February 17th, 993 Domina Solaria

Seven years before the fateful Summer Sun Celebration

A jaunty rendition of the Winter Wrap Up theme pierces the moonlit dirt path from Sweet Apple Acres to Ponyville. Applejack, battered Stetson buoyed atop her blond mane, trundles along with her applewood cart. Delicious scents waft on the wind, many varieties of freshly baked Apple delicacies destined for the town. She’s looking forward to the pretty premium they can collect on the first day of spring, when most other farmers are planting their crops. Hopefully it’ll last them ‘till cider season. But there’s no telling what they’ll do come winter.

Her breath comes sporadically, and not from the effort of pulling the half-loaded cart. The bags under her eyes, her languid pace, the way her unkempt mane and tail spill out of her characteristic ponytail? She looks like she’s barely slept, and certainly not used the winter as the time for rest and relaxation it should be. But she pushes forward, one leg in front of the other, a cheery facade that wouldn’t have convinced Derpy, much less Pinkie Pie.

Her emerald eyes glance backward, a depressed sigh interrupting her whistling. Bright Mac taught her to whistle, just like her sire taught her how to best use her earth pony magic. He wouldn’t have been disappointed at the results of her best efforts. He would have been understanding, optimistic, maybe even encouraging. But two thirds of what they would have made together won’t cut it. Not for long.

Her dam, on the other hoof, couldn’t whistle to save her life. But Buttercup could sing like nopony else; well, better than everypony at the last reunion. And she wasn't saying that outta some kinda familial loyalty - they were all Apples, and could at least carry a tune. But the lyrics of her dam’s favorite lullabies? She chokes back a sob as she looks at the trees around her done changing seasons. And her dam’s empty promise to always be there.

The rest of the walk passes in silence but for the steady clop of her hooves.

By the time Applejack gets to Ponyville her composure has mostly recovered, leaving her red-rimmed eyes the only indicator she isn’t perfectly swell. But with only the light of the occasional streetlamp, and that she merely has to drop off her customer’s orders outside their homes? She’ll be able to avoid those awkward questions and stares. It won’t be until she comes to her last stop, Barnyard Bargains, that she has to actually talk to somepony. Hopefully she can avoid that, too.

She finishes her deliveries quickly enough, and raps on the wood of the darkened warehouse store. No response, but that’s not unexpected, and the unlocked door creaks loudly as she pushes it open. She peers into the back, looking for an indication that Filthy Rich spent the early morning - or maybe the whole night - sleeping in his office. Everypony knows it’s because of that lead mare of his. Spoiled Rich. What he saw in her, nopony could rightly say, but there’s quite a bit to admire in a stallion who can run his own business. She doubts Spoiled lifts a hoof to help him. Probably just does custom work for his second mare, Silver Set’s, jewelry shop. But not many ponies splurge on diamond rings to show that they’ve herded up. At least, not in Ponyville. Manehattan, on the other hoof?

“Howdy,” Applejack greets the otherwise deserted store. Wouldn’t want to surprise nopony, but if by some chance he ain’t here she can just leave a note on the counter with the bits. She gets to the ten-C bags of wheat seeds she needs to replace, sighing at the price. Caramel shows some promise, but the farm can’t afford to train up somepony so forgetful. Not right now. Not with things the way they are. She grabs the eight bags they can afford, piling them into her cart. It ain’t enough to cover the whole hectare, not for a full yield. Shame, but they’ll make it work. They always do. She drags the lot up to the front counter.

A single light in the back office clicks on, illuminating the earth pony’s impressive desk and a few loose sheets of paper. Only the silhouette of Filthy’s slicked back mane is visible, the rest of his tan coat shrouded in darkness. He smoothly glides out, and Applejack can barely make out the faint smile on his muzzle.

“Morn’.”

“Good morning, Applejack,” Filthy Rich’s natural purr of a voice replies, a born salespony who could sell salt to Celestia herself. His speech slows, becoming sympathetic and understanding. “How are things on the farm?”

“Well...” Applejack says, unable to meet his gaze and settling for counting up the bags in her cart again. “Things… things could be better, Filthy.”

“Please,” purrs the salespony, “call me Rich.” He steps out from behind the counter, ostensibly counting the bags alongside Applejack. He sighs, his voice regaining the dulcet tone from before. “I’d wager things are pretty tough, huh?”

“Have to be a foal to take that bet,” Applejack says with a wry smile. She gulps at the proximity to the stallion, especially as his flank lightly rubs up against hers. Normally it’s the mare playing the aggressor in making these advances, going to the lead for permission. But it ain’t uncommon for a mare to catch a stallion’s eye. If only he wasn’t… already entangled, what with running the family store, and could help out on the farm. Celestia knows they need it.

“I guess so,” Rich replies after a short delay. He glances to Applejack, and she barely meets his eye. “This ain’t enough to cover your usual plots. Don’t tell me times are too tough for your fields to not get plowed?”

“It’s what Ah got,” Applejack says dryly, withdrawing her bitpurse. She dumps it out on the counter, making a meager pile. One of the coins rolls away, falling to the wooden floor with a noisy clatter.

Rich’s trained eye quickly counts up the bits, frowning. “It’s important to remember who your partners are, Applejack. I’m sure we could come to… some sort of arrangement?” He pointedly shakes his head towards the darkened office, then leans down to pick up the bit with his mouth.

Applejack grits her teeth, trying best to contain the burst of anger at the audacity. It’s one thing to ogle a mare’s flanks, and quite another to… inspect her undercarriage. Not that she is self-conscious about it; teasing about her ‘foal-bearing flanks’ turned to envious glances right around the time mares began courting stallions. At least, that’s what she tells herself.

“Afraid Granny’d tan mah hide if’n Ah tried sellin’ cider off-farm again,” Applejack apologizes. It’s true, she is sorry. And, more’n likely, she’d be gettin’ herself filthy - in both senses - if’n she wouldn’t be third mare. And thought Filthy Rich cared more about her than her plots of land - again, both senses - and what he might save by doing business ‘in-house’. She can’t help but grimace.

Filthy Rich stands back up, nodding his head as he places the bit on the counter, all by itself. “I know it’s been hard on your family,” he purrs, his voice back to that of the slick salespony, “and it ain’t much, but I hate seeing a pretty face like yours upset.”

Applejack forces a smile back to her muzzle, but even she can tell it’s plastered on worse than Spoiled’s makeup.

“Grab as much seed as you need to finish that field.” He slides one bit over, then motions towards the bags of seeds. Concern crosses his eyes, his muzzle trying to keep his smile going, like he knows the unlikelihood of what he’s suggesting. “I know Spoiled can be a bit much, but give it another thought, alright?” Filthy scrapes the rest of the bits off the counter, leaving two of Celestia’s grinning eyes staring up.

Applejack can’t help but chuckle. Colt howdy Ah needed that. “Ah will, Rich,” she says regardless, hoof hovering for a moment. She grits her teeth, the two lonely bits clinking noisily against each other as they find their way into her bitpurse. Somehow, it’s even louder than when it was full. She offers the tan stallion a soft smile before grabbing four more bags. She puts a bit of a spring in her step as she makes her way outside, her own sigh matching the heavy one behind her.

The bright moon shining just above the horizon draws her attention, the dark silhouette of the mare inside looking just as mournful as she feels. “Ah wish,” she says aloud, watching a tear glisten at the corner of the rocky eye, “Ah wish that Ah was lead mare to a stallion interested in me, and not just what Ah bring for him.”

She watches the shining star fall down, until it disappears beyond the buildings of Ponyville. The rumble of the train south of her distracts her, and she watches a few ponies get off the early morning commuter from Canterlot. A couple of the stallions catch her eye, but none return so much as a passing glance her way. Except for one gaunt, gregarious unicorn, his grating laugh stabbing into her ears. His eyes meet hers briefly, then travel along her body and linger on her flanks. Maybe Ah should have added rugged, quiet, and an earth pony. Ah well. Too bad they all know Rich is interested. Applejack turns, forlornly dragging her cart full of seeds back to Sweet Apple Acres as the moon drops below the horizon. She pauses to gaze reverently as the sun rises far to the east, whispering the words of thanks to Princess Celestia she’s repeated endless times before.

*

A winged creature, dark against the night sky, blinks into the air above. Her horn lights, not giving him time to react as a blinding bolt impacts him directly between the eyes, and everything goes black.

Doug groans as the first rays of dawn wriggle their way past his closed eyelids, one arm coming up to shield his face while the rest of him rolls over in the dirt. I thought I bought blackout curtains to stop this sort of thing. His hand paws at his sheets, trying to find his thin pillow, but the slick grass and soft earth serves as a poor substitute. His sleepy eyes open, uncomprehendingly staring out at the brown trees, green leaves dotted with red, and blue sky. They close, mouth smacking a few times to wet his dry lips, snuggling against the dew laced grass. His fingers reflexively clench around a fistful of dirt, the tense muscles on his arm slowly relaxing as he tries to sink into the ground.

Then, as if just realizing his current predicament, his rapidly dilating eyes fly open. He stares at the morning sun, just cresting above the lonely mountain far to the east. Dirt flies everywhere as he frantically scrambles backwards, ramming his back into the tree he was sleeping under, nearly hyperventilating as he stares at his dirt streaked fingertips.

Okay, it’s okay, you’re just dreaming. Three apples cascade to the ground around him, landing with soft ‘plops’. His breathing gradually slows, first wiping the dirt off on his hips before using the same bright green tufts of grass surrounding him. Well, if this is a dream, it’s far more realistic than I’m used to. Normally everything isn’t this… vivid. And the sun is quite a bit more painful to look at. And I’m not this lucid, or in control. Normally it’s just some oversized mosquito crawling along my arm and I can’t even swat it away. Those are the worst!

Doug slaps at his arm, hard, just to prove that he can, and winces at the pain. So, maybe not a dream? It takes about a minute before he does anything besides scanning his surroundings. I’m probably in some sort of orchard, given the nearby road and regularity of the apple trees that stretch on as far as I can see. Well, they could be some other kind of fruit, but they look like apples. Another glance around reveals nothing new, the stillness of the area around him broken only by the occasional chitter of a bird far in the distance.

Alright, survival one oh one. Shelter, water, food. Fire would be nice, too. A glance downwards confirms his suspicions. No clothes, but even in the morning the cold isn’t too bad. Might need to worry about heat later on, but given the amount of shade available that hopefully won’t be too much of an issue. Inventory management may be a concern, mostly due to lack of said inventory space.

His stomach grumbles, prompting a heavy sigh. His rail thin body suggests he’s no stranger to skipping meals, sometimes going a full day without noticing. Yet the apples in the tree above are tantalizingly close, and if he stands up within easy reach. Well, it is an orchard. No, I’m assuming it’s an orchard. They wouldn’t plant something that’s poisonous, right? While I might need to worry about pesticides, the bad ones wouldn’t be used on something as thin skinned as an apple. Right?

Doug sits up, warily scanning his surroundings, then grabs one of the fallen apples. It had come loose easily, almost as if politely asking would have worked just as well. No film or other such coating, but he rubs it off on the grass nonetheless. Now, if I was worried about poison, I would just take a small bite, chew for a little, and wait an hour. Then have a little more.

He takes a bite, and any thought of pacing himself is thrown out the window at the pure deliciousness assaulting him. Sweet and succulent, leagues beyond any fruit he has eaten before, the flavors explode in his mouth like fireworks against a clear night sky. He devours the rest, rivulets of juice streaming from his mouth, barely sparing the time to pick the seeds out as the core disappears as well. Well, if I’m dead, it was worth it. The other two quickly share the same fate, Doug pausing only to look around for something to potentially carry more of the apples. No, I should ask permission first. And maybe for a spare set of clothes. Or any information about where I am.

Feeling much better with something in his stomach, Doug stands, barely clearing the branches overhead. He stretches his back and arms, only to hear the sounds of a horse clopping along the dirt road. Probably the farmer. Here’s hoping he doesn’t mind a little full frontal.

“Excuse me,” Doug says loudly, trying not to yell or sound too much like a crazy forest hobo. He walks one row closer, now next to the road and using the tree as partial cover. He’s barely able to see the cart as it draws closer. Please be the Good Samaritan type. “I was-”

He cuts himself off partially at the lack of a rider on the horse drawn cart, partially because the horse drawing the cart also comes to a dead stop, but those two pale in comparison to the fact that the horse’s unnaturally massive eyes turn to look at him, and he (she?) looks just as startled to see him.

Applejack’s ears flick at the deep voice coming from the eastern orchard, eerily reminiscent of Big Mac’s - or her sire’s - except her brother wouldn’t have used so many words. So when the creature steps out from behind a tree she can’t help but come to an abrupt stop that bangs the cart against her, two bags toppling off the back. She’d have bolted if she wasn’t strapped in, and still might; it wouldn’t be the first time she’s led a merry chase on a delivery through the fire swamp with a cart strapped to her.

Doug takes one deep breath after another, the two warily watching each other for several long seconds. She (he’ll go with that for now, given the long eyelashes) stands about four feet at the top of her hatted (what the) head, slightly more than three feet at the withers. Mane and tail both drawn into a rough ponytail complete with ties at both base and end. Solidly muscled, thick orange barrel, and three red apples branded (stamped? natural?) on the flank facing him. Probably twice his weight, if not more. Her eyes, obviously intelligent and taking up the majority of her head, regard him with what he interprets as fear followed by curiosity that swiftly morphs into suspicion.

The bipedal creature in front of Applejack stands taller than her by a good deal; maybe not eye to eye with Princess Celestia, Harmony be blessed, but still six hooves above her. Built like a minotaur. Or - since he’s missing all that bulky muscle - one of those sun-forsaken Abyssinians far to the south. Except some cruelpony took a razor to him, and shaved off all the hair on his pale body but an auburn shock at the top of his head, middling portions of his emaciated chest, and around his less-than-impressive male member. He smells like apples, but more so than just the orchard - like a fruit bat after a stolen meal. There’s a second smell, in addition to his natural musk, something suspicious she can’t place just yet. She can’t see any natural defenses, just intelligent eyes scanning her. So, starving, sick, and unpredictable. Great.

“Hello,” Doug eventually says, as gently as he can with his heart hammering in his chest. He bends his knees and rests back on his toes, hoping he doesn’t appear like he’s going to pounce. He looks around, keeping one eye on her, trying to find her master. Or anyone at all. He chuckles to himself, “I don’t suppose you know where I am, huh?”

The creature speaks, and Applejack notes what she would call apprehension if’n it was a pony, twinged with confusion and a bit of condescension; like he’s talking to one of the chickens and not really expecting a response back. It draws her attention to his mouth.

“Howdy,” she returns curtly. “Welcome to Sweet Apple Acres. Home of the best apples in Equestria, located west of the train station.”

Doug’s head snaps back. He blurts out, “You speak English?” as his eyes dart all over, scanning her from hat to hoof. “I mean, you speak quite well for a, um…” His hand vaguely motions at her as he gulps.

How often do you get to pull this off? “Ah know that sentence, and this one explaining it.” Applejack barely suppresses the smirk that begs to come to the surface, instead offering Doug a sad smile.

“Really?” Doug says, eyes squinting as he stares, his mouth hanging open. “That seems… unlikely.”

Applejack blankly looks at Doug, puzzled as she cocks her head to the side. She gives a helpless shrug of her shoulders. “Quoi?”

“Seriously?!” Doug nearly shouts, “And all you know is an ad for your farm?” A hand rubs his temples as he groans. “Jeez, it’s been awhile. Alright, let’s see. Je parle un peu de français, mais… mon anglais is… better? Est meilleur?”

Applejack can’t help but smile. Maybe he ain’t so bad. “Ah speak Equish, but your Prench is passable, Ah guess.” She helplessly shrugs before she mimics his stammering from earlier, “Ah’d say the same for you, but, um...” as she motions vaguely with a hoof.

Doug nods once. Thank God. When in Rome, or wherever I am. Equestria? Is that a city, state, or country? I guess they are horses? Or, smaller than that. Ponies?

Applejack’s eyes narrow at the tell-tale stain of apple juice along his chin, and the way he casually wipes it off on the back of his oddly shaped hoof. Her eyes flick to each nearby tree in quick succession. Any sense of relief or camaraderie she felt before evaporates as she notes the apples missing from Crab Wellington. She barely manages to keep the rage off her face, that this thievin’ varmint helped himself to her hard work. She slowly, deliberately, unbuckles first one side of her harness, then the other.

“So,” she demands almost conversationally, yet she bores into him with a ferocious intensity, “did you eat one of my apples?”

Doug gulps, glancing backwards, his eyes dropping from the orange horse’s hard stare. That went downhill fast. Moment of truth. “No,” he says with a heavy sigh.

Not only a thievin’ varmint, but a liar, too. Applejack’s neck cracks ominously as she twists her head first to one side, then the other. She loosens up Bucky McGillycuddy, then Kicks McGee. A hoof goes to her hat, ready to whip out her rope and show this creature what a blue ribbon rodeo champion looks like.

Doug continues, oblivious to Applejack’s menacing posture, “I ate three.”

Next Chapter: Ch. 2 - Bated Breath Estimated time remaining: 16 Hours, 50 Minutes