Through the beckons and halls of Canterlot's castle, two sisters perform their dance of Sopor. A ballet of hooves and horns, graceful, bowing - sleek on sleek marble - twisting, begging with them these sisters too, far far away: The dance of The Sun and The Moon! In choreographed patterns of breath and love, wispy orange light, in flames of silk, dragging, bowing, falling away - thin and warm - into some blue-black ocean slumber. Her lunar sister, now, a raft floating in their ocean - bright wide thing, dancing beneath shimmer of cloud, alongside cousins of stars, of family far from home.
Ponyville, too, lies beneath the old sky, readying its own dance of Sopor: Snuffing of candles, fluffing of pillows, ponies resting their eyes. It brings quiet. With ponies asleep, only the gentle wind and stir of critters can be heard. The town glows dimly beneath the bright and beautiful moon. The leaves and branches of apple trees cast softly swaying shadows in the farms of Sweet Apple Acres.
The farm is an old, old soul of a place, if places can have souls at all. The wood is ancient and sometimes creaky, but bathed and soaked in countless memories - love and hope and fear and sorrow. It's what keeps the place warm, year round. These ponies in memory, holding on, hugging you, even if you don't see them. Can't remember them. The downstairs is still. Reposeful. Little dots of dust bob about in the air, few and far between. There's a pan still soaking in the sink, filled with squares of moonlight framed by windowpane.
Upstairs, Applejack is trying to sleep. Her bedding is twisted and crumpled from where she's tossed and turned, eyes holding themselves shut for no more than a few minutes at a time. It's annoying, she thinks, that she could barely hold herself up to cook for everypony, and now that she has the time to sleep, she can't. It's annoying that she had to spend most of the day fixing up a cart that Big MacIntosh broke. Everything is annoying, like a steam engine in her head. Pumping and shaking, over and over, not stopping. Pumping itself round and round, lighting up corners of her brain and turning them off. Grabbing and holding and not letting go. Her hooves are fiddling with the sheets above her, trying to shuffle them into some perfect position. Some orientation that will grant her what she needs to sleep. Her eyes are shut, then open, then shut. Then open again.
The lights are off. The room is dark, mostly - the edges of her green curtains, drawn closed, are framed (slightly) with moonlight. There's a short set of drawers next to her bed. She keeps a candle on it, just in case, but she's never really used it since the farm got some oil lamps in - years ago now. The drawers themselves are full of all sorts of knick knacks and little things, none of which would ever really be of use to her in bed. Across the room, her closet is full of hats and boots. The mirror beside it has a small photo tucked into the frame. It's too dark and Applejack is too far away to properly make out the photo, but she knows that it's family.
The steam engine is still pumping in her head. She can hear the little echoes of pressure and movement around the room, bouncing off the walls.
She tears off the bed covers, her hooves hitting the floor. Stretches her legs, feels the floor beneath her hooves. Pushes them in, scrapes them. Barely even conscious, it's what the steam engine demands of her. Movement. Pressure. And then she starts walking round in circles, tight little circles, in the corner by her bed - then they spill out, get wider, she's spilling across the whole room and at some point she finds herself in front of the mirror and she stops. Stares.
She can't see her reflection all that well: Her visage is a dark, muddy blue. She stares anyway. Moves her jaw. Grins and bites. Scrunches. She used to hate her freckles as a filly, but she likes them now. As she sways her head, catches it at different angles, she sees the picture tucked into the frame again. Most days, she glazes right by the photo. Doesn't even think of it. The days when she sees it - when it snaps into focus, clear, direct - these are the days she needs to see it. The days when she forgets. So she digs it out with her hoof and holds it. Stares for a second, then grabs it with her maw. She looks to the window, but the curtains are still drawn. A few hoofsteps towards it, but then she stops. Turns. Goes for the door instead.
The hall is quiet. Weightless. Snores drift from one of the rooms, but muffled - only ethereally present. Applejack stares out a window, bathes in the lunar beams. The moonglow is stronger here, but not enough. It's not enough. So she walks on. Down the hall, down the stairs, through the still kitchen, all across the warm, soaked wood, out onto the porch. She's slow but focused, doesn't stop for a moment. Continues on into the fields, legs bristling through the grass and dirt that tickle her with dew, keeps on til she stops. She's here now, the middle of the field. The steam engine is slower, it gives her room to breathe, so she does. She sits and breathes. Grabs the photograph again. Family. Looking at that photograph, she keeps breathing. In and out, calming and soothing. The breathing lifts some weight she didn't even realise she was holding and she's ready now. She crooks her neck. Looks up. Sees the sky, this perfect tapestry: Moonbeam rays and all the stars, dancing in a lunar waltz. The steam engine inside is finally quiet enough for her to hear the words she speaks:
Hey mom, hey dad.
Hey moon.
