, in its place, remember that mischievous notion of bringing about Applejack's talent for poetry.
I turn around and peek into the interior of the living room where I see her kneeling on the floor and looking at my old photo albums. Beyond her peripherals, I sneak into my bedroom and, from the nearby shelf, pluck out one of my own poetry booklets. Until now, poems have had received little attention from me and this–one of the many presents Fleur has given me–is no exemption.
I flip a few pages, skimming through the lasts words of each verse. Satisfied of the previewed quality, I make my way down back into the kitchen.
The kettle sings. I pour the hot water to two cups of black granule coffee–the more expensive quality which I have ordered from Columbmare. Levitating the tray in front–and the poetry booklet behind–I make my way back to my dearest.
"Do you want some cream and sugar with this," I announce as I enter.
"Nah. Ah like it black." She looks up from the photo album, and I see her laughing.
"What's so funny?" I ask, hiding the booklet beneath the couch.
"This." She raises the photo album. "Ah didn't know ya had braces when ya were a filly."
I can feel blood filling up my face in embarrassment. "Oh, give me that!" With my magic, I pull away the photo album back to beneath the center table.
Applejack and I resume our previous position back on the couch, with she leaning against the back rest and I melting against her. It is uncomfortable for her as it is quite difficult to drink from her cup with me on her chest, but the problem is easily resolved when I just have to lean back and share my cup to her lips.
"Hmm..." she says, after a sip. "Tastes... expensive."
"It's gourmet demitasse."
"Thought ya said it was black."
"It is. It is a cafe noir."
"Uh..."
"Cafe noir and demitasse mean the same thing, dearest."
"Oh.."
"It means black... Black coffee."
"Ohhh..." she moans. Then she grumbles, "Why'd ya high-society folks have to give it weird names and not just call it black. D'ya do it to make sound more expensive. Ah mean, ya don't see me callin' dark apples apple noir. We call'em dark friggin' apples!"
I detect it to be the spark plug of the conversation and I initiate, "Oh come now, dear,"–a smile breaks out of me–"it is nothing of the sort. Besides, it is not as though you haven't your own way with words."
She raises an eyebrow.
"Your own... slang," I continue. "Which matches that adorable accent, mind you."
"Ah ain't got no accent."
"Oh dear, it is nothing to be ashamed of. For example, you pronounce the word 'you' with a 'ya' and your 'I's with 'ah's. Tis one of your many charms."
"Uhh... Thanks, ah guess."
My horns glows and I dim the lights. The chandelier loses its shine and gives it to the desk lamps that bathes the room in a dark orange hue. The darkness around us is comforting, as though nothing exists in this candle-lit illusion but the few objects the orange lighting touches: the couch, the coffee cups, Applejack and I, and Applejack with I.
Applejack embraces me tighter and kisses my ear. The tingle of that touch sends a vibe down my spine that, surely, with how close our bodies are pressed, Applejack felt.
"But sometimes," I say, "I do wish you were as romantic as I am. And not just in our nights together when you're... gentle... with me but in your words as well as in your action."
"Ah'm not? Didn't ah just left a flower by yer side when ya woke up this mornin'? Ah thought that was pretty darn romantic. Heck, ya wouldn't let go of that rose the whole day."
"Well... yes. I... I thought that if i were to let go of it I'd..."
"That'd ya be letting me go?"
"...I didn't say that."
"Don't ya worry none," she says, holding by my chin and turning me to face her. "Even if ya let go of me, ah won't let go of you."
With how furiously Applejack pierces my eyes, and her words piercing my ears, the dim light can do little to hide the blush forming in my cheeks. And as Applejack's endearing smile grows from ear to ear, I know she can see it as clearly as I can feel it.
Embarrassed even further, I turn back, to Applejack's laughter.
"See, told ya ah'm romantic," she giggles. "And d'ya know yer ears also glow red when yer embarrassed like that?"
Unable to respond with words, I raise a hoof and hit her knee. It is not hurtful, but enough to convey to her the notion that I am both annoyed, and touched, by her words.
"What's wrong, hun? Thought ya want be to be more romantic-like."
"I meant that you..."–there is no more going about it, I must bring it up to the open if I am to similarly make her blush like so–"that you need to be more purposely explicit in your words to be more... romanticized. Not just romantic, but romanticized."
"Romanto-what? Isn't that a vegetable or something."
"No. It means to be classically chivalrous in the art of love."
"Uhh..."
"Like... in action, knights saving damsels in distress. Or, in words, bards singing songs and poetry."
"Ya want me to be yer knight and save ya?"
"No, we were speaking of romance in words, deare."
"Like singin'?"
"Or poetry."
"Ah'm no Fluttershy when it comes to singin', and ah can only do the country stuff unless ah'm with ya girls."
"Then poetry it is."
Applejack finally detects my insistence and, for a moment, her smile stiffens. "Ah... Ah don't do poetry."
"Oh, come now. Everypony does it once in a while–"
"They don't" she tries to interrupt.
"–and I, for one, find it to be one of the highest forms of art. Why, if you can recite me a verse, I'm sure it'll make my heart sing and–"
"Like ah said," Applejack interrupts again, "ah don't do poetry."
"That shouldn't stop you from trying. Whatever you can come up with–"
"An said ah don't do poetry," she says, her smile gone now. "if ya want to hear one that badly ya'd have to ask somepony else cuz it ain't gonna be done by me."
Is she embarrassed of her talent that much? I think. Is it out of embarrassment from her accent?
"Now," she continues, "enough of this talk and let's–"
But I cannot allow the topic to be derailed. I cannot allow such a beautiful part of Applejack be hidden away from me. "Ah, I remember," I gasp. "I have a poetry booklet here under the couch that I always read on my spare time. Let's browse some to get our juices going. And, perhaps then, you can read some to me. I'm sure to be glad to hear it."
"Rares, ah don't–"
"Ah, here we go," I say, levitating the booklet to my hooves. "Now then, shall I go first? What should I read?"
"Rarity," Applejack says, her voice deep this time. "Ah don't want to hear it.”
Ignoring her, I go on, "This one looks good. My only criteria for good poetry is for it to have a musical element and rhyme scheme. The so-called modernist's free-verse I see as nothing more than a series of broken sentences. It's entitled Romance, written by a stallion named Nevermore."
“Ah’m dead serious, please don’t even start.”
I stare longingly on the white pages, orange with the dimness, excited how this can unlock a part of my lover's heart if successful. I clear my throat, take a deep breath, and proceed:
"Romance, who loves to nod and sing,
With drowsy head and folded wing,
Among the green leaves as they shake
Far down within some shadowy lake,
To me a painted paroquet
Hath been—a most familiar bird—
Taught me my alphabet to say—
To lisp my very earliest word
While in the wild wood I did lie,
A child—with a most knowing eye.
Of late, eternal Condor years
So shake the very Heaven on high
With tumult as they thunder by,
I have no time for idle cares
Through gazing on the unquiet sky.
And when an hour with calmer wings
Its down upon my spirit flings—
That little time with lyre and rhyme
To while away—forbidden things!
My heart would feel to be a crime
Unless it trembled with the strings."
As I read through the words, the quieting sensation of humility warms my heart. The words, so beautifully woven, still echo in my ears. I can only expect Applejack to experience the same.
But as I turn to Applejack, her still stony face shows no other emotions but cold indifference. She is frowning now, and her eyes glaring at the pages I hold.
"Applejack?" I ask, cautiously.
And then without warning, without warning at all, Applejack swipes away the booklet from my hooves and hurls it aside, tumbling one of the lamps and breaking one of the coffee cups. The sudden impact is so powerful that I, too, am sent down on the floor.
I look up to her, wondering what is it that possessed my dearest.
Eyes glaring, teeth flaring, Applejack roars to me at the top of her voice, "What the hell is wrong with ya, Rarity!? Can't ya take a damn hint!? Ah told ya ah didn't want to hear no poetry! Ah don't like no poems! Ah hate it! Ah hate it more than anythin' else in this goddamn world. I–"
Applejack stops, shutting her eyes close as she bites her lower lips. She raises a hoof in the air and I shudder to think that she will strike me. But her hoof remains there, shaking, as though she hangs from it her anger. As the hoof gently retreats back to her chest, Applejack's breathing steadies slowly. And, even slower, her tearing eyes opens up.
"Ah told ya," she mutters, "ah told ya ah don't want to hear no..."
Applejack goes down on one knee towards me and extends a hoof. By instinct, I retract from it, stepping back.
"Ah... Ah'm sorry, Rarity," she apologizes, bowing her head. "Ah'm really sorry for raising my voice on ya. Ah'm just... ah'm so... so sorry."
Applejack waits there, crying even more, with her hoof still outstretched, waiting for me to taking it. I know that I must collect the courage to return to her side, for I know that for every seconds we stand apart, I am hurting her more. I can wait for the explanations later but, for now, my dearest's comfort comes first.
I rise and return myself to Applejack's embrace.
"It's... alright, dearest. I'm fine."
"Ah'm sorry... Ah'm so, so sorry."
* * *
My hooves resound across the room with every step. Back and forth, to and fro, there is no ceasing the echoes. And yet, for all the energy expended in my pacing not an ounce is spared to my work. I cannot so much weave a cloth or tie a knot in my current mental state.
It has been two nights since I have been with Applejack, and I try to pay it as little mind as possible. Our last encounter, when afterwards we had both agreed a momentary respite from each other's company after her outburst, I find too wearisome to leave alone.
As the seconds tick the hours by, I become more and more forgiving. But it is wrong for me to say that I can forgive her for Celestia knows that I have not admitted to her the slightest blame for what happened. If such blame is to be carried by somepony, then it is to myself who ventured recklessly to the unknown sensibilities of my dearest.
But must I be too guilty? I think to myself, biting my hoof. It was her accent, isn't it? Did she think I was making fun of her?
Unable to extend a day longer of this growing rift, I step out of Carousel Boutique and soldiered through the starless cold night towards Sweet Apple Acres.
From the distance, I see that the lights of the Apple's house are extinguished–undoubtedly, the firsts to rise are also the firsts to sleep. But I sweep aside what little hesitation I have left and proceed to knock on their door, fully aware of the discourtesy of waking a household.
It takes a few more knocks before the door opens to the sight of the giant red stallion that is Applejack's brother. His expression makes it clear that he is not at all fond of my misdemeanor.
"I apologize to come in so late, but I need to speak with–"
"She ain't here," he says, and yawns.
"Applejack?"
"Eeyup."
"She's not with me–"
"I know. She went out."
"Where to."
Big Macintosh stares at me. He is not hesitating as he clearly knows that he does not want to tell me his sister's whereabouts. But what he wants is different from what he does, and the purpose of this hesitation is the apparent display of his disapproval of me.
"Drinkin'..." he answers, "in a bar."
"What bar? Where?"
"Ah wouldn't advice ya goin' there right now."
"Please tell me..."
"The Stern Stable," he says. "Two blocks right of city hall."
"Thank you," I say.
But as I turn around to chase my dearest back to me, Big Macintosh's calls out another warning: "Ah still wouldn't advice it."
I do not stop to listen, albeit my ability to hear. So, heedless, I run and run, unmindful of the indignity for a lady to give chase. But if my dearest back to my side is what shall I win at the end of this race then run I shall.
And so I arrive to the bar, a lone and isolated establishment too elegant for the rustic community and too rustic for an elegant city. The yellow lights of a dozen oil lamps seeps out from in between the slits of unvarnished wooden planks. And it seems that from the light, the soft sound of an acoustic guitar sings an upbeat melody. I stand before the door, yanking on the protruding nail to pull it open, and step inside.
As Big Macintosh said, Applejack is there, sitting on the bar. But she is not alone. Between the length of no empty stools, she sits elbow-to-elbow beside a mare whom I know to be Roseluck.
They are both laughing gaily. Their bodies inclined towards the other's direction. Applejack is doing most of the talking, waving her mug of beer as she exaggerates a joke or a story. Roseluck receives her humor warmly, returning a laugh and the occasionally gesture of rubbing her hooficure all over my Applejack's chest.
This last, I cannot stand.
Hooves heavy, my stride brushes away the eyes of the rugged stallions that would otherwise flatter me.
As I near the pair, Roseluck is the first to see me, innocently wondering what has she done to bear my gaze. Applejack's follows Roseluck's stare, and fidgets on her seat as she sees me.
"O-Oh, Rarity," she laughs. "Fancy seein' ya here."
I do not reply.
"Ah never expect you to go to this kind of places."
"I never expected to you see in this kind of places, either," my eyes unremoved from Roseluck's, I spit out, "with such wonderful company."
"E-Excuse me?" Roseluck stammers.
"Please don't let me kill the mood," I say.
"Rare," Applejack says, "this here's–"
"Roseluck," I interrupt. "I know her."
Even as the strings from the background fills the air, it cannot outweigh the silence over us. The silence spreads over the table, and the surrounding onlookers peek from the corner of their eyes in anticipation of a drama-scene to serve as entertainment alongside their drinks.
Finally, before such theatrics can occur, Applejack downs her entire mug before slamming it down the counter. "Ya wait here, Rosey," she says. "Gonna talk to Rarity outside for a sec."
Applejack replaces her Stetson to her head. She tosses a few bits to the bar, murmuring something, before exiting through the door. I follow her, through the long dissapointed bellows of half-drunks.
We stop several paces from the bar, under the blanket of a cool night. We can still smell the beer and brandy not far from us and hear the joyous strings prancing from the inside. There are no ponies on this edge of the town beside the drunk lying flat face on the ground. We decide that this is as private as we are going to get.
"So..." I start, "you looked like you were having a delightful time with Roseluck."
Applejack does not say anything, neither does she even turn to see me. She stands there, facing the endless hills, her head cast down, her eyes hidden beneath the brim of her hat.
"So we have a small spat," I continue, "then two days later you're off with another mare!? How could you!?"
Applejack remains silent, unresponsive.
"I shudder to think what will happen if I have not found you. Would you have–"
"Rarity," she interrupts. "Ah want to apologize..."
"D-Don't think that I'll accept your apology just like that. Seriously, you already have me and you're going out with another mare to–"
Applejack turns to me, takes off her hat, and places it against her chest. "Ya don't understand. Ah'm not sorry that ah'm with Roseluck. Ah'm sorry that... you had to find out this way."
"What are you talking about? Find out what?"
She presses her hoof against the bridge of her muzzle. "Ah was... ah was gonna tell ya in the mornin' ah swear. But ah decided to have a drink first, make things easier. Then ah met Roseluck in the bar. She was alone. We talked. We hit it off. She... She's quite the mare, y'know. And ah'm... ah'm planning to go back to her place tonight."
It feels as though something slammed against my ears, penetrating, and into my lungs where shock punches out my breath and disbelief clutches tight on my airways. I blink, once, twice, thrice, hoping that in doing so it will expel the unbelievable words that forced itself in me.
"W-What!?" I cry out. "Darling, you... This better be some sick joke!"
Applejack turns away from me.
"Y-You can't be serious." I approach her. "But we were..."
"Look, look." Briskly turning around, Applejack approaches me and wraps a hoof around my shoulder. "Ah'm awfully sorry ya had to find out this way. But this was gonna happen sooner or later. And ah was planning of a way to make this hurt you less than it does right now. Ah don't want something like this to hurt our friendship, y'know."
"F-Friendship!?" I yelp and back away from her embrace. My vision starts to blur. "It... It was one fight! Why would you break us up like this? We... we were so great together!"
"Break us up?" she responds, raising an eyebrow. "We weren't nothing, Rarity! Don't you see that? We weren't no couple or... or lovers. We didn't put no labels. We were just two ponies who enjoyed each other in bed more times than what's necessary."
"Just... that?"
"That was all there is to us," she says, stomping her hooves. "Look... The first night we were together, that was mah mistake. Ah swore to mahself ah won't touch any of mah best friends. And every darn night afterwards, ah couldn't stop mahself from makin' the same mistake with you. We were amazing together, right? But that's it. We weren't goin' nowhere."
"That's wrong!" I cry out. I only now realize that tears are flowing down my cheeks. "B-But Applejack... I was... I was falling in love with you..."
Applejack looks up then, wide-eyed, her mouth slightly agape. But the expression of shock does not last long as contempt distorts her grimace. She clicks her tongue and looks down. "Ah'm sorry, Rares. Ah didn't mean for that happen."
"D-Didn't mean... Didn't mean to happen!?" I scream, fury rising. "How dare you undermine my feelings like this!? I love you, Applejack. And don't tell me that you haven't felt the same way."
"I..." she murmurs, "Ah did. Ah mean... ah was fallin' for ya."
"Then why didn't give us a chance? What happened that made you turn against your own–" I stop. Then, feeling the connection, I cannot help but mutter: "B-Big Macintosh was right. Y-You really won't love me."
And upon seeing Applejack's emerald eyes light up, I figured I was right.
"It ain't a matter of won't," she explains. "Ah can't... ah really can't. If it helps you any better, ah don't have no feelings for Roseluck either."
"To hell with Roseluck!" I scream. "Why can't you love me? Why can't you even try?"
"Because ah don't have the right no more!" she screams back. "Ah did once, but that's was a long time ago."
"Ah... is this what this is all about? You're still holding over about some previous love and couldn't move on."
She returns to silence.
"We've never talked about past relationships because I assumed that we were mature enough to get past that. But if your last break up is the only thing stopping you from–"
"Break up..." she repeats, shaking her head and almost trying to laugh. "You... ya make it sound too innocent. If it's somethin' that easy then ah would've made ya mah mare from day one. Celestia knows that despite our we'd do just fine as a couple."
She smiles at the thought. And there is humor in that expression, a benevolent form of comicality as though she is still waiting for me to discover a love she already knows to be there. But the smile–that smile–lasts only for a second; still holding up her lips, her eyes change and becomes crystalline and that solid expression which should mean to express joy now conveys only pity.
Pity for who, I ask myself, she or I?
Nothing in Applejack's nature will make me think that she shares my feelings any less than what she claims it to be. But that same nature ties the same sincerity to a plainspoken truth.
She cannot love you, I hear the words given voice in my thought. I do not know who I imagine speaks it: She? I? Big Macintosh or Roseluck? That unnamed lover whose ghosts haunts me and my dearest? Or, Celestia forbid, all of us.
Before I can inquire further, Applejack trots past me. All throughout the slow walk I make no effort to stop her. Again, her head is cast down and the Stetson hides the top of her face. But as she nears me, I notice how she shuts her eyes to hide the drop of an unmistakable teardrop.
"Ah'm... going back to Roseluck now," she mutters. "Ah suggest ya start off home. Try and forget about this night."
"S-So we've had a few failed loves," I babble out, in a last desperate attempt to change her mind. "It happens to everypony. Not all relationships end in happily ever afters but that shouldn't stop to keep us on trying for our chance! And I... I myself have had a few heartbreaks in the past, honest, but I'm not about to give up–"
"It's different with me," she says, stopping by the door.
"Each and every relationship we have is different, Applejack. That what makes it special! What happened that it should cripple you like this? How did your lover hurt you so?"
Applejack turns to me, looking over her shoulder. Without blinking, she answers: "Ah killed him."