A few insomniac birds braved the wintery air to play a midnight song. Their tweets and whistles carried through the air, ducking and weaving between listless falling flakes of snow. Ponyville was wrapped in the cool embrace of snow, and more was on the way this night. Nopony dared step outside their homes; Hearth’s Warming Eve was just around the corner, and not a soul dared to spend the holidays in a rut from lack of sleep. Everypony was snug, safe in their homes, all peacefully at rest. That is, except for one.
Sweet Apple Acres, relieved of its harvesting duties for the season, sat cold and rigid through its hills and its sentinel-like barren trees. The only spot of warmth came from the farmhouse at the epicenter of it all, where a small fire in the furnace spread a bit of much-needed heat through the home. The cold certainly wasn’t the thing keeping one stallion awake, as he lied in bed.
The Doctor felt the minutes tick by as he stared on at the ceiling above him. He supposed that he had to correct himself; it was Whooves now. An appropriation of an old joking moniker; a joke that was now 100% real. His whole life in Equestria was up there in that ceiling, displayed like a film whizzing past. It seemed like eons now since that—what could he call it? That “accident” tossed him across the dimensions and headfirst into Ponyville, not a screwdriver, coat, or big blue box to be found. His regeneration had gone smoothly, until the last part; the party where he realized he’d become a pony. He’d done the natural thing, he felt—specifically, he panicked, and there may or may not have been a bit of screaming involved; potentially of a girlish persuasion. But he had settled in well enough, and took up a job as the local clock-maker, and repairman. Or was it repairpony? Even now, he slipped in and out of proper grammar—which universe’s grammar took precedence, anyway? Probably the one he was in. So, repairpony it was. He’d lived like that for quite some time, and for the longest time he felt like he was going mad. Or madder, maybe. But he’d settled in, and while it wasn’t quite a life he could love, it was a life.
Then, he met his wife. He turned his head away from the vast assortment of memories on the ceiling, and looked to his right; there, hidden behind a veil of golden hair. And a couple of pillows. And snoring. And sleep-grumbling angry enough to chill a Dalek. Underneath all of that was Applejack. Whooves smiled, and stroked a hoof through her mane as he heard her mutter the word “Stetson” in her slumber. Never before, and never again had Whooves met an individual, so… so… how could he put it?
So stubborn; so single-minded; so thick-headed; so loud and bossy; so earnest and faithful; so dedicated and nurturing; so intelligent; so beautiful. All of that was her, and Whooves loved every word in that description. He rolled over onto his side to get a better look at her, and with a hoof carefully lifted the pillows away. Applejack was as peacefully asleep as the old farmer ever got. One of her hooves twitched and rustled a bit, seeking the pillow it had been grabbing moments before. Her eyes were still shut tight, though, and she took in fresh breaths every few seconds. Strong, even breaths; Whooves was no expert, but if he had to declare on pony the pinnacle of health, it would have been Applejack.
He examined her face, and took in every detail. Her flaxen hair, carelessly brushing over her eyelids in the mad throes of sleep. Her rounded face was full of what he might’ve called Southern hospitality back in his own universe. He saw the bags under her weary eyes; he winced and looked again. No, not bags. Wrinkles, crow’s feet, whatever they were. He felt his heart sink as he took in those first clues, those first signs of aging, and fortified his mind for what was coming. He couldn’t delay this conversation any longer, an urge possessed him.
He reached a hoof forward and jostled Applejack’s shoulder. “Dear, wake up. Wake up.”
“Rrrm… I… w-wha? Whooves,” Applejack yawned out, stretching a hoof over her head and bringing it down to scratch an itch on her side. “what is it?”
“There’s something we need to talk about. It’s very important.”
“All right, but can’t it wait ‘til morning?”
Whooves shook his head. “No. It has to be now.”
Applejack didn’t say anything back, but nodded once and began to yawn again as she slowly sat up in bed, backing herself into her pillows to prop herself up. A moment later, Whooves did the same, and now sitting awake in bed, at midnight in the gentle cradle of winter, they stared at each other. As groggy as she looked, a bit of consciousness was returning to the farm pony, and she looked confused; maybe even a little annoyed that Whooves had woken her. A lump coagulated in his throat, and tried to block him as he spoke.
“L-love. Hearth’s Warming Eve is coming up, right? Do you remember what that means?”
His love gave herself a moment to think, yawning yet a third time and rubbing an eyelid vigorously as she pondered it. “Ah reckon that’s our twentieth, ain’t it.”
Whooves nodded. Hearth’s Warming Eve, twenty years ago, he and his bride were married. “That’s right. It’s been twenty years; but, something’s wrong…”
“What?” Applejack asked, now with genuine confusion prevailing over her desire for sleep. “Sugarcube, what do ya mean?”
Whooves shook his head, and brought his face up close to his wife’s, to let her see its smallest details. “Applejack, look at me.”
She obeyed, and observed him carefully. His non-distinct coat was as brown as always, and his eyes still held that same spark, that same crafty zeal they always had. His face was as taut and foalish as the day they had met. She let that last observation run through her mind again, and her expression dropped once she finally understood. He repeated out loud what she had come to realize. “I’m not getting any older.”
The pair leaned back, and they let the bombshell take its toll. Applejack’s eyes fell; she had trouble bringing them up to look at her husband. But she made an attempt, and quietly asked “What’re you gonna do?”
“I don’t know.” Whooves whispered back. He felt a ghostly weight hit him, and he fell back onto the pillows, staring up at the ceiling. “I thought maybe I’d gotten lucky when I came to this place. That this was my chance to live a normal, happy, mortal life. And now this.” he haphazardly pointed a hoof towards the other side of the wall in their room. “The foals are going to be moving out in a few months, and I haven’t aged a day since they were born. I’m going to have to bury them, Applejack. And then their foals. And then theirs, and theirs…”
Applejack felt the sting, the despair dripping off of every word Whooves said. He’d been prone to melancholy before. Remembering some horrifying misdeed from his past, or a friend he’d lost. But it was never like this. This time was different from those in other ways. Back then, Applejack knew Whooves well enough to see that he blamed himself for the mistakes of others. Though she had not seen these things with her own eyes, it was the honest truth when she told him she believed in him as a pony—or person, as she’d learned to refer to his past self. Selves, even. The mare knew she couldn’t choose who she fell in love with, but she could still perceive the oddities.
This time was so much different from the rest though, and it left Applejack speechless in trying to cheer him up. Every word he said was true. But she was desperate enough to need to say something. “Ah can’t imagine what that feels like. But Ah promise, I’ll be with ya every step of the way.”
“No, you won’t.” Whooves snapped back. AJ leaned back in surprise and a hint of confusion. But her initial shock settled, and she understood by the time he elaborated. “Even if you live to be the oldest pony to ever live… you won’t be immortal. And when ‘that’ happens, what am I supposed to do?”
In the darkness, it was hard to read the Doctor’s expression, but the farm pony could feel the pleading in his voice. He was begging her for an answer, something to make this revelation less painful for him. But how could she make this better? She couldn’t deny the fact that one day, every pony he held dear would wither and die; and he’d be left behind to watch it. She leaned over and hugged her husband, holding him close and speaking directly into his outstretched ear.
“Sugarcube, Ah can’t relate to your problem. But Ah can imagine what that dread feels like. It feels like a curse, doesn’t it? Livin’ so long, when everypony else won’t. Ah can’t take that away from you.” she looked up at him and nuzzled the side of her face along his. “There’s nothing in the world Ah’d ever want more; but I can’t. Ah’m still your wife, though, and Ah love you more than anything. The least Ah can do is shave as many years off of that time as Ah can; so, Ah promise ya that as long as there’s an ounce of life left in my bones, you’ll never be alone.”
Applejack pulled her head away, and saw that Whooves was smiling. A bit hollow, and a bit hurt; but she hoped that some small bit of it was genuine. She kissed him on the cheek, and whispered goodnight to him, before laying back down and wrapping a hoof around him as she drifted off to sleep. No matter how much she wanted to, she knew there was no way that words could cure the pain he felt. So instead she’d speak through actions.
Applejack didn’t know when she might die. It might be in sixty years. It might only be in another twenty. She could drop dead tomorrow night, for all she knew. But however long that life would be, she swore to herself—a Pinkie Promise, even—that for as long as she did live, then Whooves would not forget, even for a second, that she loved him; and she always would.
A bit of breath was expelled from her lungs as Whooves wrapped both legs tight around his wife, and pulled her in close. He finally knew for sure. Someday he would have to say goodbye to his beloved. Just like everyone else he’d ever known. But not tonight. Tonight, Applejack was there, and he loved her; he would hold on to her as tightly as he possibly could, and no force in her universe, or his, could pry him an inch away from her.
Outside, the snow continued to fall at its leisure. Pure white flakes crystallized the valley, and let it shine in the moonlight. Flesh and stone would fade, someday, but that precious moment in time would forever be frozen in the winter’s embrace.
