The mornings do in fact come very early on a working farm.

Just as the sun broke the horizon, before even the rooster was awake, the smell of pancakes was drifting leisurely through the house. The scent of cinnamon and spices tickled at the sleeping colt’s mind, prompting formless dreams to make way for basic hungry.

The colt yawns widely as he stumbles into the kitchen. He weaves a bit, blinking in the light, before plopping down on the bench opposite of his father. “Apple cinnamon pancakes?”

The stallion folds down the top half of his morning paper and looks over the square glasses perched on his muzzle, “You sound surprised…”

“Well… It’s just that you never…”

“Never cook?”

The colt nods as a small container of syrup on the counter is surrounded in a field of magic and lifts gently into the air. The glass flask floats over to the table where the colt plucks it from the air and pours a bit of the sticky sweet stuff on his stack of pancakes. “You always say you can burn water, so I always do the cooking…”

“Well, with you bein’ gone all winter I decided to see what I could do in here. Found I kinda liked cookin’…" He laughs, "It sure beats grass sandwiches three times a day.”

The colt chuckles and grabs a bite, and his eyes go wide as the sweet apple and cinnamon flavors dance on his tongue… His father was right; this certainly did beat grass sandwiches!

“Wow!” the colt exclaims around a mouthful, “This is really good!”

The stallion laughs, “Glad ya like ‘em. I can’t take all the credit though - its Maybell’s recipe. You remember her? From up the road apiece? Who would’a thought I’d have something to talk about with that old hen…”

The colt grins at the thought of his father in his work harness, and Maybell in her ever-present blue sun hat, swapping pancake recipes across a picket fence. The mirth would have to wait though; more pressing matters were on the colts mind - mainly devouring his breakfast.

After breakfast is done, the kitchen is cleaned, and the other morning rituals completed, they meet outside.

They both stand in front of the house in the low morning sun; the father with his draft horse proportions, close-cropped mane and short tail - and the colt, almost as tall, but with his wild mane and tail. But the colt is far thinner - almost frail by comparison.

That they could be related, and yet so different, was just one of the many wonders of Equestrian genetics.
It was nearly impossible to determine Equestrian lineage from looks alone; they tended to be a kaleidoscope of color possibilities, and there was a completely random chance of inheriting all, part, or none of the parent’s coloration. Added to this was the fact that any foal from any pairing could be any one of the three types of pony - earth, pegasi, and unicorn… Family lines could get very complex, very quickly.

This didn’t pose too much of an issue within their close-knit families. But as a society it tended to force a pony to stand on their own merits when away from home - for there was no way to look at somepony and know anything more than what one was told and, perhaps, something from their cutie mark.

Ponies, by and large, simply couldn't do stereotypes...

The elder sizes up the younger - it seems like just a few months ago his little black and white colt barely came to his chest, and now he was nearly full grown. Like all Equestrians, the colt was walking within hours and was nearly the size he is now in just a few short years; and wouldn't show any real signs of aging until his last decade or so. This tended to make all Equestrians look to be about the same age. But, to the stallion, it seems like such a short time has passed as his foal grew up…

He stops his reminiscing and gets focused on the day ahead. “So… I need to get the south field plowed and ready for planting, and I need to get into town and pick up the roofing supplies I ordered a month ago - that mill’ll fall down this spring from rot if I don’t get that there roof patched up. Think I can get ya to take the cart into town and pick up those supplies?”

The colt looks out over the acres of field for a moment, then turns with a reassuring expression, “Why don’t I get the south field plowed and you take it easy today and go visit in town? I can handle that old plow, no problem…”

The stallion raises an eyebrow, “I don’t know… You really think you can handle that plow? It’s mighty heavy for such a…” He stops himself with a cough - noting the colt’s expression, “such a - hot day…”

The colt nods, “I’ve walked beside you for years now father; I know the depth and the angle, and how to do the turns, and - I’m not so little anymore!”

His father considers for a moment before nodding. “Well, if you think it’s that easy I don’t see why not - that and I’ve not just wandered the isles of the hardware store in a long while... Though, I still think ya might be a bit too citified now for that old plow - ya know, that soft livin’ in Canterlot and all.” he adds with a wink.

The colt laughs, “I’ll show you ‘citified’ you old nag!” and he bolts off towards the plow shed, handily dodging the playful kick from his father.

His father shouts after the him, “I should be back right before lunch… This ‘old nag’ would have the south done by then - can you manage as well oh mighty unicorn wizard?” He laughs as he hitches himself up to the cart and heads out - over the rise and out of sight.

The colt chuckles, “Unicorn Wizard… I’ll show him!”

In the shaded interior of the shed the colt stands and stares at the old plow. It slumbers peacefully, highlighted in a shaft of early morning light that spills from a high window. It is a massive machine; the wheels are as tall as he is, and the whole contraption is easily three times wider to accommodate the two offset plow blades. It is made entirely of old oak and forged iron, and looks to weigh as much as a house…

He gulps, wondering what his boasting has brought him.

The colt walks around the plow to stand between the traces and carefully magics the pulling harness over his head. The harness itself is quite large for him, being made for his father’s width of neck and chest - but he makes due. And after a few moments of buckles and clips, he leans into the collar to get things rolling...

And absolutely nothing happens. The plow doesn’t even so much as squeak with his effort...

He shakes his head, “It can’t be that heavy!” It is right about then he notices the blocks of wood in front of the wheels…

Feeling a bit foalish, and happy his father isn’t around to see, he magics the blocks out of the way and staggers forward as the plow settles on its wheels.

The colt leans into the weight, hooves scrabbling on the hard pack dirt for purchase, and slowly he gets the massive metal and wood contraption moving. He guides it carefully out of the shed, past the house, and down the path to the south field.

He trots along happily with the plow in tow. The sunrise is beautiful this morning, a cool breeze plays amongst the trees that ring the property, and the wild birds have begun their day in song. As he heads down the shallow grade towards the bottom of the south field he grins widely. “See, I told him this would be easy…”

Nearing the end of the path that divides the fields he quickly discovers a bit of a problem; stopping the plow once it is moving is another matter entirely from getting it moving in the first place.

He overshoots the end of the south field at a pretty good clip, shouting “Whoa! Whoa you infernal contraption! Whoa!” Despite locking his forelegs and practically sitting down, all he manages to do is create four long furrows in the path that lead into the rough at the end. He quickly finds himself a fair ways past the end of the path and belly deep in weeds – and still attached to his current object of hatred; the plow.

He scowls, “This is hopeless! How am I ever going to manage this thing?” He lays his ears back and snorts once, then digging deep he pulls, twists, hops, and brute forces the plow out of the rough and into the south field.

The colt pants and rests a moment as he looks over the expansive south field. From this vantage point it looks huge - far bigger than he thought it was... And his ears go out to the sides as the enormity of his task sets in. “I’ll be at this for a week – at least…” he mutters.

Sighing, he unhitches himself to walk around the plow. He recites the settings for the machine from memory as he magics the various parts into alignment. “Set the depth just so, the angle has to be like this…” Once satisfied he’s got everything set right, he hitches himself back up and heaves the lumbering monstrosity into motion…

A couple hours pass as the colt makes pass after slow pass across the field. Eyes to the earth he concentrates on putting one hoof in front of the other, keeping his lines straight, and getting the job done. After all it was his boasting that got him into this - he hopes enough hard work can get him out of it again…

He strains at the harness, sweat flecking across his shoulders and chest as the plow bites into the field, turning it to the side and creating that fresh, loamy earthy smell that is so much a part of his foalhood. Another row, another turn, and back the way he came…

From the corner of his eye he sees his shadow next to him as he struggles with the plow. Another, fainter shadow is superimposed over his; immense and taking strong, measured strides - his father.

Every year his father would plow, and sow, and reap, and mill while the colt tended to his schoolwork. His father repaired the house, fixed fences, and hauled stones for the foundation of the forge while the colt sat in classrooms and dipped quills in ink.

It didn’t seem very fair and was something he’d bring up on occasion with his father, but he’d always say, “You’re meant for bigger things Tenebrae” or “We all do what we can do in kind - yours is a different calling.”

Another row, another turn, and back the way he came…

His shadow plods along with him, now on the other side; its steps echoing his own motions as he drags the plow through the earth. Suddenly out of nowhere a sharp whip crack sound echoes across the field. A sharp pain lances across his left haunch making him jump both physically and mentally - snapping him right out of his wool gathering.

He looks around the field, and then up at the sun - which is much higher now… And the job is only part way done…

Looking back he sees the left trace has snapped, cleanly split in two, and that was what lashed his flank. His heart sinks. “Well, there’s no way I can get this done before lunch now…”

“Or is there?”

He ponders, “The busted trace means I can’t pull the plow, but perhaps I can magic the plow along… I’ve never tried to move anything this heavy though.”

He nods, “But if I don’t get it done father will have to do it, and he’s got so many other things that he needs to do...”

The colt squares himself up, plants his hooves firmly, points his horn at the plow and concentrates…

Magic is one half knowing what you want, being able to clearly focus on your intentions, and the other half is having the will to make it happen.

Since last spring he’s had plenty of will – his latent magical ability was actually fairly potent for one so young - but he’s always had problems with focus. That’s what he would be learning in Canterlot starting next week – focus. But that would be then, and this was now; right here in this field it all came down to him being able to make this spell work…

He begins by closing his eyes and holding the image of the plow in his mind. He then carefully adds the action of using it to harrow the field - and hears the plow creak as his power begins to fill it. A small bead of sweat trickles around his horn and down his muzzle.

He strains as the mass and weight of the plow forces his hooves deeper into the soil, his efforts to empower it pressing back against him. He can see, through closed eyes, the thin filaments of magic; pale blue streaks of light like so many fireflies swirl around the plow as he spins the spell.

The image flickers and blurs before him, the strain of the spell causing him to lose that precious focus and he can feel his control of the magic slipping…

In his thoughts he wanders back in time - to all those years of coming down the road from town, returning home from school and seeing the fields done, or the fences mended, or more work done on the mill. He remembers the feeling of wanting to help his father, but being too small - too weak.

And here, now, years later and practically full grown, he was still too small and too weak. Once again he had failed, once again he won’t be able to finish the task he’d set himself to; and his father would have to work harder for it - to fix the plow, and then finish the harrowing…

The spell had to work! He grits his teeth and much like getting the plow out of the rough at the end of the path in the first place, he digs deep...

Bright lights flash in his vision as he squints from the strain and pours himself into the spell, opting for brute force over finesse. If his focus was going to fail him, his will certainly would not – he would not allow it to. The horn upon his brow flashes and flickers, sparking fitfully as unshaped magic fluoresces and falls from it. He pushes harder yet, reaching his limits through sheer force of will. His world draws inward, his vision being reduced to a tunnel of bright light surrounded by darkness…

His knees buckle; the strain simply too much for him to withstand. The magic he called forth flows back into the world around him, like pouring water back into a pool, and leaves him empty. He dimly feels himself fall onto the freshly turned earth as everything goes black.

A gentle female voice whispers in his ear: “The truth - you must know who you are…”

The field is gone - it simply ceased to exist between heartbeats. Suddenly he is lying with his nose between his forelegs in the tall, cool grass of a nighttime hillside.

He raises his head and blinks; above him the twinkling blue-black dome of the heavens imperceptibly turns, while low on the horizon the disk of a full moon casts the world in shades of blue and silver.

He immediately thinks this is some sort of dream - perhaps a hallucination brought on from wrestling with that old plow. But the spot on his flank still smarts from where the trace got him, and he's never heard of a dream where your flank hurts...

Looking around though, he notes he's never seen anywhere quite like this either. From here on the highest hill around, all he can see in any direction is just more dark rolling hills dotted with tall silver trees. In the far distance he can just make out the sparkle of a river as it winds its way through the serene landscape. Above him, at the very crest of this hill, sits an enormous oak tree; its broad branches holding a sea of silvery leaves that seem to shine with their own inner light. The leaves sway slowly in the cool currents of the evening breeze.

And suddenly standing next to the tree, as if she had been standing there for eternity and had simply gone unnoticed, is a tall unicorn mare with the deepest black coat and the most amazing green eyes. Her long ebon mane and tail float on the gentle breeze; around her neck a thin golden chain holds a single teardrop shaped diamond that flashes as she breathes.

He knows this mare – and his voice catches in his throat; “M – Mother?”

She nods once and smiles, “Oh Tenebrae, you have no idea how long I’ve waited…”

He surges up onto his hooves and takes a cautious step towards her - craning his neck forward, ears perked... "Is this? Are you ... real?"

She returns the gesture - gently touching his nose with her own; it is warm, velvety, and very alive. “Yes, I am real - enough…”

She steps forward suddenly, dropping her head over his withers and hugging him to her chest with her neck - her tears wetting his mane. In an instant memories flash before him; looking up into her smile, her tender and loving touch, and the gentle smell of - her. He breathes in her scent, like that of rain clouds and lightning... Yes, she is real enough...

He sighs into her mane, “If this is a dream, I don’t want to ever wake up…”

“This is a dream, but your father would be heartbroken if you didn’t awaken…”

“So I really am dreaming…”

She doesn’t want to, but she lets him go, “Well, yes - and no… It is hard to explain without knowing a bit more about what this actually is,” she motions with her head indicating the hills and trees, “But, for now, know that this too is real enough.”

“Tenebrae, we do not have much time, but for this moment - I... just want to look at you.”

She smiles at him as they stand there under massive oak, and he can feel the love in her gaze.

“You’ve certainly grown” she says after a moment or two, “you must be nearly as tall as your father now.”

Tenebrae nods, “He speaks of you often - he misses you very much.”

She raises her head and looks into the distance behind him, at things only she can see. The moonlight edges her dark form with silver, and he can see the tension in her long neck as she struggles to contain her emotions. “I - miss him too Tenebrae… How is he?”

“He would say he’s ‘fair to middlin’ I expect.” The colt says with a smile.

She chuckles as she looks into the past, “You sound like him you know…” She looks back to him, “Tell him when you see him shortly that his mad mare misses him will you?”

Tenebrae nods.

He looks at her, his eyes huge in the moonlight, and she can tell he has so many unanswered questions – so many things he wants to ask and say. She sighs, “I want so much to tell you everything, to learn all about you and your life, but there is no time - they search for you...” She leans in and nuzzles his forelock a bit, “We must be quick.”

Her seeming to know his thoughts gives him pause, and he looks at her with a touch of confusion.

She turns, takes a few steps away to stand next to the oak tree, and once again looks out into the distance. “Your father would never tell you who I really am, to protect you from certain - truths. But the Aeon has found you - as have they, and now you must now know...”

She sighs, “I worry that what I am about to show you will seal your fate Tenebrae, but to withhold myself - to not show you who your mother truly is - would be to lie to you further… And I cannot do that now.”

She lowers her head, an expression of sadness; “You never asked for any of this - it was my own petty greed, my desire to keep my immortality at any cost that has placed you in peril… And for that I am truly sorry…”

He can hear the doubt and sadness in her voice. “Mother? I... I don’t understand…”

She turns again to face him, her emerald green eyes steady on his… And she suddenly grows larger; bright blue and green highlights flow and twist hypnotically in her dark mane and tail, which now float gently on currents that are contrary to the light breeze stirring the leaves. Her horn grows long, a twisted spire of ebony that rises from her brow and shimmers with its own iridescent light. Finally she spreads her wings, stretching them to their full ten meter span and flaring the primaries a bit before folding them carefully back against her body.

Her change takes him by complete surprise, so much so the typically wordy colt can only utter a quiet “Whoa…”

“I can only imagine this is quite the shock…” Her voice is the same, but it carries something – more – now, a quiet authority that even her best ‘mother voice’ could not approach. And much like his brief encounter with Celestia, he can feel her presence like that of a powerful spell given form.

He nods, and then narrows his eyes. “Mother?”

She nods, “I am.”

“But - you’re like Celestia.”

She nods again, “You could say that - though of that pair I would think Luna and I are more alike.” Before he can speak she shakes her head and dismisses the question, “Who she is, is not important right now…”

She gracefully walks back and stands before him - looking down upon him from her greater height. “It’s important that you know who you are, and more importantly - who they are.” She leans forward with her long graceful neck and touches her horn lightly to the center of his chest for a brief moment, “You carry a part of me within you, and that makes you a danger to their plans.”

Raising her head she looks back into his eyes, “We have no time… There is always so little time – even when one exists forever… Always know that no matter how dark the night, no matter how dire the danger, that I am always with you dearest of my heart. Tell your father that you know the truth - he can tell you more…”

She suddenly looks off into the distance, her ears twitch as if hearing something he did not; she stomps a forehoof out of frustration and her horn glows slightly. “They are close. I cannot keep you hidden much longer…”

She looks back to him, her presence changing from that of 'mother' to something else, something tall and regal and - very ancient. “I give you the only gift I can for the trials ahead my little one.” She raises her head and her horn glows brightly as she speaks; words he feels as much as hears are spoken. They are not loud words, but he can feel this place hum with them nonetheless; ”What little of my power lives in you, I give to you as yours – may your wisdom guide my light Tenebrae Lux, my Light in the Darkness…”

Those words, like a spell woven, banish the glamour and she is gone. The mighty oak, the hills, the trees, and the moon and stars - all of it whirls away into the darkness.

He is floating, somewhere. He cannot see anything and isn’t even sure if he’s right way up.

It begins as a warm sensation that fills him, as if for his entire life he’d been missing some piece that here, now, had finally fallen into place. The sensation of finally being complete fills a yearning he’s felt for as long as he can remember - but could not understand.

The sky above the partially harrowed field darkens as the forces swirling around the colt lash his mane and tail. He rises gently from the earth and hangs there limply, arcs of power spilling from him back into the ground around him. Small clumps of earth rise around him from the field as the power builds. Even the plow lifts slightly…

His mind whirls; the painting of his mother and her green eyes, the immortal standing before him with her warm loving smile, the fields of home, the fields of her sanctuary, the clock, his father…

He sees the fields of his past through closed eyes - last fall as he left for Canterlot, there, before him - in every detail, but as if through an imperfect window. He reaches out with his senses to touch the illusion of home that hangs before him - and the place he is now pops like a soap bubble.

The meeting with his mother fades from him, like awakening from a dream - it was all so real, but was it? He feels like he’s looking down on the two of them as they talked, and they are moving away from him. He can only hear her last words:

”What little of my power lives in you, I give to you as yours - may your wisdom guide my light Tenebrae Lux, my Light in the Darkness…”

A ripple of magic moves outward from the colt, washing over the field in a gentle blue white flash of radiance.

And as quickly as it began, everything returns to normal: The colt settles slowly back onto the ground, the radiance fades, the clumps of earth fall to the ground, the plow settles back into the field, and the sky clears…

Tenebrae gasps as if he’s been holding his breath and opens his eyes. He’s lying in a bit of a heap in his father’s field, looking at the wheel of the plow he was just trying to move…

“What the…”

He clambers back to his hooves and shakes the loose dirt from his coat, wincing a bit as he shakes his head to settle his mane, “Ow! Yeah, that was a bit too much… But, what a dream…”

He examines the plow and his ears go out to the sides, “I guess enchanting the plow is right out…” Walking around to the shady side of the plow he flops down on the ground and ponders what to do next…

But the dream he had gnaws at him. He tries to grasp some part of it, some tiny bit to hang onto so he can reel in the rest - but it is like smoke, and just as elusive. He remembers seeing her as an immortal, her saying that they had found him, whoever they were… And something about her gift to him – whatever that was…

Then as quickly he was back here in the field - a dream? Some bit of hallucination brought on from his exertions and frustrations with the plow?

But there was something urgent about the whole ordeal - something he needed to know…

While the colt struggles to recall the dream, he doesn’t hear his father’s approach… “Well, it appears you have things well in hoof Tenebrae…”

The colt literally leaps a meter into the air out of surprise and lands splay legged and looking like he’d just seen the pale mare herself.

“Father! I - it…” and all of his words come out in a rush; “the trace broke and I had to get the field done but I couldn’t fix the trace so I tried to use magic but it didn’t work and I’m sorry … I didn’t want to let you down…”

His father laughs. “I can see where you put your best effort into the task down there” the stallion nods in the direction of the bottom of the field, “and I see where that old trace I’ve been meaning to replace broke on you” he looks, “and left quite the welt.”

His father walks over and begins inspecting the plow, “You always worry too much Tenebrae – you did a great job and we’ll finish it up after lunch easy enough. I got a new set of traces for this 'ere plow while I was in town, so don’t worry 'bout it – there weren’t nothin’ to be done 'bout it - my fault really for putting off replacin' the trace in the first place.”

He removes the rest of the harness from the plow with practiced skill, “But, it’s important to know how to do a job the right way, and typically the hard way, a'fore using shortcuts to make it easier – and you did that. You’re old enough now that ya know when to use your power to ease a task and when to simply put your shoulder into it. Them city-bred unicorns would have started off with magic right away and just made a mess of things…”

His father turns and throws the broken harness over his back with a toss of his head, “Makes me happy ta know that when the day comes that you can magic that old plow – and that day will be soon you mark my words – you’ll not take the easy way out and shirk the job at hoof. Now, let’s get up to the house for lunch – I brought back some fresh blueberry pie.”

Tenebrae smiles and trots after him.