Author's Note: I am a bad person, a worse writer, and worst at all at keeping promises and schedules. I plan to finish this, but I can't promise regular writing. That being said, the lie of the day (or tentative schedule) is a chapter about this length every weekend. If I can't do that, I'll post a note saying why. I hope this one is okay, I haven't proofread it very much.
The sun was low in the sky when Twilight finally arrived in Ponyville from her Canterlot trip. While on the train, she had done a great deal of thinking and had moved past shock, anger, and worry to fall into a kind of silent contemplation.
Twilight sighed. She hadn't thought much about death; she knew in a sort of distant, suppressed way that she would one day die. Memento mori, she recalled from her talk with the Princess. But there was so much that she wanted to do, so many things that she wanted to share with her friends before she died....
Had Celestia simply lived long enough that she had done everything worth doing?
She shook her head. Celestia had had many things that would be left undone if she were to die. Many schools unbuilt, many charities unfunded, many things that she seemed to relish every day.
No, Twilight thought as she walked limply from the train, Celestia's day-to-day life was at least satisfactory, certainly not empty. There had to be something else to this.
Twilight walked undisturbed to her home; Ponyville was as empty as any small town that late in the day. As she opened the door to the library, she noticed Spike reading a book at the table in the middle of the room. He was too short to reach the table from the chair, Twilight remembered with confusion, and then saw with some fondness that he had a pile of books on the chair underneath him, as she had often done when she was a filly.
With a faint smile, Twilight quietly walked from the door to the table to see what he was reading. She was amused to find that it was a book of poems.
“Poetry, Spike?” she asked with a smirk.
“GAHH!”
Spike reeled in surprise, and then shock, as he fell from his stack of books. The candle, knocked by an errant claw, fell on its side and flickered, casting wild shadows in the dark of the room.
Spike winced, bracing for an impact that never came. He and the candle were surrounded by a purple glow, and soon set aright; he, back on his pile of books, and the candle a little further from the edge of the table than it had been.
“Twilight, why did you do that? You scared the crap out of me!” Spike managed to huff out, still breathing quickly.
“Spike, language!”
“Sorry, I... but why didn't you say something?” he asked more calmly than before.
“I guess I'm sorry too, Spike. The meeting with the Princess didn't go all that well... and, I've... I've kind of have a lot to think about. I was just surprised to see you reading poetry, that's all.”
Spike took this in, and considered. He was a lot smarter than most ponies gave him credit for, but then again, he wasn't Twilight's number one assistant on the basis of his good breath or cheap nutritional requirements.
“Is everything alright, Twilight?” he finally asked.
“No. But there isn't really anything to be done. Not now, anyway.”
“Did you and the Princess have a fight?”
“No, we just... we just have a disagreement.”
Both looked soberly at the other at this; Twilight didn't want to worry Spike, and Spike didn't like being left in the dark. With no more information forthcoming, Spike sighed, and gestured towards the book.
“I was reading poetry because Rarity borrowed a book of poems earlier. She said that they inspire her when she wants to come up with new designs.”
Twilight smiled, and walked over to the table to see what he was reading:
“
Under the wide and starry sky
Dig the grave and let me lie.
Glad did I live, and gladly die,
And I laid me down with a will.
This be the verse you grave for me:
“Here he lies, where he longed to be;
Home is the sailor, home from the sea,
And the hunter home from the hill.”
”
Twilight grimaced, and the book landed back on the table with a clunk.
“And this is your idea of a romantic poem to read to Rarity?”
Spike frowned, and walked to the door. Night had fallen while they were talking. He shut the door, and then looked back at Twilight.
“I may have started reading poems with that in mind, but some of these are uh.... well...”
Spike paused to scratch behind his head with a claw, and then continued, “...some of them are really good. And they make me think.”
Twilight's expression brightened as she said, “Spike, that's wonderful! You should be glad that you enjoy poetry! I wouldn't have thought you would have the patience for something like that just yet. Let me know if you want any recommendations.”
“Will do, Twilight.”
Twilight beamed some more at Spike, and then headed upstairs to put down her bags. As she dropped her bags to the floor, she walked to the window, looking out at the quiet of the town and the cold glimmer of the stars. She idly brushed her hair as she stood, thinking about Spike, Celestia, and death. She couldn't tell Spike about this, at least not yet. Celestia was like a mother to him, and as a dragon, he would outlive her if she had Twilight's lifespan. Sparing him the details of her 'disagreement'... that was a mercy.
Her brush caught on a knot in her hair and she pulled a little harder in an attempt to tame it. Would Spike's long life persuade Celestia to keep her immortality? She brushed some more, and considered. It was unlikely. If Celestia were mortal, Luna would live long past her death, and Celestia had doubtless already thought of that.
Twilight turned from the window, and put the brush back down on her nightstand. Having thought out the consequences of an action did not mean that those consequences were felt at a deep, personal level, or that all of their ramifications seemed viscerally real. She had once read that when making plans, bad consequences in the future are written off as less likely or painful than they would be, while immediate benefits were overstated. All in all, the future and future actions would seem less real than the present, which caused bad decisions. Funny how clinical it seemed, she wondered idly, when the bad decision-making process was considered separately from the bad decision. She turned back to the window, and looked at the stars for a moment or two before heading back downstairs.
“Spike, I want you to take a letter.”
He looked up from his book.
“To Celestia?”
“To Princess Luna.”