The light of peace shone warmly over the meadows.
Really, that was all he could ever care to see. It was peace. Gentle winds, warm skies. Clouds would come and go, and even overcast skies would be seen in the distance, but it was all contained, organized. The rain would move, but for those who liked the dreary atmosphere, the gentle shades of blue, they could live where the rains would not end.
In fact, those ponies made a living growing crops that needed all of that water. They also sold it too, quite cheap and in large drums of wood. But Heavy Burden was not one of these ponies. Heavy Burden, was a simple Pegasus. He was an odd one. He was built like an earth pony and chose to work the land, and though he did enjoy flight, it did not sing to him as an aspiration he would follow for all time.
He was older by now. Nearly twenty long whole seasons. He was a graying white pony in comparison to every one else his age, and he was practically one of the oldest ones, except for the one outlier, an elderly pony whom he'd never asked his name. The city didn't last more than two or three generations, and much of that stock was from the neighboring towns volunteers- the way they flocked for an opportunity to put their heads to work.
Heavy Burden smiled at the thought. A flicker of a kinder past that he didn't dwell on for very long. He preferred to live in the moment and toil upon the soil, to commune with the magic of the earth- as little as he could. In truth he couldn't do anything a true earth pony could, talk to earth, mold the soil, yet he still felt like this world listened. A gentle word here and there, and it seemed as if the stone hard earth became a moldable fluff or clay. He farmed, taking care of golden fields and flowering patches of alfafa. Wheat grains and a variety of other seeds had survived the last assault, at least from the ones who grabbed what they could before being lead to safety, either willingly or not.
Farm goods were worth quite a lot. Not exactly in gold or silver, they had no coins to trade- but as both currency and foodstuff. The food was all around them, in the form of weeds and grasses and leaves, but it wasn't very filling, and it was monotonous. So having something like eggs, (the pony who had chickens- he was quite jealous of them) or grains to toast or mill, made you possibly the wealthiest pony.
And it was for that reason that right after he finished with his breakfast, he'd be sending the last bundle to the mills at the center of town, they would grind it down to plain flour and leave any grains that escaped the grindstone in little sashes to be cooked as is, like groats. His most prized position, second to a house made of sod- was a cast iron skillet. The shadows would make things wherever they could, but not everyone had cutlery, so utensils were equally valuable, and without it, he couldn't hope to toast bran and fry over easy eggs in his preferred way. Runny yolks simply seemed better than firmly cooked.
The shadows helped, but they seemed sluggish. Far more sluggish than he ever could recall. But so was he. The side effects of witnessing one of the suns royal decrees that demanded their execution. He would waste away, he knew that, he was marked for death- the way his coat itched every day from the surface sun, but down here he in the valley of shadows, he feared no evil. He knew everything would be fine. It would all be okay.
Sure, he might not live to see it, but he was alive now to see some of it, and that time, this small little slice of peace, was worth its steep price.
His hooves ached as he tied a bundle, and hoisted it onto himself. A broad back allowed him to carry more without straining his hooves, they were crumbly, and one day he'd surely break his frog on a sharp stone or a rough piece of earth.
Maybe he'd paint some art. Ask around for supplies. Make something to lighten the dreary weight that surrounded the haunted eyes that moved around robotically. He believed that the shades would appreciate it, they always enjoyed somepony to keep them company as they toiled, though they preferred them to be just there to talk. Originally, they worked like slaves so that the others could produce arts, be happy, live. Maybe if he followed in their shadowy steps he'd get a new cutie-mark that way? Or one at all for that matter.
The future seemed bright. And for now, that was all he cared about. So what if his monotonous days were numbered? This was heaven. This was the closest thing he'd see to paradise, and they would all work together to build it up.
Right after he delivered todays harvest.