//------------------------------//
// Age 11: Happy Hearth's Warming Eve 
// Story: Whiskey Tango Foxtrot, Part 2: Talk To Me 
// by brokenimage321 
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	The clock on the mantlepiece ticked quietly as it stood, tall and proud, in the midst of the herd of small stone figures grouped around it. Outside the window, the snow was gently falling, covering the land in a thick frosting of white. A fire crackled merrily in the fireplace, shedding its warm glow on the Pie family, huddled together on the floor of the old farmhouse in various states of wakefulness. 

Limestone lay on top of her husband—a massive griffon named Gage—nuzzled deep into his chest feathers. No sign remained of the blow-up from that afternoon (the third that weekend), save for the aftermath of the aggressive kiss-marks on Gage’s beak, and the little love-bites on Limestone’s neck and shoulders. 

Gage smiled as he stroked Limestone’s back. “You dirty horse,” he said, with a fond little smile.

She reached up and gently kissed him on the tip of his beak. “Fledgling peacock,” she murmured sleepily, nuzzling back into his feathers.

Beside them lay their two hippogriff children, Gooseberry and Grasshopper. Their anatomy had drawn more than a few stares from Whiskey and Tango, and some eager questions from Foxie: their front halves looked quite similar to their father’s (thick, dark feathers, strong, golden beak, and long, sharp talons), but their back halves looked just like any other pony’s (with regular hooves and a long, swishy tail), Gooseberry with a lime-green pelt, Grasshopper with a lighter, more minty green. They two of them lay snuggled together under a quilt, and, beside them, pressed close, lay Whiskey. The three of them had hit it off surprisingly well, and, though Grasshopper—the little colt—hadn’t quite mastered flying yet, Goosey and Whiskey had spent most of the afternoon exploring cloudbanks together.

As Pinkie watched, Whiskey yawned, then stirred uncomfortably; Whiskey’s cousins had nodded off almost immediately, but Whiskey herself had settled into an uneasy doze. Perhaps it was her excitement for the morning, Pinkie thought. 

On their other side lay Maud—and, beside her lay Andesite, a bright-red crystal stallion that everyone had taken to calling “Andy.” They had snuggled together, and both had fallen asleep; Maud barely making a sound, save for heavy breathing, and Andy resting on her shoulder with a goofy, lovestruck smile on his face. Pinkie had already joined the pool for when he was going to pop the question, but, three years on, they seemed quite comfortable as they were: not quite lovers, not quite friends, but somewhere in between.

In the back corner, Marble was quietly playing checkers with Foxie. She wore her mane in a ponytail now, and had a number of nicks and scars visible through her pelt. She had proven to be surprisingly adept at running the farm, and it showed: she was still quiet and painfully shy, but she showed a gentle determination, a subtle sort of stubbornness not unlike the rocks she farmed alongside her father. 

Tango sat in the middle of the room with his back to the fireplace, using its dim light to read his present from Aurora, the one that Pinkie had let him open early for the train ride: The Old Mare and the Sea, by Earnest Hockingway. Pinkie watched him turn the page, then smiled to herself: this was their fourth Hearth’s Warming running where he and Rory had traded gifts of books. She didn’t quite understand it, truth be told—not after they’d gotten off to so rough a start—but it was good to see he’d made a friend, at least. 

Heck, she thought—maybe, after they both grew up a little more, they might become something even more.

Pinkie herself sat on the sofa, nursing a coffee—brewed double-strong, as always, with generous cream and sugar. Beside her sat her mother, Cloudy Quartz, knitting quietly, and, on Cloudy’s other side, old Igneous. The three of them just sat and listened to the heavy breathing of the others, to the cheery crackling of the fire, and the click-click of Cloudy’s needles. It was… quieter than Pinkie usually liked these sorts of things, she thought to herself—but this was nice, too. Really nice.

As she knit, Cloudy Quartz looked up over her glasses at her family, laid out on the floor. Her needles paused in their course—for just a moment—and then she looked back down at her work. She remained quiet for another few seconds before she finally spoke.

“Pinkamena,” she said quietly, “I am… quite pleased that thou hast returned for Hearth’s Warming.”

Pinkie chuckled. “I am too, Mom,” she said. “I am, too.” She sighed. “Sorry it was so last-minute… Princess Twilight had me working on a huge order, due yesterday morning.” She smiled. “I mean, she paid all the express fees and everything, so, I’m not complaining too much—and the kids helped out a little, too—but there was so much to do, I wasn’t sure I was going to finish. So much, in fact…” she frowned suddenly, “...that I couldn’t take… any orders… besides… hers...?”

Pinkie thought hard for a long moment—then shrugged and took another sip of her coffee. If she’d been tricked, Twilight had done a good job at it. 

“I, too, am quite pleased,” Igneous rumbled in his deep bass voice. He took a deep breath, then let it out slowly. “Hearth’s Warming has… lacked, without thy presence.”

Pinkie slowly turned to look at her father. Igneous was not a stallion given to expressions of love and affection—and this was about as high praise as he had ever given anyone. She settled back into her seat, chills running down her spine. 

“Thanks, Dad,” she said quietly. He did not react.

After a moment, Pinkie chuckled. “Yeah,” she said, “the holidays just haven’t been the same without being out here at the old farm, have they?” She glanced up at the rafters with a smile. “Or without this drafty old farmhouse, for that matter.”

Cloudy frowned the slightest bit. “I am fond of our ‘drafty old farmhouse,’” she said with a disdainful sniff. 

Pinkie nodded. “Me too,” she said. “That’s why we’re here, after all. Drafty or no, it’s home.”

At that, Cloudy seemed to relax a little. She knit another line or two in silence, then looked back at the sleeping forms. Her eye seemed to linger on Whiskey, Tango, and Foxtrot. “Thy children are… rambunctious,” she said carefully, “but they have good hearts.”

None of the adults noticed the children’s reactions to her words. Whiskey, still dozing, jerked awake, and looked up sleepily. Tango looked up over the top of his book ever-so-slightly, staring at the wall. And Foxie hesitated, mid-move, and swiveled one ear towards the couch. 

“They do,” Pinkie said. “Like you wouldn’t believe.” 

Igneous leaned forward a little, then looked over at her, eyebrow raised. “Art thou in earnest?” he asked, eyebrow raised. “These thy children, who, this spring, left thee for Canterlot?” He leaned back in his seat. “‘Twere they mine, they wouldst be hoeing the back field from here ‘til doomsday.”

Pinkie gave a little half-nod. “Normally, I’d agree…” She sighed. “But, this time,” she said, “I think it’s actually my fault.”

Unseen, Whiskey opened her eyes a little wider. Tango closed his book. And Foxie sat, stock-still, even as Marble captured four of her pieces at once.

“I mean, if I had just talked to them,” she said quietly, “told them about Tricky, then… then maybe they wouldn’t have…” She sniffled, then shook her head.

Cloudy smiled knowingly to herself. “Methinks the problem was simpler,” she said. “Methinks, if thou and he hadst simply come for the blessing of the Choosing Stone first…”

Pinkie shook her head firmly. “Wouldn’t have worked,” she said. “Choosing Stone or not, Tricky is…” she shrugged a little. “He’s broken inside. There’s something wrong with him, and it took me a long time to see that.” She glanced fondly at her children. “A long time,” she repeated. She was quiet for a moment, then turned to look out the window at the falling snow. “I… I kinda wish he was different…” she said. “I mean… we had something good going there, for a while, at least… and, y’know…” she shrugged. “I still get a little lonely, sometimes, late at night…” She sighed again. “But Tricky isn’t the kind of husband I want. Or the daddy the kids need. And I don’t know if he even could be, even if he wanted to.” 

Igneous frowned. “Surely,” he said, “thy judgments are most harsh. After all, this is the children’s papa—”

“Sperm donor,” Whiskey called out.

Every adult in the room looked up at Whiskey, now sitting up in her blanket. Pinkie sighed heavily and put her face in her hooves. Limestone and Gage watched her with interest. Marble glanced down and blushed. And Cloudy paled, her needles frozen in place.

“What didst thou say?” she asked.

“Sperm donor,” Whiskey repeated. “Mama told us about where babies come from, and she said that some kids have a sperm donor--a father, but not a daddy.”

Igneous looked over at Pinkie, eyebrow raised, and watched her, face still in her hooves, shake her head. He frowned, then, cleared his throat, then turned back to Whiskey. “Young lady,” he huffed, “That is no way to speak of thy papa—”

“But he is,” she insisted. “Tricky is our father, but he’s not our daddy.” She crossed her arms. “What would you call him?”

Igneous opened his mouth—closed it again—then laid back against the couch, muttering to himself. 

Whiskey wormed her way out of her blankets, stretched, then walked forward, carefully stepping over sleeping bodies. “Mama is the best,” she said. “And Tricky… well, Tricky can go buck himself.” Cloudy Quartz let out a little gasp, then twittered uneasily.  

Tango put his book down, then stood up beside his sister. “A daddy would be nice,” he added, “but Mama is good enough for us.”

Foxie stood too. “And she always has been,” she said. “Even if we didn’t always know it.”

The three of them stood there, side-by-side in the firelight—and suddenly, on some unseen signal, the three of them leapt forward and into their mother’s arms. She pulled them close and hugged them tight, the eyes of everyone in the room upon her. 

As she held the three of them, the clock on the mantelpiece ground to life, and chimed twelve anemic strokes. Midnight.

“Happy Hearth’s Warming, Mama,” Whiskey said, her face buried in her chest.

“Happy Hearth’s Warming, you little boogers,” Pinkie murmured. 

Suddenly, her vision blurred—and Pinkie began to weep tears of joy.

And outside, the snow fell gently down, covering the land in a thick frosting of white. That same snow fell across all of Equestria—across Twilight’s castle, where Twilight sat snuggled next to Flash, with Aurora in her lap, asleep, Tango’s gift of The Tell-Tale Horse & Other Stories  still open on her chest. The snow fell across Sweet Apple Acres, where Applejack lay sleeping in Soft Shoes’ arms, the presents for their three (soon to be four) children arranged carefully in the living room. The snow fell across Canterlot, where Princess Luna hummed quietly to herself as she plumbed the dreams of sleeping ponies everywhere, ensuring more than a few cases of the proverbial visions of sugarplums—still ignorant of the gift that lay beside her, for whenever it was she chose to return from the dreamlands. The snow fell across Hat Trick, too, whichever hole it was that he’d chosen to crawl into—and it fell across another stallion, as well, still on the road somewhere. He heard the far-off town bells ring in the holiday and paused. He shook a little snow off his hat onto his curly brown mane, then celebrated the morning by whistling a few carols as he began walking again. After all, he still had a while to go yet. 

And, with the slow, inevitable grace that comes only with the sunrise, Hearth’s Warming Day broke across the world.