Libra's Stallion
Libra's Stallion
He was weathered but not rusted, limbs as a locomotive streaking across the plains. The wind teased his breath away, drawing it from his lungs with every heavy step. Long accustomed to the sink and sway of sand beneath his hooves, Turner was no easy prey.
He was old—old by his own measures, his youth long dissolved over relentless nights on the road—but not weak. He flattened his ears and did his best to drown out the sound of his daughter calling after him, her own powerful hooves thundering in time with his.
Soon, Turner knew, she would meet him, or overtake him.
An eerie silence accompanied him as he galloped through town, broken only by the pounding of his own hooves synchronizing with that of another set not far behind him. In the distance, a gang of stallions stood on the porch of the mourning Sheriff's Office, revolvers steady and eyes wide for trouble. Avoiding their gaze, Turner ducked behind the post office and leaned towards the apple orchards. Towards the city limit. Freedom.
No.
Not freedom.
He was running again. Page Turner was running, just as he always had, always did, always would...
~
"Ma, why do I have ta go ta work? Why can't I go ta school like all the otha foals?"
The mother mare smiled softly, disguising her sorrow. She knelt down in front of her oldest colt, barely eight and on his way to his first day of work in a Trottingham textile factory. She, her husband, and two foals lived in the woodlands near the growing city of Trottingham. Beyond quick trips to the market and other necessities, the tiny family lived in near-isolation. No neighbors surrounded them, no prying hooves knocking on their oak. This, her husband always rationalized, ensured that they would never be bothered.
She knew this to be a lie, but lacked any power to fight the truth.
Ruffling his mane, she whispered, "Now, Page, Mama's already explained this to you. Daddy is very sick, Mama can't find work, and your brother is too young to work." Which was mostly true. For now. Soon, her youngest would join her eldest there, slaving away for bits under the blind eyes of corrupted government and heartless business-ponies.
Page stared at the floor. "Daddy's sick?"
She glanced from the colts' bedroom towards the living room of their squalid shack. Rows and rows of liquor bottles littered the floors, the shelves, the thresholds. Every spare inch of square footage or cabinet space welcomed at least one vessel, empty or full. She'd long forgotten their breeds and brands, reckoning that every variety of alcohol had made it into their home at some point. "Yes, Page, Daddy is very sick. Now, be a good colt and work hard."
She offered him a paper sack packed with a can of beans and a spoon.
Page reluctantly accepted the lunchbag and peered inside. He frowned instantly. "Beans? Again?"
Swallowing a tear, she muttered, "I'm sorry, sweetie."
He huffed in protest, planting his hooves firmly into the rotting floorboards. The distance between the bedroom he shared with his strange, silent younger brother and the front door loomed greater than any horizon. His mother pushed through her own reservations and dragged him by the tail out of his room and towards the front door, his whimpers and whines through every torturous inch breaking her heart.
She released him at the doorway and shoved directions to the factory into his forehooves. Patting him on the head one final time, she opened the door, letting dawn settle and beckon him to follow.
"Now, be a good colt, and go to work."
~
Fasta, fasta. The fire in her lungs and her limbs accelerated, roaring and blazing within. Nevertheless, Babs Seed pressed on, flattening her ears and lowering her muzzle against the growing winds.
Turner proved to be the most evasive prey she'd ever pursued. Once he'd darted behind the post office, narrowly eluding the gaze of Appleloosa's latest posse, he took for the trees, for their foliage below. Knowing now he would only halt to hooves—he was fast and strong, no dim-witted colt or lumbering timberwolf or aging prospector—she saved her breath, designating every spare bit of oxygen to the churning muscles beneath her coat.
Fartha, fartha, fartha. Her father was about ten yards ahead of her, scrambling past the cliff overlooking the orchard and rocketing downwards using the well-worn path below. Pivoting on her hooves, Babs redirected her position and searched within, grasping for a new burst of speed.
Turner twisted and snaked around several thick apple trees, drawing closer and closer towards the city limits.
C'mon, c'mon! He's gettin' away!
~
Exhausted, Page laid down in his bare mattress on the floor, staring up at the ceiling. His forehooves burned with a new, strange pain, tingling and sore. The constant repetition of factory work was beginning to wear upon him only a week into his venture. He remembered one of the older workers mentioning something called "arthritis". Perhaps, he reckoned, this was its onset.
But how could it be? It was only a week since that fateful morning, when his mother cruelly tossed him into the morning mist, demanding a colt become a stallion. He couldn't be hurt after a week, could he? No. Pain was for foals, and at eight years old, he was long past a foal.
Or maybe, his first day had been two weeks ago. Or a month. He wasn't sure. All the days merged and clumped together, entwining into one coagulated mess of moments.
Foalhood innocence belonged to those far more privileged than he, in their ivory towers and offices full of mahogany furniture. He heard the screams, the thuds, the things that went bump in the night—and they were far from monsters of lore and legend. They were the hooves of his father smacking across the muzzle of his mother. They were his father's slurred and hateful words, screamed at him, his mother, his brother. They were the stares of pure hatred and disgust shot towards his way at every opportunity.
He'd long run out of tears to cry, and dreamed instead. He dreamed of fields of green and sands of gold, of legend and adventure, of pirates, magicians, military stallions, and pioneers. Guarded by the moon, he could escape, and took to sleeping frequently when not on the assembly line.
His eyelids beginning to droop, Page rolled onto his side in time to see his younger brother trot into the room. "'Ey. Did youze have fun playin' in the woods ta-day?"
Silence and a stare were his reply.
Accustomed to this, Page shrugged and stared back at him, waiting. Too poor to afford doctors, his mother nevertheless diagnosed his sibling with selective mutism, hoping that "someday" he would speak to one of them. Any sound would be welcome. Anything to shatter the interval between tense silence and utter chaos within their walls.
The four-year-old colt trotted into a corner of the room and plopped onto his haunches. He cradled something carefully between his forehooves. He stared down at them, fascinated, holding something that appeared to be squirming. Curious, Page rose from the mattress and strode over to his sibling.
"'Ey, what youze got there?"
Opening his forehooves gradually, his brother revealed a twitching salamander. The tiny amphibian appeared to be gravely injured, blood trickling from a wound in its side, its eyes wide open in sheer terror and primal instinct.
Taking a few steps back, Page whispered, "Whoa.. Llil' bro, youze betta put dat back outside where youze found it. Poor thing looks like it's dyin'."
His brother spoke no words per usual, choosing instead to observe the animal, watching with a smile on his face as it breathed its last. He sat in the corner for hours, long past his brother's awkward headshake and droning snores, contemplating the way the salamander's life drained, the way it was silent, like him.
~
Trees. Trees, their branches full of blooming, ripening apples, provided substantial cover and camouflage. They could not, however, calm his accelerating heart, cardiac threatening. They could not extinguish the fires in his limbs, or refill the oxygen in his lungs, or make his adrenaline release any faster. They couldn't mask his pain or his age.
Turner slowed and stumbled over his hooves. He tumbled to the ground, landing smack-dab on his muzzle, the rest of his body following. Groaning, he rubbed his twice-bruised snout and stared up at the stars. Lying there—spread-hooved, vulnerable, aching—he could think only again of running away, running away, like the vagabond he was, like the scoundrel he was, even as Babs Seed drew ever closer...
~
He'd gotten as far as Trottingham when the police came.
It was foalish, really. There was no food to spare in the tiny shack, and the meager bits he earned went straight into treating his father's "illness". His tattered mess of a family was more impoverished than the peeling paint and holey floorboards suggested.
Nevertheless, enough was enough. Lacking the essentials, Page simply decided on the eve of his tenth birthday that he was not returning to the factory, to the cabin, to the woods, to any of them. Rather be overtaken by hunger or thirst than suffer any longer, he snuck out in the twilight, hoofing it towards redemption.
Like his mother, he knew his father's forehooves, and knew them well. He knew his rage, his vitriol, his prejudice, his condemnation of anypony and everypony. Nopony was good enough for his father. Especially Page. He was done pretending, done trying, done begging for his father's love.
His first runaway attempt had been a disaster. Once discovered by the strong forehooves of the law and escorted back to his hell, Page was left vulnerable again, on the porch, alone.
Reaching up to knock on the door, the colt gasped when it swung open and his father appeared in the threshold.
Bottle in forehoof, the beige stallion with a long jet-black mane swayed in the doorway, snickering. "So, youze couldn't get 'way eitha, could youze? Ha! Iffa runnin' did anythin', I woulda done it a long time ago. Would've done it ta get free from youze whore o' a motha."
Rehearsed well in these scenarios, Page kept his muzzle low and slowly trotted inside, staring into nothingness. His mother waited on the couch, a deep, black bruise marring her beautiful face. She smiled weakly, ever-willing to pay the price of her foals' mistakes.
"Page, honey, I'm so glad you're home!" she exclaimed, trotting over to her eldest. She began to pull him into an embrace. "I was so worried that—"
A harsh bellow dismissed her words. "Shut up, bitch!"
THUD!
The stallion slammed his mare into the wall with one swing of a forehoof. She groaned and crumpled into a ball on the floor, sobbing quietly into herself. White-hot adrenaline rushed through Page's veins, his muscles tensing. He felt his lips retracting, molars bared in an ancient threat. He was young, and short, and weak, but none of that mattered. The only thing that mattered was the broken mare weeping on the ground.
He watched in silence as his father trotted away, hating him with every inch and fiber of his being.
Helping his mother to her hooves, Page whispered lovingly, "Shhhh. It's okay, Ma. I'm heeya. He's... he's goin' away."
The younger colt, almost six now, trotted into the kitchen, a grin on his muzzle. Page turned to his mute brother, ears failing to prick. There was no need. Although he knew his only reply would be his own imagination, Page asked, "'Ey there, lil' bro. Youze alright?"
His brother pointed to his mother's bruise and laughed, laughed, laughed.
~
With a final push off her hindhooves, Babs Seed seized her opportunity, and leapt.
Landing right beside him, she leaned down and whispered in his ear, "Caught youze."
Turner groaned, defeated, making no attempt to resist.
Rushing over to face him, the mare leaned down and grabbed his forehooves. "Youze gave me a pretty good run! Granted, I haven't ran afta a full-grown stallion who wasn't one hoof in the grave yet, but I don't think I did so bad, right?" she joked, her weak attempt failing to instigate even a chuckle.
Alright, alright, joke time is long ova. I know everypony's stressed right now, an' jus' runnin'—maybe literally—but enough is enough. She started to pull him up, mumbling, "Let's get youze up—"
"No." Turner wrestled his forehooves away, burying his muzzle in them. He covered his eyes and willed himself off the carousel, the endless loop of reminiscence replaying itself within his consciousness. "No. Leave me alone."
Horseapples. Now I've done it. Now I've really buckin' done it. Babs slowly rose to her hooves, blowing a strand of mane from her eyes. He clearly wants ta be alone, an' youze jus' run afta him like he's some kinda thief o' summat! What the hay is wrong wit' youze? Youze can't call him youze dad, youze resent him, yet, when he does take off, youze freak out? What's goin' on wit' dat?
The internal monologue plunged Babs Seed down into defeat within him. Those emerald eyes began to shine, reflecting the light of the silent, watchful moon as they sparkled with tears. Oh, yes, cry, cry like a lil' damn foal now. Youze didn't cry ova Appleloosa, an' now youze cryin' ova dis? Total sense.
Irrational as it was, the point of no return had been reached. She'd hunted her father like she would a criminal or a rampaging beast, damaging what little they had forever. Marring it. Destroying it, as she did so much else, and so easily.
The destroyer muttered, voice trembling, "T-Turner... p-please..."
The stallion laid there, unmoving but for deep, heaving breaths, shivering, uncertain. Wounds long healed (or so he'd thought) rose to the surface, torn open and bleeding with a vengeance. And all at the mention of his name, the pony he hated and feared the most.
The pony he'd failed.
Tears flowing freely down her cheeks, Babs sniffled and took a step towards Appleloosa. "I-I'm s-sorry... I shoulda jus' let youze go, but I had ta go an' hurt youze." I always hurt who I love... It was only a matta o' time befo' I hurt youze, too. "I'm real s-sorry. G-goodbye..."
A forehoof tugging at one of her hindhooves stopped her.
Over her shoulder, her emerald crashed into his onyx, finding tears there, too. "T-Turner... Why... why are youze cryin'?"
"Come heeya," he said, almost inaudible. He said it a second time, his chin trembling as she spoke. "Come heeya, Babs."
She laid down beside him on the cool, dew-kissed sands. Beneath the canopy of apple trees and starlight, the stallion draped a forehoof around the mare, holding her close. She did the same, two sets of tears falling quietly, echoing in the unwelcome silence between them as they landed.
Turner gazed off towards some unknown point in the horizon. Keeping his sights glued there, he whispered, "I should be the one who's sorry."
Wiping away her shameful tears, Babs replied, "No. I should be. I hurt youze."
Turner shook his muzzle. "No, youze didn't. I was in pain long befo' youze found me."
A coyote howled in the distance, seeking the comfort of his companions on this lone desert night.
Confused, Babs contemplated a question, tossing it aside after another moment of silence. No, no. Don't press him. Don't make things worse than dey are.
"I was in pain fo' many years."
Turning to face her, the stallion frowned, ready to weep once more. Many days and nights had passed him by in stoic denial, unwilling to ruminate over things that once were and would never be again. Unwilling to mourn all he'd lost, all he'd left behind, all he could never change.
"Youze were?"
"Yes." Turner tore his eyes off his daughter, returning them to the void beyond. "There are... many things 'bout me youze don't know. Many things nopony knows. Things I've done, o' shoulda done. Things I left behind. Ponies I left behind."
Babs Seed stared into her forehooves, unsure of a reply. So have I, but... But why did youze run? Why did youze run at the mention o' dat bastard's name? Unless...
"Babs Seed, do youze want ta know why I ran away when... when Libra said dat name?"
She merely nodded, staring into him, into the corners of his eyes, where she could see herself.
He took a final breath, and began.
~
Page Turner was twelve going on thirty.
Four years of his young life were lost to his father's demands and his mother's surrender. The stallion of the house refused to work or look for work, spending his days in drunken stupor and rambling nonsense. The mare of the cabin could find none, her reputation ruined by her own husband's misdeeds. His father waxed poetic about every subject under the sun—politics, religion, mares and stallions, meaning and life—spewing filth that disgusted his eldest son.
His youngest, however, would listen and learn with rapt attention, mirroring his father's movements and gesticulations. He soaked up every bit of shocking opinion and questionable fact, fascinated, amazed. After almost seven years of silence, the youngest colt in the cabin began to speak. And all his words were his father's words.
But tonight was the last night. Page Turner, the blankflanked beige colt with a jet-black mane—a smaller version of his father in appearance alone—packed his saddlebags on a cool summer's night. He fumbled through the dresser and closet he and his brother shared, stashing away his most prized possessions.
There were few, but they were treasures, indeed. Among them were a simple map of Equestria and a simple compass, gifts from his grandmother—a mare he'd met only once, before the twelve-hour shifts and beans and corn and hunger and bruises and alcohol and screaming and his brother's chilling smile dominated his memory.
His saddlebag packed, Page hoisted his belongings onto his back and stared out the window. Freedom beckoned for the infinite time. This time, however, he would steer clear of the law. They were of no use. Even when he went to them with the truth, the horrible truth, nopony believed him. He was a dirty scoundrel of a colt, unwashed, uncultured, with a strange tongue that belonged to a place called "Manehatten"—a place his father spoke of venomously, but he'd never seen. He was not to be trusted, only imprisoned.
Sighing, he offered a humble, silent prayer to an entity called "the Most High". He'd heard whispers of this name on the assembly lines from some of the older workers. The Most High, they said, was the Source of All Things, including Celestia and Luna. It, unlike them, knew all, saw all, and loved all. His young mind questioned the existence of a benevolent being in the world he knew. He was not cynical enough yet, however, to dismiss it entirely.
He just hoped, above all, that there was Somepony who watched him and loved him, and could guide him to someplace that would truly be home.
His mother couldn't protect him. She never could. He hated her for staying, for cowering, for crying, for dragging them into this abyss.
Tonight, he would break free. He would follow the horizon, the Most High.
Page Turner jumped from the windowsill and started towards his bedroom door. His younger brother trotted slowly into view, blocking the threshold.
"'Ey, there, lil' bro," Page greeted, like he always did.
"Youze leavin' again?" His brother's voice was rough, low, angry. It was his father's voice, shrunk down into a short, blue colt with a jet-black mane, a colt who had his mother's eyes but none of her love.
Fighting the urge to vomit—how he hated his father's voice and words, even in the maw of another—Page simply nodded. "Yes. I'm sorry ta say I won't be comin' back dis time, lil' bro."
Glaring at him, the other colt hissed, "Why? So I can take youze place an' break ma back workin' in the factory, too? Youze know dat's what Ma's gonna have me do iffa youze leave!"
"Please, lil' bro—"
"Oh, fuck youze, Page!" Stomping a forehoof on the floor in protest, the colt felt his hackles rise. He remained in the doorway, staying strong, impeding his older brother's exit.
"'Ey! Watch youze mouth!" Page scolded, furrowing his brow. "Where did youze learn ta talk like dat?" He mentally answered his own question as soon as he asked, filing it somewhere among the annals of the most ridiculous questions of all time.
"From the best stallion in all o' Equestria, an' it's a damn shame he's stuck wit' a piece o' shit son like youze."
There was that smile again, that toothy grin that sent chills down his spine. Keys on the devil's piano they were, glistening white against the poverty that stole everything else from them. Innocence, security, family, love, friendship, education, and dignity fell by the wayside, but his younger brother still had that grin, and would forever.
"Snap outta it! Don't youze see what he does ta Ma?"
"I do. An' she deserves every minute o' it."
Enraged, Page slammed into his brother, dropping a shoulder and charging forward. The blue colt smacked against the wall easily, yelping in pain. His cries were silenced with a forehoof shoved into his muzzle, a pair of wild copper irises boring into him. "Youze say dat again, an' I'll kill youze. I'll buckin' kill youze."
Shoving his forehooves away, his brother kicked him in the stomach, doubling Page over in agony. Suddenly, he was lying on the floor, his brother weeping and screeching and pummeling him over and over.
"Youze leavin' me! Youze buckin' leavin' me ta rot! Ta be like youze! Worthless piece o' shit! Youze leavin' me!"
Never before had Page Turner heard his brother voice any affection, any semblance of attachment or normal family relation towards him. He'd done his best to protect him over the years since his shattered innocence began, shielding him from his father's anger, directing him towards his mother's love. He tried to talk with him, to dream with him, to level with him. All for naught but silence, strange stares, evil smiles, haunting laughter, and a fascination with all things dark and despicable.
He still remembered his brother's smile as that tiny, helpless creature died in his forehooves almost four years ago. He still remembered it, and was terrified when he did.
Here he was, pleading with him to stay in his own morbid, twisted way.
Long tired of fulfilling promises, Page would not grant this request, no matter how profane his brother became.
Page Turner, older and stronger, rolled over and shoved his brother in the chest, sending him toppling. He struggled to his hooves, pushing through the pain. Emboldened by his agony, he grabbed his brother by the mane and pinned him down with his hindhooves, saying the words that would come to define them forever.
"I'm leavin', an' don't youze follow me, Bernie Madhoof. I HATE youze, an' I neva want ta see youze again."
~
"No."
Running her forehooves through her mane, twisting her strands, Babs repeated her disbelief.
"No."
Impossible. Simply impossible. There had been no uncles, no aunts, no grandparents in the Orange Family Mansion. There had been no cousins but the Apples. That was the extent of their family—Citrus, Libra, Bernie, and the Apples. All. Final.
"No."
She buried her muzzle in the sand, not caring as it speckled her coat and entered her nostrils, making her nose itch. She slammed her eyelids shut. She tugged tighter at her mane, pulling it taut. The thought of ripping it all away and starting anew seemed more sane than what Turner had just told her.
"No."
Turner dug a forehoof under her chin and lifted it, gently wiping sand from her snout. "Kid, I—"
"NO!" Babs shook him off, crawling away from him. "NO! Dis isn't true! Youze—youze a liar! Youze must be one o' his lil' cronies, ain't youze? Is dat it?!" she demanded, baring her teeth and glaring at him. "Did he hire youze ta torch the mansion? Huh? Are youze some kinda ex-thug o' summat? O' maybe youze ain't even—"
"I have no idea what youze is talkin' 'bout!" Turner shook his muzzle frantically. "No! No! I'm not a criminal, neva have been!"
"Like hell youze haven't! How else would youze know somepony like him?!" No! No! Dis can't be true! Dis can't be happenin'!
"Babs Seed," he said calmly, "I know dis must be a lot fo' youze ta take, but—"
"O' course it is! Don't youze understand?!" Rising to her hooves, she instinctively poised into a battle stance, her muscles unable to distinguish between an argument and an assault. "Don't youze know what he did ta our family? Ta me?! How much he hated me, obviously hated me, as long as I could rememba?!"
"Babs—"
"An' I wanted him ta love me!" Her words raced her mind, clearly victorious. "Yes! Yes, dat's right! I hated him, an' I wanted him ta love me, deep down, still! Even through everythin'. Do youze know how confusin' dat was, how much it hurt? Do youze know, even afta we left him, how much it hurt ta know he didn't want us! Ta know he didn't want me?! Ta know he wanted ta... ta..."
Turner grunted in pain, standing up slowly beside Babs Seed. Exhausted from the meager effort, he leaned up against her, bracing himself against her shoulder. "Look, Babs, I—"
"No! Did youze own fatha want ta kill youze?!"
Silence. Two billows of steam sending their signal into the night, slow exhalations of rage and frustration tapping out their message on an invisible keyboard of the soul. There were no need for words.
Taking a few steps to the side, his hooves burning, Turner hung his head low. "Yes, kiddo, he did."
An icy dagger sliced through Babs's heart, leaving her breathless, wordless.
"I know he did. Ma fatha hated me, an' ma brotha hated me, too. Dey both didn't want me 'round anymo'." He glanced sideways at her, his eyes misting. "Afta I ran away dat final time... I didn't come back until years past dat night. By dat time, it was too late. Ma motha really was sick, ma fatha was gettin' yellow-eyed, an' Bernie was pullin' doubles in the factory. I visited from time ta time ova the years, only a few days at a time. Couldn't handle it."
"I was a coward," Turner admitted, shame brewing and aggravating his nausea and disgust. "I let ma lil' brotha decay in there. I knew, I jus' knew summat was wrong wit' him from day one. He wasn't like otha foals, otha colts. I only knew how dey interacted from the marketplace an' such, but I knew he wasn't playin' wit' a full deck. An' I left him. I left him ta rot, an' ma motha, too. I abandoned 'em, left 'em ta him, dat awful stallion. I left 'em, an' I didn't even try ta free 'em."
Turner laid down in the sand again, laughing through his tears. The moon seemed to mock him, providing perfect illumination to accompany his downfall. "An'—youze know what? Ma motha... ma motha died befo' ma fatha... Bernie was still livin' at home then. We had a small lil' funeral, which I paid fo'. An' then ma fatha died, I think 'bout ten o' so years later? I really don't rememba.
"I didn't see ma brotha afta he left fo' college, but he found me through the mail sometimes. An' when our fatha died, Bernie wrote dat he didn't want me there, but I paid fo' it anyway. Still didn't go. Buck dat abusive, alcoholic bastard. I hope he's burnin' in salt an' fire now. Sold dat ramshackle lil' cabin—ended up bein' demolished, the filthy thing—an' hit the road fo' real."
Babs Seed, remaining skeptical, stretched out beside him. She reined in her anger, giving her confusion a voice instead. "But, wait... what 'bout his marriage? Didn't youze know he had a daughta, too?" Ma sista? Well, half-sista?
Turner shook his muzzle sadly. "Didn't want me there when he got married, didn't tell me her name, nothin'. Didn't want anythin' ta do wit' me. I knew he was married, an' heard from the grapevine he had a foal, but nothin' otha than dat. Had no idea he was married ta Libra, o' dat she was married, o' dat she was married ta ma brotha..."
"... Dammit," he whispered, half-sniffling, half-chuckling. "What a mess. All o' dis. What a mess."
Lost for words, Babs leaned into him and closed her eyes. Too much. It was far too much. Everything. Everything was connected, tangled. Everything and everypony had a story. She wondered, Then, does everythin' have an end? Is dat what makes things special—because dey have ta end?
Do I want dis ta end? Dis... whateva I have, wit' whateva he is?
He placed his muzzle on her forehead, resting his eyes. "So... do youze have anythin' ta say?"
"I... I don't know, Turner," she answered honestly. "I don't... I don't understand."
"Well, kiddo, what don't youze understand?"
Shifting slightly, urging herself to be calm and rational for once, Babs explained, "I jus'... I... I don't want youze ta feel bad, but... how could youze run 'way from dem like dat? An'..."
She paused and bit her bottom lip, almost making herself bleed. "Turner... how could youze take dis long ta find Ma? Ta find me?"
He lifted his head from hers, peering into her eyes. On his muzzle, the faintest hint of a smile evaporated, replaced by a stoic, emotionless, blank expression. Denial would not save him now.
Choosing his words carefully, each of them bearing the weight of twenty years, Turner replied, "I should have done mo'. I should have tried harder. I should have done all sorts o' things. I'm sorry, ki—Babs. I'm sorry, Babs. I really am. Ta youze an' youze motha."
In his eyes, she detected no malice, no lies. Scrying was far from her special talent, or a talent at all. Yet, in spite of everything, Babs knew that Turner was no liar. This, coupled with another voice inside her mind—"Jus' try callin' him that sometime, fer me, please?"—ushered her into silence.
He waited patiently, heart racing, faith wavering.
After a moment of contemplation, Babs smiled slightly. "Youze know what?"
"What?" he asked, intrigued.
"I... I like havin' youze around. It gives me lots o' answas I need. An' Ma was really happy ta see youze, too. An' I don' think I'll be alright wit' dis—wit' any o' dis—fo' a long time, but I'm gonna try." Fo' Bloom. Fo' Ma. Fo' everypony. "An' I... I forgive youze, Turner," she finished, nuzzling him gently.
A flicker of a grin sparked and spread across his muzzle. The stallion nuzzled her back and rustled her mane a bit before hobbling up onto his hooves again. "Good. 'Cuz I wanna try makin' things right now. I can't go back an' change anythin', but I can make ta-day betta. There is one thing, though, Babs."
Standing beside him, starting back towards Appleloosa, Babs asked, "Yea, what's dat?"
"... How am I gonna explain dis ta youze motha?"
~
Spreading his wings, the Griffon guard flew up to the second floor of his Master's mansion once he'd safely entered. Running low on time, he hoped against hope that his Master's patience had not worn too thin. The message had been delivered to all but two of the affected Knights. The next round of annexation hovered on his glorious Master's horizon, and he'd be damned if he would fail his true and ultimate King.
Once the two guards on the outside of the office door granted him entry, the Griffon scrambled into the finely furnished office, wings flared and talons waving. "Master! Master! Please forgive my tardiness, I—"
"You'd better have a good excuse." The Master growled, facing away from his visitor. He sat in his favorite, familiar chair, smoking his favorite, familiar cigar, watching out his window at his favorite, familiar city. The hustle and bustle of daytime facade had long faded, replaced with the empty, lifeless streets below. Beautiful and tranquil, he couldn't wait for another round of madness to pierce the silence and set his blackened heart aflame. How he loved a good street-scuffle.
"I... was..." The Griffon heaved between words, catching his frantic breath. "I... was... visiting my brother in the hospital... sir... Please... forgive me. It won't... happen again."
"A pathetic excuse. I have no interest in your personal affairs." The Master snarled, impatient. "Tell me: have the messages been relayed?"
"All but two, sir," the guard answered. Lowering his wings to his sides, he clarified, "And I will ensure those two are notified as soon as possible, my King. The company should be ready within a few days."
Refusing to swivel in his chair, the Master grunted in response, waving him away with a forehoof. Acceptable news. Far from great, but he would take what he could glean from these useless, pithy pawns. His front-door guard was no exception. Although valued for his quick wit and quicker trigger-talon, he was a pawn in the end, disposable.
Bowing low, the Griffon muttered a thousand superfluous apologies before rushing out the door to resume his post.
Bernie Madhoof snickered. "Visiting a brother in the hospital? What a fool. Insignificant, worthless time-wasting fool. Brotherhood. Ha!"
Taking a deep drag of his cigar, he whispered, "I know nothing of brotherhood."
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2555029 I have had you on Skype for a month you silly pretzel
Three words: What, The, Buck?!
Turner is Bernie's BROTHER?! The plot twist is so great and shocking, I can't even begin to wrap my mind around it. I must know what happens next.
Wait. Citrus is Babs' half-sister AND cousin at the same time. How does that even work?
Nothing says awkward like sleeping with your brother's wife....Geez no wonder Turner ran.
So Turner is Bernies brother. I kind of had a feeling that was the case, but I wasn't entirely sure... until now, that is.
My God. You just blew my freakin mind
Am I sad?
I also suppose we need something adequate for Babs being Bernie's Niece
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excellent chapter as always
2555930
You... legitimately did not see that coming?
I need a moment.
2555830
So...I'm guessing that the last emoticon means, "Alright...bro." LOL kidding.
2555914
You know what I meant! Timezone differences and all.
2555930
New chapter should be in a few days, my friend! Citrus would technically be both her half-sister (same mother) and cousin (uncle's daughter). Genetically speaking, half-siblings share 25% of each other's DNA, whereas cousins only share 12.5% DNA. Thus, while you are correct, I think it is more genetically honest to say that Babs and Citrus are half-sisters. They would have been regardless if Turner and Bernie were related or not; this relevation just adds an extra technicality to it.
Sorry, biology nerdism coming out there for a second.
2555938
Exaaaaaaaaaaactly. Not only sleeping with your estranged brother's wife, but having a child with her.
That video clip = perfect.
2556034
Your instincts were correct, my friend.
2556097
Is that a good or bad thing?
2556100 2556107
I dunno, sire, are you?
And yes, another fitting video clip!
2556304
2556620
Heh, when my hints were only in three or four chapters throughout the (what, almost sixty?) I've written so far...I was expecting both some shock and some "I-told-you-so's".
2557198
I didn't want to. I decided to be nice about it. Some hints even I miss.
2557267
Haha, that's true for me too.
2556304
That being said.....the title of this is Severed Roots, so some severing of said roots going on down in here.
Forgive these scattered comments, just medication time....
2557198 Indeed, Well if you can come on by.. five PM in your time then we should be able to talk
2557312
But what roots?
Medication time is best time!
2557395
I'll be at work until 2300 my time...
Maybe you could message me anyway and I can reply when I get back?
2557460 It would work, But I would prefer to get you in a call, It would be much easier to sort things out for this read through
2555930>>2557198 So would that mean they share about 37.5% DNA
? And don't apologize. Biology nerdism is made for flaunting
And that is when I figured it out.
Seriously, though, this is just one hell of a crazy mess. Twisted, tangled, severed roots, indeed.
So...now what?
2557513
True. My schedule is in a bit of limbo for the moment, so we'll just have to touch base when we can.
2557901
I like your style, LOL.
Haha, all those years of biology classes paid off for something! 
2558661
Yup...classic childhood signs of sociopathic/psychotic tendencies.
"What a mess," was correct. Now what? Wellll...there's lots of story to go, that's all I'll say for now. But next chapter should be interesting.
2558835 Excellent timing, I am just about to go to bed 24.media.tumblr.com/3b016c5c1bfbed88141d55af10a83087/tumblr_mm145pALSf1rkhemoo4_250.gif
2558835 Though I have been able to free up some time if you can come on now
2558835 At this point I can't wait for Babs to walk into Manehatten, guns blazing, then look at Slinga', and give a badass "'Sup". Then, when things are looking really bad, we get the rogue wonderbolt, Scootaloo (codename: Rambo-Dash) to come in and tear em a new one.
Of course I'm just being silly. You do exactly what you want, exactly when you want, and history shows it's gonna be awesome.
2558853 2558879
Sorry bud, I should have mentioned I replied to this at work. I won't be home to a computer with Skype for another three hours.
Sorry... 
2559059
Rambo-Dash? Oh man, that just gives me ideas for another fic!
And thanks! I hope you all continue to enjoy the story and the action that is to come...lots of action...
I can most definitely see where the feels were coming form in this chapter. Turner's surprise, Babs' denial and the sudden crashing realization that the pony she thought was her father and the pony that is her father are by some strange and mysterious twist of fate related would be enough to blank anybody for a second there and send them into a wild cycle of confusion. However, I think it was well handled and when all is said and done, we'll see how things pan out.
Another fantastic chapter.
And something Turner needs to realize is that you can be related to somebody and still not be part of their family; Blood makes you related, caring and loyalty make you family. The way it looks like to me, he and Bernie and their parents were just related... not family. Right now, he and Babs are just related, but the way he talks to her and the way she talks to him, they're going to be family soon enough I think.
I'm eagerly awaiting the first day that Babs calls Turner "Dad"
2559861
Thanks Shadow_Wolf, I'm glad you enjoyed the chapter!
I agree, that is an important truth that Turner needs to realize sooner or later. Love is definitely thicker than blood. I agree, they shall be family soon...we will just have to see when that is...and when she will call him her father for the first time. 
2559523 Silly Horse
What. A.
And I thought the 'extended' Apple Family couldn't get more messed up...
...
All jokes aside, this is great...can't wait for Bernie's childhood suppression to unleash itself when he finds out...I can see him receiving the best letter ever written...
How do you like them apples...
Bernie wrote dat didn't want me there,
I think you missed something.
Also, IT'S ALL CONNECTED!
2560693
I sure am!
funnypica.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/04/silly-funny-horse-pictures.jpg
2560803
Ten mustaches for that letter!
That was great! Oh man, imagine Bernie's rage if this was actually written and received.... 
Turner and Libra are both in their forties, so I doubt there'd be more foals comin'...not gonna comment on the other implication, though.
2560937
Heh, thanks for catching that. Fixed.
Everything is connected, indeed!
2562065 [youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=player_embedded&v=DOFAnpb8I3E]
2562112
Is this what you meant, sire?
2562190 I did indeed
i kinda saw it coming, but the song matches this song awesomely, va beni, mi amici
2563926
I thought it did, too. Glad you liked the chapter, my friend!
2565794
Thanks!
2565847
Yup, you guessed right!
2565893
Indeed...
Father shouts,
Mother whimpers,
Brother laughs,
His chortle rises with father's fist,
He hollers, clutching his gut and cries,
Like mother had done when the fist had lowered,
I can't take this anymore!
Is this the life worth living for?!
I want to run,
I want to flee
Just escape
Why do you tell me now how you love me?!
Or do you just love how I suffer?
Or maybe it's because you're too much like father to leave
You want freedom? You yourself must seek her
You're on your own; I'm not my brother's keeper!
One punch,
Then another
And another,
Pounding me like a herd of animals,
Covering me with bruises and tears,
Stop....stop it! Dammit, is this what you call love?!
You don't know love, who would love you?
You hate me, and you know what? I hate you, Madhoof!
I'm sorry...
I needed....
I just had to leave
Look for me, from beyond the horizon
For I will return someday for you
When the shadows are cleared by the sun,
I promise brother, I'll return, you'll see,
For no matter what we will still be family
The sun
Once bright,
Now gone,
Stepping in crimson streets of Manehatton,
Hatred, murder and lust grow like cancer,
And the king is a monster with father's eyes,
No...has the city been torn asunder....
By this devil....
I once called my brother?
2574313
Bravo...just...bravo. Tears in my eyes, man.
2560803 I want to cry tears of joy and laughter that was the best letter ever I havr ever seen if that got put in the story I think I'd be the first death from humour haha
Fuck me! What a chapter! I've Been reading for about 2 hours now, I ain't stopping!
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2585665 bravo aristotle just bravo
Run, Run, RUN
Run, faster because they’re right behind you,
Clawing at you, nipping at your heart
Ready to devour you if you stop.
Run from the monsters you helped create
As they’re sickening shadow looms over you
Gross and twisted hearts cold to everyone
Pointing an accusing finger at you
Keeping running as you run past love and happiness.
Don’t stop to look at them there’ll be more up ahead
You can stop there you think, as you run from the truth.
You can NEVER stop running.
Run, faster, or else they’ll catch you.
All the happiness you left and the tears unshed
Run from the truth, but know this,
eventually they’ll catch you.
Well I'm no The Philosopher or Wayword writer but I think I did alright what do you think
How's that for a twist..
3147324
Twist?
"Taking a few steps to the side, his hooves burning, Turner head his hung low. "Yes, kiddo, he did."
"Head his hung low"
Is this a mistake by any chance?
Anyway great chapter as usual, and amazing twist. I'm going to sleep now, 7 hours isn't enough for me as it is as a teenager
anyway goodnight.
3331155
Whoops!
Mixed up a few words there! Fixed now. 
And thanks! I'm glad you enjoyed the chapter and the
! Goodnight, sleep well! 
And finally it is revealed what I have long suspected that Turner is actually Bernie Madhoof's brother. So that means he's actually Babs' uncle. It's kind of like Hamlet but backwards.
And based on his Madhoof's history, he sounds really messed up from the beginning.
Not really speaking until your seven. That seems like some kind of condition. He had such pleasure from the suffering of others. He was and truly is a psychopath.
I see what you're doing. The evil brother and the good brother. The murderer and the righteous one. The Cain and Abel.