Applebloom tries to save her family from destitution in Equestria's decaying future.
Following the assassination of Princess Celestia, the Long Night withered the once bountiful Apple Harvests of the Apple family. In the years since, they have been reduced to dumpster diving and street life. Applebloom, unwilling to continue in such a state, violates her elder sister's wishes in order to find help from Applejack's friends, who surely must be better off.
Unfortunately, Applebloom's journey to Canterlot shows her the true fates of the bearers of the Elements of Harmony, who are as unable to help Applebloom as they are to help themselves. Applebloom's desperation grows with each reunion. In the end, she must turn to powers greater than begging to save her own future and those of many others.
Applebloom tasted dirt. She recoiled momentarily from the soiled, rotten texture, but her stomach forced her to continue, biting down into a slimy brown mess that was once an apple core. There was nothing solid enough to chew, a merciful relief to her taste buds, but torture to her throat as she fought to swallow. It was a vile taste, and it shamed her to know that it was now inside of her.
She discarded the decaying hunk of fruit, though it represented half an hour's scrounging. She surveyed the dumpster once more, pungent with a week's filth, and shivered with revulsion. Surely, she had not always been this hopeless.
One could hardly have guessed as much by looking at her. The same diet that had reduced her legs to gaunt twigs made her hooves brittle and sore. The contours of her ribs pressed against her skin, only mostly hidden by her patchy fur. Her mane was a matted mess, now too thin to support the ribbon that once adorned it. Her makeup was a collection of dirt and scars, her perfume a gallimaufry of odors from the alleys of Ponyville.
The current addition to that collection of aromas was the gap between Ponyville Cakes and Ponyville Quills and Sofas, which housed a pair of dumpsters and, presently, Applebloom and her sister Applejack.
"You find anything good, Applebloom?" asked Applejack, limping toward her from the far end of the alley. Her tattered saddlebags sagged slightly under the weight of discarded pie tins and frosting bags.
"There's never anything good, sis," said Applebloom. "We ain't good enough for good things, no more."
Applejack's hopeful expression hardened. "Now don't you get like that, Applebloom. We Apple ponies sure are down, but we ain't out." She pushed up the brim of her hat and trotted as proudly as she could, a tall, regal gait, entirely spoiled by her regular stumbles over her bad leg. "Now, c'mon. I found a whole mess of tins for Granny, and I'm sure she's real hungry by now."
When are we not hungry, thought Applebloom. For herself, she had only a few carrot ends and wilted leaves of lettuce, as well as the lingering aftertaste of apple slime. It was a cruel substitute for the diet she remembered; her youth had been a carefree, even spoiled experience punctuated with apple pies, apple fritters, apple turnovers, and, of course, fresh apples. Her family had owned an orchard, a luxury she had failed to appreciate as a filly. At the time, it had seemed a natural, necessary part of existence: hers was the Apple family. They grew apples.
But every bushel rots. At first, the Long Night had seemed survivable, despite the havoc it had wreaked on the weaker crops. But the expenses of Granny Apple's numerous hip surgeries had thrown the family into debt, and, as Applejack's own hip had announced, the condition was hereditary. Short of workers and unable to keep up with their loans, the Apple family had begun selling off tracts of the orchard. Every time was vehemently declared the last, each dwindling remainder was proudly pronounced the true core of the family land to the discarded periphery, and each promise was quietly broken, under the failing hope that things would turn around. Desperation pushed McIntosh to marry a rich widow, but the mare had insisted on an iron-clad prenup and kept her finances her own; now, he lived Appeloosa, indentured to his wife for his livelihood.
As night fell, the sisters Apple at last arrived at their current home, a shack behind the last row of merchants in the market quarter of Ponyville. There now, as ever, was Granny Apple, wrapped in punctured blankets.
"Granny Apple," said Applejack, suppressing all unpleasantness. "We brought you dinner, Granny Apple." Applejack unloaded the wretched feast and began delicately feeding the immobile mare. Granny Apple's wrinkled face had long since lost any expression; she conveyed her appreciation only with continued struggles to swallow and occasional groans.
Applebloom struggled to savor her own meal, but her hunger overpowered her. In a rush of disappointing bliss, she had finished every scrap of what were already scraps. Remorse closed upon her, for she had once again submitted to hunger. Never did she resent her own body more than when the threat of starvation enslaved her. Not when her front tooth had fallen out, marring her once adorable smile. Not when her cheek had scarred keloid, after she'd cut dug carelessly through a dumpster mined with open cans. Not even when her cutie mark had grown in late, ugly, and faded had she protested the workings of her body. But she loathed hunger. She was scarcely even a thinking being, so long as hunger held her reins.
And now, standing beside the rest of what would surely be the last Apple ponies, Applebloom decided she could take no more.
"Sis," she said, "I can't do this anymore."
Applejack briefly discontinued nursing their grandmother. "Now, Applebloom, I know you don't—”
"Can it, sis. I already know what you're going to say: we'll get through these hard times. We ain't stuck like this forever; we just gotta find work. But it's a lie, sis! There ain't no purpose to what we're doin'! We can only scrape by like this for a few months, maybe a year more, and there ain't nothin' waitin' for us at the end of it!"
Applejack rose from Granny's side and stared sharply into Applebloom's eyes. "Now you listen here, sis. We may have lost the orchard, but we ain't gettin' it back by complainin' and callin' ourselves as good as dead. If you want a better life, you gotta work for it, and that's what we're doin'."
"Like heck we are," said Applebloom, rolling her eyes. "Why don't we ask for help? Your friends—"
"Because we ain't beggars," said Applejack, digging her foreleg into the ground. "Because we Apples are workers, not freeloaders. Because we're tougher than that."
"Get over yourself," said Applebloom. "We're three homeless ponies who eat trash for dinner. I bet if we asked Twilight Sparkle in Canterlot, she'd be able to—"
"No, Applebloom," said Applejack, resuming her place next to Granny Apple. "We're not doing that. You're my sister, and I love you, so I forgive you for insultin' the family like that. But let's get one thing straight: if you go beggin' for alms, you ain't doin' it for us. You're doin' it for you." With that, she resumed feeding Granny, affording her sister no further attention.
Applebloom lay down against the wall across the alley and closed her eyes. Her anger had given her more energy than her last week's worth of meals, and now she fought to contain it. It would be a cold night, and any reserves were better spent keeping warm. She shivered as the dim red light of dusk waned, trying her best to remember the pony she used to be.
She faded in and out of consciousness, a piecemeal sleep fractured by biting drafts and a sore belly. Unable to will herself to doze any further, Applebloom opened her eyes. It was scarcely an hour after dark, judging by the sounds of passing ponies. Applebloom stood up. There was no comfort here.
And, though the nearby hoofsteps had raised her from sleep, Applejack kept her eyes closed as they softened into the distance.
Applebloom only made it most of the way to Canterlot before they kicked her off the train. She'd stowed away in a freight car at Ponyville station, lured in by the scent of packing hay. By the time they kicked her out, she'd stuffed herself so much she'd nearly forgotten where she was going.
The euphoria of satiation faded, however, and she refocused her sights on Canterlot, where she was sure to find Twilight Sparkle. Last she'd heard, Twilight had returned there to work and study, though she didn't know exactly where.
Even if Twilight was difficult to find, Applebloom certainly was not. The capital was a place of white dresses and polished buckles, and Applebloom was at best a stained rag. Noses turned up in her presence, gazes wandered aside, and strides diverted away. Applebloom crept down the streets like an ant across a ballroom.
After much wandering, Applebloom found the academic quarter, where she visited countless buildings faced with marble columns, pestered countless secretaries behind mahogany desks, and followed endless instructions across campus after campus. At last, one particularly unimpressed unicorn took pity on her long enough to look up Twilight's name in a university catalog. She had graduated, it seemed, and started work at some nearby royal offices.
The building was squat and plain. Small windows dotted its exterior on each of its half dozen floors, and, on her hind legs, Applebloom could just barely peek inside. She had never seen so many unicorns working at once. Each of them stood only a hoof's breadth away from the next, rows and rows of ponies inking quills and scratching them to paper. Scrolls and codices glowed faintly with magic as they drifted above the heads of other workers, each landing neatly atop a pile on some pony's desk. Except for the relentless crunch of official seal punches, Applebloom could make out no sound.
A bell sounded, and, in continuing clockwork, the unicorns sheathed their quills and began filing out, as excitedly as sea slugs. Applebloom scanned the crowd for a familiar face, and, after several anxious minutes, spotted one.
It was Twilight. She looked different, in little ways. Her mane was dull, and her infamous lavender highlight had been subdued under a dense bun. She wore a black and white blouse, identically to each of her coworkers. Even her fur was plain, having lost its vibrant, youthful hue like so much smudged lipstick.
Applebloom ambushed her as she exited the main doors. "Twilight Sparkle, it's you!" she cried, her voice slightly hoarse.
Twilight Sparkle reacted to the sight of her friendly assailant with a start, freezing up before the delayed onset of recognition. "App . . . Applebloom?"
"That's right! I found you at last!" Applebloom allowed herself something resembling enthusiasm for the first time in months.
Twilight Sparkle studied the emaciated mare before her. "Are you okay? What happened to your hip?" she asked, staring at Applebloom's flank.
"That's my cutie mark," replied Applebloom, matter-of-factly.
"Oh," said Twilight.
* * *
Twilight Sparkle's home was more of a stable than an apartment; every cubic inch of it had been appropriated for one of a very few essentials: a narrow bed, an under-equipped kitchenette, some water-damaged cupboards, and a lonely shelf of books. A second bed lay not far from Twilight's; her roommate was away for a week, leaving just enough space for Twilight and Applebloom to swing their tails.
"I wish I could help you," said Twilight Sparkle, "but I'm not exactly well-to-do, myself. After I left Ponyville, I went back to my classes, and I racked up more student loans than I could afford. I'm practically an indentured servant until the school of magic takes pity on me. I wish I could quit my job and move back to Ponyville; I never really appreciated the convenience of having a princess for a sponsor until she was assassinated."
At the mention of Celestia's death, a beat of silence interrupted conversation. Applebloom had still been a foal at the time, but the Princess's death had transcended the blinders of youth and innocence. Like every other pony in Equestria, a part of her would forever remain frozen in the memory of when and where she first heard the news. Applejack had come galloping home one disrespectfully beautiful spring day, tears in her eyes and panic in her voice. The story had jumbled at first, loud and malformed, and it was only through tedious interrogation that the truth was gleaned.
An unknown pegasus pony, acting alone, had dropped a rock on her from in impossible height, taking the princess and her royal guard unawares. While Celestia was transported to what would be unsuccessful medical care, half the royal army gave chase. The perpetrator surrendered just outside of Cloudsdale. She wore a slate-grey coat and a subdued mane; the only remarkable aspects of her appearance were her brilliant gold eyes. She was delirious, a simpleton of no faculty, and would give no meaningful answers after a month's questioning. Tens of thousands attended her execution.
The Long Night followed, prolonged not by the agony of a bereaved kingdom but by an absent sun. Princess Luna had assumed her sister’s throne young and unseasoned; it took what might have otherwise have been counted as weeks for her to compel the sun to rise again. The blow to Equestrian farms had devastated food supplies, to say nothing of apple farmers. Luna had made few public appearances since, either out of shame for her early mistakes or sorrow for her murdered sibling.
And, now, at a moment's notice, the two of them mourned all over again. After a sufficiently painful minute had passed, Applebloom asked, "Ain't there nothing at all you can do? Applejack's too proud to ask for help, but we ain't had a decent meal in weeks."
Twilight Sparkle sighed defeatedly. "I can give you a place to crash for the night, since my roommate's away. I can spare you a hot meal and maybe the train fare home. But my means are limited. I wish I could go back and tell myself to put off classes. I wish I could go back and tell your family to prepare for some rough harvests. But there's no easy spell to turn back time."
Applebloom bowed her head in understanding. "Thank you kindly, Twilight Sparkle. I'll repay you one day, if I can."
The rest of their evening continued in heavy silence. It wasn't until they were finishing the last drops of a thin soup dinner that Twilight thought to remark, "You know, there might be one pony you might talk to before heading back . . ."
Applebloom had initially protested that she'd never reach Cloudsdale by herself, but a moment's explanation had made such concerns irrelevant. Instead of journeying skyward, Applebloom had only to walk a few miles out of the city limits.
Rainbow Dash's estate perched atop a steep, grassy hill. The single-story wooden home was surrounded by a shoulder-high fence, gated at the side nearest the front door. The harsh climb quickly winded Applebloom, and it was only after several stops and starts that she completed the ascent.
In between labored breaths, she called out, "Hello? Rainbow Dash, are you home?"
A muffled crash emanated from within the house. Then, somewhat louder, "So what if I am?"
Applebloom replied, "I'd like to speak to you, if I could."
The door remained shut. "Yeah, and who are you?"
"I'm Applebloom, Applejack's little sister."
Behind the doorframe, floorboards creaked to the clopping rhythm of hoofsteps. The door opened a crack, and a thin column of color peeked out from behind it. A violet eye inspected Applebloom for a moment, and the door swung open.
"Applebloom! Yeah, I remember you! Wow, you got taller. C'mon in!"
Applebloom followed the powder blue pegasus into her abode and took in the tiny environment. Past an unremarkable foyer waited a cluttered living room, dotted with empty pie tins and apple cores. A couch lined one wall, just across from a well-worn recliner. All of these things were kept a deferent distance from the focus of the room, a trophy case filled with medals, statues, and cups engraved with Rainbow Dash's name.
Rainbow Dash took a seat on the recliner and caught Applebloom regarding at the display. "Pretty snazzy, huh? Yeah, those were the days. I broke every record there was for flying, outshone even the Wonderbolts until I had my accident." At this, Rainbow Dash gestured to her right wing, glaringly asymmetric to her left upon the most cursory examination. A long scar interrupted the rows of feathers midway up the limb and permanently folded the joint. "I was the first to perform the sonic rainboom, you know. Sure, other ponies have figured it out since, but it will always be my signature."
Rainbow Dash began an exposition of the individual awards in the glass enclosure, but Applebloom's eyes still fixated on Rainbow Dash's broken wing. As she compared it to the healthy wing, she noticed that Rainbow Dash's imperfections were not contained by her feathers; below the avian appendages, the former athlete sported a greasy mane and a noticeably bulbous underside.
". . . but like I said, these wings don't fly like they used to. That's why I moved here from Cloudsdale; it just wasn't practical anymore. Sure, I can still strut my stuff on the clouds, but getting from one to the next is kind of a pain when you struggle to get airborne." Rainbow Dash tore herself from an unpleasant reverie and motioned toward Applebloom's flank. "How about that? You take a tumble, yourself?"
"Uh, no. That's my cutie mark," said Applebloom.
"Oh." Rainbow Dash sat back in the recliner, dismissively. "So, you said you wanted to talk to me?"
"Yes, please," said Applebloom. "Twilight Sparkle said you might be able to help me."
She explained about her family's situation and her current endeavor to save the Apple family. Though she kept her depiction of street life vague, Rainbow Dash's eyes forgot their own attempts at disinterest, and Applebloom was certain they had to noticed her vagrant appearance. Lesser, but still detectable concern surfaced at her narration of her time with Twilight Sparkle, but resentment tempered this emotion as Applebloom returned to the present.
". . . but before I left, she mentioned I should talk to you, because you might have enough money leftover from your glory days to help us out." Applebloom bowed her head vulnerably as she finished.
Rainbow Dash sat upright. "'Glory days!?' So I'm a washout am, I? I'll have you know I still do endorsements now and then for Canterlot Hay and Salt. I'm a respected public figure!"
Applebloom rushed to appease her host. "I'm sorry, Ms. Rainbow; I'm sure she didn't mean no disrespect!"
"Yeah, right, she didn't," said Rainbow Dash, crossing her forelegs. "Nobody ever does. Not the Best Young Flyers Competition when they misplaced my reservations, not my sponsors when they withdrew my contract, and not the insurance companies when they pinned my injury as reckless self-endangerment. No, they all do that by accident, because they 'didn't mean no disprect.'" Rainbow Dash kicked a nearby tin, which landed impotently a few feet away.
"I'm really am sorry, Ms. Rainbow. I really do think you're mighty impressive; why, I ain't never won a trophy in all my life, and here you've got this whole case full of—"
"Save it, Applebloom," barked Rainbow Dash. "I don't need your flattery, either. I'll give you a few bits; it's all I can spare on a fixed income, anyhow. You want to beg somepony for money? Go bother Fluttershy; she married rich."
Applebloom left with just enough for a bag of oats. She ate it as slowly as she could, then fell asleep behind a restaurant that wafted the sweet smells of meals only well-groomed ponies could afford.
When Applebloom asked passing ponies about Fluttershy, the few who did not simply turn their noses puzzled over the familiar, but yet elusive name. It was not until the third or fourth time that a pony of particularly determined meditation exclaimed, "Of course! She's the pretty little thing that Prince Blueblood brought home from—what was it?"
"Ponyville?" offered Applebloom.
"Ah, yes, Ponyville!" And with a self-contented laugh, the anonymous pony trotted off on polished hooves.
The Blueblood estate announced itself so bombasticly, it was impossible to miss. Cylindrical, slate-shingled towers cut a tall, ivory-white palisade cut into sections adorned with high windows of fine glass. A wrought iron fence held the world at a sterile distance, its only gate guarded on either side by guards in bronze barding.
When Applebloom approached, the watchmen blocked her path. "Prince Blueblood does not entertain without an appointment," said the first.
Applebloom sagged her shoulders under the bulky, looming figures. "I—I'm not here to see Prince Blueblood; I'm here to visit Fluttershy."
The gatekeepers exchanged skeptical glances. "Is Lady Fluttershy expecting you?" asked the second.
"I'm an old friend, honest. From Ponyville. My name is Applebloom, and I only need a minute of her time."
The guards recoiled slightly, either out of consideration for her request or repugnance. The first shrugged at the second. The second tilted its head at the first. A reluctant nod. At last, they returned their attention to Applebloom.
"You will wait here while Lady Fluttershy is given word of your presence."
They apparently didn't trust her to wait on her own, because one of them remained at the gate while the other wrestled through ring of keys. The gate opened; the guard walked mechanically to the door of the estate, knocked, and waited. A doorman answered, conferred in inaudible tones with the guard, and then disappeared back inside. More waiting. The doorman reappeared, and the guard returned to fetch Applebloom.
"Lady Fluttershy, exhibiting her great generosity, has deigned it acceptable to favor you with an audience. You will come with me."
Thus, Applebloom was escorted by a series of white gloves and crisp collars past a nigh unending series of tiled corridors and silk tapestries. When she was sure her legs would collapse from walking, she was led through a set of ornate double doors into a room lined with vases of fresh flowers, dressers littered with cosmetics and perfume, armoires packed with over-conceptualized dresses, and one dress in particular, mildly stuffed with Fluttershy.
"H-hello, Applebloom."
Applebloom's eyes were nearly as wide as the room. "Fluttershy, is that you? You look like a queen! And here I am, dirtying up your carpets and smelling like something a cat dug up . . ."
"No, it's all right," murmured the whisper of a pegasus. "Can I get you something to eat? M-maybe a salve for your hip?"
"That's my cutie mark," said Applebloom.
Fluttershy's voice shrank further. "Oh."
"I'd love something to eat, though, Fluttershy—uh, Lady Fluttershy." said Applebloom, eager to fill the silence. "I'd be much obliged for anything at all."
"Oh, you don't have to call me L-Lady," said Fluttershy. "I keep trying to get people to call me 'Fluttershy,' but they're all too scared of the Prince. N-not that there's anything wrong with the Prince, but—oh, my . . ."
Fluttershy interrupted herself by stepping daintily over to a nearby table and lifting a polished silver bell. She tilted it a fraction of a turn, then gently back, releasing a single, sonorous ring. The tintinnabulation hung in the air, just above the line of audibility, until it was overpowered by the sound of clopping hooves. With bowed heads, two servants cantered in and knelt to the angelic pegasus, whereupon Fluttershy apologized her way through a collection of hushed requests. The two ponies knelt and excused themselves, not raising their heads until sometime after exiting the room.
Applebloom gaped at Fluttershy. Every seam and tassel of her dress competed for the size and beauty of its contribution to her appearance. Her mane, once a long glowing river of pink, had been redirected through braids and clips, while a ponderous collection of bracelets clinked about her legs. Soft tones of makeup utterly failed to conceal her apparently permanent blush and large, downcast eyes. She stood, hunched and weighted, bound not in chains but meticulous gold embroidery.
"Do you like my dress?" she asked. "I don't much care for it, but Prince Blueblood paid an awful lot to commission it. He's really very thoughtful, buying such nice things."
Applebloom stumbled over her own stupefaction. "It's very pretty on you, Fluttershy. But it looks mighty difficult to walk around in. How would you ever get anywhere in all that?"
Fluttershy's visage sunk. "Oh, I don't really go out much, anymore . . . Prince Blueblood really prefers that I visit the courtyard when I want to be outdoors. That way, it's extra special when he takes me to one of his social functions. The courtyard's more than big enough to walk about in, and Angel has a whole garden of vegetables to himself. It's good that Prince Blueblood has the staff take such good care of him, because I don't often get to, and there aren't any other animals in the courtyard . . ." She trailed off, her voice slowly camouflaging into the silence around it.
"But Fluttershy," said Applebloom, when she could bear no more politeness, "You love the outdoors. And animals. And you never used to wear complicated dresses and jewelry."
"Oh, but it would be ungrateful of me to disappoint Prince Blueblood. After all, he's so good to me—" Fluttershy paused a moment to push adjust a fold of her dress, "—and I did model dresses for Photo Finish, remember? That's why the Prince buys me such nice clothing, I think, because it reminds him of when he first saw me at a fashion show."
Before Applebloom could interject, the servants returned bearing silver platters of delicately cut sandwiches and apple slices. They set them daintily upon a gilded table beside the pair, then, excusing themselves with exaggerated bows, left the room. As the exited, Fluttershy managed to squeak out, "Thank you."
Applebloom helped herself to as much as her restraint would allow, before abruptly stopping herself on Fluttershy's behalf. "Fluttershy, won't you have any?"
"Oh, no," said the gilded rose. "I wouldn't want to get crumbs on my dress . . . um, so, what are you doing in Canterlot?"
Applebloom recounted her story, sparing Fluttershy the detailed agony of street life. "So you see, Fluttershy, we're really in a desperate place. Could you possibly spare us Apple ponies enough to get back on our hooves?"
Fluttershy had looked on the verge of tears through most of the story, but her face went white at the request. "Oh, I'm so sorry," she wavered, "I'm really, truly sorry."
"Now hold on," said Applebloom, quizzically. "It ain't your fault we're in hard times—"
"No, it's not that," said Fluttershy. "It's just—I really wish I could help you, b-but I can't! Prince Blueblood takes care of all of our finances personally, and even if I had access to our accounts, he'd never let me give out his personal wealth. It's not that he's not generous; really, he is, but he's very principled, and—" Fluttershy collapsed as she spoke.
"Fluttershy, it's your life!" Applebloom punctuated her outrage by stepping ever closer to the defeated pegasus. "If don't want to stay cooped up in this overdecorated dungeon, go outside! If you don't want to wear dresses bigger than you are, don't! Or at least, have the Prince commission Rarity to make you somethin' with taste." Applebloom stood over Fluttershy now, as threatening as a bony, malnourished mare could hope to be.
"You don't understand," sobbed Fluttershy. "Prince Blueblood has a temper, and it would upset him very much—"
It was at that moment, standing over the submissive wreck, that Applebloom noticed that it was not merely makeup that put color in Fluttershy's cheeks.
"—if I betrayed him, and Rarity isn't—"
A chorus of deep chimes resonated from the hallway, announcing the hour. Fluttershy bolted upright at the sound. "Oh, no! Is it that late already! He'll be home soon, and he's very particular about unexpected guests! You have to go right now!"
She hurried over to ring the bell, a desperately minuscule motion. A butler arrived in moments, and, in between profuse apologies, Fluttershy asked to have Applebloom escorted out. Applebloom was passed from servant to servant to guard until, at last, she found herself ejected onto the street, once more in front of a locked gate and a smug pair of guards. She gazed past them, hoping to spot Fluttershy hovering by one window or another, but all that lay behind her were unsympathetic stone walls and a pair of servants, already busily removing the last traces of her hoofprints.
Applebloom mentally replayed her visit with Fluttershy many times, alternately stricken with anger and sorrow for her family friend. When repeated retrospect failed to yield any comforting insights about Fluttershy's secluded lifestyle, she distracted herself with the minutae of the conversation. Few words had passed between them, but one detail held fast to her flailing thoughts, until she realized it was an idea:
She could visit Rarity.
The fashonista had always been bound for a life of wealth and class, thought Applebloom. And she was far too strong-willed to submit to the whims of some dilletante thoroughbred. Rarity even lived in Canterlot these days, owing to her drive to join the beating heart of the fashion world.
To Applebloom's surprise, however, no one had heard of her. She wandered through all the mercantile streets of Canterlot, it seemed, searching for boutiques bearing a familiar name. What proprietors she asked assured her that they had never heard the name Rarity as they pushed this street urchin out of their stores.
With each visit, she was swept further and further toward the southern districts of Canterlot, a downward gradient in both elevation and socioeconomics. Here, on the periphery of the capital, crowded the homes of Canterlot's working class, the bedroom of the laborers and serviceponies of the city.
As dusk blanketed the city, Applebloom began searching for an untrafficked corner for the night. Many were already claimed by ponies far more threatening than she, and others by more than their share of feral rats. A mangy grey feline startled Applebloom as it leapt out of the darkness, snatching up an unfortunate rodent.
Applebloom would have ignored the cat, if not for one perplexing detail: it was wearing a pink satin dress. Strange for any cat, but stranger for one as unhealthy as this one. Though Applebloom had no great fondness for the spectacle of a cat feeding on its catch, she couldn't help but stare at the disjointed appearance of this street animal. What was it, a homeless hunter or a vicious, underfed pet?
While she pondered this, another mystery arose—which is to say, another well-dressed cat. A black cat wearing cuffs about its paws and a folded collar, swooped in and snatched up the bulk of the remaining cadaver. The grey cat, unwilling to surrender its prize, leaped after the thief, and a chase began: two feuding cats, burning a trail through the Canterlot slums, and Applebloom, galloping bewilderedly behind them.
The pursuit concluded with the two belligerents darting into a cat door of a beaten-up apartment on a dull corner. Applebloom slid to a halt at the sight of the place, not for its architecture but for its population: a veritable city of clothed cats. Scarves, hats, blouses, vests, and boots bolted this way and that across the path, up a tree, or under the front stair, all buttoned, tied, or clipped onto cats of varying complacency.
Applebloom noticed the name on the mailbox and gasped.
RARITY
She couldn't immediately figure if this was divine or hideous luck on her part, but Applebloom followed the only path she could (specifically, the one in front of her) and rang the doorbell. As the two-tone call echoed inside the house, several felines darted in no clear or common direction, and a familiar, cultivated accent called out from within. "Coming, darling!"
Applebloom took a moment to inspect herself, suddenly concerned that she may look too rough to entertain. On the other hand, she thought, a polished appearance wouldn't exactly suit her purpose. It occurred to her that she may very well have been holding an internal debate on proper etiquette for begging a cat lady for alms.
The door swung wide open, revealing an explosion of purple and white. The unicorn standing in the doorway couldn't be called young by any conventional standards, yet every aspect of her appearance lied shamelessly to the contrary. Her figure, happily introduced itself as thin and well-managed, but on inspection revealed itself to be in fact bony and underweight. Her face advertised youthful exuberance but hid crows feet and age lines under a mask of concealer and eyeliner. Her thick purple mane weaved a beautiful fiction of color and volume, a bold-faced deceit built on hair dye and mousse.
"Why, hello, stranger," she began, a thoughtful look on her face. "What can Rarity do for you today? Have you come to commission my work? Perhaps to browse my previous creations? Don't they just look adorable on my little kitty friends?"
"Rarity," said Applebloom, uneasily. "It's me, Applebloom."
The unicorn paused for a beat, waning pensive as she scanned some internal catalogue. Slowly, a look of recognition materialized. "Applebloom! Why, I haven't seen you in years! Please, come in; let me give you an exclusive discount. I'll design something to show off that splendid figure of yours and maybe to hide that unfortunate blemish."
"That's my cutie mark," said Applebloom, flatly.
"Oh." Rarity retreated a few steps, holding the door for her guest. "Well, do come in, anyway; we simply must catch up!"
If the front walk was a city of cats, the interior was an absolute metropolis. There were appareled cats running on the uneven wooden stairs, sleeping by the cast iron radiator, batting at the shredded pink tablecloth, and howling at the unprepared foreign pony that had just entered their midst. Underneath a thick layer of shed fur, a kitchen, nook, and studio cried out for death.
Rarity bat not one of her extended eyelashes at the mess, but trotted swiftly over to a sewing machine in the far corner, occupied by more feline livery and a single, elderly cat, which Rarity began coddling. "Opalescence, you naughty thing, you know you're not supposed to be up here! You'll ruin all of Mommy's hard work. You wouldn't want that, now would you?"
Applebloom's concern deepened with every passing whisker.
"Now, tell me, Applebloom, how is your older sister doing these days?" inquired Rarity, in exaggerated tones.
Applebloom explained her purpose quickly, as if speaking quickly might bring her closer to the end of her visit.
"Oh, dear," said Rarity, her mood descending. "I had no idea things had become so . . . distasteful."
"We'd all hoped for more," said Applebloom. “Actually, I came to Canterlot to ask for help from some of my sis’s friends.”
"Well, I have good news for you: Rarity is going to help you. I don't have the money on hand—a momentary inconvenience, you can be sure—but I'm sure any day now I'll have the capitol to move my shop back onto main street. I just need a few modernly minded patrons is all; word of mouth will do the rest. Rarity's Canterlot Carousel Boutique is just waiting to take off! And what could be better for business than a charitable cause? From now on, twenty percent of every purchase goes toward ponies in need!"
Applebloom nodded weakly. "That's very kind of you, Rarity. I'm sure Applejack will be mighty grateful when the money comes in. In the meantime . . . is Sweetie Belle around?" Applebloom begged inwardly that her old friend had not fallen victim to her elder sister's madness.
Rarity postured wistfully. "She was for a while. It's my fault, really, what happened to her. I tried to look after her, like a big sister ought, but I let her slip away. When my downtown shop began to struggle one dreadful season, we had something of a falling out. She said she couldn't stand living in such a decaying place anymore. She got a job at a nightclub, singing her heart out every other night, met a boy, and moved in with him. I told her she'd have been better off doing something cultured—opera, maybe—but she wouldn't have it; she fell head over hoof into a world of jazz and alcohol.
"And wouldn't you know it? She made it big. Became a real sensation, got the one thing she desperately didn't need at that age: fame. I tried to be happy for her, but it was hard to watch her swept up by Canterlot nightlife. I wouldn't see her for months at a time, until, one fateful evening, I got a visit from the police. Sweetie Belle had been arrested for possession at a private party, and, as next of kin, I was the only one to pay bail. It cost me the last of the funds for the downtown shop, but I brought her home.
"I thought she'd appreciate it more than she did, that I'd have a chance to set her back on the straight and narrow, but she was absolutely incensed at having to stay with her dear old sis. She tolerated living here until her court date, when she was ordered to attend rehab. As soon as that was over, she went right back to the clubs. She found her own places to stay, and she vanished all over again. The police visited me again, not too long after, but this time I didn't have the money to bring her home. It's just as well; at trial, they sentenced her to a year in Canterlot prison. Oh, it just kills me to think of my beautiful sister, rotting away behind bars!"
Rarity dove into a clamor of histrionic sobs, her mascara smearing as she wiped away her tears. Applebloom, crestfallen herself at the story of her foalhood friend, moved to console her host.
"Oh, no, don't worry about me," said Rarity, striving to regain her composure. "I'll be fine. After all, I still have Opal and her friends to keep me company. Oh, look at me; you've come to me for help, and here I am, a total wreck."
"It's all right," offered Applebloom. "I still have other friends of the family to find here in Canterlot. Didn't Pinkie Pie open a shop here, too?"
Rarity's tears ceased abruptly, and her face went a shade whiter than the makeup that covered it. "Oh, you poor dear. You haven't heard."
The Canterlot Asylum for the Criminally Insane sat behind a high brick wall at the edge of town. Its boxy, functionalist appearance portrayed it, perhaps accurately, as a sort of warehouse, stocked not with supplies but ponies whose broken minds had succumbed to dangerous voices.
"We don't get a lot of visitors for Pinkie Pie, these days," said the warden, conversationally. "Sure, we got our share of reporters when she was first brought here, but they only ever wanted a picture, never to actually talk to her. The public always treats this place like a zoo. Present company excluded, of course."
Applebloom followed the warden cautiously, intimidated by the sterile white hallways, the harsh ceiling lights, the rough patrolling guards, and, above all, the patients. Behind every barred window lay cells populated with shaved manes, sanded-down horns, clipped wings, and pillow-wrapped hooves. The ponies who owned them engaged themselves in heated arguments, paced aimlessly about their rooms, banged their heads and hooves against the walls, stood as statues facing vacant corners, and, most disturbing of all, stared with rapt attention at their passing visitor.
"We've had patients sent to us for arson, serial murder, and cannibalism, but Pinkie Pie was a new one on us. Everyone suspects the butcher, but the confectioner? By the time the police figured her out, she'd been poisoning her customers for weeks, including all her 'favorite pretty flowers' in her cake batter. Azaleas and milkweed sure are some funny favorites.
"And then there was the trial! Most of our patients have to fight for an insanity plea, but Pinkie Pie? Put on a song and dance during her attorney's opening statements. I was there; even the bailiffs seemed scared to touch her.
"Heck, I wouldn't be too surprised if we arrive at an empty cell; she's one heck of an escape artist. She's practically supernatural in her ability to get from one place to another, even if either—or both!—is a locked room."
The warden showed her badge to a pair of guards standing beside a steel grate. They nodded in acknowledgement, and, in practiced synchronosity, each produced a key and inserted it into each of two locks, at last sliding the door open. Above the bars hung the words, "Maximum Security Wing."
Here, there were guards posted at every cell. The front wall of each was a thick pane of reinforced glass. The tenants sat under the same bright illumination that pervaded the asylum, most of them exuding a hideous lassitude as they lay motionless in their cells.
Most, but not all. They arrived at Pinkie Pie's cell, at the end of a hallway. Her mane, like all the others, was only allowed to a few centimeters of length, but, even truncated, it bent into brutal curls. Her tail, too, came to a brusque end behind her. Her hooves were wrapped in cotton cinched about her ankles, bounding up and down on the padded cell floor.
"Hi, Applebloom!" she said immediately, her voice muffled behind the glass. "With this giant pillowy floor and these super-soft shoes, everywhere I go is like jumping on the bed!"
Her agitating enthusiasm silenced Applebloom.
"Hello, Pinkie Pie," said the warden, coolly. "How is your day, today?"
"Just great!" exclaimed the bouncing pink blur. "In fact—"
She burst into song. Though Applebloom didn't catch all of the lyrics, she heard enough to know it was ballad about bedding and pillows. The number continued for several minutes, during which Pinkie Pie payed no measurable attention to her audience beyond facing them during the occasional fermata.
Applebloom felt ill. She didn't know why she'd come; there would be no alms here. Charity was as lost to these ponies as they were to the world. While Pinkie Pie continued her oblivious display, Applebloom asked the warden to escort her back to the exit.
The warden acquiesced sympathetically, attempting to comfort Applebloom as they returned from the rabbit hole. "Don't you worry about your friend, Miss. We're taking good care of her. Would you like something to eat? We have a cafeteria for the staff, here. We've got an infirmary, too, in case you want to have that bruise looked at."
"That's my cutie mark," whispered Applebloom, through a veil of tears.
Having spent the last of her money on a bag of oats, she resigned herself to following the train tracks on hoof. The Equestrian countryside was nearly beautiful, but Applebloom's spirits admitted no comforts in her state. Instead, the tranquility of the plains underscored the land's indifference to her plight.
How could so many lives go so wrong? Was there some curse upon the retrievers of the elements of harmony? Or on Ponyville itself? It had seemed so certain when she'd left that at least some help might come their way. Instead, every pony she encountered had become a wretched shadow of her former self. Fortune had forsaken her friends and family, and now she could only return to a life of filth and foraging.
Except now, it would be worse. Now, she had witnessed the casualties of contagious misery. Now, she had extinguished hope.
She walked along the rails for hours, the scenery slowly progressing from verdant plains to rolling mountains. Her legs ached with the drumming of her hooves, her back with the unforgiving bedrest of paved streets, and her heart with an emptiness previously reserved for her stomach. It began to drizzle, then to rain in earnest. Applebloom soldiered on. Only when lightning struck did she think to find shelter.
Unfortunately, shelter was not forthcoming. There were trees enough to hide under, but the increasingly frequent booms of thunder reminded her it was not merely rain she sought to escape. She left the line of tracks to descend into a nearby valley; if she could not find a place to hide from thunderclouds, she would at least get farther from them.
The mountainside was a labyrinth of trees and undergrowth, made slick by a layer of mud, rain, and foliage. She stepped as carefully as she could, but the inevitable misstep occasionally took a leg or two out from under her. Though the clouds admitted little light and the trees even less, she could make out waterflows forming on lower ground, ephemeral tributaries, some large enough to carry away an unprepared pony. She began to question whether lower ground was where she wanted to be.
The heightening downpour assaulted the landscape with a barrage of wet needles. The wind tore at the trees, which waved their arms in surrender. Silt cascaded down the mountainside, searching for an escape route; the river provided one with violent eagerness.
Applebloom, too, was under attack. Water pounded against her brow and blinded her no matter what direction she faced. Thunder echoed through her slight frame and stung her ears. Her mane clung to her neck in matted locks, and her hooves sank into the liquifying ground. Her discomfort turned to fear.
She ran along the level contours of the mountainside, as if to outrun the storm. Wind, mud, and brush opposed her every step. The stormy curtain defied her attempts to get her bearings, and within minutes she'd lost sight of the tracks. The mountains suffered in every direction. She pushed forward, driven not toward any destination but away from wherever she was.
A bright flash illuminated a tree in the not-too-great distance, and a crash of splintering wood deafened her. She veered away from the strike. Another flash, even closer, lit the forest in a blink of blue light. Thunder shook her innards against her bones. She felt as if the clouds were taking pictures of her torment and laughing at her distress.
Her front hooves slipped, flailing for a hoofhold as she tumbled over a cliff and into a well of muck. She kicked frantically until she found her feet and lifted herself up.
There was a cave, here. The mouth was large; she had been lucky not to have fallen directly over it, as she surely would have broken several bones. The interior descended steeply, advertising only darkness beyond the first few meters. At the promise of shelter, Applebloom didn't think twice.
The floor was solid rock, and, judging from the echoes of her hoofsteps and the dwindling thunder behind her, the cavern could have housed a barn. Water streamed in from the entrance, but she left it behind as the floor turned suddenly upward. Warm, gentle winds pulsed through the tunnel.
As her eyes adjusted to the subterranean lighting, she started to make out vague shapes. Stalactites and stalagmites lined up like bulbous teeth. Ahead, she could just see an opening into a still vaster space. The air thickened, heating Applebloom's drenched coat, but it was still to humid to dry off.
She took one stride into the void-filled chamber and immediately became aware of her growing nervousness. Glad as she was to be out of the storm, her current circumstances did not remedy her vulnerability. She had led herself into the pitch darkness, weak and battered, and now she stood deep underground, deprived of all sensation but the water dripping down her side and the alternating gusts of wind . . .
The ground shook. Something very, very big had landed only a few feet ahead of her. A cacaphonous shifting sound pervaded the chamber, and wind—no, breath!—retreated away from her into some behemoth creature. Applebloom stood, paralyzed with fear, as green flames erupted above her, illuminating the face of a colossal purple dragon.
The dragon lowered its fire-wreathed maw in front of Applebloom, its forked tongue twitching between its tree-sized fangs and its wide yellow eyes dilating. A sonorous roar quaked the chasm—
"Sorry to scare you, Applebloom. The only visitors I usually get are bears looking for a place to sleep, and I don't want them horning in on my cave. You understand." The immense creature craned its head toward the center of the chamber and exhaled, igniting a pile of logs previously cloaked in darkness.
"You've, uh, grown," said Applebloom, her heart still bucking in her chest.
Spike reared his head back, folded his claws across his green underbelly, and broke into a terrifying chuckle. "Yeah, and you shrank!" His tail slapped against the ground, causing nearby rocks to bounce up and down. "I'm a dragon; what did you expect?"
Applebloom's legs threatened to give out from fatigue, so she knelt beside the freshly lit fire. "I didn't expect anything at all," she said, in a comparative squeak. "I had no idea you were here!"
Spike, taking notice of his guest's frailty for the first time, spoke in his softest rumble. "Yeah, I was wondering about that. You mean you just found me by accident?"
"Yes," murmured Applebloom. "It's storming something terrible out there."
The wyrm hesitated to consider the once-familiar notion of being threatened by weather, then asked, "You don't have any gems, do you?"
Applebloom lifted her head just long enough to shake it.
"I thought not. Worth a try, though; I need to get started on a hoard. I never realized this when I was little, but it turns out it takes some serious chops to save up for a proper treasure pile. I'd been eating all the gems that came my way and banking on the princess to reward me for my service to Twilight Sparkle, but, well, she never got that chance. That's what I get for putting all my eggs in one basket."
The dragon waited for a reply, but Applebloom only nodded weakly from the fireside.
"Hey, are you okay? You don't look so hot."
Applebloom turned over on her side and succumbed to exhaustion.
* * *
She awoke to the echo of birds chirping outside the mouth of the cave. By the sound of things, the rain had stopped. The smell of soot wafted through her nostrils, and radiant flames warmed her sore legs. She opened her eyes.
An apple tree dropped in front of her.
Applebloom bolted upright at the sudden crash, her legs shaking. "Sorry about that," boomed a now familiar voice. "I guess I'll be more gentle next time."
Applebloom would have watched in awe as the scaly hulk lumbered into the room. She would have marveled at the grace of such girth, would have stared wide-eyed at his extended claws as he stretched his behemoth limbs. But she didn't. She was busy eating apples.
They tasted as wonderful as she remembered, maybe better. They were a tart, wild-growing variety, unworthy of any successful orchard, but she held nothing against them. Biting them right off the branch, she savored the fruit that symbolized all that was ever right with her family, even as her ravenous appetite urged her to gorge herself on a tree's worth of fruit.
Spike settled into his alcove wearing a smile that narrowly avoided malevolence. "I'm glad you like it! I was pretty worried for you when you passed out last night, and you look kind of, uh, thin."
Applebloom tore herself away from her meal for a moment. "Thank you kindly, Spike. This might be the best breakfast I've ever had."
Spike lay in contened silence for the long while it took Applebloom to sate herself. When she finished, she carefully plucked each remaining apple and replaced the rain-soaked oats from her bag with her harvest. It took every modicum of will she had not to devour these leftovers on the spot.
"So, Applebloom," said Spike, when she had at last finished. "What have you been up to? What are you doing out here in the mountains, and why are you so hungry?"
The joy left Applebloom's eyes. "It's a long story, Spike."
"Okay," said Spike. "Can I hear it?"
Applebloom grimaced. She wasn't excited to relive her experiences, but she could hardly deny her saviour his curiousity. She told her whole story, omitting nothing of her family's desperation, her futile arguments with her sister, her journey to Canterlot, and the broken ponies she encountered at every turn. She lamented the futility of her quest, the shame of her return, and the despair it would inevitably bring to her sister when she retold it. She cried for Granny Apple's invalidity, Applejack's pride, Celestia's assassination, Twilight's servitude, Rainbow Dash's shiftlessness, Fluttershy's imprisonment, Rarity's decay, Sweetie Belle's self-destruction, and Pinkie Pie's utter damnation. The account exhausted her, and by its end she lay once more defeated by the fireside.
Spike made what must have been, for a dragon, a pensive sound. "I guess Princess Celestia really had us all pinned, huh?"
Applebloom tilted her head to the side. "Whaddaya mean?"
"I mean she understood us. She knew what makes us all tick. It makes sense; she must have learned a lot about us from all of those friendship reports I passed her way."
"Spike," said Applebloom, forgetting her relative size for a moment, "What're you talkin' about?"
Spike snorted, shooting minute bolts of fire out of his nostrils. "Think about it, Applebloom! What was the Apple family downfall? I mean, other than bad harvests and rotten luck, why couldn't you recover?"
"Pride," said Applebloom, bitterly.
"Exactly. And, before you guys wound up in the gutter—no offense—friends always gave you the help you wouldn't ask for. Like that time Applejack tried to harvest all of Sweet Apple Acres by herself.
"Twlight Sparkle would have locked herself in a library, if not for her friends; that's why the Princess sent her to Ponyville in the first place. It's no surprise that, without them, she wound up chained to a desk.
"And how about Rainbow Dash? She was the most competitive pony in Equestria. But outside the races, she got her sense of self-worth from her friends. Without that sense, she was free to take risks with herself, and now she has to perch herself on some hilltop, just to get closer skyward.
"Fluttershy has the opposite problem; she's never had enough pride to stick up for herself. But her friends gave her that self-esteem.
"Sweetie Belle was a born performer, but, ever since you guys were fillies, she's always bounded forward at a moment's notice. She needed her friends and family to help her look before she leaped.
"And let's be honest; Pinkie Pie was always a loose cannon. But her friends kept her aimed in the right direction.
"And Princess Celestia knew all this! That's the real reason she wanted all those reports on friendship. She didn't live thousands of years without picking up some pony skills; she probably knew every word of those reports before she laid eyes on them. But she knew if she had Twilight write them, she and her friends would stick together, and that was good for all of them. It was good for Ponyville, maybe even all of Equestria." Spike's closing thesis reverberated through the cavern, and a serpentine smugness crept across his face.
"You forgot Rarity," remarked Applebloom.
"No, I didn't," said Spike. "I just didn't want to badmouth her. Rarity's fault, if you could call it that, was that she gave too much of herself. If she hadn't, she might have been able to keep her downtown storefront."
Applebloom meditated a moment on Spike's words. "Hey, Spike. When did you get so smart?"
"I've always been smart," he said, in a burst of volume. "I'm a dragon."
Applebloom's depression reasserted itself. "Well, whether or not you're right, I'm not sure there's anything to do about it. Princess Celestia is dead, and our friends will probably never even stand in the same room again."
Spike heaved a sigh that swept the cavern with wind. "When I was a baby, I would have turned to Twilight Sparkle with this kind of problem. She always had some spell to cast for times like this."
Applebloom felt a surge of recollection. What was it Twilight Sparkle had said?
There's no easy spell . . .
"Spike!" shouted Applebloom, "I know what to do!"
Spike waited a beat before answering. "Are you going to tell me?"
"Well, it's kind of a long shot. But, yeah." Applebloom reviewed her thoughts aloud, and Spike listened intently.
"Huh," said Spike. "Maybe, I dunno. Probably worth asking."
Applebloom lit up with excitement and gathered her things. "I've gotta get back to Canterlot. Do you wanna come along?"
"No, no," grumbled Spike. "I don't think I'd really fit."
"Well, I'll miss you, then. You've grown into a handsome dragon, Spike"
Spike gave the softest draconian face possible. Applebloom was on her way out when he added, "Hey, Applebloom?"
"Yes, Spike?"
"Nice cutie mark."
"Really?" she said, in a disbelieving tone.
"Well, no. But I know you were always really excited to get one."
When Twilight Sparkle found Applebloom waiting outside her door, she felt a wash of anger, followed by guilt. Her irritation stemmed from Applebloom's apparent refusal to listen, from her own foolishness in giving this mouse a cookie, and from the general milieu of a life she no longer herself led. Yet, in recognizing Applebloom's haggard resemblence to her once close friend, she could not help but devalue her own stake in the matter. She had a bed to sleep in at night and a steady if tenuous income, luxuries this young mare had lost through no fault of her own.
Thus, Twilight Sparkle prepared herself to be talked into letting the stray stay the night. But, to her surprise, it didn't happen. Applebloom didn't want to stay anywhere. Applebloom wanted to talk about magic. She wanted to talk about her last visit. In particular, she seemed absolutely fixated on something she alleged Twilight had said: that there was no spell to turn back time.
No, that wasn't it. Twilight had said there was no easy way to turn back time. And that was different, because it implied that there was a hard way. No pony who didn't think there was a way would waste her breath inserting the word "easy" where it didn't belong.
Twilight Sparkle did her best to explain. Using magic wasn't as simple as pointing your horn and grunting, contrary to any appearances. It was a science; every spell demanded exacting precision, a disciplined mind, and, above all, exhaustive research.
Yes, she had heard of a spell that could influence the past. But it wasn't time travel; you couldn't send ponies galloping through history, thank goodness. It was a persistent alteration in the fabric of space, a rewrite that would introduce some small new element to the cosmos.
But she had only heard of it. It would take all the vacation and sick days she had in a year to peruse the Canterlot library for such an advanced text, and that was only if they were willing to let her try. And even if she found it, she would never be able to cast it. Such arcane feats were the exclusive domain of the magical elite, those ancient unicorns who had honed their skills over millenia. Luna herself was probably the only pony left in all of Equestria who stood a chance.
And even if you had all the time, the books, and the personal assistance of Equestria's monarch, you'd still only be able to effect the slightest change in the past. Something so subtle you would hardly notice it if you weren't looking for it.
"You mean like giving the assassin a lazy eye?"
Twilight Sparkle reeled at Applebloom's reply. It was . . . plausible, but Applebloom was missing the point. Even if the spell worked as intended, it would be reprehensibly selfish. To save a diarch from a death already years old, to redirect the flow of Equestria's history, all for the fleeting hope that it might save one family of Earth ponies from destitution? She felt deeply for Applebloom, but they could not rightly move the world for what could callously be called a concedable loss.
Twilight braced herself for Applebloom to mistake her words for apathy, to rave at her indifference, and to mourn the death of a fairy tale ending. But she did none of these things. Instead, she recounted her time since their last meeting.
It was not the narrative Twilight would have expected. There was no mention of Applebloom's long, cold nights on the street nor of any other personal miseries, only a litany of Twilight's broken former friends. Many of their stories were not new to Twilight; she had heard of Fluttershy's betrothal to a noble, of Pinkie Pie's incarceration, and of Rainbow Dash's injury. But doubt had always given Twilight room to construct better circumstances for each of them; she had imagined Fluttershy a loving wife, Pinkie Pie a recovering repentant, Rainbow Dash a relaxed retiree. Had it been an unreasonable fiction for Rarity to have found a market, for Sweetie Belle to find her voice? First-hand testimony left no room for self-delusion.
Applebloom didn't argue for her own sake. Her determination stemmed from a loyalty that far outshone Twilight's, to friends that were ostensibly hers. The last denier in Twilight's mind belittled the entire appeal as a child's protest that life wasn't fair. But the pony before Twilight now was no filly; she had seen more of the world's depths than Twilight and bore more of its burdens than anypony ought. A flicker lit the dark spaces of Twilight's heart. It was time to relent.
Applebloom visibly brightened at this, but Twilight could tell she was containing herself. There was much yet to be done.
* * *
The library of Canterlot was cathedral to the written word. Monoliths of stone arches and endless shelves housed a (savvy) dragon's hoard of literature, from every past age, venerated author, and studied field. Two ponies could spend their lives reading only those novels whose titles started with 'A'; only the most discriminating pair could be dissatisfied with the selection.
Such was the opinion of the principal librarian, anyhow. Twilight Sparkle had more to say on the matter.
"As Celestia's apprentice, I was granted access to every wing of this building, even the catacombs you've been told not to mention," she said mightily, "There is no power short of another princess that can deny me that privilege. Or has Princess Luna commissioned your services in opposing her late sister's students?"
The display astounded Applebloom, who had never had so much weight to throw. It had an at least similar effect on the curator, who ground his teeth as he invited the pair to follow him.
The deep archives of the library lay behind twisting catacombs and daunting stone doors. The curator unlocked them and opened them under the augury of his luminous horn, but he did not follow them in. It was silent, save for the timid breathing of the intruders, and dark, save for the light of Twilight's magic. There were no bookshelves, here; instead, chests of drawers the height of two stallions stood watch over the crypt. Twilight Sparkle stalked over to the nearest drawer and creaked it open. Inside, a codex nestled cozily on a silk pillow and under a glass case.
"The library has tried to catalogue these books before," she said, off-handedly, "but the initiatives are never seen through. Too many books in too many dead languages and not enough experts qualified to sort them."
"So how will you figure out which one has the spell you want?" asked Applebloom, taking in the labyrinth of manuals.
"Slowly," said Twilight, paging through her first victim. She studied passages, first at random, then seeking with specificity. Applebloom fidgeted, wandered to the edge of the light, and wondered how far beyond it lay the far wall. At the conclusion of several minutes, Twilight closed the book and gingerly replaced it.
After five days spent mostly underground, a shanty would have appeared as a palace to Applebloom. Castle Celestia, though, seemed too large to have been conceived by mortal ponies.
The citadel of Canterlot still bore the name of its owner's late sister, as Castle Luna still lay in ruins in the Everfree Forest. Yet, not everything about it remained unchanged; the once perpetually ivory tower now lustered onyx at night, an enchantment Luna had commissioned to suit her preferences while not wholly ejecting Celestia's legacy. The reigning princess had granted Twilight and Applebloom an audience to take place during these nocturnal hours, so Applebloom's first impression of the castle was of a hole taken out of the stars.
The moon cast unnaturally long shadows, here; the silhouettes of rooftop gargoyles crawled across the marble threshhold, and the shadows lingered a little bit too long after the gatekeepers opened the door. Still, they stepped unsteadily onward, to a room encircled by towering columns and topped with a skylight whose color stains had retreated for the night. Moonlight streamed steadily downward, to a dais engraved with the Sun and Moon about its edge.
Princess Luna stood wretchedly atop it, perspiring under the pulsing magic of her horn. "Step closer, visitors," she commanded in a deep, crackling voice. "I entertain few visitors, but I make an exception for my sister's pupil."
Cowed by their sovereign's candor, Applebloom and Twilight Sparkle approached the platform and knelt. Princess Luna stormed with exertion. Her mane, once a stream of blue mist, whipped violently and fumed over her trembling frame. Bags puffed under her reddened eyes, which stared unyieldingly upward.
"You may speak," grunted the Princess. "I have concentration to spare, but little time."
Twilight Sparkle rose. "Princess Luna, we wish to humbly ask you to consider our proposal. We come before you today, after much magical research, in the hopes of altering the past."
"Impossible," said the Princess. "The past is immutable."
Twilight Sparkle cued Applebloom to present the book and journal of notes she had distilled in the past week. "I beg your pardon," said Twilight Sparkle, "but I have reconstructed a nine-century-old spell from the archives of the Canterlot library." She neglected to mention that the spell was invented during the Princess's millennium-long exile.
"If you truly have such a spell, why consult me? Even I cannot deny the will of one who controls history."
Twilight bowed her head once more. "It is beyond the power of normal unicorns to cast. We hoped that you might cast it."
Princess Luna's strain intensified. "And why should I do this for you, if I am even able? What change does history need so sorely that you would distract me?"
Applebloom took this opportunity to volunteer, "We want to prevent Princess Celestia's assassination."
The princess's horn unleashed a blinding flash, and she reared up on her hind legs. The dais shimmered under her, and the moonlight slowly waned from the skylight. As the last beam left the pedestal, the effect ended, and Princess Luna fell to her feet in exasperation.
"Since Celestia's death," gasped the princess, "the duties of night and day have fallen to me alone. I am not the pony my sister was. The Sun does not heed me readily, nor even the Moon and Stars since she passed. I tire of the cycles, yet I must uphold them for the sake of the kingdom. I have no time to travel, to idle, to sleep, nor even to mourn, much less to entertain the fantasies of deluded ponies who torture me with thoughts of my late sister. I will view this spell, and you will regret your impertinence if it is anything less than you say."
It was not a request. The Princess pointed her horn, and invisible forces snatched the spell book and journal from Applebloom's grasp. The spell levitated in front of the princess's nose while the scrolls of notes orbited in a perfect ring about her. Her eyes burned violet as the pages of the book flipped. Her audience watched with rapt attention as the princess absorbed the volume from cover to cover and again as the documents collected themselves and lay themselves at Applebloom's hooves.
Luna's voice lost its regal tenor. "I am pleased to learn that my sister's faith in you was not misplaced."
* * *
Applebloom and Twilight Sparkle spent the next several days in the castle. The spell would require many preparations, and the princess could not ignore her duties to perform them. The palace staff was put at their disposal, an arrangement well-suited to Twilight Sparkle's meticulous nature. She commissioned braziers etched with cryptic symbols, emulsions of exotic salts, and an array of other odds and ends whose pattern no one could discern. The technicalities left Applebloom feeling inept, but Twilight assured her that she was responsible for the endeavor in the first place.
Finally, on the night of a new moon, Princess Luna joined them in her sanctum, where the preliminaries had been arranged. She surveyed the room.
"Well done," she said. "What must we discuss before we begin?"
Twilight Sparkle ran the princess through a litany of magical jargon, stopping to clarify the occasional ambiguity in her notes. They deliberated at length before settling some of these, but in the end seemed confident in their conclusions.
"Then we're ready. Applebloom, have you anything to add?"
Applebloom was stunned that the princess would consult her, given her complete inexpertise in all things magical. "No, but I wanted to ask something before we start."
"Then do so."
"When the spell's done, how will we know it worked? Will we feel it?"
"We won't feel anything if it works, Applebloom," said the princess, coolly. "If it works, the universe will reset, and we, as we are, will cease to exist."
"Oh," said Applebloom. "Well, what should I do while it's going on?"
Said Princess Luna, "Close your eyes. Think pleasant thoughts of better days."
Applebloom did as she was told. Her eyelids fell, and through them she saw the flicker of brilliant light that followed. And then only darkness.
A crisp layer of leaves blankets Sweet Apple Acres in a collage of red and gold. High above, a lone dandelion seed glides past the disrobing tree limbs. It descends past the lowest branches, meanders through the tree trunks, and lands atop the nose of a sleeping yellow filly with ribbons through her cherry red mane.
The filly rouses from her slumber, squinting in the warm afternoon sun. Her closed eyes see a lingering image, a memory, or maybe a dream, but she's interrupted; the dandelion seed tickles her nostril, she sneezes, and the vision vanishes for good.
