The Last Logs

         

The wind was fierce this evening, howling across the towering, ice tipped spears of the mountain ranges North of Stalliongrad. A bitter cold began pouring down from the heavens above, and into the mountainous valleys, hinting at something much worse.

A small home sat nestled amongst and overlooking a vast mountainous forest. The trees looking like great, thick frosted hairs upon a slumbering giant’s beard. A bitter cold front was consuming the mountain, a simple introduction to the coming night.

The descending cold was moving quickly, sweeping through the forests higher upon the mountain giant. Agripin was standing inside the sheltered shed that ran alongside his house. As he was about to retrieve firewood for the night he noticed bending treetops. At first glance, it seemed as if the mountain was reaching out, trying to dislodge him once and for all, tolerance for this little pony living on his chest run dry. He was old enough to know what was coming next. Although he braced himself for the blast as he watched it rip through the forest above him, it still tore deep into Agripin's white and bronze coat­--the sheen long since gone.

Breath now frozen curled around his muzzle as he bent over and bit hard into each of the logs, throwing them upon his stiff back. A sigh of acceptance eased out of his lungs while throwing the last log onto his back, ruffling his simple grey mane. His legs were almost buckling under the extra mass--he certainly was not the pony he used to be.

Agripin slowly made his way around the corner of his home, walking through the battered door of the circular porch just as the leading edge of the actual blizzard crested and swept down the valley walls, nature’s fury bolstered by the giant himself. The world dimmed as the storm rumbled down the mountain side heading inexorably toward Agripin.

He turned around and watched through the rounded window of his exterior porch as the vanguard of the blizzard, a furious wave of air, continued its way down the mountain, consuming all in a growing shock wave. Looking to his right, Agripin saw the city glowing in the distance at the base of the mountain. The house shuddered and groaned as the blizzard hit it, trying to rip it off the foundations and hurl it into oblivion.

The main assault was unfolding upon the forest below him, ripping and throwing ancient trees about as if they were but saplings. The wind was moving at incredible speeds, faster than he thought possible as he watched the vanguard already crashing broadside into the city limits.

Agripin marveled at the strength of the city, how the buildings never collapsed under the stresses of the wind even though they had witnessed this shock-wave like event innumerable times over their life, albeit never this powerful. The wave brought back unbidden memories of his son when he was but a foal. The two of them would often sit together by one of the windows overlooking Stalliongrad and watch the waves of air and snow assault the trees and the city waiting for the storm to pass. He often thought those moments were the reason Fyodor pursued architecture and engineering in school.

The family axe glinted with dull light to his right when he opened the inner door. His eyes slowly adjusted to the dim light as he followed the path across his small kitchen etched into the flooring, polished from years of use. With a sigh of relief he rolled the last logs off his back beside the fireplace. Although the logs were barely larger than a hoof in diameter, he felt as if they were as big as his barrel.

Embers were flaring as wind rushed from the opened doors up the chimney, throwing a deep red haze across his lined, aged features. Deep shadows gouged into his face where the flesh sagged, where there was once energy and life in his mossy green eyes, only a dark and tired glaze remained. He spent long moments carefully arranging the last three logs, scraping the last remnants of some leftover kindling into the middle, which blazed to life atop the last solitary embers.

With the fire beginning to feast upon the last few logs, he basked in the blessed warmth as it spread across his face.

Agripin sat down in front of his scarred, soot stained fireplace. He noticed how it had looked so beautiful the day he built it--a beacon of life in the frigid north--compared to now. He was not a stonemason, but being an Earth pony had its benefits, he was good with his hooves. His father had rebuilt the old house here with his own four hooves, so he figured he didn’t need to pay some fancy unicorn to build something that he could make when they were rebuilding. Some ponies had called him stubborn and old fashioned, but he preferred independent and traditional.

Minutes passed as he sat there staring at the fire, watching how quickly it devoured every surface of the material that fuelled its life, consuming it as fast as possible.

Agripin moved back across the kitchen, settling his aching hip gently onto one of the old, worn wooden chairs opposite the door. Looking upon the table, he tried to count the number of days that were spent at this circular table, the thick maple planks scarred and worn from almost seven decades of use. Realizing his efforts were futile he came to his senses circling a knot idly with his right hoof. This was his favourite feature of the table, perfectly shaped to retain his nightly cup of tea. A squeak issued from the door, to which his ears perked up. Looking towards the door, he thought it might be his son, but realized the blizzard would deter even him from climbing the mountain. Sadness took hold in the confines of his mind. He really loved his home, everything it provided, everything home stood for, and most of all, the memories.

An incessant urge to cough leapt upon him. Coughing and staggering to his hooves, Agripin rushed towards the kitchen sink, whereupon he hacked a large blob of phlegm into it. Yet before it sank into the inky darkness of the drain, he glimpsed dark red tinges among the mass of mucous.

Hmph he thought, Doctors.

Worn out from coughing, Agripin continued walking; passing the fire and taking a sharp right over to his nightstand drawer and withdrew two letters. The first was a will, the second however was by far much more important. Agripin walked back to the table and deposited both of the letters. The will flopped open. By reflex, Agripin sat down and read the words inked upon the page, in the soft flickering glow of the firelight.

                                                       

Last Will and Testament

of Agripin Neighvahre

 

I Agripin Neighvahre, being of sound and disposing mind, do hereby make, publish and declare the following to be my Last Will and Testament.       

    All I, Agripin, son of Kazimir and Inna, possess shall be passed on to my only son Fyodor to be done with as he and only he sees fit. I do not wish for any special accommodations be made for my funeral. I do not...

He could read no more as his eyes glassed over.

Fyodor, his son and his heir, Celestia's gift to him. Clearing his vision with a foreleg, Agripin opened the second letter. It was handwritten instructions on how to care, maintain, and properly use an axe; the family's axe to be precise. The axe had been passed down through the generations since the founding times of Stalliongrad, when his ancestors settled down to make a living in the North over 250 years ago.

He glanced over to the door, and as it had since the rebuilding, the axe hung beside the handle, at the ready to once again go out and blaze a path for family and survival. Agripin considered oiling the well-worn handle and sharpening the centuries old head. Yet the sickness stole away his energy.

It was then that Agripin cried. His tears carving valleys into the letters before him. With each passing, the instructions were rewritten, diagrams redrawn and side notes added with the previous writings archived. Quickly upon his version he wrote,

“Know that I pass this on to you, as my father and his father before him have done. Fyodor, I do not have long now. I planned to sit here during the blizzard and let the fire die out, just like I will. I never liked hospitals. Nature dictates it is now my time to pass on the hatchet.  Looking over his shoulder briefly, he noticed the fire was at the apex of its burn. Continuing with renewed vigour, he wrote, I do not have long now, the fire has peaked. I must leave you now, but know, I will always love you. I will always be with you. You are my son Fyodor, Celestia's gift upon me and your darling mother. Alas, I go, the next adventure awaits me, and I have grown tired.

He set the letter down with one last barrage of tears and numbed hooves in searing emotional pain.

Agripin's bleary eyes looked out his kitchen window to the blizzard sweeping and roaring down the valley towards him, highlighted pink and purple by the setting sun. He envisioned claws of death, reaching towards him, cruel ice glittering along the scythe-like edges. Looking down to the table he mumbled,

“The cycle... it is complete.”

Agripin limped to his bedside, utterly drained of energy and soul, and crawled under the covers, trying to feel at peace.

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Time passed. Long seconds followed by longer minutes. He was bursting with questions. Would it hurt? What comes after? Will I know when I am dying? How long does it take? Was my life meaningful? How has time passed--was I not just strapping young stallion? Was Fyodor not a mere foal in my arms a few years ago? Agripin was wracked with questions, reminiscence and sickness. Although he tried to fight them all, it was a vain attempt.

The fire was dying down now; surely he was not far behind. The snow was falling heavier, slowly blanketing the noise of the screeching, clawing wind. The sounds quieted. Even still, the chill of the North found its way inside. Is that the wind, or my life leaving me? He glanced at the fireplace. The fire is nearly out; those logs did not last very long at all. It will do, for tonight.

Agripin closed his eyes as the embers cooled. His lungs were not filling all the way, phlegm already invading once again. The cold was advancing as well, moving in on every front, deadening every limb until they felt like stone.

Opening his eyes he caught a picture of Fyodor on the wall as a young stallion, strong as he used to be. My life has been meaningful, I have a son, the greatest of responsibilities, and he has aspired to so much, he reflected. Almost one of the heads of Architectural Development and Structural Engineering in Stalliongrad. He works hard, sometimes too hard. Agripin sighed as he recalled their last conversation two months prior. Fyodor kept insisting that he go to the hospital to get his pneumonia checked out. To which he replied,

“I don't need no doctors, never have before, I won't start now. When it's nature’s time, its nature’s time.”

Another wave of coughs assaulted his throat, shredding it with violent expulsions of air. His energy flagging, he twisted his neck to look out his bedroom window to the East and watched the moon rise. Sometime later he whispered,

    “Luna.” he pleaded, “Please, guide me during my final slumber, I am almost there, I know it. Please, I have made my peace with this world, I long for the next.”

He swore he saw the moon brighten.

 

Agripin fell still, the coldness pushing forward, seeping in toward his core. He felt he was at peace with his end. One more glance at the fireplace revealed the embers barely existing, burning slowly and darkening as the cold made short work of them as well. As his last reserve of energy fled before him, his mighty, proud head crashed to the pillow, laying to rest.

He closed his eyes for the last time.

The darkness became absolute. He continued to lay still, listening to the blizzard outside grow ever quieter. He thought he felt something along his muzzle. Just as Agripin moved his foreleg to rub his face, a blinding blue flash flickered across his lidded eyes.

“Brr. Daddy, why is it so cold in Grandpa’s house?” a little filly asked.

What in the hay? 

Chuckling, a stallion said, “I don’t know honey, Grandpa never lets his house go under 20 Celsius”

This cannot be.

The door creaked open, revealing two others standing in his porch. Then, a soft blue light emanating from a horn revealed the ponies before him, a large, white and blue stallion, with a wide muzzle and shocks of silver-grey mane flowing around a glowing blue horn. Along with a small cherry and green mix filly with a delicate face and purple mane.

It was Fyodor, with his daughter Anastassia

“Grandpa?” The filly questioned.

Pure, unadulterated shock filled Agripin.

“Dad, we decided to come up tonight instead of next week, I hope that doesn't mess things up for you. I told my boss I needed a week off, we wanted to see how you were doing.”

They both walked in and Fyodor closed the door with a pulse of blue magic.

“I had the strangest feeling tonight when I saw the blizzard coming in, it got worse after the sun set so I decided to take Ana and teleport up here to check on you… Dad?” He called out, concern in his voice. The wind from the door had brought forth new life in the embers, illuminating the edge of the bed.

 

Agripin stared in disbelief. Looking from his son to his grand-daughter, he was resurrected. He felt heat return to his body and life to his thoughts.

“Fyodor! My son! You have no idea how much you please me--it is so good to see you!” he cried out. Feeling stronger the longer he looked at his son and granddaughter. He shuffled out of bed, quickly trotting over to embrace them. He stood bathed in the light from Fyodor’s horn--away from the inky darkness.

“Anastassia! You have grown so much!” Agripin said with unbridled affection and a crushing hug.

“Grandpa, I'm a filly, of course I've grown!” Anastassia spoke in a teasing manner, as if he should know it. Agripin smiled warmly at her. For the first time in weeks, he smiled.

Fyodor frowned, “Dad, why is the fire out? You could have died in your sleep!" As Fyodor walked to the fireplace, Agripin looked down at the letters on the table.

Perhaps... I can hold on for a while longer.

Grasping the letters with his teeth, Agripin threw them into the fireplace. They curled and writhed in the embers, illuminating the room. Agripin noticed Fyodor squint at the letters as they blackened and held his breath, hoping he could not read them. 

A dark look entered his sons eyes as he glanced at the empty wood stand beside the fireplace and then to his father.

"Dad, what were those letters?" He spoke in a hesitant tone.

To which Agripin replied in a gruff, raw voice, “I decided… I want to go to the hospital, and see what these doctors can do for me...” glancing up, he saw Fyodor’s horn brighten, along with his features. He was literally glowing with happiness.

“Dad, I know you don't like accepting help from anypony, nor do you like to change your ways. Thank you.” Agripin startled as his son embraced him in a bone crushing hug, the smell of ink and paper wafting with him. Agripin's moss green eyes met Fyodor's hazel, silently communicating all that had transpired. A concerned look entered Fyodor's eyes and he wrinkled his muzzle.

“I better get some wood then, before we all freeze eh? Anastassia, how about you help grandpa back into bed while I'm out?”

“Ok! C'mon grandpa! Let’s go warm up under the blankets!” The cherry-green filly shouted excitedly, quickly bounding into the bed.

Agripin smiled again, considering the events of the evening. Maybe he was too independent, pushing 75 and living alone would be considered dangerous by some, namely Fyodor and those doctors. Agripin looked at his son while climbing into bed--bursting with love. Looking past him he saw the blizzard had past already, blue light reflected off the axe head as Fyodor hoisted it in a magical aura and walked out the door.

Agripin rolled over to look out his bedside window, to look at the moon. He noticed though, this time it shone even brighter. Could it be a sign? He did not know, but he was happy, happier than could be recalled in recent memory.

“I love you Grandpa.” Anastassia sighed as she gazed at him with her beautiful sparkling blue eyes.

“I love you too sweetie, I love you dearly.” He cried as he held her close.

After a few moments, Agripin relaxed and felt his chest lighten; the cough and the cold were in full rout.

Immediately, he sighed.

“What's wrong?” she asked, concern sparking in her eyes.

“Those were the last logs alright.” Agripin replied grimly.

“Just go get more then. Me and Dad will help! We can do it tomorrow! It will be so much fun with all the new snow too! We can wear hats and scarves and…” She eagerly began planning and imagining the next day with such fervour and anticipation he had not felt in decades. Her energy was infectious, and soon they were eagerly awaiting tomorrow together.

Hugging her close he thought, I am going to be so bucking sore tomorrow night...          

He breathed deeply of Anastassia, and smiled. Gazing out over the rugged mountainous landscape, he noticed it was illuminated by the brightest moon he had ever seen.

    Could it have been a coincidence? he pondered before peacefully falling asleep with Anastassia, finally dreaming of tomorrow.


Authors Note:

Hello! If you made it down here, you have successfully completed my first fanfic ever!

I thank you for reading and appreciate all comments, suggestions and constructive criticism.

Have a good one eh!