He woke up to a stupor, and the rancid stench of fried carrots.

He shuddered as he dragged himself up. He could feel his insides turn over, and a bubbly, frothing bellow emanating from his barrel.

The rotting floorboards bent and creaked beneath his hooves as his nose fed more and more complaints to his mind. He opted to breathe through his mouth instead.

Leaving, he could hear the sound of a spatula crashing onto the metal pan. His appetite soured, and he groaned in protest.

Unfortunately, his stomach’s desires were more persistent. A familial voice interrupted his thoughts. “Indium, can you please help set the table?”

“Yes, ma,” he returned, entering the kitchen, if you could call it that. He opened the closet, revealing a few plates, one of which was chipped by the side.

He forced that memory aside. He fished out three plates, and carefully placed them onto the nearby table. Next, the utensils. He went up on his hind legs, slid the drawer open, and extracted three metal forks with his wings. Spoons were reserved for the rare days his mother would cook a hearty vegetable stew.

He placed the forks by the side of each plate, and flicked the light switch on.

It didn't bother him that heat-starved flies were crowding to the surface of the central lamp for warmth. After all, the illuminating yellow light showered the plates, the cutlery, the table and the chairs with color and definition. As was in the past, he couldn't articulate that feeling that radiated from his heart when he brought his hooves to the switch. Maybe he cherished what precious little electricity he could enjoy before his father would say a word. Maybe the light offered hope to him, as it was the only candle that remained defiantly luminescent for miles on end. Maybe it was a reminder of his family; his loving mother, his hardworking father, and himself huddling between the two of them.

“Careful! Hot!” Indium turned, and saw his mother carrying a steaming hot pan of fried carrot sticks. Indium fluttered his wings, bringing him swiftly to the side. She placed the pan in the middle of the table, and gestured for Indium to sit down.

As he did so, as if right on cue, the main door swung open, accompanied with a heavy grunt.

“Ah, Cerulean, come and join us for dinner,” his mother said, looking up. “We'll wait for you.”

Indium looked at his father expectedly. His clothes were soaked with grime, and they stubbornly stuck to his fur. The occasional stain of mud came in patches throughout his forlorn garbs. “Just let me wash myself up first.”

“Alright,” his mother returned, allowing his father to disappear into a small room. Indium could hear a sharp click, and soon the sound of buckets scooping water, and water splattering to the floor.

He turned his attention back to the voluminous pile of carrot sticks sitting in front of him. Only then did he notice the black specks of ground peppercorn sprinkled all over the dish.

“Sorry, Indium.” His mother must have sensed his disappointment. “They're coming soon.”

His fork clattered onto the table. He didn't realize that he was playing with it earlier. “Again?”

Mist escaped his mother's lips. She patted him on his head, and then his shoulders. “It's just one more week, okay dear?” She thought for a moment. “Yeah, just one more week.”

Despite the coarse surface of his mother's hooves, he leaned into them. “But the orange ponies just came a few months ago…”

“I know…” She breathed. “And they will be back.”

“I don't understand, ma…” Indium pouted. “Why do they keep taking our harvest?”

“They said our farm had carrot blight,” his father interrupted, entering the dining room with a wet towel draped over his shoulder. “They'll probably be back for another round of ‘collection’...again.”

“Can we just not give them our carrots for nothing?” Indium retorted.

The answer was immediate. “No,” his father replied, his voice affirmative and defiant. “We must follow their instructions, or else—”

“Or else what?” Indium interrupted, jumping up from his seat.

“Indium.” His mother’s voice sliced through the pent-up tension in the room. “That’s enough. Let’s just eat before the food gets cold.”

The food is already cold, Indium grumbled internally, begrudgingly extracting the fork from the table and stabbing a carrot with his fork. He threw the fork into his mouth, and exaggerated his chewing in defiant protest.

Despite his antics, the dining table quickly died down to the sounds of chewing and munching. His mother, ever the disciplinarian, continued to glare at him with her sharp, thin green eyes even as she ate. He tried to steel his eyes to meet her gaze, but he relented.

Dad wouldn’t want to return to fracturing family after a hard day’s work, he reminded himself. He could still feel his legs gnawing in protest from the little work he did today. To think that his parents could endure this everyday…

The door interrupted his thoughts.

His parents glanced up from their food. They looked at each other for a moment, and stared. After a nod, his father gingerly stood up, being careful not to drag his chair. As silently as he could, he headed for the door, and put his hooves on its handle.

Indium watched, transfixed, as the door swung open, revealing two figures clad in dark and shadowy robes.

“Good evening Mister Cerulean Shades,” the lead figure remarked with an oily voice, “we apologize to come to you at this hour, but we have some urgent business to settle.”

“Sir Dotted, Lady Millenary,” his father said, “what’s the matter?”

“Unfortunately, we come again at the behest of the law,” Dotted’s words seemed to slither out of his mouth, “as to affirm that the farm is free of carrot blight, we must take additional samples to test.”

Indium sighed, but his mother threw a hoof over his mouth.

“Sir,” his father replied, his voice measured and composed, “we will be happy to provide the quantity you require. How much do you need?”

This time, a feminine voice spoke up. “For an independent enquiry, we would need twenty bushels.”

Indium’s eyes widened.

“Twenty bushels,” his father echoed. “Do you have any way of transporting this quantity of carrots back?”

“No,” the speaking figure shifted about in his hooves, “I was wondering whether we could also borrow one of your carts for a few days.”

Indium could see his father’s head shift to the side. “You can, but you would have to give us some time to take stock and bundle the bushels you need.”

One of the figures extracted a small disc-like device. Flicking it open with a conspicuous ‘click’, the figure held the mysterious object and looked at it, before snapping it shut. “Three days, no later.”

“That can be arranged,” his father uttered.

“Thank you, Mister Cerulean, for safeguarding us against the blight of disease. We ought to be leaving now. May Saint Applejack guide your humble, agrarian path,” the feminine voice returned.

“Don’t mention it,” his father replied, “I wish the same to you.”

The door closed with a thud, accompanied with a sigh and the sound of heavy hoofsteps.

“It's not fair!” Indium leapt from his seat, tasting poison in his tongue. “Why do they need a thousand pounds of carrots for testing?! We barely have enough for ourselves as it is!”

“Quiet Indium,” commanded his mother. “Life isn't fair. Dear, how many bushels do we have left in stock?”

“It’s enough.” His father returned to the dining table. “But we have to get the remaining carrots out of the ground in a few days’ time.”

“Dad!” Indium shouted, raising his voice. “Are we seriously going to starve ourselves again just so they can test our carrots?”

“We have no choice,” his father replied, grunting as he leaned over towards his wife. In a hushed tone, he whispered, “Should we tell him?”

His mother rolled her eyes. “Honestly, he should’ve known about this ages ago,” she replied. She cleared her throat. “Indium, those were the Knights Vigilant, upholding the standards of Saint Applejack.”

Indium frowned. Things were not adding up in his mind. “But aren’t the Vigilants supposed to protect ponies like us? With the law?”

“Well…” His father stopped, and glanced about his surroundings. “Not exactly.”

“Yeah…” his mother whispered, bringing her neck down low. “It’s just best to follow their instructions, otherwise…suspicious things happen.”

“Suspicious things?” Indium blurted out innocently.

“Yeah…” His father placed a hoof on his mane, stroking it slowly. “Basically, their word is law…and disobeying them is like breaking the law.”

Indium blinked, as he looked up to his father. “Oh…”

“Yeah,” his mother chorused, leaning back into her seat. “So…can you help mum and dad over the next few days to get the carrots out?”

“Okay mum,” Indium relented, his shoulders suddenly growing heavier by the minute. “I’ll help.”

“Good colt…” His father patted him gently. He then wrapped his hooves around Indium, squeezing him tight. Indium felt all the weight falling onto his father’s chest, and exhaled. With his father’s purple fur rubbing against his own, he couldn’t help but smile, familial warmth gushing into his heart.

After a few moments, his mother broke the silence. “We should eat; the food is cold enough as it already is.”

Indium nodded, his smile still lingering as he pulled away from his father's embrace. He settled back onto the chair, and began munching on the remaining carrots still left on his plate. His parents did the same, the clinking of cutlery filling the damp room, all accompanied by the sound of chirping crickets in the backdrop, and the occasional fly buzzing in their ears.

But Indium’s mind wasn’t idle. There was something gnarling and clawing at the back of his mind that he couldn’t place his hoof upon. With every bite, he could feel his head getting heavier, weighed by this unmistakable force of nature. Soon, he could only stare into his half-eaten plate of orange sticks. The once vibrant color exhibited by the carrots he pulled out of the ground himself now seemed dull, dark and morbid.

He gulped, forcing an empty ball of saliva down his gullet. Immediately, his stomach churned in dissatisfaction, crying foul. It begged him to shovel the remaining carrots on his plate into his mouth and be done with it. Yet, his body hesitated. In deep contemplation, his eyes bored into the remaining grayscale carrots, before he slumped back into the backrest of his chair. It audibly squeaked under the strain.

“Indium…what’s wrong?” His mother knew something was up. And so did he.

His words came right from his thoughts. “Ma, don’t you think this is wrong?”

He expected a long pause, but his mother replied immediately. It was as though she had the answer pre-prepared ahead of time. In a solemn tone, her voice returned, “It might be, but it is all part of the Saints’ will.”

“But do the Saints really want us poor peasant farmers…to just suffer everyday?” Indium uttered.

His mother placed her fork to rest onto the edge of the plate. “Indium, it’s not about us suffering every day. It’s about us hoping to live up to the Saints’ teachings,” she said. “Overcoming challenges we face is one way we can do that…to become a better pony.”

“Can’t I be a better colt if I could show those ponies in orange why they are wrong?” Indium snapped back.

“Indium,” his father interrupted. “That’s enough. The Knights are chosen by the Saints. Even if we think they’re wrong, it is a test to see if we follow their will.” He craned his neck to the side. “It’s getting late. Finish up your dinner and get going before it gets any later. I’ll go first.” He slid his chair back, deposited his plate into a small trough in the kitchen and disappeared out of the house.

Indium rolled his eyes. “So what’s stopping me from becoming a Knight then?”

His mother bit her lip, staring at Indium for several seconds. She then squeezed her eyelids shut, contemplating. After a time, she reopened her eyes and rose to her hooves. In a strangely serene voice, she replied, “It’s okay, Indium.” He opened his mouth in protest, but she gently reached out her forehoof and caressed his turquoise mane, all the while giving him a soft, wan smile. “It’s okay.”

It didn’t last forever. Soon her hooves would leave him behind, right by the side of the solitary lamp at the heart of the table. He saw her, just like his father, place her plate into the trough, and disappear into the expanse of their veiled farmland, leaving him alone in the house with nothing but his own thoughts.

As he left his seat, he felt the temperature plunge around him, causing him to shiver. His fur stood on its end as his hind hooves felt the icy floor. His thoughts continued to haunt him, like the shadows that danced eerily in the light, those he had finally grown accustomed to after years of living at night.

As he threw his uneaten carrots into the compost bin, his mind could barely register how much blood, sweat and toil he had discarded with a flick. Neither could his mind fathom the amount of love his parents had afforded him just minutes ago.

He worked on auto-pilot, washing the dishes his parents and he had left behind. The cold water provided some respite, but he could still spot two tiny figures wandering about in the field beyond through the kitchen window. The crescent moon hung limply overhead, providing little light for their arduous task.

After drying his forehooves, he found himself pacing down each row of carrots, yanking them out with his teeth, which quickly tasted grimy. The night was long, but the unending line of carrots proved even more unyielding against his efforts. Fatigue quickly set into his neck, his legs, and then his back.

His joints popped as he threw his neck back, his mind groggy and burdened. He peered out, finding nothing more than a uniform, flat patch of vegetation all around him. Eclipsed by the luminescence of the moon above, the house was a mere tiny spot of light in the distance, its promise of comfort seemingly miles away taunting him.

He dropped onto a small patch of soil by the side. He didn’t care if he was upending the order he and his parents worked so hard to maintain. He didn’t bother if the carrots he had just harvested had spilled out of his produce basket on his back. There was a rotting feeling within him that emanated out to every aching joint and muscle in his body.

Despite the grit in his mouth and the cold sweat covering his body, his heart felt neither longing, nor disappointment. Instead, it cowered at the static impulses shooting rapidly from his head.

He carried himself up again, but his pain persisted. Clenching his muddied teeth, he tried to pull the straps attaching him to his produce basket away from him, and soon, the weight on his back dissipated with the sound of carrots tumbling onto the ground.

He hoped the pain would dissipate too. It didn’t.

He hated that.

He kicked the basket in frustration, knowing full well that he would never get the taste of the carrots he had just pulled out.

He didn’t deserve this. They didn’t deserve this.

He knew it. He knew it all along.

His parents were wrong.