May 5th, 1001 Domina Solaria

Big Mac wakes, as he often does, before the crack of dawn and the crowing of the rooster. His slow, even breaths ruffle the quilt covering him, nothing else to disturb the serene quiet. He takes a long drag through his nostrils, imbibing the smell of fresh baked apples that he doubts would ever air out.

He runs through the list of chores that he needs to do, and the extra he’ll cover for Applejack. Most days are like this, his far more famous sister called to deal with some crisis or another. Not that he minds at all. On rare occasions he feels that pang of envy, short-lived and feather-brained as it may be. Ee-nope. He prefers his days simple and straightforward. A couple extra rounds around the orchards doesn’t bother him at all. He likes working in the orchards, though it’s nicer when his sister is at his side.

But something about today doesn’t feel right.

He rolls over in bed, ears twitching, nostrils sniffing, eyes searching, but the feeling doesn’t go away. He can’t quite put his hoof on why, or what the feeling is besides a vague suspicion. It feels like somepony is spying on him, watching from over his shoulder, hearing his very thoughts. Could it be Princess Luna? No, she hasn’t watched his dreams since the Tantabus and his transformation into Alicorn Princess McIntosh. Not that he would mind if she joined his dreams, maybe as a cat, and together they would battle the forces of the Knightmare Kingdom. No, that would be silly, and he’s glad nopony knows about those coltish fantasies. Could it be Discord behind the feeling? He wouldn’t put it past the Lord of Chaos, but he’s been remarkably well behaved. That or absent, which often translates to the same thing, and he’s not sorry if he’s seen the last of him.

Except that leaves him no closer to solving the problem of why he feels off. And why today? There’s nothing special planned. His sister should be coming home tomorrow with Granny Smith and the rest of the Golden Horseshoe Gals, so he needs to make sure everything about the house is ready. He already took care of the baking; as long as Lemon comes by, he won’t need to distribute them. Wait, no, the young mare is off with Pinkie Pie and Doug, he’ll need to cart them into town. Feed the animals? Hedge will take care of that. Except she’s off with Fluttershy and Rainbow Dash. More chores to add to the ever-growing list. Meringue? Also gone with Pinkie Pie. Leaving only Pomarbo in the Carrot House with Miss Tiara.

He wants to slump back in bed, wait until the rooster crows, but then he’ll be late. And Apples keep their promises, no matter how much it costs them. He groans as he gets up. Better to stick to his normal schedule and hope whoever is watching him gets bored.

His first stop is the kitchen. He grabs the trimmings and leftover bread from cooking all the fritters and turnovers and pies and places them in a big bucket. The trimmings, of course; the fritters and turnovers and pies get placed in boxes and stacked next to the door. That’s more a precaution if it’s raining, which it isn’t yet, but it’s easier to stick to old habits. The bucket he carries in his teeth. It’s not terribly comfortable, and he does his best not to smell the contents, but at least it’s not the scraps from when Doug is done cooking. Not that they’d feed that to the pigs, of course, giblets and offal are too valuable to dispose of like that, distasteful as they might be.

On the way back from the pigs he checks in on the Carrot House. Pomarbo’s room is in the cellar right next to the lower entrance, making it easy to get outside. Or for Diamond Tiara to slip inside, now that he thinks about it, not that he hasn’t dwelt on the two pledged ponies more than is healthy. Some days he wishes that was him, and finds those kinds of thoughts creeping in while he’s plowing or harvesting. Only some days, though, as too many mares are more trouble than they’re worth. Still, he ought to make sure they’re okay and ready to start the day, and he does his best to muffle his heavy hoofsteps as he creaks the colt’s door open.

The cot set up for Miss Tiara lies empty, making him suspect the shrouded shape pressed against the wall of the colt’s small bed contains more than one pony. He waits for his eyes to adjust, the rays of moonlight doing a much better job of illuminating the path outside than the cool cellar. He can smell her, a manufactured sweat-and-apple perfume that mostly covers her natural musk; he prefers the latter, but maybe the former just reminds him too strongly of his sister. It doesn’t take long for his eyes to adjust, spotting Pomarbo laying on his back (an uncomfortable position only Doug favors), softly snoring, with one brown foreleg draped over the young mare slumbering with her head resting on his barrel, white and purple ponytail splayed on his belly.

In some ways Big Mac finds himself quite jealous of the colt. After all, who wouldn’t want a nubile mare pursuing them, breathlessly awaiting the day you get your cutie mark and can finally herd up? And as long as she believes his continued wellbeing benefits her, well, she would make him a happy colt indeed. Though he doubts anything truly untoward would happen before they herded up; after all, she has a reputation to maintain, and Pomarbo won’t be interested until months after he gets his mark. Hopefully.

He can’t help but chuckle to himself; given how much time Cozy Glow has spent with them in the last couple weeks, he wouldn’t be surprised if there is a healthy competition alongside (a reluctant and possibly pressured) Silver Spoon for being first in a long line of potential paramours.

His chuckle must have been louder than he thought as a single blue eye opens, searching in the dark. “B-Big Mac?” Diamond Tiara chances with a wavering whisper, slowly shifting to a stance that would better enable her to defend her stallion against whatever intruder might be present.

“Eeyup,” Big Mac replies, just as quiet. He admires the way she challenges him, unlikely as it would be to succeed. Better than just giving in, that’s for sure, and a necessity if she lives at Sweet Apple Acres, what with the Everfree Forest on the border.

“Oh, good.” Diamond Tiara sinks back down, sighing in relief. “But, still. You shouldn’t sneak around like that!”

“Eeyup,” Big Mac returns, a twinkle in his voice. “Ah came by t’ let ‘Bo know he’ll be runnin’ the apple stand while yer at school. An’, if’n yer feelin’ up to it, Ah’m sure he’d appreciate help with the mornin’ deliveries.”

Diamond Tiara stares at him, chewing on her tongue. “I liked it more when you didn’t talk,” she mutters to herself.

“Eeyup,” Big Mac agrees, her eyes widening as she realizes she was overheard. He winks before softly shutting the door. He likes it more when he doesn’t have to talk, too. Simpler that way, when all he has to deal with are apples, Apples, and fruit bats.

After making sure Pomarbo’s cart is packed and ready to go he heads out to the orchards. He likes being there to greet Celestia’s sun as it rises. He finds it a little awkward when the Princess herself sups with them, or goes to sleep a mere stone’s throw away. As great as it would be to sire with the most powerful mare in Equestria if not the world? He’s glad it isn’t him. Too much responsibility, and time taken away from the farm.

Which merely raises the question of who he would want to sire with.

He ponders this as he hitches up the plow. Obviously they’d have to be okay moving to Sweet Apple Acres, or at least Ponyville, especially if Pomarbo doesn’t get an apple farming cutie mark. And of those already in Ponyville? He dreads asking anypony he’s known his whole life. After all, they’ve had the opportunity for years and haven't made a move. Or take Miss Cheerilee. The fairly young schoolteacher’s pleasant greetings never amounted to anything more. The few times they were able to chat, back when Apple Bloom was in school, they didn’t click. She had talked about dance raves, something he has less than no interest in, and talk of flowers led nowhere. He can’t see himself pursuing anypony younger, and nopony caught his eye at the last reunion.

Once the latest wheat field is done and gone over a second time Big Mac heads back to the farmhouse. It lies quiet and empty.

He finds that depressing, but it would be hard to tell from his demeanor.

“Hey, Big Mac!”

Big Mac looks up. Rainbow Dash, sporting a wide, unabashed grin, floats down with a butter yellow pegasus, cutie mark of light blue mist and two dark blue butterflies, with a brilliant light and bright blue striped mane. She strongly reminds him of Fluttershy. He vaguely remembers seeing her before, and wonders why Rainbow Dash would be introducing him to a new weather recruit. She is pretty cute, though, with sea green eyes and a nice swish to her voluptuous tail.

“Eeyup?”

“Big Mac, this is Misty Fly.” Rainbow Dash indicates the well-toned mare. She gives a sharp smile and curt nod. He finds it uncomfortable to be under such scrutiny. “Misty Fly, this is Big McIntosh, or Big Mac.”

Not knowing what else to say (though questions as to Rainbow Dash’s intentions top the list) Big Mac merely nods and says, “Eeyup.” She waves, her smile one he wouldn’t mind seeing more of.

Rainbow Dash frowns, though a saccharine smirk quickly covers it up. “I’m showing Misty Fly around Ponyville.” Big Mac, having known Rainbow Dash since she arrived, has neither seen nor heard of her doing this for anypony. “I was telling her about how you like your trees watered!”

Big Mac stares at Rainbow Dash. He’s not sure what her plan is, or what she’s up to. It doesn’t feel like one of her pranks, but they never do until all your apples are painted bright and bold. “Ee-yup.”

“So, yeah!” In the meantime, Misty Fly has lost herself looking at the coming rain clouds, so Rainbow Dash clears her throat before beginning her explanation. “See, we run things differently now than back when we were at school. Instead of dumping eight tenths of a cloud over a lake or in transit, each of us will be assigned to a specific area. You’ll take your cloud, mash it real thin, and spread it out over the grass or trees or whatever.”

Rainbow Dash keeps glancing over as if to make sure that he is paying attention, that she’s explaining things correctly. He’s surprised she knows all this, and finds himself nodding along with the occasional “Eeyup.”

“Now, at Sweet Apple Acres, with the way their orchards are set up? Long, thin chains work best. I start at the east end, on the Ponyville side, and contour the clouds so they’re barely covering the wheat fields to the south and stretch all the way to the White Tail Woods to the north. It takes a little getting used to how wide they should be; you don’t want any excess pushing out over the Everfree. Don’t worry about going too wide; the trees have roots that spread out under the paths, so it’s not like it’s wasted or anything, but it should be even the whole way.”

Misty Fly pays attention the entire time with a certain focus, as if every instruction might mean life or death. He’s surprised by her intensity, especially given the daydreaming she seemed to be doing just seconds ago.

“Then, after you’ve got your bank set up, it’s just a matter of moving it every so often, maybe thirty minutes or so. I would generally alternate, you know, a nap on one, then a quick hundred, light lunch, max sprints, that sort of thing.” Rainbow Dash shrugs. “Doesn’t seem like much, but getting it right’s important. Any questions?”

“Understood. No questions, ma’am.” Misty Fly turns to Big Mac, regarding him with a sharp smile. “Anything to add, ma’am?”

“Hey, no need to be so formal,” Rainbow Dash cuts in with a chuckle.

“Yes, ma’am.” Misty Fly’s posture relaxes noticeably, but her frame is still erect with limbs carefully tucked. She watches him, waiting for an answer.

“Ee-nope,” Big Mac replies. The weather team - which, for Sweet Apple Acres, mostly consists of Rainbow Dash - does a fine job. When she’s not crashing into the trees, that is.

Misty Fly’s smile twists upward, her eyes twinkling. “You don’t talk much, do you?”

Big Mac isn’t sure how to take that, so he answers with a simple, “Eeyup.”

“Now,” Rainbow Dash orders - he finds the commanding edge in her voice quite appealing - “the clouds for today should have been delivered to the northwest pen by the lake. Go retrieve our share, and get to work spreading them out. I need to make sure everypony is up and at ‘em, but I’ll be back around to check on you. Any questions?”

“No, ma’am.” Misty Fly’s foreleg jerks, and she turns the aborted salute into a short wave. “Pleasure meeting you, Big Mac.”

“Eeyup,” Big Mac says before realizing that probably isn’t the best response. “Err, nice meetin’ ya, too, Misty Fly.”

She takes off at a quick pace he would expect from Rainbow Dash and not the green recruits. He watches her, admiring her flanks and wondering if she would be able to take his considerable weight. And girth.

“Sooo,” Rainbow Dash draws out. Big Mac quickly averts his gaze, but to no avail; if he could get any redder he would, her interpretation of his leer right on the mark. Yet the expected teasing doesn’t come, instead a certain gleeful anticipation. “It’s, um, pretty nice having a weatherpony that takes such an interest in the farm, right?”

“Ee-” Big Mac starts, gulping, wondering what Rainbow Dash is going to extort out of him for her silence. “Eeyup?”

Instead of pressing her advantage she lands. “And, at some point pretty soon, hopefully next year, I’ll be joining the Wonderbolts.”

She pauses, staring him in the eyes.

He blinks. She isn’t…

“I won’t be around to make sure the farm gets the perfect weather,” Rainbow Dash continues, as though he is a particularly hard-headed foal.

He fumbles around for what to say, settling on his go-to, “Eeyup.”

“And I don’t think Doug wants to add another mare to his herd,” she says, as if her intention wasn’t already obvious. She nods twice, trying to get him to nod along. “She likes a fruit heavy gelatin, big haydogs with all the fixings, and a cinnamon and cardamom pudding with a pinch of lemon and lots of cream. You know, just in case.” She winks, entirely unnecessarily, before taking off.

Big Mac sighs. This is what he gets for complaining, even to himself. Oh well. After all, how bad could it possibly be?

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