The fallen ironheart tree—dragged into the little clearing next to Zecora’s hut—stank of mold and mildew. It was about thirty feet long and as wider than Tempest's barrel.

From the moment Tempest stepped outside, the wet, earthy smell of it crawled up her nostrils and smeared itself into the pores of her skin. It was the kind of stink that would stick to her coat for days. But she told herself not to care.

[i]Smell is only a sensation,”[/i] she told herself. [i]It’s only a feeling. And [/i]I’m[i] in control of my feelings.[/i]

Tempest picked up one of Zecora’s gardening tools in her teeth: a small spade-like instrument with a pointed end. With it, she attacked the outside of the log.

The rotted wood was soft, and yielded quickly to the edged tip of the tool, all the way down to the handle. But there was a surprising, almost wet kind of firmness to the substance of the wood that clamped down on the spade and made it very difficult to leverage.

Almost like how a knife sunk to the hilt in flesh would feel.

[i]No.[/i] Tempest violently shook her head from side to side to get the intrusive thought out of it. [i]No, that’s not what I do anymore.[/i]

When her head wasn’t stinging from dizziness anymore, she pulled the spade out of the log and tried a different approach.

Taking the edge of the spade, she scraped along the surface of the bark. With only a little resistance, the soft wood sloughed away, leaving behind a small divot in the surface of the log. The sick, wet smell—which Tempest had only just started to adjust to—redoubled, making her eyes blink and her throat constrict.

[i]It’s nothing. You need to work.[/i]

Digging away the spongy rot was slow, discouraging work. Her jaw quickly grew sore and stiff from holding and digging with the spade. Meanwhile, the reeking stench worked its way deeper and deeper into Tempest. It permeated her lungs, it got into her mouth, and it formed a greasy film on her eyes that she had to constantly blink and rub away.

Almost half an hour later, her spade finally struck something other than the soft, wet filth—a core within the wood hard as steel.

When Tempest peeled away the rot, the pale well-grained wood underneath shone in stark contrast to the decaying brown outer layers.

But she had cleared only one little patch of it, smaller than her hoof’s circumference. Exhausted she set her spade down, and looked.

One little hoof-sized spot was done, and the remaining thirty-odd feet of stinking, putrid rot remained.

She breathed the stench. Tasted it. Sweated it. It was a part of her now, and it was never, ever, [i]ever[/i] going to wash away, no matter how what she did or how she tried to make amends with all the awful things that she had done to—

[i]No, no, no.[/i] Tempest squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head so hard that her ears rang with pain. [i]No, no, [b]no![/b][/i]

Then there was a hoof on her shoulder. The sudden contact made her gasp and spin, jumping to her feet, knees crouched forward and ready to strike.

Zecora didn’t recoil from Tempest. She only smiled.

“You’ve been hard at work, I see,” she said, “cleaning up this dirty tree.”

Tempest felt the tension go out of her legs, almost involuntarily. Her breathing slowed back to normal—she hadn’t even realized it was elevated.

“It’s… slow work,” Tempest said. She cast a glance at the little spec of progress. “It’s hard work, too.”

Zecora, still smiling, only raised an eyebrow. She had a way of knowing when Tempest was holding something back.

Tempest sighed. She screwed her eyes shut again.

“I thought about it again,” she said. And after a moment she clarified. “About killing.”

Now that it was out, the other parts came easily.

“I can’t stop thinking about it. Can’t stop... [i]comparing[/i] it to everything.”

The warmth in Zecora’s eyes never faded. She gestured at the log of ironheart wood.

“The outside only hides the true strength of the heart. To let it shine, you must remove the sick parts.” She nodded, slowly. “The process is hard; this much is true. But it’s a little better when a friend is with you.”

Reaching into her saddlebag, Zecora retrieved another spade, and smiled at Tempest from around its handle.

Tempest looked at the little patch of bright, freed heartwood, and she smiled too.