Act 1- Chapter 5: Waking Up is Hard to Do
Waking Up is Hard to Do
Proofread by TehSporkBandit
The raucous cheer and sudden surge forward was more indicative than trumpets, more heart-lifting than soaring standards, no herald needed to cry the news to their leader. Fifty men had caused the delay, in the end fifty more dead and dying lay strewn on the sanguine banks of the brackish river. The causeway was theirs. A booming roar from the great Bear was heard as a clarion call that echoed over the flat lands and across the misty waters. His hand pumped into the sky, gripping its gory trophy by auburn locks matted in clots of blood. Sigvald's tide of cheering warriors dispatched the last few foes, fallen and fleeing alike. Swept up in the cheer, the great raven banner fluttered in the wind, gripped by the hands of the Lion's banner thane.
“Ulf.” the thane gazed towards the voice and saluted with a hand axe, “Lead them forward… ” the great warlord strode forward, hooking his arm around his banner-bearer, “See to it that they don't chase them back to their homes and burn them out. If they're lost we have no leverage.” a razor-sharp edge danced about his words that warned he would not abide disobedience. The older man seized his thane's cloak, drawing Ulf close enough that only he could hear him, “Bring me Bright-Courage alive if possible. I'd like a word or two with him before his head decorates someone's belt.” The Thane rubbed his neck where the thin metal chain had sawed uncomfortably into his flesh, leaving a red welt. Turning, he tucked the butt of the standard into the straps at the back of his shield and hurried off to the front of the formation.
Men stood aside, parting for him and bowing their heads in salute. Even the exalted warriors showed their respect, all but Sigvald. The massive man's war-frenzy had abated, and despite the new parchment white head dangling from his belt by unkempt locks, he craned his own neck up as if that would grant him better sight. “We aren't going to be waiting for his Lordship while bandying words are we?” His hollow voice confirmed he certainly hoped not.
“No, Kolbjorn is organizing the left wing.” Ulf's voice might have been bass, but it couldn't hope to match the cavernous depth of the giant. After a moment of uncomfortable silence, staring out across the low flat field, flanked by trees that appeared as ghostly masts in the mist, Ulf added, “My Lord hopes that we can take Bright-Courage alive.”
“Does he, now.” came the almost friendly reply. It gave way to a gravelly chuckle that could have frozen the blood in Ulf's veins, “Olaf will have his wish, I'll bring him in alive.” The amicable reply seemed to have stunned the banner thane. The masked man looked squarely at him, his breath rasping through the chainmail that covered his face in a fringe from the cheek-guards of his helmet, “He didn't say in how many pieces did he?”
“N-no.” The sound of a horn bleated off to the left wing of the host but something else was already making its presence felt. A few almost innocuous voices barely made it through the humid air from their opponent’s formation across the pristine grassland. The zipping shafts falling from the sky with a stinging snap caused the first few surprised grunts and cries as others noisily rebounded off metal or impacted deep into wooden shields and spear hafts. The banner thane waited, knowing the signal even as the man next to him made a peculiar sound. Ulf hadn't seen it, but looking over, he saw the man bewilderingly clutching at his throat. An arrow had pierced the chain on the warrior's mask and lodged in his chest causing him to wheeze then slowly slump forward. The back of the arrowhead visibly jutted from between his shoulder blades while a patch of spreading crimson marred his white cloak. Collapsing to his knees, no one around seemed to do anything but look to the sky, shields up, waiting for the lethal rain to cease.
There was no end to the barrage that descended from powder blue skies. Instead, the lethal rain was followed by a thunderous peal of trumpets. It heralded the beginning of the storm of battle, not the end. From a few steps away, another such horn bleated and stopped the warriors as another far cry matched it. Left and right, the great human tide began to wildly beat axes, spears, and swords upon their shields, creating an awful din.
Ulf looked to the left and to the right, placed square amidst nearly two thousand men at the head of the most exalted contingent. “ Juo-daan, Juo-daan, Juo-daan!” each syllable punctuated by the ring of weapon hafts on shield rims. The great Bear, with arms like tree trunks, pumped his axe in the air.
The trumpets pealed again as a call of "Juodaaaaaaaan" ripped from Ulf's chest, drowning out the cries of agony as the chant loosed from thousands of maws. The war-host raised their shields up and stamped across the moist field, churning the spring-tide grassland to mud. It sucked at their leather wrapped feet, hindering them at every step, but by now they surged ahead as a tide. They braved the storm of arrows, then that of thrown spears, until they were face to face with their enemies. A sea of mail, colourful round shields, emblazoned with white serpents, and an intimidating hedge of spear points bristled in the morning sun as pennants rustled and snapped in the breeze.
The thane had been in many battles before and cursed the familiarity. He could smell the sweat under his helm and could only see through the directed vision of those damn visor slits. His breathing was almost the only thing he could hear beneath that great iron helm as the mask of chain bounced in front of his lips, just as suffocating as a wet piece of cloth.
Battle lines clashed, spears held in iron grips thrust over shields to rake at narrow visors or seek out unprotected limbs while arrows rained down like infuriated wasps. The shield wall trundled forward and ground mounds of corpses beneath its titanic weight.
Above them all stood the Angle's own armoured giant crowned with a cascading white mane. Banners waved around the Angles' giant while his huscarls and shield bearers crowded beside him. His slender as spear thrust out, impaling one of the sea-folk warriors through the chest. Shield were quickly rent asunder, their metal bosses smashed and dented by repeated axe blows and thundering swings of maces. The aged man pointed towards the host eliciting a response from his own retainers. Bright-Courage, Byrhtnoth, had reared his head.
♣
“Up'n at'm, Rightly! The sun don't wait fer nopony 'cept one!” The door bursts open allowing light from oil lamps to stream in from the hallway. It dispelled the pleasant veil of darkness and rest that had recently proved so elusive. Thoughts, memories, they were never dispelled into the barren straits of forgotten dreams as they ought to.
Slowly, you kick your way out of the tangle of sheets on the small canopy bed and raise an arm to block out the harmful haze of the oil lamp. In the time it takes for your human eyes to adjust to the painful light, you only get a glimpse of the offending mare. Dust motes twinkle like flecks of silver, swept up in a small spiral that dance about her before slowly falling like a radiant rain. A shimmering coat of beaten bronze with her mane and tail flowing like the finest of spun gold. Models on earth couldn't do that without the presence of a bank of thousand watt bulbs for shampoo commercials. And yet here in the rustic warmth of an aged farmhouse kept in lovingly good shape, she reflected that unnatural good shine. In an entirely objective sense, you figured L'Oréal would make a fortune if they could make people's hair as nice as a pony's.
“Yer up, ain’t-cha?” her mouth crooks up at the edges as those bright emerald eyes narrow; she'd tip the blasted mattress over to get you up if she needed too. Point in fact, she had… twice. In a week and a half, waking up at a bit past four and awkwardly looking at your phone had become a ritual.
She has the hair of an angel and smirk of the devil.
“Yes ma'am.” you stifle a groan and yawn while screwing your eyes shut.
“Y- Hrrrmph. I done told ya, there ain't no reason tah be sayin' ‘ma'am’ tah me. What's Rarity been fillin' yer head with?” It always flustered her and that was enough to buy you a precious respite. Hand across your brow, eyes quite closed, you wait for the world to go away. That wish never came.
If that mare came back you would certainly end up on the floor in a jumbled mess of sheets, so slowly and unsteadily, you stare at the canopy of the bed to let your eyes adjust to the waking world. Restful sleep was still elusive and after the plethora of recurring dreams it was hard to be lulled into a deeper sleep. That peace ended far too thanks to the peppy voice of that mare. Damn her and her good humours, it was completely unacceptable. Nobody should be that cheery at, well, your phone still said 2:13 PM. At least your dumb as a brick phone thought you were enjoying sleeping in.
Slowly you stand up and swing your legs over the edge of the bed, feeling them hit the floor all too soon. The bed was so low it was like stepping out from a sports car, just without the connotation of money. Bouncing on the firm mattress, you ponderously lurch forward to your feet and take a moment to stretch your protesting joints. A faint 'click' and 'pop' somewhere in your back precede an involuntary moan.
The door was still open, though privacy had become less of an issue. Ponies were naked almost all the time anyway, so the few times you've been caught weren't even vaguely awkward to them, your bumbling awkwardness at their lack of any protocol had seemed vaguely charming to them. Now, well, you still weren't over it but waking up naked and quickly slipping over to the armoire which held your meagre selection of clothes wasn't too bad. Still awkward in front of mares and especially fillies who, you learned, were curious about everything.
Picking out clothing was never difficult, you had one pair of clothing on hand and a few extra shirts made up thanks to Rarity. It turned out that the only real difference between humans and ponies in that respect was size, well, and the relative position of a collar, the resting rotation of the sleeves… alright, there were a few differences but none that were insurmountable. Thanks to a few customers’ requests there were a few breezy nightshirts which gave her material to work with. While not truly ‘off-the-shelf’ it only took a bit of material to straighten out the collar, you had a new shirt. Each of the three extra garments were made of breezy silks with loose gathered sleeves that wouldn't have looked out-of-place in the palace of Versailles. Not your usual style, pretty much no one's “usual style” for a few hundred years, but acceptable. You kind of looked like a pirate, even if you didn't want to be one.
Quickly pulling on your pants and grasping your shirt, you dart outside your room in a mad rush for the washroom.
If I don't get there f-
“Oh, heya, Raghtly!" An enthusiastic and overly chipper voice greeted you as you crossed over the threshold of your door and turn into the dimly lit hall.
"Morning, Apple Bloom." you partially fake a smile, though you sincerely wish her a good morning, you'd lost your race to the shower. The red-tailed filly was already at the door to the bathroom and looked back at you, red mane cascading loose in sweeping curls unbound by that pink ribbon.
"Sleep well enough? Huh, what's those?" She pointed a hoof at you.
"What?" you look, checking over the linen shirt and your pants.
"Well," she stroked her chin with a hoof before pointing at you again, "ya got teats. An' they're way up there." her wide-eyed innocent expression was confounding.
"Yeah?"
"Well, ya ain't a mare, raght? Stallion's don't have 'em. Can y'all nurse foals?" trying to pick your jaw up, she merely seems curious, though it was obvious by that sparkling smile and eager glow she was hoping for an answer.
"N-no!" You were aghast at the question.
Although there was that one story in the news a while back...
Rather quickly, you raise the ruffled shirt up to your chest and shake off the meandering thought.
"Hey, AJ." it got an affirmative “yeah?” that echoed from the bedroom next to yours, "Stallions don't have teats, do they?"
The muffled guffaws answered the question, "Hah! Nooo, Apple Bloom, they don't need ‘em." laughter still echoed from the adjacent bedroom until it felt mildly insulting. A faint flush rises to your cheeks as a lump forms in your throat.
"Oh, huh, neat." she smiles again, then enters the bathroom.
Well damn.
You feel the pangs of body-consciousness and it’s all thanks to a miniature horse. That sounds more like a symptom than an issue, yet there it was. Struggling to quickly put on your shirt as you slip back into your bedroom, it was already a poor start to the morning. There wouldn't be any pre-breakfast shower, Apple Bloom always took a ludicrous amount of time preparing for the day. In the ten days that you had been here, that had been a constant.
Actually, if there was anything that defined the Apple family, it was consistency. Everything from wake up times, to work apparel, to breakfast conversations, even Apple Bloom's search for her cutie mark, everything was constant.
Cutie marks. You'd burst out laughing at the name when Twilight had told you about that little facet of pony culture. Of course, the more you thought about it, the more fortunate they were in a sense. At least it replaced some parts of a typical résumé and really, you never had an excuse to say you were never good at anything. Some analytical part of your mind had said that such an assurance might have helped build something into their culture psychologically speaking. It might explain why the comfort and assurance of worth on their hip was more comfortable than a gun or blade. Not that they had guns, none that you had seen anyway. It was just, well, a thought that came and went.
“I ain't gonna have ya' goin' hungry even if I have tah stuff it in yer mouth, Rightly!” You blink again realizing you'd quite literally just wobbled in the door frame with your shirt on backwards and sort of paused there.
The sound of the shower was clear enough as mist crept out from under the door. Rubbing your eyes with the back of your hand, you pulled the door to your room closed and made your way down the rickety stairs to the living room. Light caught every surface, from the roughly hewn wood grains of the planking at the edge of the steps, to the warm green fabrics over the large arm-chair just on the other side of the banister at the landing. It was a comfortable home and modest by most accounts. Sweet Apple Acres wasn't just a house, barn, and a few sections of land, but a comforting well-font of hospitality and familiarity.
It was like this every morning, a slow slog before sunrise from your room down the steps towards the kitchen. The scent of warm food, the promise of a few snippets of good conversation, and a lay-out of everything expected of you that day. From sun-up till noon you worked with the rest of the family tending what tasks you could. Oh, sure, you weren't half as strong as Applejack, let alone Big Macintosh, and you had about the same stamina as Apple Bloom –which had come as an embarrassing shock– but that wasn't to say you were useless. Sure, for the first few days you were pretty close, but you'd gotten the hang of what you could do better than ponies. The list was fairly impressive even if most of it was maintenance.
“Applebuck” season had come and gone, it was hellish in it rigours, no question about that. The two elder siblings had done most of the grunt work “from orchard to barn” and you, Granny Smith, and Apple Bloom had picked, sorted, and started on methods of preservation. That had kept you busy and, point in fact, you still weren't done. Oh, no, soon enough you would be more instrumental and thus more ragged than ever. While picking trees and doing inspections for bruises, rot, and parasites had been laborious, the steps alluded to by Apple Bloom and Granny Smith had your head spinning at how all the other forms of preservation could be so complicated. Cold storage, preservation, drying, jam making, tart making, brewing, candying, and then cider making were all a long way from over.
Honestly, you had thought the whole apple harvest would be over but different apples were harvested at different times so it was a legitimate season of harvesting from late summer right up until winter. It was a loose cycle that gave the two harvesters something of a break. It shouldn't have been a surprise with names like that, but what they seemed to instinctively know about their profession was stunning even without the scientific explanations. Now you get to be part of that. Sure, it was to earn a living but it covered your room, your board, and gave you a vote of confidence from one of the most well-regarded mares in town. That last intangible benefit was worth more than the monetary compensation that you were given.
Besides, that wasn't how you made money, half a day's work was going to give you enough to live on but it wasn't going to be buying you some castle keep any time soon. On the other hand, a second job proposed and approved by a certain anxious clothes-horse, might. Half the day would be spent on the farm, part of the day running errands for Rarity, and then a lesson in reading or writing from Twilight or Cheerilee marked your usual day.
For now, it was enough that your tired mind was able to comprehend 'food' as if there had been some electrical short that pulsated through your brain. That little jolt all but erased every other thought in your mind or heaped it into a corner to be sorted out after your stomach was full. A whiff of biscuits, gravy, oatmeal, and dumplings with fresh bread, butter reaches you. All that food was waiting just downstairs.
“You gonna be waitin' down there like a billy goat's troll- ah, uh… sorry.” Applejack just sort of awkwardly tails off as you look over your shoulder at the top of the stairs. She looks at you sheepishly, a faint flush to her cheeks. After the awkward self conscious flush she'd inadvertently caused you, she deserved at least that much.
“No offence taken.” seeing her stuff her hoof in her mouth was fun from time to time, as she was always quite outspoken. Applejack paws at the ground and looks away. Besides, it's hard to be offended but feigning some indignation was healthy to your identity. Would she ever actually live up to her threat and shunt you aside from the stairs? You even considered it for a moment, just to see what happened, nothing more.
Charging a biscuit toll as a ‘troll-keeper’ isn’t a bad idea.
Stepping aside, you proceed into the kitchen saying, “So, what's on the agenda today?”
Taking the initiative helped her jump right back into the conversation. “There's just a few last minute things needin' tah be done tah get before winter. Then, makin' enough a' everything to keep us around 'nd in business. Oh, and cider, that'll be right good, ah promise that.” while Applejack's promises were as good as gold, “fun” in that context might not be the same word you used. Why couldn't her brother be this easy to prompt? So then, it seemed like there was truly going to be no end of things for you to do and that was only half the day. Half the day in the fields, well… you could probably do a whole lot worse.
Entering the kitchen, you take your seat at the far corner of the table. The spot was between Applejack and Apple Bloom given they needed less room than Big Mac while Granny Smith shared her space with the serving plates. The fare given out by this family of savoury food purveyors was certainly enough to break the belt of anyone with a sedentary lifestyle back home. Watching Granny Smith for a few moments as she stirs a few concoctions and retrieves others from the stone hearth, it was more cramped than usual: there was a legion of veritable legion of empty glass jars, various pots, cauldrons, and bowls set up around the kitchen preparation area. It seemed that much had been set up for the morning's work already.
You look at the single item on the table; a large mug with wafting steam rising from it. The blue stoneware was a constant fixture set out for you as well. “Thanks, Granny Smith!” You smile at it. Coffee, rich, fresh, foreign coffee. The exotic drink was for you, and you alone. “ Anything I can help with?” You feel compelled to ask.
“Ehh?” comes a creaky voice accompanied by the light rattle of a ladle clattering into the rim of the cauldron.
“Did you need me to do anything, Granny Smith? Can I help?” you raise your voice for the hard of hearing matriarch.
“Oh, ah think ah know what ah'm a-doin' young'n. The ol' wheels might be'a slippin', but ah… ah'uh… hmm.” there was always the risk of insulting her if anypony tried to jog her memory. Sparser coat, white hair, weathered hide, and yet the bright sparkle in those topaz eyes said that she was still mentally there. Winking at you, the whole act was a bit of a joke. Realizing the ruse made it hard to suppress a laugh.
“Well, ah'll get the plates when everything's ready, then dish it out. Ain't nothing wrong with that, raght?” you do your best to imitate your hosts without sounding insulting.
Well, after a bit of a laugh from Applejack who trotted in behind you, the younger bronze mare socks you in the shoulder with a hoof which would almost certainly leave a bruise, “Ain't nothin' wrong with that at all. Now, then.” she'd snatched her stetson and tossed it on the table where she'd sit rather than setting it on her brow. It was a nice little habit it seemed, after all, when the hat was on, she was all business. Up until then, she was no employer, no blue-ribbon winner, no businesspony, and no relentless taskmaster seeking perfection, she was just Applejack. Leaning on an elbow, you rest your head in your open palm and blow a few rising tendrils of steam from your cup.
Stalking around the kitchen, Applejack checks in on her elder, gives her a nuzzle, and then takes a seat to your left. “Paper's out today, should be innerestin' tah see what this week’s big story is. Ye mind pickin' it up while yer o'r at Rarity's?”
"Sure." It was a game, a bet as it were, guess the event or guess the city. It might have been fun for her, just passing the time while getting to keep up on current events. Despite how focused she was on her work and how disconnected she could be in her intensity, it didn't mean the mare was ignorant. Again, it could be her covert attempt to help you become more aware of Equestria and its culture. No doubt Twilight had a talk with her about that. Head-mistress Sparkle wouldn't miss an opportunity to educate any sentient life-form, even if it had to be done vicariously.
You come up with a reasonable guess in seconds, “Manehatten, new concert review.” Cartnegie hall was always uncovering some great new talent and no doubt the autumn season meant more people going to events.
“Hmm.” she puts her hoof to her chin, bumping it a few times as if dislodging the answer in her mind. Looking over, the farm-pony smirked widely, the bounce in her forelocks reflecting her smug mood perfectly, “Hoofington Harvest festival.” She smiles, “Nightmare Night's comin' up and it ain't a Nightmare Night without a Hoofington pumpkin story. Ah guarantee it!” She closes her eyes with a little nod, a flounce of her mane, and a smile of complete self-assurance. It was all about as subtle as stamping her hoof on the table to emphasize the point.
It was enough to garner a faint warble of amusement as you sip the harsh but reinvigorating brew, calmly tapping a finger nail across the lip of the mug which produced a faint musical chime. A few moments to think and a sip of coffee confirm your wager, “If I lose, I do all the dishes until the next issue comes out.” You did them almost all the time anyway, one of the big advantages of having fingers over hooves.
She grins back, “If ah lose, ah'll be ah fixin' tah try yer craw-fee 'till then.” Applejack hated the smell of the foreign beverage so it was a fairly ‘serious’ bet in that sense. “Deal?”
She spat on her hoof and extends it towards you. To say you didn't hesitate at that would have been a lie, but with a smirk you copy the gesture, spitting into your hand and shaking on it. “Deal.”
The resounding thump of hooves said Big Mac had reached the bottom of the landing. Applejack hollered aloud, "Scoot yer boot, Apple Bloom, ya don't want cold oatmeal!" it had enough force to get you to wince. Standing up with a light stretch, you clasp your hands over your head and head off to the kitchen-proper to start serving out the morning meal. It would just be the first of many tasks for the day.
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Dude, you derserve sooooooo many more views/likes/favs.
Your writing style is pleasantly intricate and fluent.