Hello everybody, just an author's note. First I would like to say the world of My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic is owned by Hasbro and all characters thereby created by them are such. Second, I would like to say that my ability to actually write this piece and not ignore it is fueled by the countless stories this community outputs, and I hope I will be able to match expectations. Lastly, Like any story, I have no doubt I will revise this story in accordance with personnel sentiments, with its ability to fit in with the later story, and, more importantly, the reviews, whether they be praise or scrutiny. So without further ado I leave you to what I have temporarily titled Oakhoof.

There are many stories, stretched over many times, from many places in which tell of a hero or heroine who started from humble beginnings, being chosen for a task of dire consequence, and rose over arduous tasks and events that would stop them from fulfilling destiny. And among these countless tales few quite match the circumstances of this story, passed down many generations to I, who have now decided to take it to the parchment with quill in order that it may not be lost to us of this realm. So what you unfurl before yourself is not a child of mine but a grand venture upon which generations have mused to refine its meaning and lesson. But I warn you, this neither is something which you would expect in this modern era, nor would your culture necessarily approve of your reading, as the characters in this epic would fall to those of pigtails and freckles; convention nor mine own gaiety brought me to write thus accordingly, but merely the respect and responsibility of being the bearer of such an archaic torch.

In a land far from Equestria (of which I am sure many of you know a great deal of), in fact a land far across the waters and skies that border that magical kingdom, in a time older than that of the regal two, (not to say that they did not exist, for they did, but not in the same way they do know), far older than you can fathom, there lived an Earth pony. He was a very plain earth pony at that, he worked on a very plain farm, planting very plain carrots and turnips (for back in those days the apple was something that only the very rich could afford, apart from the orchard gardeners themselves, who weren't as poor as they made out to be), and he had very plain ambitions: To own his family's farm one day, to settle down with a mare and sire many foals to help him on the farm and one day carry on as he returned to his namesake. But for now all he could do was plow the fields, weed the crops, feed the fowl and livestock, and dream about one day owning his parent's farm. But at only two and twenty years, he had many a harvest to go before that dream was to be realized.

Yet Oakhoof did a certain thing every green-corn moon that wasn't what you would say is plain, considering all the other things he did. Peculiarly enough, just as sun began to set, Oakhoof would venture out to the edge of the homestead, were there was a gentle sloping hill of soft green grass which bordered a murmuring brook which wound its way through pebbles and rocks, down drops and a slight cliff, to end by a crystalline pond which seemed to reflect the very soul of the full moon giving the water a gossamer look which continued down a small tributary, merely a trickle, into the depths of an emerald forest that held a soft wafting fragrance of life built upon decay. Here Oakhoof would lie down and stare at the moon and stars, merely appreciating the serenenity and beauty of this world and its surroundings. He would often wonder about the moon; how it got there, why it rose and fell in an eternal dance with the sun, and why, like an eye, it would blink (A very slow blink at that). Sometimes he stared at it for such a length sometimes he thought he would see movement upon it, a twinkle at times, other times a shadow, and yet other times he thought he would see a face, but as soon as he saw it and tried to focus he would lose it, and once again stare at the soft disc in the infinite sky.

When the sun's last ray's finally vanished, and it was truly night, Oakhoof would bow his head till the grass brushed his nose and close his eyes and listen, for when he was merely a colt himself, a band of traveling bards graced his village and recited a poem which he forever remembered:

Amidst the stars and vigilant orb

which guide the dreams of whom repose,

lays truth for minds to bear

sprung from which the earth hath prose

sought but found by no mare.

Yet foal or fool that ventures thus

Shall find design in beauty's lus'

And Gaia then to them shall truss

From which they shall absorb.

He memorized that poem as if his life depended on it, though he didn't come to understand it till many seasons later. So as he closed his eyes, he would force active thought from his mind and focus in on the load of sensory information which would assault him. The warm breeze rippled the hair on his fur coat and tousled his mane. The distant croaks of frogs by the pond compounded with the rustling of the trees as the wind fluttered by. The smell of sod, life, and decay came to fill his snout with, what was to him, a heavenly aroma. But on this specific night, a night with a full moon, he would even shut all of these sensory inputs out, look past them into what seemed to be a void. He would lie there in a blanket of the expanse paying no attention to all the details around him. Staying this way, he would wait for many hours frozen, save for the methodic expansion and compression of his chest as he breathed.

Then, ever so slightly, as if he was chasing the cusp of a dream, a nebulous tail that he knew was there but could not see; he would begin to hear something. It was a whisper, or so he could tell, but it never seemed to say anything, being just a murmur. At first he had become excited and would immediately lose it, awakening back to his grassy knoll, but as the seasons repeated he learned to get closer and closer to the whisper, inching his way. He felt so very close, as if he could just reach out and grab it, and the one time he did try, he caught nothing but grass. But finally he had learned to let it come to him, as it seemed to get louder and louder as he surrendered his bodily senses. Frustration was the answer though, as no matter how close it got, it never became clear nor louder than a whisper. And yet he came back annually, never once missing a chance to do this, as he wanted more than anything (except for his normal aspirations of course) to hear what the voice had to say.

So as Oakhoof made his way to this spot one evening before a full moon, a noise of rustling leaves and breaking twigs (as his path led him through the walnut grove) caused him to stop and turn around. Looking about him, he saw no sign of anybody, and so continued to trek up his path again. It had recently rained and the smell of the dirt and plants lay heavy in the air while the moist dirt stuck to the bottom of his hooves. The trees, it seemed to him, were extra green for this time of the year, no doubt a correlation to the amount of rain they had received in the past month, a little over a third of a cubit (nearly six inches for us); the last it had rained like that, with the little brook turning into a rather large creek, was back when Cedarwood had just been born.

Continuing through the grove, shadows splaying down the pony's flank as he moved through them, Oakhoof began to go over all of his prior experiences on top of his knoll, reminding himself of all the nuances that he must use in order to maintain his contact for as long as possible. Even having done this for well over ten years, it was every bit as challenging as the first time he had attempted it. Deep in his thoughts, Oakhoof walked past the edge of the copse into the connecting grass field that was bathed in the orange light of the setting sun, and once again a noise came from behind him. Stopping, he looked behind him and saw nothing once more, except for the grove he had come out of and the hoof tracks that, he reckoned, led right back to the livestock pen. As he was quite engrossed in his thoughts, he absent-mindedly dismissed the noise as merely red squirrels playing in the trees and possibly eating the yet ripe nuts. So turning his head back around, and with a swish of a tail as he swatted flies, Oakhoof began to trot forward up a gradual slope.

Breaking from his thoughts a moment later, as he finished going over everything that he had learned, he began to look about him and take in the scenery. The grass, like the larger foliage, was a deeper shade of green then usual and likewise a good bit taller, reaching up to near his barrel. The sun, on the edge of the horizon, made shadows which ran the length of the highest oak trees, and also seemed to give an amber filter to the world. The air was still and humid, causing even this light walk to make sweat start to mat his fur. Dragonflies and other insects flew from grass-blade to grass-blade as if they could never figure out which one was the most comfortable, or being the fact that there was a sea of such grass, that they had to try all to decide. Birds called in the distance, and the buzzing noise of the cicadas was starting to give way to the softer noise of the frogs.

Finally reaching the top of the hill, Oakhoof stopped to watch the last few seconds as the sun sunk below the emerald tree line to his left, casting the underside of the clouds from a rusty pink to a pale gray. The sky changed from the golden amber hue to a pale bluish gray that signified the onset of night. Looking off to his right, Oakhoof focused on where a small brook broke from the tree line, and, aiming his body to it, began again, picking up into a pace so as to make it to his spot before twilight turned to dusk.

Making it to his spot, Oakhoof laid his stocky build upon the earth, flattening the tall grass underneath him and further compressing the moist loam, leaving a small depression where he lay. Giving a huff and a slight neigh, he relaxed his muscles and began to loosen up after a strenuous day in the fields. Closing his Dartmouth green eyes, he breathed deep and let out a sigh, opening them again to stare out from his spot unto the brook which could be heard lazily moving along. So watching the brook and listening to the ambiance, waiting for the moon to take dominance in the sky, Oakhoof began to think of his family and his village. Laying on the outskirts of the small village, it would take him at least thirty minutes to get there with a brisk canter and nearly an hour when taking the cart laden with an assortment of foods to sell and barter with. But despite the time it took to arrive, he very much enjoyed the time he spent there, spending time at the local inn and tavern conversing to the other farmers and shopkeepers. At times, if he was lucky, he would arrive and the whole tavern would be seated about a traveler or tradesmen listening to their sometimes, more often than not, rather exaggerated tales of adventure. These visitors brought what little color the rather insipid place had, beside the occasional wedding, death, fight, or special event (which were so sparsely spread out you would think that everything moved at a pace equivalent to a snail). But that wasn't to say Oakhoof thought his village boring, there was always the summer and winter solstice celebrations plus the Vernal-equinox rejuvenation (that would be our Winter Wrap-up), yet he did wish for more at times despite his father saying "If this town gets too darn excited it'll fall over." Whenever his father would say this his mother would roll her eyes and retort "If this town doesn't get excited it will fall over."

Chuckling to himself, Oakhoof focused once again to the sound of the brook and caught sight of it this time from the smooth reflections of the moon's rays as it danced upon the moving water. Stretching his neck, Oakhoof peered up at the full moon above him. Its beams of light spilled upon the grass and trees giving them a softness and glow that reminded Oakhoof of being in a dream unable to focus on anything. Breathing in the humid air, he began his ritualistic stare at the disc in the sky, admiring the distinctive patterns of dark grey against its lighter colored surface. His eyes drifted to the amalgamation of stars that twinkled and shone in the night, some brighter than others, some slightly different in colors, and others that seemed too big to be stars. All of this against the backdrop of the black night sky brought serenity upon him that made him feel complete but yet utterly insignificant in the scale of the heavens.

Suddenly a loud rustling noise off to his rear left broke his glazed stare at the sky. He sat there stolid for a second waiting for the following noise that he knew would come. He was rewarded, for merely after a handful of seconds, a small muffled "oof" came from just below the cusp of the knoll. Ruling out red squirrels, partially because of the time of night, and mainly because red squirrels didn't speak, Oakhoof softly, yet in his deep voice, said "My little pony, whatever are you doing out here?"

At first no response came, save for the croaking of the frogs and the sound of cascading water, so then Oakhoof addressed the noise again, "Cedarwood my sister, I know you are there." Still no answer came, so Oakhoof gave an impatient snort.

A silhouette, framed in the moonlight and no taller than Oakhoof's elbow, crept up to the edge of the knoll in response. It hesitated for a second before slowly making its way to him. As the silhouette came within two cubits of the earthpony, details could be made out verifying that it was in fact Cedarwood.

"Well?" questioned Oakhoof, "are you going to answer me? What are you doing out here?"

"uhhh… well… I was just…" replied the small pony.

"Look at me in the eye my sister; there is no need to hide unless you have been doing something you shouldn't have or is that the case?" Oakhoof asked looking down upon the top of his little sister's mane.

Looking up to meet her brother's green eyes, Cedarwood tried to respond, but it ended sounding like a stifled cough.

"Little one," Oakhoof calmly crooned, "there is no need to be scared. I am not mad at you."

"Well," started Cedarwood, "you go out every full moon, and I was just curious."

Smiling to himself, Oakhoof lowered his head and said "Well, I reckon that is all right. Come rest with me."

The dark mass moved up to him and moved to underneath his head. Sitting down, Cedarwood nestled herself between Oakhoof's front legs while sidling up against his breast. Squirming for a second before settling, Cedarwood looked up at the stars and asked, "Big Brother, what are you doing?"

Oakhoof brushed his nose against Cedarwood's mane and snorted, tickling her, then answered, "I am enjoying the fruits of this world and of the heavens."

Looking about her in confusion, Cedarwood then asked, "Fruits? What fruits? I don't see any apples."

Snickering, her brother replied saying, "Oh you little filly, I mean I am observing the great expanse and enjoying the weather we are having."

"Oh," she said as they both stared into the moon, which at that moment had drifted into a cloud, thereby lining it with a silver light.

There they sat for a while staring at the sky, watching for shooting stars and making patterns within the stars themselves, enjoying the warmth of the air and the sounds of nature. Finally the moon broke from the clouds overhead and shone bright upon the land, again giving everything a soft lining. In response to the moon, a howl sounded in the distance.

"Is that a horswolf Brother?" asked Cedarwood, pressing up closer to Oakhoof's body.

"No little one, there is no such things as a horswolf, it was merely the call of a gloom wolf as she misses her children."

"Really?" Cedarwood asked, "Where did they go?"

"They grew up," Oakhoof replied. "They left her care because it was their time of leaving and their responsibility to start a family of their own."

Cedarwood accepted this and settled back down, laying her head against her brother's neck. And once again both passed into silence, observing the surroundings and gazing at the sky. Then, taking advantage of the quite, Oakhoof closed his eyes and bowed his head, concentrating on the sounds of the wilderness. He would focus on a single noise, the frogs, the brook, the ambiance, eliminating it from conscious thought then focusing on another sound, attempting to remove it as well. But before he could get anywhere close to eliminating all the sounds, Cedarwood piped up and simply stated, "I can see her sometimes."

Opening his eyes and letting all the noises rush back into his active mind, Oakhoof asked, "What little one?"

"In my dreams," she absent-mindedly continued "I can see her in my dreams. Sometimes she lies down beside me and we will talk, or sometimes she will give me wings and we will fly together. But it's not every night, it only happens when the moon is new, and even then it's sometimes."

"Who my dear sister?" came Oakhoof's inquisitive reply. "Who visits you?"

"Her," was the simple response he got and looking down at her, he saw Cedarwood staring up. Following her gaze, he stared straight up and deep into the fullness of the moon.

"The moon Cedar? Is that whom you see?"

"No, not the moon," she replied as if Oakhoof had said a joke, "the pony in the moon."

Oakhoof merely snorted in mild surprise, he didn't think anybody else stared at the moon and saw a face.

"It's true! I see her!" said Cedarwood defensively, mistaking his snort to be one of disbelief. "She is kind and wise, and fun! She is slightly different from a regular pony though, if you look in her eyes you can see kindness and sincerity, but you can see a pain in there that makes me feel bad for her, like there is no one to love her."

Interested, Oakhoof continued by asking, "Are you sure she is barren of love little one? Do you not love her?"

"Yes, I guess I do." Cedarwood said slowly, "but it looks like what ma did after mama died, but different."

"Then when you see her next, tell her you love her."

Trying to stifle a yawn Cedarwood replied, "That is a good idea Oak, I will do that."

Chuckling to himself, Oakwood then said, "Come little one, it is time to go back to the house, no doubt ma is wondering where you are by now."

And without resistance from Cedarwood both ponies stood and stretched, glanced one last time at the moon and turned about to retrace the steps they made before night. Slightly crestfallen that he didn't get to hear the voice again, Oakhoof was quite happy he was able to share that time with his sister. Realizing this, and taking into consideration her story, he then decided that at the next full moon he would tell little Cedarwood of the voice and how to hear it.

Thanks everybody for managing through that! I want to make this as stupendously amazingly good as possible so I encourage you, no I plead for you, to write a review! It doesn't have to be a New York Times review, just whatever length and sincerity you want, just please, leave me a review. Oh and if you do, drop a title name I could use, though I wont finalize the title till I am at least halfway done with this story and even then who knows.