> Therapy
>  by Broken Phalanx
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

> Chapter 1: Injury
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

It’s not the simplest job, talking with troubled ponies. It’s not that they weren’t, by and large, fundamentally good equines, no, no; rather, it was just . . . taxing, really, to hear about so much darkness and sadness that was contained within a patient’s head. And you couldn’t help them, not really, not unless one was willing to drink from the same sorrowful draught they had, and extend a hoof in sympathy.

Social osmosis ensured you could never help another without feeling the slightest bit worse about yourself; you may need to have a heart to do the job, but having one would, eventually, kill you.

Which is why, coincidentally, Compassionate Counsel was shoveling sugar-cubes into his mouth with wild abandon; distantly, Counsel knew this was merely a coping mechanism, and a childish one at that, but the voice of reason, as well as any sense of self-loathing, was drowned out by the crunching of the crystals underneath his molars.

Everypony needs something to keep sane, and really, eating sugar was hardly the worst thing Counsel could’ve been doing with his spare time between sessions; it was playing hell with his blood sugar, mind you, but otherwise careful eating had prevented him from going into diabetic shock thus far.

About 20 seconds passed like this, with little noise save for the frantic consumption of the cubes and the clinking of his cup of water being emptied and refilled as he drank from it like a fish, before he finally leaned back in his chair with a sigh and flipped through his schedule half-heartedly; ever since the Royal Transference, as most therapists called it, everything had gotten a great deal less simple.

Half-heartedly, Counsel stretched a hoof forward, intent on pressing his intercom, possibly even just having some small talk with his secretary. He swished about his leg for a few moments in vain before remembering, with a sigh, that both intercom and secretary had made a departure a few short weeks ago. It was both a business decision and a personal one; a quick glance around his progressively less decorated office easily made evident his rapidly draining funds, and frankly, Timely Response deserved better than ‘sinking with the ship,’ as it were.

“Royals,” Counsel muttered, as he filled up his glass up to the brim with water and sipped at it absentmindedly, “Be no problems at all if wasn’t for the crown's paparazzi.”

Another sip, this one made while deep in thought.

Transference. A troublesome condition, to say the least; Florence Clydesdale didn’t have a damned clue what she was getting herself into when she started treating her fellow ponies with so much care and kindness. She was by no means the first, nor the last, but she was probably the most well-known case; fundamentally sane ponies, ones that were, at least mentally, perfectly fine, started declaring their love for her left and right. And all she was doing was swapping bandages off and replacing them with clean ones, tending to them occasionally, that sort of thing; there was no romance, none at all, and yet by those patient’s accounts, there was love, almost as undeniable as it was unprovable.

Of course, eventually most of the ponies got over it and realized how silly they were acting.

Unfortunately, those were run-of-the-mill ponies; those without the power or means to actively track, say, a therapist. A therapist, whom, evidently, after having aided a certain undisclosed princess deals with her grief after losing a friend/lover, had been forced to move to Stalliongrad and change his name en-route.

Not that it mattered; Stalliongrad, for good or for ill, was an extraordinarily homogenous city, and a zebra like Farasi Husna (now, legally, Trotya Anatoli) had stuck out like a sore thumb. ‘Had’ being the key word of that sentence, as it had only taken the Crown a few short days to relocate him and pick him up with a royal coach.

It had been, by all accounts, a Night-Court coach. Counsel suppressed a sharp spike of outrage against the Lunar princess, but even as he tried to swallow his ire, it didn’t quite go away; it stuck in his throat and his stomach, a caltrop of emotion.

Counsel muttered something angry and unintelligible under his breath, which, honestly, was all he felt needed to be said about that particular aspect of the report; there was no way, in Counsel’s eyes, that Farasi could legitimately be blamed for most of these problems. Ever since Counsel had met him in Canterlot University, Farasi had always been a dutiful and hardworking stallion, as well as an upstanding and morally sound doctor; to even consider what the tabloids were saying about him would be tantamount to betrayal.

Of course, when the newspapers came out about the estimated expenses, because inevitably somepony found out about this gross exploitation of power and money, it raised more than a few eyebrows; it was hardly an extraordinary number of bits, really, but for it to all be spent in pursuit of one, rather unfortunate zebra, well. . .

Needless to say, the tabloids were, for all intents and purposes, calling Farasi Canterlot’s most expensive hooker.

Well, no, actually; that was what the ‘kind’ ones were saying; the ones that lived off of the anger and vitriol of their consumers were calling Farasi a seducer of royalty, and prognosticating the end-times, just as they had been for the last few decades. The fact they had been steadfastly incorrect in these assumptions yet continuously published them was, in Counsel’s eyes, worthy of both applause and a nice padded cell.

“And that,” Counsel murmured to himself as he flipped through his schedule for tomorrow, “should’ve been the end of that; they couldn’t let the facts get in the way of a good story, though.” His schedule was utterly empty, save for a short meeting with one of his long-time child patients that had been arranged for at the last minute.

“Poor colt must’ve gotten into another fight,” he said, sighing softly. “Still, with only one, irregular, appointment a month, I’m going to need to find another job.”

Counsel glanced around his office again, noting the small cracks in the wall that had been plastered over and over again, the permanent scuff marks that had been carved into the carpet by one of his very few Griffon patients, the windows that had been re-paned at least three separate times due to overzealous Pegasi, the fading yet still cheerful marker drawings on his wall when one of his patient's children had decided to add some color to the place. . .

It was amazing, really, how much life was contained in these simple four walls. All manner of miracles had taken place here in the last four, nearly five years, ranging from the simplistic like a foal feeling better about him or herself, to the majestic, like how a mare had turned her life around and was recovering from a nearly deadly bout of depression . . . and it had merely cost him roughly 200 bits in rent, 20 in candy for his various patients and 10 in sugar for himself, per month.

And it was all about to die.

Counsel sighed again before rolling out of his chair, trotting over to the door, and exiting. He flinched at the finality of the lights clicking off, just for a moment, before he shook his head and checked his office’s mail cabinet, not that he expected much.

“Ish prolly jus’ notses,” he muttered from the corner of his paper filled mouth, before spitting the various letters on to a table where he could actually pick through each one individually.

It was humorous, if one enjoyed cringe comedy; a mere three months ago, and these sorts of payments would’ve been, at most, a momentary inconvenience. By the sun, even two months ago and each letter would’ve only required a cursory budget balancing. But now . . .

Counsel cheerlessly checked through the few drawers in his office as he noted the rapidly mounting bills that were awaiting him at the end of the month; it wasn’t like he was expecting to find a significant amount of bits there, but he felt he might as well give the effort: it’s not like he had any other way to seriously gain the money he needed, short of taking out a loan.

He chuckled mirthlessly, more as a release of stress than anything else; once, a loan had been used to open this practice. Now, a loan was going to put it on life support.

A particularly ornate looking letter silenced his despairing laughter, though; not only was the stationary above typical paper in quality, the fluid script must’ve been written by magic or hoof, as no machine to date was capable of this degree of kerning. Furthermore, upon the letter was one of the Princess’ Auto-mailer glyphs; an expensive addition to any letter, to say the least, particularly considering it appeared to have enough charge for a return as well.

Carefully, Counsel opened the letter and read through it.

Dear Sir or Madam,
It has come to my attention that you are a psychologist of admirable quality, and that you may be capable of assisting me through what I might tentatively call a troubling time; while I feel that I’m as able as I ever will be, a number of my friends, colleagues, and staff have pointed out that I may be, perhaps, deluding myself. While I believe they are exaggerating any issues I might happen to have, they have extracted a promise from me, and I feel obligated to fulfill their wishes, if only for their own wellness of mind.

Furthermore, I understand that while fewer and fewer therapists are willing to meet face to face with their clients due to recent . . . events, you maintain your practice in the idea that direct interaction is a necessity for your line of work. Since my friends have advocated I try to emerge from the reticence that I’ve fallen into in recent years, I’m of the belief that your practice is the most ideal fit for me. 

Having done some research, I’ve discovered that you’ve, several times before, let patients have their initial consultation be free of charge; is this still the case? While money is of no objection, I still feel it is prudent to ask.

Furthermore, I’m assuming there is a confidentiality agreement you have for your patients as well, and that any discussion we happen to have remains between us. If this happens to be the case, please sign the line below, and inform me of when a good time would be to come in tomorrow, and I will move the bits into your bank account for the equivalent of 10, pre-paid, sessions (technically, 11, if you still happen have to have the initial consultation free of charge).

Thank you very much for your time,

Autumn Flicker.

Counsel stared at the number at the bottom of the page for a very long minute; he was almost certain there were too many zeroes in that number, firstly, and secondly, well, there was, he felt, something intrinsically worrisome about accepting money from royals. Especially ones that seemed to be using a thesaurus, used the word 'furthermore' with reckless abandon, and wrote letters asking for appointments like they were cover letters for jobs.

And he was absolutely certain this was a royal, perhaps some upper tier duchess/duke or lower end Prince/Princess; decent staff members like the letter seemed to indicate, in any sort of role, had gotten more difficult to find nowadays considering that there were four (well. . . five, but for whatever reason the Princess of Sleep always managed to slip his mind) Alicorn princesses in Equestria and everypony and their mother was vying for one of those jobs.

In the last two centuries alone the second youngest Alicorn princess had evidently hired a small cities’ worth of ponies.

Still, though, Counsel stared at the number and at the line for his signature; hesitantly he picked up a quill, stared again at the line, again at the number, began to reach for an ink vial, and then set the quill down with a sigh as he went off to fetch a calculator; it was tempting, he had to guiltily admit, to simply sign the document and get an absurd amount of cash he was only mostly sure was incorrect, but there was an essential part of him that utterly refused to allow himself that option. Ponies relied off him for help, after all, and while Counsel was very much aware of his innumerable, though admittedly minor, flaws, he maintained the simple yet consistent belief that he, ultimately, wasn’t a scumbag.

And yes, the total was off. By two digits, no less.

Counsel stared at the number on the letter again, before scratching out the last two zeroes with a sigh; it was painful, watching a very important number like that be divided by one hundred, but at least now he wouldn’t be signing his soul over, metaphorically speaking.

Then, with a flourish, he completed the rest of the reply, (Yes, first consultation is free of charge, and yes, we have a confidentiality agreement, and yes, please come in tomorrow at 1:00 PM), sealed up the letter, and glanced at it once more, hoof hovering over the Auto-mailer stamp glyph.

This was the last chance to back out. Counsel shot a quick glance towards his office, before his lips curled into a wry grin and his hoof descended upon the insignia. Then, as the letter lit up and disappeared in a curl of purplish flame, he shrugged on his raincoat and walked out of his waiting room and into the Canterlot rain; it was chilly, but not unbearable.

* * * * * * * * * *

Elsewhere, a letter fizzled into existence, but didn’t have long before being snatched up in a telekinetic grip; tiredly, it was read, with an expression that could only be described as bored, before there was a widening of eyes when the edited numbers were seen. There was a pause as the number was reread.

“Lemme guess; this pony got your letter, saw that you had the incorrect price, and actually corrected it,” muttered a voice from what, at first glance, might’ve been mistaken for a purple and green wall. “And probably didn’t even realize it was supposed to be a trap, considering you put a false name on the letter. . . .”

“Quiet, you,” came the reply, a mixture of playful and irked.

“A promise is a promise, Twilight. And you and I both know you need to talk to somepony; you’ve gotten so . . . quiet. And, from what I’ve overheard from the maids, you’re acting a bit . . . well . . . scary. And considering I’m bigger than some buildings, and have teeth to match, and you’re considered the scarier out of the two of us, ehh. . .”

For a moment, the Alicorn sighed, before saying, “That’s not my intention.”

“I know that. Just . . . please. Trust me on this; Celestia and Luna have both done this sort of thing before, and they both agree it’s better than just trying to deal with stuff on your own. And we both know I’m not around enough to really talk to, so, yeah. For me? Please?”

The corners of the lavender alicorn’s lips twitched upward and downwards like the stalling of an engine, before she spoke; “I Pinkie Promised, didn’t I? And I don’t plan on ramming another cupcake into my eye, so you already know I’ll give it a try. I’m telling you, though, I’m fine.”

> Chapter 2: Introduction
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

Roughen Tumble fidgeted on the edge of his seat, looking guiltier than a mass murderer caught red-hoofed. He had glanced at the slightly cracked candy jar several times in the last minute alone, but whether by some force of self-punishing will or the echoes of a parent’s reprimand in his mind, he never even offhandedly raised his hoof to reach for it; it was honestly getting rather pathetic, at least to Counsel. With a discreet nudge, he pushed the jar closer to Tumble.

“Go ahead and have one,” Counsel said, smiling pleasantly. It was as Tumble had extracted one of the treats when Counsel added, as if it were the most natural follow-up in the world, “What’s going on, bud?”

It took Counsel a moment to fully fight back the look of irritation that threatened to show on his face when the colt’s jaw clenched, brow furrowed, and face paled; it had taken Counsel a few weeks to understand most of Tumble’s non-verbal cues, but this one had taken the lesser part of an hour to learn.

He was clamming up.

Counsel’s smile softened in response, quietly quenching his flash of frustration.

“I made a promise to you, first day, remember? I won’t tell anypony, anything, unless you okay it. Heck, you don’t even have to talk about what’s going on, if you don’t want to,” said Counsel, leaning back as he attempted to stealthily transport a home-made sugar cube to his mouth; it got about half-way before slipping out of his grasp, hitting him on the snout, and exploding into a small dust cloud of crystals.

Counsel blinked a couple of times, face whitened from the sugar; perhaps the book had been right to advise against using the powdered stuff . . .

He glanced towards Tumble for a moment, about to try and explain this away as something he had intended to do, but paused when he noted the colt’s reaction.

Despite all attempts to hide a growing smile, the corners of Tumble’s mouth continued to twitch upwards.

“You know,” Counsel murmured just loudly enough for Tumble to hear, “no matter how old you are, you’re never too old to act silly on occasion.” And then, with a chuckle, he flicked one of the poorly packed sugar-cubes at Tumble.

What followed was a small skirmish in edible warfare, eventually ending with a humiliating loss on Counsel’s part; it had all started to go sour after Tumble had made tactical advancements and claimed the glass candy jar as his territory, but the final battle was nothing short of a curb-stomp. Even a reasonably healthy Earth pony would be hard pressed to avoid the telekinetically flung projectiles, particularly the ones that turned at right-angles in their trajectory to hit him.

Tumble, evidently, had thought that trick was only for rank amateurs near the end; instead, he had lifted up every bit of spare powdered sugar around the room, and had advanced it towards Counsel as an unavoidable wall.

“Well, that happened,” Counsel said mirthfully, shaking with laughter; he had, for all intents and purposes, been bleached, along with about half his office. “You’re getting quite good with that magic; you still wanting to join the Guard when you get older?”

“Yeah,” the colt murmured with a yawn.

A moment passed in silence between the two of them, before, finally, Tumble quietly admitted, “I got into a fight earlier with a few other colts.”

“Oh?” Counsel replied, his voice carefully neutral. “Why’s that?”

“They were picking on my sister. Calling her names and stuff.”

Ever since the concept of ‘combat’ existed, there was one phrase that a stallion would ask his son after the latter engaged in some sort of fight, and it was the same question that Counsel asked Tumble in a moment of less than stellar professionalism; “. . . did you win?”

It was only when Counsel got a bewildered stare in response he realized his mistake, and quickly added, “I know, I know, you’re getting mixed signals; your mom is . . . I think she’s a mediator?” Counsel asked, getting a nod in response. “And here I am, asking if you won a fight; the point is. . . the point is, I’m not sure if you need to be here, talking with me, about something like that, really. They stopped messing with your little sister, right?”

“Yeah, I made ‘em stop,” Tumble replied in a depressed tone.

“I’m not upset, kiddo; look, I’m not suggesting you get into fights. That sorta behavior is just unacceptable. But this, well . . .” Counsel paused for a few seconds, thinking carefully over what he wanted to articulate, before finally saying, “Fighting, by itself, is bad, pure and simple. But sometimes, fighting is necessary; if a pony dear to us is being hurt, there’s nothing shameful in fighting, but in almost all scenarios it should be a choice of last resort. In this case, it’s something you should feel proud about; you protected a pony you cared about. Did you tell your mom about how you were looking after your little sister?”

“No.”

“Be sure to tell her the situation next time, bud; things always seem worse than they really are if they’re not given context, you know?” Counsel studied Tumble’s expression for a moment, before finally adding, with a smile of encouragement, “You know something? Don’t tell your mom this, but this, more than anything else, makes me think you’d be an outstanding Guard in any of the courts.”

For just a moment, Tumble beamed.

The colt’s smile was promptly replaced with a frown when Counsel added, with a hint of mirth, “Of course, everypony starts as a potato peeler regardless of potential, so as practice you have the privilege of helping me clean up this place.”

“But it’s time for me to lea-”

“Yes, yes, you’ll be a little late to leave, and my next guest will be a little late to come in; I’m not cleaning this up by myself, though, and as for her, well, nopony’s so important that they can’t afford to wait a couple of minutes.”

* * * * * * * * * *

While this session was going on, a different conversation was taking place in a very different setting.

“Really, Twilight? You’re going in disguise?” Spike muttered incredulously. “Isn’t lying going to basically defeat the whole purpose of this?”

“Don’t be silly, Spike,” Twilight replied, brightly. “This is a necessary precaution; if I went there without some sort of guise, ponies would notice and likely lose trust in the government as a result. That lost trust would mean the bit would lose value as a consequence, and probably lead Equestria into financial ruin shortly before either the Changelings turn us all into a slave-nation or before the Griffons take advantage of the ensuing chaos and declare war on us, subsequently dooming vast swaths of Equestrian inhabitants before we could restore order! And then-”

Spike spent a good moment just staring at Twilight, before finally cutting her off with, “Only a few strands of your mane sprang out of place, Twilight; you’ve gotten better at hiding the panic your exaggeration causes. And it is exaggeration; there would probably be a few ponies that’d hmm and haah, but I think the vast majority would probably see this as a good thing.”

“Oh, Spike, you wouldn’t understand,” Twilight replied blithely. “You’re still a baby-”

“Ahem.”

“Okay, okay, I’m acting a bit condescending. Sorry, Spike.”

“No worries. Seriously, though, you’re going to enchant yourself? Tell me you’re going to at least shed the illusion when you and the Doc are talking.”

Twilight inhaled to deliver another diatribe, perhaps about how that would affect the global value of the common shellfish, before Spike muttered, “Forget I asked.”

“Sorry, Spike” Twilight murmured sheepishly. “You know I can’t put Equestria in danger just because a few ponies, or even my number one assistant, think I need somepony to talk to. It’d be selfish of me; surely you understand?”

For a brief moment, Spike recalled the various stories he had heard over the last few days of his visit; of Twilight walking the halls, unable to go sleep, and generally terrifying everypony that had the misfortune of meeting her at such a time; of how the purple Alicorn had looked progressively more and more drained as her first state of the union speech approached; of how, to the more health aware, her eyes had taken on a sunken appearance; and, perhaps most worrying of all, how Twilight had shuffled some of Celestia’s increasingly worried letters to the bottom of her ‘to-read’ list as Twilight’s workload swiftly multiplied in spite of hiring more and more ponies as the days went on. 

There were even rumors, however infrequent, that Twilight was experimenting in Dark Magic; Spike knew these to be false, if only because Twilight’s eyes hadn’t taken on even the slightest change of color, but it was worrisome that even some of her staff had attributed her rapidly diminishing appearance and health to long forbidden sorcery.

“I dunno, Twilight,” Spike finally replied. “I think working yourself into the ground is more worrisome than just going to the doctor.”

“Oh, Spike. . . I’m supposed to be the worrywart,” Twilight said, hugging one of the dragon’s front talons.

“. . . I can feel your ribs, Twilight; you need to eat something, or you’re going to collapse.”

“I will, I will. Just let me decide on my guise, first,” Twilight replied, letting go of her hug and gathering her energy to her horn.

For a few moments, her horn flickered and her mane changed once, twice, and finally three times, settling on a somewhat familiar form from one of her previous adventures.

“. . . Sunset Shimmer?” Spike asked incredulously. “All the disguises in Equestria, and you settled on looking like her?”

“It’s not what I’d pick most of the time,” Twilight admitted, “which is the point, Spike; I, of all ponies in Equestria, probably wouldn’t disguise myself as her.”

“Well, yeah, but Twilight, isn’t she sorta well known?”

“Only in an immortal’s memory,” Twilight replied, her tone tired. “Besides Alicorns and dragons, only high-school students and history majors would probably know anything about her, and her image is really only found in school textbooks and encyclopedias. It’ll work out, Spike.”

“Mhmm,” Spike murmured, unconvinced, before saying with a sigh, “If you’re going to go in secret, you should probably get your emergency guards dressed up as well.”

The blank look Twilight gave Spike sent shivers down his scales.

“Emergency Guards?”

“Twilight? You know. . . The Starburs-”

Seeing Twilight’s eyes widen first in recognition only to slope downwards and water in shame of forgetting was agonizing, and, not for the first time during his visit, Spike felt a sharp pain in his heart. 

“Yes,” Twilight said in a pained squeak, before clearing her throat and continuing in a less tormented tone, “they’d teleport with me. It was something she made me promise.”

“Twilight. . .”

“I’m fine, Spike! I’m fine, and I’ll be fine!”

“. . . If you say so, Twilight. Let’s get some food, though, okay? Before you go?  . . .my treat?”

* * * * * * * * * *

“Alright, get outta here, you scamp,” Counsel said, smiling, as he opened the now mostly clean door. “Stay safe, eat your fruits and veggies, and be sure to brush . . . your . . . teeth . . .”

If glares were daggers, there would’ve been chunks of Counsel capable of fitting through chicken-wire; six suspiciously similar ponies affixed him with a stare that, after a silent second to get through his shock, demanded Counsel’s immediate rebuttal.

“I’m hoping,” Counsel said, with the slightest hint of a sardonic tone to give his words an edge, “I’m hoping that you’re all not suffering from mutual identity crisis; I’m not really trained to deal with the after effects of cloning, really.”

The judging glares remained.

“There’s a professor up the street I could refer you all to, though,” Counsel said, not even trying to hide the smile on his face at this point. “Her name is Dolly; can’t miss her, she’s the only two sheep in the whole of Canterlot . . .”


The glares remained and the smile on Counsel’s face endured, yet, still, in that frozen room, something changed; for just a moment, just on the edge of perception, there was a quiet cough that, at least to Counsel, seemed to mask a hint of laughter.

His eyes swept across the room and found a pony that had, somehow, escaped his initial notice.

The fact she was very nearly obscured by an enormous tome did assuage Counsel’s momentary flash of guilt, before he realized that meant he had somehow missed a pony-sized book; of the two, he wasn’t quite certain which was the stupider.

“Autumn Flicker, I assume,” Counsel said cheerfully, hope springing eternal.

Dead silence was his response; only the brief flicking of an ear gave any indication that the mare had even unconsciously heard him. He took a few steps towards her, in the spirit of investigation and in maintaining the slight glimmer of hope he still had that it was her, and not one of the six glaring ponies, that was his patient for the evening. 

The consensus of shifting muscles and subtle clinks of hidden metal indicated that Counsel had chosen poorly.

“Autumn Flicker?” Counsel repeated, this time with a great deal more worry and dread.

Again, the ear twitched. This time, however, something in his tone must’ve slipped past the preoccupation of literature, and, finally, the mare looked up.

“Ms. Flicker?” Counsel said, having already resigned himself to the paltry mercies of the identical ponies, and merely going through the motions at this point.

She stared at him uncomprehendingly for a few moments.

“Autumn Flicker?” she said, blankly. A moment passed before her eyes widened and she exclaimed, “Oh, yes, that’s me. Sorry about that; I was thinking about something else.”

“No worries, no worries,” Counsel said, cheerfully; inside his head, little fireworks were going off: after all, there was no way this one could be worse than her, in all likelihood, guard-ponies. “If you would just leave the book here and follow . . . me. . .”

He stared as the various guards filed back to their chairs, their expressions far more neutral at this point; the door to his office was now slightly ajar, and while Counsel wasn’t a gambler by and large, he would’ve staked a small fortune on them having checked through his office. 

“Well,” he finally said, as if it were a statement in it of itself; he was certain that the socially appropriate reaction should’ve been incandescent rage, but at this point all he could work up to was befuddlement. “This is certainly unique. If you would follow me into my now, I suspect, significantly cleaner office, we can get started.”

She had the common decency to look sheepish, at least.

“You have guards,” Counsel said, stating the obvious, as they both entered his office. “I know some ponies that’d want to be guards, you know? Albeit for one of the princesses, mind you. . .”

Autumn glanced at him critically, before asking, “I’m assuming this isn’t an attempt to get an alternative employment?”

Counsel chuckle likely surprised her, along with his response; “Oh, no, no, no; I’m a bit of a conscientious objector, really; part of the reason I took the Hippocampus oath, really.” Then, as he pulled up a couple of chairs, he added, “What’s brought you in today? It’s not that frequent that a pony decides to just . . . independently visit.”

Particularly considering the most recent news, but that conversation wasn’t exactly kosher in most company, Counsel knew.

“So you disapprove of fighting?” Autumn asked, continuing down a line of thought Counsel felt was going to be both difficult to explain, and utterly distracting from what actually needed to be discussed.

“Not exactly,” he replied, “I hope my thoughts are a bit more complicated than a blanket statement could describe, Ms. Flicker. Be that as it may, however, I am curious as to why you’ve decided that now was a good time to visit.”

“One of my old friends said I was stressing out, which in his opinion is normal for me, but that I was also beginning to scare some of my servants with my . . . moods,” her tone suggesting that her acquaintance was exaggerating.

Lazily, with only the slightest hint of a smile, Counsel’s gaze noticeably drifted towards the door.

“No, not them,” Autumn said in utter seriousness. “It’s the maids, the butlers, the patron authors, the scientists, thaumological or otherwise. . .” She listed, only to slowly trail off when Counsel failed to hide his surprise at such retinue. Then, in a somewhat embarrassed tone, “I have a number of ponies in my employ.”

“I see,” Counsel replied, nodding. “What sorts of personal hobbies do you do to relax? You mentioned some friends; have you considered going for a picnic, blowing off some steam?”

* * * * * * * * * *

It was funny how long it had been since they had found the time to just be together not as mothers, nor fellow bearers of the Elements, but just as friends; children had ensured the near omnipresence of haggardness and the bagginess of the skin under the eyes, but had left the simple joy on their faces untouched. It might’ve bordered on cliché, and perhaps Rarity would’ve vehemently disagreed, but their uncontained happiness worked wonders beyond any simple makeup would’ve accomplished.

It wasn’t one of those meetings that were heavy on conversation, particularly after eating; there was maybe a grunt from Rainbow Dash as she shifted her position on her cloud, but besides such passive noises, little was communicated. There was no need, after all; just six friends, relaxing, watching the setting sun turn the horizon all manner of colors before eventually settling into a dark, rich, blue, with small pinpricks of light just beginning to pierce their way through the sky.

It was simple, something that could’ve been done at any time at any day, and almost exactly like any other sunset and moonrise. Such banality nevertheless failed to detract from its beauty.

And, like a parasite that feasted on such unplumbable happiness, a dark thought lodged itself in Twilight’s mind.

It first said, “All things end,” which, in all honesty, was easily acknowledged; after all, nopony can cross a river without getting wet, and in the end nothing is eternal. Twilight’s smile failed to waver even slightly at that thought; it wasn’t the nicest of thoughts, but accepting it wasn’t particularly painful.

And then the dark thought added, “Well, not everything. Or, rather, not everypony.”

And like that, Twilight’s smile decayed into a small frown, and, just a little, the world seemed a bit grimmer. 

* * * * * * * * * *

“The weather is quite nice this time of year, I’ve heard. At least, the country is supposed to be pleasan-” Counsel said offhandedly, only to stop cold when he noticed the slight grimace Autumn had, and instead continue with, “Not an outdoor pony, then. What sorts of hobbies do you have, Ms. Flicker?”

“I like to read, practice politics, and research various fields of study,“ Autumn said, before shrugging and adding, ”I’ve also tried my hoof at writing, but I’m not exactly good at it.”

“Oh? What sorts of stories? Or is it non-fiction?” Counsel replied, interestedly.

“Oh, a little of this and that,” she said, smiling from a combination of embarrassment and pride. “Most of my works are non-fiction, and about history or magic; I wrote most of them under pseudonyms, though.”

“Oh? Don’t like attention, I take it?” Counsel asked, making careful notes in the back of him mind about the various factoids he could glean.

“I experience enough attention in my daily life,” she said simply. “If ponies knew I wrote . . .” she gesticulated for a few seconds before continuing with “. . . The Moon Also Rises, I’d never have a spare moment to think.”

“The Moon Also Rises?” Counsel replied, in a carefully crafted neutral tone.

“Yes,” Autumn replied. “It’s one of the few fictions I wrote.”

“With the pseudonym Earnest Hoofingway?”

“Yes.” Autumn echoed, this time with gears obviously spinning madly in her brain, trying to figure out what she had said incorrectly.

“Wow!” Counsel replied a broad, trusting smile on his lips. “That’s absolutely amazing; would you mind signing a copy? I think I have one somewhere here in the office. . .”

The rest of the initial consultation went much the same way, all the way until Autumn departed with her honor guard and left Counsel alone in his office, with a promise of another visit being tomorrow, at the same time.

About thirty minutes passed in quiet deliberation before Counsel trotted over to his office’s bookshelf, withdrew a slim novel that was right in the middle of his ‘Classics’ section, and sat down to read a couple of lines.

Namely, the publication dates.

* * * * * * * * * *

“You told him the name of one of your stories?” Spike asked, looking alarmed.

“I wasn’t thinking about when I wrote it, Spike!”

“Well, uh, things could be worse; how’d he take it?”

“What do you mean?”

“Twilight, your most recent novel is almost two and a half centuries old!”

“He doesn’t know that! Probably. Hopefully. . .”

“Twilight.”

“I’m not panicking!”

“Maybe if you stopped trying to maintain another life while going to therapy, you wouldn’t have so many problems keeping your time lines straight. And you’re mane is going all frizzy and weird, like it always does right before a meltdown.”

“Spike, I can do this!”

“Just because you can doesn’t mean it’s a good idea!”

“I already told you, Spike, this is the way it has to be done!”

A sullen silence ensued for a few minutes, before Spike finally muttered, “Clarity, Illusion, Nidra and Turquoise are curious if you can spare a few rooms for them, Thursday.”

“They’re always welcome, as long as Nidra doesn’t start snooping in my dreams and Illusion doesn’t break the glasses.”

“Snooping?”

“Spike, I need some alone time right now, okay? Sometimes, the only pony I want in my head is me; I swear, this idea was terrible. . .”
> Chapter 3: Intervention
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

Counsel sat at his desk, contemplating the array of heavily dog-eared books he had fanned out upon the table. Five, set to the side and stacked meticulously, were catalogs for most novel publications within the last year; they were also the only to be noticeably unwrinkled. The rest were heavily worn textbooks concerning the nature of identity, narcissism, pathological lying, and adoption of alternative personas to cope with personal issues. There was also a candy wrapper being used as an ad-hoc book-mark for one of the tomes, but that was neither here nor there.

The clock above the door revealed the time was 12:45.

He tapped his desk a couple of times, deliberating, before carefully re-arranging the books to their original locations. Well, except the catalogs; those, unfortunately, had been borrowed from the local library, a towering building with an equally menacing matron. The catalogs, with a grimace, were carefully filed into the bottom drawer of his table; there was an unmistakable flinch in his hooves as the corner of one of the catalogs creased.

The Princesses, for the most part, forgave such transgressions; Hard Cover, on the other hoof, would not. She’d also spot a steam-pressed book page faster than a forensics team, and a new book, though considered passable, would still nevertheless earn her ire.

Counsel, on a less problematic occasion, would’ve reflected upon the efficacy of the Book/Friendship Princess’ pork-barrel politics towards libraries, but this was neither the time nor the place.

He popped a sugar cube into his mouth for moral support and glanced at the clock one last time with a wry grin.

Today, he felt, was going to be interesting; he was just wishing it wouldn’t be.

* * * * * * * * * *

“Come on, Twilight!”

“No! There’s no way he doesn’t know, Spike!”

“And you think not going is going to solve it? The jig may be up, or it may not; you said he looked like he believed you.”

“Nopony could possibly miss that.”

A moment passed in silence as Spike considered this; he, personally, felt there was no way a pony could’ve missed a slip-up two-hundred and fifty years in the making, but at this point he found himself trying to convince Twilight of the opposite. Debate wasn’t exactly his strong point; he found having to consider the nuances of other paradigms an anomaly in his adult life, since, for whatever reason, even the most irate of individuals tended to become quite complacent when he was around. Maybe it was his grin; few things can resist a winning personality, after all.

“You know,” Spike finally said, “I could just drag you there, and the illusion would absolutely be shattered. I won’t,” he added quickly, as Twilight looked at him angrily, “because that’s not right. So, instead, I’ll just point out that you Pinkie Promised, and leave it at that.”

Twilight opened her mouth to retort, closed it, opened it again a moment later, closed it again, and glowered at the ground even as her horn lit up.

“Thanks, Twilight,” Spike said, as she changed colors into her alternate guise.

She grumbled something unintelligible in response, her teleport whisking her away a few moments later. 

* * * * * * * * * *

1:03 PM, and still the waiting room was deserted. Counsel pressed his hoof against his forehead for a moment, pondering if he had somehow scared off Ms. Flicker; he had been feeling rather off-kilter ever since Farasi had made the front page in multiple publications, and he probably should not have accepted this job, but he had, perhaps arrogantly, assumed that this was going to be simple. For a while, the day before, he assumed he had a grasp on the general direction Autumn Flicker’s thoughts worked. Then, with breathtaking sincerity, she had declared herself owner of something she very clearly couldn’t have written and everything had gotten horribly, horribly complicated. . . 

Counsel turned around to re-enter his office.

He was mulling over his thoughts so intently he didn’t hear the initial pop of a completed teleportation spell, right behind him; the six not so subtle detonations that followed, however, immediately tailed by an explosive grunt of ire, was not so easily missed.

Counsel jerked his head around, his eyes darting across his waiting room; for a moment, he could’ve sworn there were a mass of translucent shapes tangled together in his office, but as soon as he blinked the image faded. Still, in the manner of one who has long since discarded the notion that ‘seeing is believing,’ he trotted a couple of steps closer and waved his hoof through the questionable space.

Nothing.

“Strange,” he muttered, before relaxing and turning around to reenter his office.

He reared back a moment later when he found himself face to face with Autumn Flicker.

“Sorry I’m late,” She said blandly, even as Counsel desperately tried to swallow the knot of panic that had formed in his throat. “There were a couple of problems with some of the staff . . .”

Counsel let her drone on as a sort of background noise as he busily pressed his hoof into his chest in the vague hope it would prevent his heart from popping out; frankly, it seemed like a losing battle, but eventually time turned the tide.

Then he finally breathed, deeply, trying very, very, hard to keep in mind that this pony, despite having terrified the living daylights out of him, was still a patient, and as such, probably didn’t need to deal with an irate doctor in what should be a safe haven for discussion. Even though, just this once, it would’ve been thoroughly justified.

“Yes, yes, let’s get our appointment started,” Counsel said with a small laugh, hoping that by doing so he could expel his irritation; it was successful, for the most part.

The door clicked behind them.

All was silent in the waiting room for a few moments, before, as one, half a dozen elite Royal guards, wearing their easily recognizable armor, popped into existence; one of them in particular was sweating, having only been a couple of inches from the doctor’s investigative hoof sweep.

“Wasn’t she supposed to tell us before she went to these things?” muttered the youngest of the Starbursts, one of only two Unicorns; she looked slightly out of breath from having maintained the invisibility sphere.

“Watch yer mouth, newbie” replied an older Pegasus in a vaguely Trottish accent, before stretching out her wings with a quiet popping noise. “The princess does as is her wont, an’ we’re the best because we’re the ones who can pick up the slack.”

“Lieutenant Torch Light, ma’am. We’ve got problems,” breathed the other Unicorn, as he stared intently at one of the upper corners of the waiting room.

The other five Starbursts followed his gaze; a camera stared merrily back at them, winking with its red recording light.

“Oh pudding.”

* * * * * * * * * *

“So. . . if you don’t mind me asking, where did your guards go today? I was really beginning to feel an honest to goodness bond with them,” Counsel said, jokingly, as an icebreaker. It was utterly failed, if  Autumn Flicker’s expression were anything to go by.

“They. . . are elsewhere,” she replied, shortly, her eyes looking somewhat shifty. “They can’t accompany me everywhere, after all.”

“Ah, yes, I suppose that’s true;” he said cheerfully; he knew this was another terrible lie, but at least this time it was easy to parse from the truth, if only by body language. “I’ve been meaning to ask you, and it may have slipped my mind entirely last time, but has anything happened recently? Any particular reason you’ve decided to visit, in other words?”

“My friend recommended I come around. He’s overreacting, but I promised, so I might as well humor him,” she said, pursing her lips.

“Ah, yes, now I remember. This . . . friend,” Counsel murmured, “Is he a colt-friend-” The explosive coughing followed by gagging killed the rest of that line of thought.

“Sooooooo. . . I’m assuming that’s not the case, then.”

“Absolutely not! He’s my little brother!”

“Ah, well then,” Counsel replied with a chuckle, “The gene pool thanks you.” Then, in a far more somber voice, once Autumn no longer looked on the verge of choking on her own tongue, he asked, “Ms. Flicker, although you appear to be quite well protected by your, ahem, occasionally present guards, do you feel particularly safe within your domicile?”

“Eh, not really. I mean, it’s essentially on a weekly basis that the research teams stumble across something that should’ve remained undisturbed, or a spell will go hay-wire. But its home,” she replied, without a hint of sarcasm in her voice.

Counsel continued to stare at her, an eyebrow raised in genuine amazement; slowly, upon his notepad he scribbled a short message to himself.

Namely, that Ms. Flicker, despite potentially being some variety of nobility, might’ve had less of a grasp on social nuances and metaphors than the average duck. And that perhaps one of her recent misadventures had resulted in substantial damage to the self-preservation portion of her brain, if she was willing to continue living in a place where horrors were regularly summoned.

The expression didn’t go unnoticed for long, however, before Autumn tilted her head and asked, “That was what you were asking about, right?”

“Ahem, sorry, no,” Counsel said, delicately, having never really been forced to make the metaphor more blatant. “Erm, I suppose another way of parsing the question would be, uh, do you find yourself in any intentionally constructed danger due to the machinations of a house guests or servants or what have you?”

“What? No! If somepony tried to hurt me, they’d have some difficulty considering my servants; and if they somehow bypassed my guard, well, then they’d have a real problem on their hooves, since then they’d be facing me.” Autumn squinted at Counsel for a moment before asking, a bit testily, “Why didn’t you say it like that the first time?”

“I suppose it’s for the same reason why open heart surgery doesn’t typically start with striking the barrel with an axe, ma’am,” Counsel said in reply, perhaps letting a touch of his own frustration color his words, though he quickly tried to recover by adding in a far more humored tone, “Subtlety works to varying degrees, and not every pony admits home issues, or lack thereof, so directly. It’s a societal thing, I suppose.”

The response this time was a thoughtful nod.

Counsel cleared his throat after a moment passed in peaceable silence; personal preferences aside, there was still more ground to cover, more things that needed to be raised, and still so much time remaining before time was up.

“So,” he began, “You mentioned a brother. . .”

“Yes. He’s adopted, but at heart he’s just as much a pony as you or I.”

“Oh? Is he griffon?”

“Oh, he’s-” her face froze for a moment, flicking between a variety of expressions so quickly that Counsel hardly believed his eyes, before finally concluding, lamely, with, “-a griffon, yes.”

“Oh?” Counsel said, hiding his mounting distrust with a cheerful demeanor of his own. “So, that’s a brother. So, what about paren-”

“Passed away.”

“-other siblin-” Counsel tried to say, before being interrupted again.

“Him as well.”

“-childre-”

At that point Autumn Flicker froze and stared at Counsel with an unreadable expression.

“. . . my condolences, Ms. Flicker. I’m sorry if I’ve violated any boundaries or stepped on your feelings; it wasn’t intentional, though I know it hardly makes up for it,” Counsel said, mentally berating himself; while, he knew, she hadn’t given him a great deal to work with, needling her like this was not only unprofessional, it was also bordering on malicious. “My deepest, most sincere of apologies.”

She nodded mutely.

The room went quiet.

“Would you,” Counsel finally said, grasping at the one real nugget of knowledge he had about Autumn Flicker that didn’t likely involve some lie, “would you like to talk about some more literature you’ve read? I’ve been brushing up on some of the more recent releases, personally.”

One step forward, two steps back; of course, here, now, perhaps taking a step backward would be for the best. There were better places to stick one’s hoof than in a mine-field.

* * * * * * * * * *

There was a hospital, once.

Starburst sat in her bed, looking vaguely miffed; stitches, bandages, dressing, the whole nine yards had been applied to her hind-leg, and one of the doctors had put a wrapping around her eye to staunch and treat the wound on her cheek. They said she was lucky, considering how the cuts had gone to the bone yet hadn’t taken her eye or limb, but at the moment she found herself just wanting to go back on duty.

She sighed in frustration; Captain of the Royal Guard, and seriously wounded within five months as such. Of course, it wasn’t really her fault; she had been quite safely out of charging range when the engineers had finally smoked the Griffon anarchists out of the domicile, but then Greenhorn advanced early, the anarchists came swirling out of the smoke like some sort of avenging demons, and she had tried to keep Greenhorn from getting killed and everything else had turned into a blur except for the pain.

It wasn’t the claws that had surprised her; everypony who had even a few weeks of training in the guard knew how to avoid being gutted by those talons, or at least know how to stay out of range of the things. It was the modified wing-blades; they were supposedly purpose built to work only for ponies, yet this most recent altercation had revealed at least one case of them being jury-rigged to fit the more bulky form of a Griffon.

And then there was the problem of how the anarchists had gotten them; getting a decent pair of civvie wing-blades was an exercise in futility, and the wing-blades in question seemed, upon greater inspection, to have originally been Guard weaponry.

Of course, if the prisoner was cooperative Starburst might’ve discovered useful information, but thus far the only surviving anarchist had proven unwilling to talk. Most of the legal interrogation techniques had already been tried, up to and including probing the Griffon’s mind; futile, unfortunately, since the anarchist’s mind was closed like a steel trap. 

“Where is she?”

It was common knowledge amongst ponies that the royalty possessed what is commonly known as the Royal Canterlot voice; it’s when something is said with such magnitude, such irrepressible volume, that little stands in the way of its will.

What was not common knowledge was that the royal Canterlot voice was a pale imitation of another voice, far quieter yet by equal measure less resistible; it was a tone that brooked no argument, an intonation that reality itself would surrender to rather than resist. It was, in essence, the voice of a parent, so immeasurably angry than even their burning fury ran cold, if only because there was no way to truly communicate such intense wrath in mere shouting. It was a voice that hinted at hurricanes and volcanic eruptions, of hungry nights and agonized hooves. It didn’t need volume, as any being that heard it would silence itself rather than stand in its way.

It was Twilight’s voice at the moment.

Starburst grimaced; this was neither the time nor the place she needed to see her mother, and at the moment she didn’t particularly feel up to arguing.

Then chunks of the stone wall leading to her private hospital room peeled away like paper, and the high pitched keening noise of instantly ionized rock grew swiftly in volume before suddenly ceasing. An Alicorn with burning mane and tail stood before Starburst’s bed, steam rising from her, for the moment, red eyes.

“Hi, mom,” Starburst said, wide-eyed; of all the mental images she had of her mother, this wasn’t what Starburst had been prepared for.

The eyes, bloodshot with red irises, Starburst distantly noted, glanced at the bandages before becoming utterly occluded by the steam.

“Who did this to you?” Twilight said, in that same voice from earlier.

“I’m pretty sure it’s for the best if you don’t know right now; we don’t want anyone dead, mom,” Starburst said in reply; she would’ve been more startled in her ability to maintain her professional demeanor in the face of a living inferno, if it weren’t for Twilight’s reply.

“Anyone?” Twilight murmured, before her horn pulsed for a moment, like a magical alternative to echolocation. “The Griffon who’s cuffed to their gurney, isn’t it?”

“Mom, seriously, you shouldn’t-”

The Alicorn turned and exited the room, the walls reconstructing behind her with only a slightly scorched surface on the stone as any evidence she was ever there.

“Oh cripes,” Starburst muttered, as she gingerly dragged herself off the bed and onto her legs; it had been a few days, but there were limits on what even modern medical magic could do. Thankfully, her legs didn’t give out.

It hurt to walk. It hurt to blink. It hurt to breathe.

Distantly, Starburst heard various doctors trying to stop her, but it was all background noise, meaningless in all regards. All there was, was a series of doors. And finally just one. Through the red mist of pain, a hoof she recognized as her open wrenched it open just as Twilight’s horn light lit up.

What followed were several seconds of gibbering followed by minutes of sobbing, as Starburst stared, in shock, at both her mother and the now weeping Griffon.

“What did you do?” Starburst muttered in a whisper, before breathing deeply, locking eyes with her familiar, lavender, mother, and repeating in rising volume and anger, “What did you do?!”

“Nothing even close to what I wanted to do.”

“What you wan— are you insane?! We’re not torturers! And how are we going to get info out of him now?!”

“I imagine he’ll be incredibly cooperative in a few moments, Starburst.”

Doctors and some patients were beginning to stare from around the doorway at the arguing mares.

“You don’t get it, do you? You obviously don’t! This is my job; you’ve just stepped all over everything I swore to uphold! You couldn’t even trust me to do my own job! You just. . . you just. . . what did you cast on him?”

“An empathetic bond spell. Nothing more. He’ll live.”

Starburst stared first at sobbing Griffon, then back at Twilight, mouth agape; for a moment, Starburst felt a flash of fear towards the Alicorn, parent or not. A part of that must’ve shown through her eyes; Twilight looked almost like she had been struck. The sobbing from the Griffon redoubled in that moment, but neither pony particularly noticed or cared.

Finally, Starburst asked, “Who’s emotions is he feeling, mom?”

There wasn’t an answer; Twilight had teleported away.

* * * * * * * * * *

“. . . und meiner meinung ist-”

Somewhere in the last few minutes, between her rapid pace and alternating between about five languages and, in Counsel’s approximation, maybe 12 dialects, Counsel had finally surrendered any attempt at following along or interjecting and merely felt a more and more dumbfounded expression grow on his face. Eventually, Autumn noticed the look of utter confusion on his face, and slowly wound down her speaking before finally stopping.

“I’m sorry,” Counsel said, when he noticed the lull in the outpouring of speech, “but would you mind taking that from the top? I, er, lost track when you started speaking in other tongues.”

“It probably wasn’t important anyway,” Autumn said, simply; it was clear, however, that she was preoccupied with something.

“Well,” Counsel said, not quite sure how to follow up on that. His mind groped around for something to continue with, before finally, it came up with something suitably psychological.

From within his desk he withdrew a small stack of inkblot pictures.

Autumn glanced at the abstract images for a moment before saying, “Aren’t those things obsolete? There are spells that do the same thing, but more effectively.”

“I imagine there must be,” Counsel replied cheerfully, “But seeing as how I can’t really cast spells, it doesn’t mean much for us at all.”

Besides, it’s one thing to peek inside another’s head and something else entirely to quite literally live a patient’s entire lifetime in the span of a second. That sort of thing has led to more than one complication; doctors would occasionally rise from the trances thinking they were their patients, and nothing short of royal intervention could reverse such an alteration.

It wasn’t all negative, though; several outdated notions of consciousness had been either updated or tossed aside as obsolete, and the idea that personal willpower was essentially a non-issue in decision making had been effectively sundered.

It had all worked out for the best, anyway. So it was alright. Really.

Hopefully.

“So,” Counsel said, clearing his throat as well as his mind, “here’s the exercise; I’ll show you these inkblots, and I want you to say the first word that comes to mind. Is that alright with you?”

Autumn nodded her assent.

“Good, good,” Counsel murmured, before his hoof flicked up to reveal a blot that looked a great deal like Celestia’s cutie-mark.

Autumn stared at the picture for a few seconds before she said, in a tone that dripped with sarcasm, “Celestia. No, wait, Luna.”

“It’s supposed to be an exercise in subconscious association,” Counsel said with a chuckle as he quickly shuffled the picture back into the stack, the lack of an honorific to either Princess being mentally noted for later thought. “Not insightful responses. So, please, just the first word that comes to mind.”

His hoof revealed another picture; this one was a conglomerated mass of sparkles.

“Memories.”

Fire.

“Anger.”

Something crown-like.

“Duty.”

A pony.

“Protected.”

Celestia’s mark, yet again.

“Worry.”

She blinked a couple of times after replying with that, before her eyes flicked towards the office clock and she muttered, “I’ve got to leave.”

“Ms. Flicker . . .” Counsel began, slowly, thinking over his words even as the other pony rose. “Ms. Flicker, please, wait.”

“It’s time for me to leave; I’m only signed up for eleven appointmen-”

“Ms. Flicker. Please. If I were a money grubber, I’d be charging by the second; please, I’m just a bit curious about something, if you don’t mind me asking.”

“I don’t want to talk about family right now, Dr. Counsel.”

“May I ask about something besides, that, then?”

“. . . go right ahead.”

“Ms. Flicker. You . . . have servants, correct? And an adopted brother who, while very much loving and concerned, seems can only visit once in a while. But, er, do you have anypony you can regularly talk to just . . . just as an equal?”

Counsel was rewarded by a moment of contemplation on Autumn Flicker’s part, before she winked out of existence with her teleport spell. He sat back in his chair with a sigh, brow furrowed; there was frustration there, but it wasn’t really directed towards anypony.

“How little did we actually manage to cover today?” Counsel asked himself, before he sighed again and muttered, “The instant I think I’m understanding her, she reveals more baggage. And I still don’t know what was up with that lie the first day; every other fib has been blatantly obvious . . .”

He groaned before he cupped his face in his hooves; even if he knew the answers to his questions, it would still probably only be scratching the surface in a quagmire of neuroses.

Perhaps a walk would make him feel better; he rolled out of his chair lazily, opened the door to his waiting room, and promptly grimaced.

“Well, she forgot her book,” he murmured to himself while in the shadow of the enormous tome. Then he glanced about his office, and noticed something was missing.

The corner had been expertly plastered up to the extent where, if one didn’t know where to look, it would’ve appeared entirely natural.

“Where’s my security camera?”

> Chapter 4: Irritation
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

It was difficult to miss Twilight’s reappearance in her castle, if only because of the heap the Starbursts made when they, too, were teleported back. She glanced at them for a moment, eyes wide as she realized that she hadn’t warned them in the slightest and that they had very likely been nearly seen; this, conveniently for one of them, meant she had absolutely overlooked the pilfered security camera clutched in his hooves.

Twilight groaned, rubbed her eyes, and walked over to Spike’s chamber slowly, grumbling all the way.

“These sessions are throwing off my routine. . .”

The portcullis to the dragon’s room trembled for a moment before shrinking to pony size. Twilight pushed it open.

“Did you have a good visit?” a sleepy voice from the darkness asked, before a snout, hazy with smoke, emerged from the shadows.

A grumble was his only response.

“That bad, huh?”

“I’m telling you, Spike, I don’t need this nonsense.”

“Uhuh,” the drowsy dragon replied, laconically asserting his disbelief in her assessment, before yawning and murmuring, “I’m glad you’re taking a break from that book of yours, though; all work and no play doesn’t do anypony, any favors.”

“Why are you acting so tired?” Twilight asked reflexively, before her eyes widened and she made a strangled squeaking noise.

“Had to transport about two hundred packages today after you left, then I ate a bit too much crystal for dinner and put myself into a-” Spike interrupted himself with a yawn, “-a food coma.” He glanced a Twilight for a moment, his eyes narrowing, before he asked with more than a hint of lethargy in his voice, “Did you misplace your book?”

“Yes,” she muttered, before adding, perhaps a bit more sharply than she intended, “I wouldn’t have forgotten anything if it weren’t for these wastes of time.” Then, angrily sighing, she muttered “I either left it in the trans-dimensional space created by that Maze spell they were working on in Sub-basement level three, somehow mis-shelved it into the Library, or left it at my doctor’s office,” with a clear note of irritation at the final few words.

“Didn’t that thing have all your drafts for your speech? And a whole bunch of other stuff about your domain?”

“It’s warded, so I don’t have to worry about tampering. All I have to do is find it, preferably before it either gets torn apart by the things that live in the Maze or attains sentience in the Library. When are the kids supposed to get here?”

“They said around nine-ish. Though, really, they aren’t exactly what a sane pony could call punctual . . .”

“So, all I need to do is traverse a trans-infinite amount of space-time, or hope the Library has finally stabilized after that ‘Knowledge equals Power’ spell went haywire, or, if neither of those two places have it, go back to my psychologist’s office. All in, let’s say, six hours.”

“Twilight, you’re mane’s getting all-”

She disappeared in a flash of magic, but the slight jitter that always came to her eyes while on the verge of utter insanity was more than visible in the instant before she left.

“ . . . crazy. Again.”

Spike blinked hazily for a couple of seconds, before he sighed, tried for a few futile minutes to hold a quill in his massive claws, resorted to dipping the tip of a talon into the ink and writing with that, before breathing green fire on the hastily constructed note.

“That should help a bit,” he murmured to himself drowsily, before falling back asleep.

* * * * * * * * * *

“Why doesn’t this surprise me?” Counsel muttered to himself, having finally surrendered in his search for the security camera. “There are nice tables here that are only a bit scribbled on, and fine cushions that only have a few scrapes, and somepony goes after the ugly lump of metal affixed to the corner. Madness, I swear. . .”

But most worrying of all was the fact his video records had been wiped. Counsel had only heard of such things occurring in terribly made spy films, so either he had the grave misfortune of being the unwitting accomplice to Golden Pie or something far scarier and deeper was going on around him; for all intents and purposes, he might as well have never had a camera. Which, frankly, removed any possibility of calling the police; telling them a story about a phantom camera, a robber polite enough to plaster the wall behind them, and suddenly non-existent records would only get him laughed at in all likelihood.

And then there was the Book, which entirely deserved capitalization. A towering tome that cast a quarter of the waiting room in shadow, it had taken roughly fifty minute of extensive pushing to move the thing about twenty feet into his office, where it probably wouldn’t topple and crush anypony walking by. It had something scribbled on it, probably a name, but somehow Counsel’s gaze slid across the letters without truly reading them, despite his efforts to the contrary; the fact the book probably weighed more than twice his own weight and that Flicker had lifted the damned thing on a regular basis with simple levitation spells did nothing but unnerve him even further on the entire matter.

He glanced at the Book once more with a mixture of awe and irritation before retreating behind his desk and withdrawing, with astonishing care, the checked out catalogs. He’d have to replace one due to its crumpled corner, but the other four were still in mint condition; all in all, it’d only cost him forty bits, twenty of which he could probably compensate with by selling the slightly tarnished copy. . .

Of course, this planning was rather spoiled when a gout of green flame spontaneously erupted in front of him, scorching a small fraction of his desk and lightly singeing the collection of catalogs in his hooves; his brain, deciding that discretion was the better part of wrath, wisely let this detail go ignored as he flung himself behind his desk in the vague hope that it would protect him.

A minute passed peacefully. Counsel started feeling foolish.

He rose from his crouch, only to stare blankly at the crisp note that sat in the middle of scorch zone, entirely unharmed. Had Counsel been in a more poetic mood, it would’ve appeared to him like a black chrysanthemum with a white disk floret.

As it was, he was too busy muttering foul curses underneath his breath as he swept up the note in his hooves; the anger he had saved for later had returned in full force, and he was starting to tremble from barely repressed emotion.

The note was simple, short, and to the point, just the way Counsel liked correspondence; not that he particularly cared much at the moment.

My friend might’ve left her book there; I’m not sure when she’s going to be able to make it there, but if it is there, could you hold onto it for her?
Thanks, and sorry,
Spike

The letters blurred in and out of focus for a few moments as Counsel desperately reminded himself that Hanlon’s Razor was well in effect: just because whomever had sent the letter had probably cost Counsel roughly two hundred bits, the action itself might’ve just been due to rampant stupidity and/or ignorance. It didn’t really change anything, but it helped drain some of the anger away.

Cheerlessly, he locked the office door behind him, and, the seared catalogs cinders tasting bitter in his mouth, trotted over to the local library; if gravity were anything to judge by, it wasn’t like the Book was going anywhere anytime soon.

* * * * * * * * * *

Twilight’s skin still smelled vaguely of fish, but considering how dangerous experimental Maze spells could get, only being stuck with a bit of funk for a few more hours was getting off lightly, in all honesty.

The scales had, after all, only taken a few minutes of careful spell manipulation to remove.

At the moment, however, she was looking forlornly at the yellow-black barricade tape that had marked off the library; it didn’t really bar her entry, of course, but there was a very good reason why Princesses, despite being more powerful than most ponies simply as a matter of fact, did not just jump into the middle of a magic clean-up squad’s work; for one, it distracted the other ponies, and if there happen to be, say, Manticore figments lumbering about, accidents will happen as a matter of course.
On the other hoof, she really, really needed to know if the book was inside, and it’d be faster and safer if she was able to enter by herself.

She bit her lip for a moment, before finally signing in defeat, even as she lit her horn up; it Thuam-ed rhythmically, a series of magical heartbeats, before suddenly basking the entire room in a flat light that left no shadow. For a few seconds, half-dozen shades formed in the light, nothing more than fuzzy circles at first, before eventually refining into distinctly pony shapes. The darkness deepened for a few more seconds, with almost alarming swiftness, before the void spluttered out six distinctly alarmed ponies with a distinctly phlegmatic noise.

Slowly, they rose, looking slightly flummoxed. One in particular was dripping a blue, viscous, peach-scented fluid.

Twilight’s inner-scientist briefly did battle with her inner-princess, but quickly conceded a truce, albeit a conditional one.

“I’d like a sample of that liquid in Laboratory C by sundown,” she quickly said to the pony in question, before changing mental gears and intoning in a no-nonsense voice, “I’m afraid I have need of the Library at this time.”

“But we’ve yet to banish most of the Meta-”

“Four PM? We’ve not even gotten started on the Dues Ex Machina that’s been patrolling-”

“-the royal biography sections, if we’re going to be honest, aren’t exactly safe-“

“-but even that thing’s nothing compared to the Plot-”

“Language!”

“-she’s talking about the literary device, Touchy, not somepony’s-”

“As the case may be,” Twilight interjected into the maelstrom of conversation, “I still need to enter. I’ll be out soon enough.”

Five pairs of eyes exchanged a look, before finally nodding, however grudgingly. The last pair of eyes, however, the one’s belonging to a certain drenched pony, had been slowly going cross-eyed during this entire conversation.

“Uh. . . see that he gets treated. I’ll be back soon, my little ponies,” And with that, Twilight trotted into the library, past a couple of bookshelves, and was swiftly lost from sight.

“Paradox must’ve gobbed on him,” muttered one of the other ponies in an amused tone. “Way I see things, we’ve got about a minute and a half before he starts going into an existential conniption fit. I say we get a bag of popcorn and see how this plays out-“

“For science?” one of the other ponies said sarcastically, in irritation.

“-or we grab a lasso and drag him over to Lab B and hose him down; I’m not heartless, you know.”

“Just a few trees short of an orchard.”

“Hey! I-”

“Just grab a rope, will you?”

* * * * * * * * * *

“So, what do we got on this Stallion’s background?”

“Is this something we really need to be talking about?”

“Hey, I haven’t exactly had the time to read the memo; I’ve been knee-deep in magical wiring, removing data, and other, ahem, matters of state security.”

“Fine, fine. . . Lieutenant’s going to have my head if she figures out I’m bailing you out, though . . . Family of musicians. Parents are still married. Middle child; one older and two younger, being twins. Only Earth one amongst them; everypony else either had wings or horns. Original name was Harmonious, err, Strain.”

“Lemme guess; they weren't exactly feeling jolly for the most part after he popped out looking like the local mailstallion?”

“Right in one; a few years after everything is said and done, the marriage is on the rocks and the, err, band, is on the verge of breaking up. Evidently, both're suspecting the other of infidelity, wouldn't you believe it?”

“And then our chap finds his cutie-mark and saves the day?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Oh.”

“Indeed.”

“I thought they were still married, to this day?”

“They are. Strain, aha, isn't the one who does anything, though; both the parents grab a counselor, file here says her name was Frolicsome Guidance-“

“Used to be a dance instructor?”

“-used to be a dance instructor, yes, and after a couple of paternity tests and a few months of talking the hatchet was essentially buried.”

“Seriously? That seems overly simple.”

“Yeah, well, it must've been a really good day for her or something, because they're still together. Anyway, our ‘Harmonious Strain’ happens to overhear some of this talking and stuff, and finds his calling.”

“Huh. Seems kinda boring.”

“Eh, must've made an impact on him. Not everypony makes a Sonic Rainboom, or discovers how to hatch dragon eggs, or what have you; I mean, I found mine when I was, er, bully hunting, for lack of a better word.”

“Well, I suppose that's just because you're a scrub. I mean, I found my calling when I suplex'd an adolescent manticore.”

“Really? Was this before or after you carried the weight of the world around your neck, was abducted by space-ponies, and used a fire-demon to cook that horrifying concoction you called a salsa?”

“. . . You're using sarcasm, again, aren't you? I hate it when you use sarcasm.”

“Yeah, well, don't lie about how you got your Cutie-Mark.”

“What are you, the Cutie-mark police? It's my business how I tell my story.”

“And if it happens to be completely erroneous, so be it?”

“It's called Artistic License.”

“It's called bullshi-“

The Lieutenant entered; the only noise that followed was the clanking of armor as the two rookie Starbursts rose to their feet and saluted.

"Why is it that I'm hearing stories about Cutiemarks, rather than the sound of two idiots hard at work?"

“Sorry, Ma'am. Got side-tracked, Ma'am. Won't happen again, Ma'am.”

"See to it that it doesn't." As she leaves, "Neither of you are getting dinner, by the way."

“. . . is she gon-“

“Shhh!”

“. . .”

“. . . yeah, she's gone. We got off light, right there.”

“Doesn't seem like it.”

“Hey, it COULD'VE been no food until lunch, tomorrow.”

“Still. . .”

“Yeah, well, it doesn't matter that much; finish what you were going to tell, and let's finish peeling these dratted things.”

“Not much else to say; Strain gets inspired, finds his mark, and decides to pursue a career in counseling. He changes his name, eventually, after one too many jokes about musical aptitude or about how 'Dr. Strain' sounds more like a laxative than an actual doctor.”

“Ouch.”

“Yeah. Foals are little monsters, and a pony doesn't stop being a foal until, eh, mebbe twenty? Anyway, long story short, that's about it. He was a contact of Dr. Husna, evidently, and was a third place runner up for the position Dr. Husna eventually took, and still has. And Mister Second-Place passed away a couple of weeks ago from old age.”

“Dr. Husna? Wait, are we talking about Farasi Husna, that Zebra stallion who was in the papers for, like, a month?”

“Yeah.”

“Huh. Isn't he, you know, with Luna?”

“. . . you missed the briefing, didn't you?”

“The one three weeks ago? Yeah, I was ill. You can't blame me for that.”

“Hrm.”

* * * * * * * * * *

“Wait, the Flicker house’s lineage died out how many years ago?”

“Well, the last known descendant was Sunset Shimmer, and she passed away a little ways after the third generation of Harmony wielders came into their own. In other words, a little over three hundred years ago,” the reference librarian replied, her final sentence carrying a small amount of bite with it.

Not that Counsel felt the irritation was undeserved; the mere fact the reference librarian (a harsh looking Pegasus) hadn’t simply tossed him back outside when he had stumbled through the doors, dripping a grey slime from various facial orifices (which at that point had likely contained more charred reference material than mucus), spoke volumes (and shelves) about an uncalled-for streak of generosity.

The fact he smelled like singed books and looked more akin to an anarchist’s, or worse, a book burner’s caricature than an actual pony also indicated that she had something wanting in the common sense department, but that was neither here nor there; not all innocence needs to be smashed into oblivion, after all.

“Is there anything else I can help you with?” she said, after waiting for Counsel to reply for a moment.

Counsel, eyebrows furrowed in genuine frustration, finally muttered, “How am I not surprised? Okay, I recently got a letter, well, more of a note really, but it appeared in a ball of fire. What, err, happened?”

The reference librarian gave Counsel a flat stare, and said, in an almost condescending tone, “A real ball of fire, sir? Are you joking?”

Counsel merely glared in retort.

After a moment the librarian shrugged, muttered something under her breath about crazy ponies, and said, coolly, “The only fire-borne messages are from either The High Princess Celestia, or Dragons. Or rather, the one pureblooded dragon in Equestria’s employ. The once-assistant of Princess Twili-”

The librarian’s discourse trailed off to silence as she stared at Counsel. She waved her hoof back and forth across his eyes. She carefully noted the number of pulses the vein in his forehead made within a minute, and briefly pondered calling an ambulance before Counsel somehow managed to make an about-face while only moving one knee and promptly walked out of the library.

* * * * * * * * * *

Travel, for Alicorns, is an interesting prospect; the Solar and Lunar generation obviously had preference for being escorted via flying carriage, but even they had a tendency to occasionally vary their travel with solo flights and teleportation, with the rare train ride simply for varieties sake.

It seems absurd, of course, and such variation was something few ponies had even bothered to contemplate, but, much like being ambidextrous, the sheer amount of selection threatened to become overwhelming in some situations. Adding to this issue was the subject of exercise, both magical and physical, which even Alicorns needed to do if they wished to remain at peak capability.

It was very clear that Twilight was the very epitome of magical aptitude. It was a barefaced lie to say the same of her physical health, however, and what should’ve been a simple flight to recover her tome and clear her mind had devolved into a series of pit-stops and forcibly altered teleportations to avoid dragging the Starbursts with her.

Thus, it was with a great deal of weariness that Twilight finally opened the door to the office with a flash of magic and slipped inside.

She blinked as her eyes adjusted to the light, blinked again as she realized what that meant, and slowly turned around.

“Ms. Flicker? I think we need to, ahem, discuss the nature of my employment.”

> Chapter 5: Irate
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

There are few things less wise than startling an Alicorn, and while Counsel had always prided himself on being a curious stallion, he was finding himself feverishly wishing to out of this entire situation. Retroactively, preferably, but at this point Counsel would’ve cheerfully settled for a new identity as a boat-maker in a desert country.

And, worse, he found himself desperately fighting the almost biological urge to kneel, grovel for forgiveness from the Alicorn for daring speak to her with such a lack of respect.

I may have very well discovered the depths of idiocy the pony mind can sink to by spelunking to them and drilling ever deeper, but  I not going to spoil what little dignity I may have lef--My goodness, she looks rather worn. What sort of immortal has streaks of grey in their mane? Well, besides those who are normally grey, but that’s beside the point.

Worst of all were his own treacherous thoughts.

Twilight and Counsel stared at each other for a few seconds, almost measuring one another up, before Counsel finally squawked, “Coffee?” before clearing his throat and stating, far more calmly, “Would you like Coffee, Ms. Flicker? And feel free to take a seat; I’m . . . not quite sure why you’re wearing some sort of black jumpsuit, but would you want a towel?”

Twilight’s eyes narrowed before she sighed and nodded.

And bags under the eyes, my goodness. That. . . probably isn’t the healthiest of indications; coffee for blood, energy bars for flesh, and hardened sugar for bones, Counsel thought as he fiddled with the coffee machine for a few moments, struck it a couple of times to get it working, and finally grinned, thinly, when the machine finally began to whirr with activity.

When he turned around, he found the princess had taken a seat and had been staring at him, boredom and a hint of irritation evident in her eyes; she had already managed to relocate the Book beside herself, and while she hadn’t already up and left, it looked as if she were only a few moments away from simply blinking away in a flash of magic.

There were more tells, Counsel realized as he bundled over a small towel; little details that would’ve been difficult to notice on Pegasi, Unicorns or Earth ponies conspired into an almost perfect storm for Alicorns. The horn flickering occasionally, as well as the occasional usage of unnecessary magic; the slight curling of the wing’s tips, and the rigidness of the feathers; the tap-tap-tapping of her hooves against the floor, and the shifting of her eyes; it was almost a relief after working with introverted foals that somepony would have such an honest subconscious.

“So,” Counsel finally said, when he finally realized Twilight wasn’t going to be the one to initiate conversation, “how do you want your coff-”

“One sugar, drop of cream.”

Okay, Princess or not, this sort of shit is getting real old.

A few seconds passed as Counsel poured the coffee, added the sugar and cream, and placed it in front of Twilight, who gazed at it as if it were nothing more than a necessary evil, before sipping it.

A few more seconds passed before she said, quietly, “Thank you.”

“It’s only a cup of coffee; no worries, Ms. Flicker.”

“I don’t think you need to keep calling me that.”

“I am nothing if not courteous; besides, the name on the check says Ms. Flicker.”

“Hmm.”

Perhaps half a minute passed in uttered silence, before Counsel finally asked with little fanfare, “Why are you here? You don’t like it, clearly, and I don’t exactly see many ponies that could strong-arm you into visiting my humble establishment.”

“A friend asked me. He was getting worried.”

“Your assistant?”

“Not anymore,” she muttered, her lips quirking upwards for a moment. “Just my friend, at this point.”

“Huh. Does that irritate you?”

“It’s part of growing up, letting go of those sorts of things,” she said. She paused, twisted her head to look straight at Counsel, and said, “Don’t read into that too much.”

“I never have,” he said, before asking with a sigh, “How is this going to work? Or rather, how do you want this to work?”

“I want to cease with these meetings.”

“Why?”

“It’s wasting my time, that’s why!”

Counsel breathed deeply to calm himself, prevent himself from retorting with some sort of outrage; it took him a moment to realize that he was calming himself by drinking in the smell of ash and, strangely enough, fish.

The seconds passed painfully.

We must make one Tartarus of a sight. On the left we’ve got an earth pony, covered in char and ash from book and paper. On the right, a slightly scaled, fishy smelling Alicorn princess of Books, Magic, and Friendship. Wait.

“Do you have many friends, Ms. Flicker?” Counsel finally asked.

“Of course,” Twilight replied. “There’s Spike-”

“Your baby brother, basically.”

“Yes, yes . . . Spike, Cadence. . . Luna . . .”

“Princess Celestia?”

“Well, I mean, yes, of course she is, but. . .”

“Takes up a different role in your eyes, eh?”

Twilight silently nodded.

“Anyone else? Prince Valiant or Prince Illusion? Princess Nidra? Err. . . Princess Clarity, if we’re going with the whole ‘marrying-into-royalty-makes-one-royalty’ humdrum? Mr. Turquoise Blitz?” Counsel asked, quietly thankful the newspaper stand a block away from his office had a print solely dedicated towards nob matters.

“Oh, they were my kid’s acquaintances. Or their relatives. It’d be strange if I decided to . . . strike up an unwarranted conversation with them.”

Counsel’s only reply for a few seconds was a sympathetic silence, before he finally murmured, “Do you want to be friends with them?”

A number of confusing expressions flitted across Twilights face for a moment before she finally said, “Well, I mean, absolutely. I mean, I am the Princess of Friendship.”

“Please, none of the stuff about titles here,” Counsel said. “All it does is clutter the issue. Do you, the pony, want them to be your friends?”

“It. . . wouldn’t be the worst thing,” Twilight replied, thoughtfully.

“Yeah, it wouldn’t, would it?” Counsel said wistfully, no longer really looking at Twilight.

Too young for the older, too old for the younger; that’s a story even I’ve endured before, alright. Of course, maybe it works differently with immortals? I mean, considering there’s no endpoint for their lives, I would imagine that age works in some other way for them.

“Is something the matter?” Twilight asked, her eyebrow raised.

“Oh, I’m just overcome with sentimentality,” Counsel lied with a chuckle. “When are you going to meet with them again?”

“In about. . . oh, Tartarus, about 5 minutes,” Twilight muttered under her breath.

“Perhaps you should talk with them? Maybe the feeling is mutual; I can’t recall a single pony who hasn’t wanted a family member they could reach out to,” Counsel said with a shrug, even as he internally winced.

Let’s wrap this up; this is starting to hit far too close to home.

Twilight gave a short laugh before she picked up her Book with magic, inclined her head, and asked, in what may or may not have been a parody of a morose tone, “Regular time, tomorrow?”

“Regular time, tomorrow. And this wasn’t a session; this was . . . a discussion. Or some-”

Twilight winked out of existence.

”-thing. Huh.”

I guess that’s that. Now, if only my legs would stop trembling with fear long enough for me to walk home, that’d be grand.

* * * * * * * * * *

It had been such a pleasant day, little more than two centuries ago; the air, crisp, the weather, warm, and the breeze had been divine. And the location! Before almost 60% of the Castle of Friendship had been converted into fortress, library, and laboratory, it had possessed a number of relaxed amenities; carpets atop the uncomfortable crystal flooring, a gym (as had been demanded by a certain brash Pegasus so many years ago), and a wine cellar; perhaps the only thing it lacked in its labyrinthine passages was an indoor cinema, and even that could be cobbled together in a few short hours if the need arose. 

It was a shame that the company didn’t live up to the quality of their location.

Well, that wasn’t quite true; certainly, of the thirty or so fillies and colts that were present, at least five of the youngest ones had turned the castle into a pigsty, tearing tapestries that were worth minor fortunes and generally creating all sorts of havoc, but there was a sort of. . . genuine, childish wonder that could be associated with it, and perhaps even excuse the destruction. They weren’t trying to be little hellions; it was something that went along with being foals.

No, rather than the littlest ponies acting their age, it was the older ones, not quite yet stallions or mares, that seemed . . . off.  They would cease in their private conversations when Twilight drew near, as if they didn’t want her to know about something; oh, they’d nod and act the part of dutiful great-great-great grandchildren, but something about them was making Twilight feel tense. For perhaps a moment, she considered a magical intrusion upon their conversation before she realized that a Pegasus mare (Socialight, both a mother to one of older colts and one of Twilight’s direct descendants) had been busily vying for her attention.

For a brief moment, as Twilight turned to face the Pegasus, she was certain that Blueblood had somehow found a way to come back from the dead; the tone managed to convey a sense of brashness from unwarranted entitlement, as well as the empty, pointless, pretentiousness that should’ve horrified  most ponies within earshot. And worst of all, Twilight realized, was that this . . . individual . . . was technically related to her, and it showed; this pony was the spitting image of Velvet Sparkle herself.

“Oh, Grandmother, if it wasn’t too much of a bother, I wanted to discuss something with you,” Socialight murmured with a smile so slimy that it could’ve been used to maintain motor equipment. “Namely, it’s about Otiose; do you think you can put in a good word for him at some of the Canterlot schools?”

“Certainly, but I’m not exactly certain why my recommendation would matter,” Twilight replied, barely hiding her bewilderment. “A number of Canterlot schools, regardless of their level of education, pride themselves on admitting merit alone.”

What nature doesn't give, Canterlot University won't provide. And . . . I suppose if I’m going to be honest, little Otiose there is about as sharp as a spoon. He’s. . . just not that good at practical things. Or impractical yet useful tasks; I’m not exactly certain what you were expecting, though, naming your child Otiose, of all things. . .

“Of course, Grandmother, of course,” Socialight said with almost a purr. “However, still, if you could find the time . . . ?”

“I’ll see,” Twilight said with a smile, masterfully choking down some bile that had risen up in her throat; she needed to leave this pony, or she was going to say something that didn’t need to be on the front page of some newspaper.

Which of my kids was responsible for your creation? I’m honestly curious, if only because I almost wish I could retroactively tell the guilty party to have a gelding. You’re trying to wheedle favors out of me, and I’m supposed to appreciate the purring? I hated Rarity’s cat; thing was a menace. . . And you’re not my grandchild; they had better sense than you, by far.

Twilight carefully stalked over to the servant carrying the adult beverages, met eyes with the mare in question, smiled, and took a drink from the plate that was balanced on the serving-mare’s back.

Or rather, she would’ve, if the mare hadn’t carefully yet inconspicuously (to the partygoers at large, at least) skipped around Twilight’s magic; Twilight glanced quizzically at the mare for a moment, who’s only reply was to carefully shake her head and gesture as unobtrusively as possible to indicate the six or so empty wine glasses Twilight had already drained over the course of enduring this debacle of a reunion.

“Fine, fine,” Twilight grumbled, albeit good-naturedly. “Get a bottle of Applejack’s brew out of the cellars for after the party . . . and by that, I mean when everypony’s gone, not whatever after party this warrants; the stuff nowadays is barely palatable.”

Yes, yes, and the parties were brighter and better, the dresses were snazzier, the company was classier, and all that other nonsense, she thought to herself tiredly, as the serving-mare nodded wearily. That’s just nostalgia speaking; I’m sure it’s not that bad.

She grimaced a bit more when she heard something likely irreplaceable shatter in the background, as well as muffled, stilted, gasps; on a whim, she magically broadened her senses as she neared the scene of the incident, hoping vaguely that somepony would . . . at least be apologizing to one of the servants.

“Oh, don’t worry about it, she has dozens,” murmured . . . it sounded like Socialight talking with one of the other invited ponies, not that Twilight had honestly expected much from her. “Have you heard, though? Oh, of course not, Otiose is going to a Canterlot school.”

“Ah, you asked her?”

“Of course,” Socialight responded.

“Doesn’t he have poor grades?”

That’s one way of putting it.

“Oh, they’ll see the recommendation and let him in,” Socialight purred, the tone setting Twilights hair on end even from this magically extended distance. “It’s all about connections, deary.”

It took Twilight a moment to process what, exactly, she meant by this, and by that point her stomach had already gone queasy from the implications; it took a few seconds, however, as she stared into the assembled masses of what she had to technically call her scions, for the sheer disgust she had for the situation to truly hit her in full.

“I’m not talking with my family. I’m picking favorites among my subjects,” Twilight whispered to herself, the sheer shock of this revelation nearly driving her to her knees.

I’ve been aiding some of these . . . things . . . swindle more deserving ponies out of what they worked and fought for. How many bright little foals from poor families were halted from entry, just so some of these ones could get in? And because of something as shallow as me wanting to be a good grandparent? No . . . simply so they’d stop haranguing me and actually treat me like family?

“Out.”

It was a type of phrase none of the assembled ponies had ever heard before, excluding from some parental figure; not an askance, not some recommendation, but a flat demand. They turned as one towards Twilight, more curious than offended, though offence wasn’t far behind.

“Get out of my house. Now,” Twilight repeated, coldly.

“Now, now, Grandmother,” Socialight said soothingly, in a purr, “We’ll replace the glass if that’s-”

“It’s not about the stupid glass. You’re tone, your words. . . everything about you is so hollow, so, so shallow and needy that you don’t even see what a mockery of the education system, of self-improvement and self-evolution, you’ve made . . . and what’s worse, I’m an accomplice, because I was stupid enough to think I could somehow recapture what I once had,” Twilight said, her words cold, belying the wateriness that was growing in her eyes. 

Twilight took a deep breath before finally finishing with, “I don’t want anyone of you here by the end of the hour, am I clear?”

Socialight’s eyes opened in shock before irritation took command of her brain and opened her mouth.

“The next words you’re planning on saying, I’d recommend you swallow. Speaking won’t end well for you, or your reputation,” Twilight tiredly said, cutting off the mare before she could start. “Out. Before I start charging you rent.”

It took a few minutes before the last of the ponies finally filed out of the doors, the adult ones muttering things darkly under their breath and the younger ones generally uncaring towards the entire situation as a whole.

Twilight, for her part, simply left for her quarters with as much dignity as she could muster, crawled into her bed, and hugged her pillow tightly.

By morning, her eyes had noticeably hardened, with only a few tear-stained sheets to indicate this hadn’t always been the case. Soon enough, though, even those were washed away.

* * * * * * * * * *

Twilight fizzled back into existence in her quarters, only to realize an instant too late that she had utterly forgotten to modify her teleportation for the return trip; for about a second, a number of Starbursts in various states of slumber rained around her, dragged along by her spell, only halted from sudden impact with the crystal floor by Twilight’s quick thinking.

Twilight sighed, even as she gently started depositing them onto the bed; this was going to take a few moments . . .

* * * * * * * * * *

“Let’s see how this falls apart this time,” Illusion said cheerfully as he neared the door, flanked by Claire and Nidra. He grimaced a bit when Claire shot him a look, only to continue stating, albeit with far less energy, “You’d have said something if you knew it wasn’t true, love.”

“She’s not that bad, Illusion,” Claire muttered. “Besides, this is just . . . I dunno, a phase for her or something.”

“Oh? Do Alicorns have a second puberty I should know about? Nidra, be a dear and inform us ignorant masses,” Illusion said with a chuckle.

There was an absolute silence as Nidra looked into space with a thousand yard stare.

“Nidra?” Claire asked, concerned. “Hey, you don’t need to be worrying about what happened last time-”

“I didn’t even know there were spells to force a lucid dream,” Nidra said, as if in a daze. “And then when I tried to talk to her, I got evicted. Even Mom couldn’t get me out of dreams when she was teaching me, unless she woke up.”

“If you’re concerned, I sure we could arrange for a carriage or something,” Claire said, gently.

“No, I want to visit here,” Nidra replied, perhaps a touch more forcefully than she intended.

“Why-” Claire started to ask, before a distinctly green shape emerged on the horizon.

“I believe we have our answer, ladies and gentlecolts,” Illusion barely managed to mutter between chuckles.

“Illusion . . .” Claire said, warningly, even as she internally agreed.

“What? She’s not embarrassed, just, ahem, aflutter,” Illusion said, gesturing at Nidra, who was already in her own little world having spotted Turquoise. “Claire, he always gave me funny looks when you and I started going together; it’s just in good fun.”

“Oh, I’m just ‘good fun’, am I?” Claire said, in mock-anger and mock-misunderstanding; she couldn’t, however, completely cover the playful smile that twitched across her face.

“Absolutely,” Illusion replied wryly, grinning, before cutting off his own banter with Claire to say, “T, down here, man!”

Turquoise had grown a bit more, but that wasn’t unexpected; the dragon linage ran a bit deeper in his blood than Clarity, and it had always shown; still, however, he was likely reaching his maximum size: unless the size growth from draconic greed was able to affect him, he’d probably only be about as tall as Celestia.

He touched down; it was by no means a heavy landing, but it still left small depressions in the grass.

“Illusion, Sis,” T said, before a short nod to Nidra, “Princess.”

There was a mostly awkward pause as T looked expectantly at Illusion, Claire, and Nidra; Illusion and Claire, however, awarded themselves the briefest of mental-facepalms even as Nidra’s burned a furious red.

“Valiant said he might be a couple of days late,” Turquoise finally said, unsure of what, exactly, was going on.

“He’s testing the waters,” Claire said.

“Smarter than the rest of us, that’s for sure,” Illusion added, cheekily, smiling even as it earned him a glare.

All four of them stood awkwardly at the portcullis, staring at the door in an emotional state approaching slight horror and dutiful resignation. 

“So,” Claire finally muttered, “Ground rules. Nopony. . . nobody mentions anything about the Talon Scare, be careful when mentioning Starburst, and don’t break her wine-glasses. Oh, and don’t mess about with her-”

“I suspect we’ll be here for half a day if we go over everything we’re supposed to not do,” Illusion interjected cynically, before silencing when the doors slowly began to open.

The first thing they saw was a purple and green wall; the second, a set of sharp smiling teeth; third, and, finally, beyond all that, an overwhelmingly overjoyed dragon, which, honestly, is almost as terrifying to the lay-pony as an enraged one.

“Hey, kiddoes,” Spike rumbled, lips curled upwards. “Twilight is at a meeting, but she’ll be here soon enough. How are you all? Come in, come in!”

“Meeting? I was didn’t she had anything besides that speech planned,” Nidra replied, even as Claire and Turquoise embraced Spike. “Did something come up?”

“No, no, it wasn’t directly related to her domain,” Spike said, reassuringly, even as he pretended to not notice the bewildered expressions the younger generation had upon hearing that. “She has been branching out recently,” Spike added, almost defensively.

“What, like yoga or something?” Illusion asked, his face twisted with bafflement; it sounded absurd because it was absurd.

Spike hesitated for a moment before finally nodding and muttering, “Something like yoga, yeah. But enough about that; last I heard, the cooks are making something for us.”

* * * * * * * * * *

A great battle waged perhaps a room away, as part of Twilight’s brain feverishly tried to hurl out various suggestions as to why remaining introverted was the superior choice; it had come to the point where she was having to actively talk herself into acting.

I don’t have to do this, right? The ponies in the labs probably need help or something. . . 

“Seriously? More excuses? Is this truly what I’ve come to?”

But it’s hard, and painful. You remember that first day in Ponyville?

“And if I had let fear rule me then, I’d never have had some of the best friends a pony could ask for.”

What about the relatives? Remember that? How do you know this won’t be a repeat of that?

“I don’t. But. . . they had Starburst’s trust, through thick and thin. They’ve done more than enough to earn mine.”

It hurts, though. . .

“So was having Nightlight and Starburst, and they were more than worth the pain. Even if. . .” here she faltered a bit, but continued regardless, “. . . even if she and I didn’t see eye to eye on all matters.”

I might regret this.

“Even so,” Twilight muttered, as she finally pushed open the door and greeted her guests.

It went surprisingly well, Twilight reflected, when she finally went to sleep that night.

* * * * * * * * * *

Bits of ash smeared across Counsel’s face as he stared, unblinkingly, at his office from across the street.

Or, rather, what was left of it; it’s twisted, incinerated remains were cordoned off by the usual yellow warning strips that followed arson. Here and there, a few fragments of flame tried to spark up, only to be immediately slain by the rain.

A small crowd had gathered, primarily reporters, yet there was still a sense that the police were now in control of the situation. The photographers, writers. . . entire crews had focused around the building, all of them asking the same question.

It wasn’t about who had set the fire. It was about something else; rather, had yet another princess been corrupted by the maniacal influences of these . . . psychologists?

Somepony must’ve seen her enter the building. . . At least they had the common decency to wait for me to leave for home before they set fire the place. Of course, then they left a paper-trail and a half, talking about . . . shit. Can’t say I’m . . . too surprised, really, considering the storm Dr. Husna managed to brew-up; same pony excitability that keeps us in business is what burns us, eventually. . .

This is all so fucking absurd.

Counsel, were he in his normal mental state, would’ve been livid; yes, he had been through a brief cursing phase when he had first seen the destruction, but at this point he had long since transcended anger. At this point, all he felt was that something very fragile in his chest had shattered.

Then, finally, Counsel’s unresponsive hooves trotted towards the wreckage, turned sharply towards the police pony that seemed to be in charge, and, amidst accusatory phrases spat from the masses of paparazzi at his back, Counsel said, painfully, “My office.”

“Sorry,” the Police-mare murmured softly; it was sympathetic, if not particularly deep, and Counsel felt a bit of the numbness and despair drain away.

Then the crowd almost mobbed him.

It all seemed like gibberish to Counsel (‘Mr. Counsel. . . Seriously? It’s not like I lost my medical license just because I lost an office’ murmured a surviving sardonic thought), with plenty of words like ‘tryst,’ ‘business,’ and, though he wasn’t certain if he imagined this one, ‘affair’.

He stared at them, an almost alien horde of dozens of eyes and hooves and pens, until they slowly silenced. He thought back to the early edition of the news he had managed to snatch up from the local paper-stand on the way to his office earlier today, which he nearly got a black-eye whilst paying for; to his stroll down the street, even as mothers and children carefully yet conspicuously trotted to the other side of the road to avoid even passing him by; to the almost ghoulish delight this multi-pony entity had in devouring those beset with bad luck, attacking even those who had the best intentions and just wanted to do their job and help ponies heal from past traumas.

“Have any of you ever tried to help a pony with your words?” Counsel finally muttered, in utter disgust. “Do you write letters to your family with those pens? Have any of you ever. . . written about joy, and happiness, and all the things that make life worth living, or is all this-” he waved indistinctly at the crowd, “-some sort of machine for misery? Would any of you tried to talk a distraught pony. . . distraught being from the edge, or would you just egg him or her on just to have a story?”

The briefest moment of silence followed this, before Counsel finally asked, in a tone more sad than anything else, “What’s the point?” before turning and walking home.