//------------------------------// // II.III - The First Day of the Rest of Your Life // Story: The Broken Bond // by TheApexSovereign //------------------------------// In the blink of an eye, the world flashed magenta, and an invisible wind pulled at Starlight's mane like an incessant foal. She stood alone in Twilight’s bedroom. Once upon a time, when she had a horn, Starlight could actually sense where she was teleporting. She could reach out with her magic, into the Aether of Equestria, and sense the princess's particularly potent magical footprint. She could tell by the magical composition of the land itself, and even gauge the distance, creating a sonar of sorts akin to a whale's. That was how Fluttershy described it when this ability was first developed, and the two excitedly shared it to the inevitable confusion and boredom of their friends. Starlight recalled all the times Twilight evaporated to Ponyville after they'd spent far too long reading together in this very room, studying spells or flash cards for one of Starlight's upcoming friendship exams, back when she had such things. And Twilight's signature, faint, but special and mighty, like the footfall of some great dragon, would tug at Starlight's magic through her bedroom door, the wall facing town.   That was a thing of the past, now! Starlight breathed in and exhaled, exhaled, exhaled. One day at a time. She marched for the parted door, wasting no time or brainpower wondering what she'd have done had the thing been closed. The thoughts intruded anyway, hitting Starlight like a misfired spell as she emerged into the cavernous, light-filled corridor. Violet walls and dozens of emerald-green doors blurred, shifted, and melted together as though very eyes seemed to twirl within her skull like pinwheels.   Starlight sucked in air, held it, then let it out smoothly. Relax. You have nothing to worry about. This is fine. You're fine. You're fine... It was just nerves, clearly, for she began trotting to Spike’s room in spite of the tightness in her chest. It was in her head, nothing more. “Oh, no, Starlight Glimmer is anxious again,” she muttered, for all to hear (if they put an ear to her muzzle that is). Starlight grinned, because it was funny. This was all funny. She was funny. Starlight had always had a problem with overreacting; lingering trauma from Sunburst leaving, perhaps? That was years ago! She was only hornless, and lots of ponies were hornless. In a way, this was comparatively easier to deal with, especially being an adult this time. Starlight only needed to get used to it, to get past this first day. It's just the first day of the rest of my life. No biggie at all! Starlight's head throbbed like a microbe, the corridor wavering as though underwater. Starlight quickened her pace a tad, hooves clacking sharply, constantly. Clapping in cavernous corridor. Was Twilight’s castle was always this noisy, or had Starlight gotten lazy, casually teleporting everywhere? Of course I am, Starlight told herself an instant later. She was always avoiding the monotony of a walk. Or, 'had,' rather. Had avoided... There was only one time she habitually walked, in the mornings after breakfast. “Gonna really miss the little luxuries, like reading and walking,” Starlight laughed. Hornless levitation was the invention of comic books, not reality, making this past time a thing of the past alongside teaching Trixie magic and having duels with... Twilight... Starlight wracked her brain for a silver lining. Ah! she thought, perking up. A titter echoed down the corridor as Starlight remembered her second ever encounter with Maud Pie. She smiled wider, feeling fuzzy inside. Maud wasn’t the only pony who’d the misfortune of being crashed into. She was, however, the only instance where such an encounter ended in friendship. Now, nopony will have to deal with my clumsiness again! I’m gonna have to watch where I’m going from now on. She could meet potential friends now that she couldn’t leave the castle with her nose still in a book. Another pro to losing her horn! Turning her head left and right was easier now, too.That chipped stump on her forehead made her lighter, quicker even. It felt different, akin to showing off a new manestyle. Not bad, just weird. Different from the usual. But that’s to be expected, she told herself. I’ll just get used to that, too. Right up there with having to walk everywhere. That was going to get old, fast. Her tummy turned at the thought, but that only made her smile harder in defiance. She'd no reason to let it fall, everything was peachy! So what if she had to walk everywhere? Nothing had changed between her and Twilight, and that’s what mattered. Falling into a comfortable conversation was easy once they got past the speed bump of what happened. In fact, this entire, horrible experience brought them closer together! It was very likely. After all, Starlight proved to Twilight what she was willing to give up to save her. How did the Princess of Friendship regard this selfless act? She’s probably planning some party with Pinkie Pie right now, Starlight thought, flattered by the notion. Although pomp and praise were at the very bottom of her wish list right now. Especially now, being a veritable earth pony foal in terms of day to day living. She only did what a good friend would do. Twilight knew that. She was totally flattered by it, so much so that she was flustered by the revelation. Twilight was such a great friend, and this was definitely worth it. Even the minor embarrassment that was soon to come! It was but another high against this one, neutered low jutting out her forehead like a tumor. Well, that and the walls. They were a little too close. Almost squeezing. Ridiculous, Starlight thought with a shake of the head. It was just in her head. A side effect of losing her horn, it seemed. For whatever reason things just felt... plain. Dull, like stone instead of crystal. She pushed these inconveniences away. I still can’t believe everything’s back to normal, Starlight thought. The Ladies were good on their word. They could've been kinder about it, though! That beastly paw filled her vision in the blink of an eye, vestiges prodding her forehead at once, a fraction of the horrible agony she was spared from recalling with clarity. It was just part of the deal, part of the deal, part of the deal. Starlight was done with them, they didn't have to think of one another again. She ought to get over it already . Starlight massaged her chest, hobbling on three legs. The pain was there but not in her muscles, knotted up like so much yarn. It was deeper, untouchable, and real. It tugged her heart, as if a pony were right in front of her crying out for help, for attention or somepony to care. She wanted to chase it. More than anything, Starlight wanted to follow it, to follow the magical breadcrumbs it had left behind and blink over to its owner. But these were just ghosts of recall, of what the magic of the world felt like so long ago. She hardly even noticed the feeling, it became natural. Its absence was as obvious as the pain upon her forehead. She giggled at the absurdity of it all. It was so fascinating, and she paced even faster. Whipping a left, the ceiling up ahead gradually slanted lower, giving way to crystal columns with strings of various glowing gemstones. Wide, violet doors whose outlines were as pink as her coat flanked either side. Oh, crud. This’ll be fun. Starlight’s eyes bounced to and fro, trying to spot the difference which set apart Spike’s. She couldn’t possibly miss it. No other door had a flame-shaped amethyst hanging on the front. Starlight was beaten over the head with nostalgia, and she saw stars, hobbled in her step. She hadn’t walked this path in years, not since her first weeks living here. Trying to commit the place to memory lasted all of fourteen days before their visage could be pulled from memory. Since then, she'd always zapped herself to the important rooms: her’s, Twilight’s, Spike’s, the bathroom, dining room, library, kitchen. Laundry. Starlight had a lot of good times in this place. Was there any who'd doubt her dedication to sustaining them after today? No one in their right mind— Every fiber in her being locked, froze, then burst into motion. Starlight very nearly slipped and didn't care in the slightest, grinning at the salvation that'd casually passed her by. Starlight grinned harder as she propped herself upon the wide, purple door adorned with a flame-shaped amethyst set in gold. Its simple tack and ribbon suspension was simple, so unlike the gem itself: a violet far deeper than its owner’s hide, or even Twilight’s eye color. It was practically black within dim lighting. Nostalgia dizzied Starlight, remembering the awe in Spike’s face as he beheld his birthday gift. Maud was overjoyed with his reaction, though Starlight found his resistance to eating it far more impressive. Now, using it as a marker, she was thankful for both Spike’s resilience as well as Maud’s omniscient Pie-hindsight. Starlight rapped her hooves against the door, like a foal. She dropped to her hooves and waited, fighting back a blush. A second later, the door parted a crack before swinging open wide enough for the small dragon to step through. “St-Starlight?” She swept her foreleg out. “Back to the land of the living.” Her heart skipped a beat before finishing. Spike merely wrung his claws together, face contorted with something between fear and shock. No, speechlessness. Regret, maybe? Starlight felt stupid. Of course he wasn’t expecting her. Of course he wasn’t expecting Starlight, the friend who maimed herself for his caretaker, to open with the cheesiest one-liner in Equestrian history. Teleporting sounded heavenly right about now. Spike blinked with his big, sad eyes. “Yeah. Same boat.” He wrung his claws even fiercer than before. “I-I dunno where to start either.” Made sense—she remembered how entangled Spike was in his head, and now Twilight’s health proved how narrow-minded he was. Thanks would be some kind of a start, if he wasn't so shaken by all this. “How about you pick one, and we’ll roll from there?” Spike’s eyes widened, shimmering. She couldn’t even imagine what he must be feeling right now. “I still can’t decide,” he confessed. “I don’t know, Starlight, I just don’t. This is all just so…” Spike gazed sadly at the space beside her, rolling his claw before deciding on, “So much.” “Can’t argue with that!” Starlight remembered what that was like, dreaming for years of the first thing she was going to say to her best friend after reuniting. Everything, from tearful to angry to tearfully, crazily angry encircled her mind until the day she accepted that it wasn’t going to happen. And when the opportunity was hoofed to her on a silver platter? ‘It's... It's me, Starlight. We used to be friends?’ Reality was always so boringly normal. “Starlight...” Spike’s voice was faint; his gaze shifted upon her, twitching high and low like there was something wrong with her. “I'm sorry I didn’t ask this yet, but how are you f—?’” “Great!” Spike flinched. Why was it so hot all of a sudden? Oof, it was scorching in here! “Uh, sorry,” she tittered, fanning herself. “Sorry, I’m just…” Starlight hesitated, finishing, wondering how you’re feeling, Mr. Know-It-All, but that felt incredibly rude in light of their last encounter. “I've no reason not to feel great, right now. You know?” Blinking audibly, Spike muttered, “‘Great.’ Right…" He sounded so distant, as though his mind were someplace else. Their argument? “Those aren’t the first words I’d have thought to hear from your mouth.” He chuckled warily. Was he expecting Starlight to throw herself upon him, sobbing into his shoulder about her horn? “Out of curiosity,” she chuckled, “what was your first guess?” “Urgh, I don’t know, Starlight,” Spike sighed, shaking his head. “I make dumb jokes when my heart is racing… Also I talk a lot,” he gasped, his claw fanning quite the exasperated face. “Hoo! Is it just me, or is it getting toasty in here?” Starlight gazed about, still feeling heat lingering on her cheeks. She harrumphed playfully. “Couldn’t really tell ya. Sorry.” Spike was anxious meeting her now, which had to have meant that Starlight had done it. She’d proved Spike wrong, and he knew it. The euphoria of being right was intoxicating, proving to others how right she’d been, how silly they were for dismissing Starlight Glimmer. She felt like laughing, but something deeper, more humble, pinned it. It was intoxicating, however. Would Starlight ever get tired of being right? The look on Spike’s face proved this would be the first instance of such, or close enough to it, as the reality finally pricked her in the forehead: he’d given up on his guardian—his quintessential mother, for Celestia’s sake—and Starlight proved his folly. He was just a child. “Hey." Starlight stepped closer, touched his shoulder. “Is something wrong?” She winced abruptly, thinking, Stupid! “I mean, of course there’s something wrong. For you, I mean!” Because I’m fine, of course. “I get it, I do. Everything's just... different now. You know? I mean,” she paused, exhaled sharply, “H'okay, let’s start over. Spike, how are you?” Starlight held her hoof out like they were starting over their entire friendship. She glanced at it, as did Spike, before pulling back. “It’s…” Spike’s scaly eyelids squeezed tight, then sprung open. “It’s fine. Yeah.” He cupped the side of his big, round head, staring at her kneecaps. “Hey, uh, you wanna come in?” A weird change of topic, but Starlight was thankful that she could stop standing. “Yes, please!” As Spike opened the door wide and held it, she added, “You’re ungrounded, by the way.” Spike threw his head back. “Ugh, finally! This was so pointless.” A couple steps late her froze, making Starlight turn her head, body, and finally pausing in the middle of his room, watching his scrunched face loosen all at once. “Wait, so you’re telling me she’s seen you?” His slackjaw beckoned a burning feeling of self-consciousness. Starlight couldn't have looked that ugly, could she? "Don't sound so disgusted, kiddo. Think you'll ever get Rarity with that performance?” “Starlight, I’m being serious here.” As if! Spike was a chronic jokester, always looking for a chance to jab somepony like Rainbow and Pinkie Pie and, well, herself. It wasn't very much appreciated this time around! He was going too far. She sensed the buildup up to a punchline about her horn, it'd come any second now. Spike was just a kid, though. It was fine. Starlight could take a joke, besides, because this wasn't that big of a deal! “Starlight? Are you…” He stepped closer, brows knitted. “Are you about to cry?” Yes. No? It was hot in here for pony's sake! Dragons loved a humid environment. “Um, no? Maybe if ya kept a window open it wouldn't be all stuffy in here." "R-right. Sure." And Spike actually jogged past to do so. Starlight dashed a hoof across her eyes, just to be sure, as something grumbled behind her, preceding a pleasant nippiness and cricket songs to fill the room. A brief, muffled hiss cut in, like how a bowling ball dropped in sand might sound. “Starlight.” She turned, where the open window was vacant, and scanned the room, quickly finding Spike's head and the soles of his feet peeking from a mountain of beanbag chairs in the corner. “You wanna sit?” he asked, clutching at a big pink one beside him. “There’s a lot to talk about on both our ends." He pushed himself up, revealing a smile Starlight could only describe as sheepish. "Don't you think?” Their last conversation ended on anything but good terms, with Starlight acting downright crazy. Agreement bubbled up her throat. But his smile gagged her, resembling something odd. It wasn't angry, but sad. Understanding, as if he knew something Starlight didn't. “Nah, I’m good, Spike. Really." It came out on the spot, like it was a muscle reflex. But it wasn't; Spike thought she was all broken up about the horn thing. What a kind friend, an amazing one. Even with the cruel things she'd spat in his eyes, he was still setting aside time for her as if Starlight never acted like a haughty little brat. She blinked, banishing the thoughts decaying in her chest. Spike was sitting on the edge, now looking concerned. "Thanks," said Starlight, "but I wasn’t gonna stay long. I..." Starlight drawled, wracking her brain a moment, "...I’ve been out for a bit and whatnot. You know, comas. What can ya do? Got a lot to catch up on!” Spike shifted in his seat. “Uh, you do?” Starlight restrained her temper. Here comes the snark. “Well, why wouldn’t I? You think no work's piled up in the time I was out?" "You mean ignoring the fact that you've had no homework and can't do..." Spike shrugged, elbowing Starlight in the chest from across the room. “Well, spells and stuff anymore, why would you?" 'Spells and stuff.' 'Spells and stuff.' He said it like it was nothing, because it was. It wasn't anything important, just an inconvenience. It didn't matter anymore. Starlight was already an expert at most forms of magic! She was going to run out of things to learn anyhow. Not a huge loss, not at all! "Uh-huh," muttered Spike. "Come on, Starlight. This is a weak excuse, even for you. I know Twilight, besides; there’s no way she’d give you an errand after all this." His arms folded oh so knowingly.   Starlight bristled. Somedragon clearly got a little stir crazy from being cooped up in his cave. She floated forth. “Well,” began Starlight sweetly, “I’ll have you know that if there was something for me to do, she’d have me do it, because I am such a hard worker and Twilight knows it. I practically had to beg before she took me seriously! Look, I appreciate your concern, Spike. I really, really do. But Twilight just finished singing praises for how strong I am. We both know a bit of work is nothing. And you still think my life is some precious thing compared to Twilight's?” Starlight snorted. "That's some nerve!" “Uh, I think you’re missing her point—” Spike froze and shook his head. “Nevermind,” he grumbled. “I just remembered something else.” Spike staggered up and waddled over, claws balled-up. “You wanna know what?” He was just as much a know-it-all as he was before that stupid party. It’s no wonder they got along so quickly. “You’re gonna tell me regardless of my answer, so…” Spike said nothing as he continued marching. He marched until he could extend a claw into her breast, poking, but not piercing her. And never breaking eye-contact. Starlight did, though, many times. She never saw him like this. It was so different from how he usually acted it was actually kind of scary. And if he decided to slap her she couldn't exactly defend herself, so... “I, know, you, Starlight.” He enunciated every word with sadness, and an extra prod to the chest. Then he gripped her foreleg gently, warmly. “I know you, and so does Twilight. So please, don't act like this is nothing. It isn't right. I can tell you’re covering it up. I promise you, there's nothing you need to be afraid—” “Oh, please!” Starlight whirled away. “You weren’t there, Spike. You didn’t hear our conversation! If you were, you'd know that it was normal. Everything's finally back to normal! Twilight acted like it, so that means—” Starlight didn’t catch herself soon enough. That sounded bad, came out wrong. “Uh-huh,” Spike mumbled. “That’s Twilight for ya. Always trying to make her friends comfortable.” “But it’s true!” Starlight cried at him. “What I said! About it being normal, I mean. The two of us… we’re fine.” She dropped her hoof after realizing it had, at some point, clapped upon her breast. Spike gave the most pitying gaze, answering with silence. He wouldn’t say anything. He couldn't! Because there was no defense against this! He had no argument. None. “You’re making this a problem. I hope you know that." But Spike said nothing. Those sappy, sad eyes became too annoying and Starlight wrenched away. “Well what about you, Spike? Huh?" She jammed their snouts together, the little guy standing admirably firm. "You say I’m hurting inside, yet I’ve yet to hear a single ‘thank you' come outta your mouth. You’re a great friend, you know that?” Finally, he backed off and looked hurt himself. "Gosh, ‘m… I’m sorry, Starlight. I never had… I mean, of course I'm thankful.” His eyes shone with so much, so much words couldn't sufficiently encompass. And Starlight felt every one, her chest swelling with something as this meeting continued, more and more till it felt ripe to burst. This was what she wanted, right? “When Celestia gathered us,” he croaked, “cried to us, told us that Twilight wasn’t gonna get better I... I didn't know what to do but wail. Don't you remember?” "I'll never forget it." She’d never heard a sadder sound than that of a child losing his mother, sister, and best friend. Spike kept his gaze pinned to her hooves. “I was so used to planning ahead for Twilight, I mean, I’d lived my whole life with her close by, so the idea of her being g-gone, it just... I...” Starlight had seen statues move more than he did now, until Spike palmed the wetness from his eyes. Starlight felt what he must be feeling, lost in the same memory, in the Map Room, with air heavier than stone and the clamor of a genuine funeral. Even Starlight, in that moment, believed her best friend had already left them.   “I couldn’t bring myself to hope, not like you,” Spike mumbled, his words coming faster. “Then, the morning after her Last Party, I couldn’t believe it when I saw it. It had to’ve been a dream: Twilight was better, and I realized it was because of you, Starlight!” He trembled, the body’s way of pleading for somepony to hold it close—a plea she answered without any fear. “And before I thought that,” he wept, soaking her coat, “all I’d thought, was that you were a dumb jerk f-for ditching Twilight’s th-hing when, w-when..." And he latched around Starlight’s neck, holding her closer. An unstoppable sob burst from her chest, past her lips. She nearly lost Twilight, they all almost lost their friend. The pony who helped so many lives. She was saved, and it only cost a single horn. “You didn’t listen!” Spike slapped her chest. And again, like a pawing kitten. “You didn’t listen to me, Starlight! Ya went off by yourself and I ha-had no idea if you were right or wrong and I was afraid that I was never gonna see you again...” “Oh, Spike—” “I thought of all the things I was gonna say to you, when you, you… f-failed! But then Twilight... got better,” Spike whispered, clutching clumps of her coat. "Then, all I could think about all day was the mood when we got home. I still could. Only think about that, you know. Everything was all heavy, like there was a thunderstorm coming along... I thought it was my nerves getting to me. Then I heard your scream from the lobby.” Starlight's gut sank. To hear your friend shriek in pain, must have been worse than how it really felt. “Yeah, about that…” “I knew what it was,” he presumed. Starlight thought it wasn't worth correcting him. “Before seeing it for myself, I knew the reason for why you screamed. All day I’d wondered how you did it. But when I heard you, it only made sense.” It felt like trying to pass a bowling ball through the horn. “So... so, uh, how d’you feel about it?” Spike didn’t even sound angry; why was her belly doing somersaults? “Now that you see me, that it’s all okay?” He took a breath, but said nothing for several seconds. "I still don’t know,” he admitted, and Starlight loosed a breath she'd been holding for some reason. As if she cared, still did, her heart seizing every beat as though something tried to grasp it. Like she was, trying to control her wild feelings. “Is conflicted an emotion?” he suddenly asked, shifting to his other cheek. Could Spike hear the drumbeat beneath her coat? "I can't begin to tell you how thankful I am, but..." "But," Starlight droned, "...what?" Spike slapped her chest in pushing away, sending them both staggering back a step and regarding one another like they were crazy. “Are you actually serious?" Spike cried, shocked. "Y-you gave up your…" He smacked a claw above his mouth, eyes wild with terror. Cute; like a swear word now. Actually, it was annoying. “My horn?” "Yes!" Spike waved his claws in the air. “And it was so important to you! And you... just... don't have it anymore." Starlight waited for more. But Spike left her with a simple stating of the fact. “Uh, yeah. Your point?” He twiddled his claws. "Doesn't that, I mean... it hurts, doesn't it?" Only when she thought about it did a headache blossom across her forehead. "Sort of. But I'll deal with it." Spike just stared. Then he barked a laugh. “Wow,” he sighed, “you’re really not thinking about it, are you?” Starlight scowled. “Now that's a rude thing to say. It's the only thing on my mind! Just because I'm not crying doesn't mean I don't care at all” “Okay. Fine." Spike folded his arms. "Now've you given any thought for how Twilight might feel about all this?” Starlight straightened herself. “I don’t need to, Spike, because I know already.” “Oh." Spike nodded in faux-understanding. “I see. So, are ya going off how she actually feels, or what she told you?” “Get real, kid! I’ve got better things to do than listen to this." It was funny, the notion of Twilight being so insensitive to Starlight's feeling in this scenario. "You think Twilight would lie about something like this? Please!" she laughed, because it was just that ridiculous. "She wouldn’t lie to her friends, besides. What kind of Princess of Friendship would do something like that?" With that, Starlight turned and made for the door. “Well, not explicitly to her friends, but sometimes she'd…” Spike’s words petered out, possibly in realization that he was speaking to her tail-end. “Oh my gosh, Starlight, you can’t be serious!” His followed after her, rambling at her back like a persistent conscience. “No, you know what? I’m not mincing words here: you should know better, Starlight.” “About what?” “About Twilight!” Spike suddenly appeared in her path, between herself and escape. “You know how much she cares about her friends, about you no less. Of course she'd spare your feelings for now! This is assuming she actually got a full night's sleep!" A 'full night's...' Starlight shoved the notion out of mind. She couldn't remember whether or not Twilight looked tired in the first place. Spike was just being crazy. "You don't seriously believe she’s fine with all this, do you?” “S-so, what?” Her voice shook… with… with anger. Not at all fear. Starlight furrowed her brows to prove it. “What's your point? You’re saying I should’ve just sat here like you? Let her die? Live the rest of my life while the one who saved it in the first place was sleeping under five feet of dirt and worms?!” “No, Starlight!” Spike erupted. “That’s not at all what I’m saying, just listen to me!” “Thanks, but no thanks. If I listened to you last time, Twilight wouldn’t be here with us. it was her or my horn, as simple as that. Whether she likes it or not, I. Don't. Care! And neither should anypony else!” Spike’s gaze trembled, quivering toward her forehead before harshly avoiding it. She felt a sting deep down in her chest, prodding every heartbeat. Stabbing it. "Gosh," Starlight exhaled. "I'm sorry, okay?" He really didn’t deserve her wrath. Spike’s only crime here was being a concerned friend. “Just, look, I know what I’m doing. Please, Spike, trust me,” she urged him. “I promise you that everything is fine.” “But Twilight—” “Will realize that once I prove it. Give me… a week or so! You’ll see.” Spike looked off, his arms crossing over his chest in a self-hug. “I know a freakout when it’s coming," he mumbled, gazing aside. “But one isn’t coming, Spike,” said Starlight, bopping him on the nose. “I won’t let it. Know why? ...Well do ya?" He finally shook his head, albeit hesitantly. “Because there isn’t a reason for one. There’s literally nothing for Twilight to freak out over. We’re gonna make sure of that.” “Wait, 'we' are?” Starlight giggled. It was easy to forget that Spike was still a child. “Of course. I mean, I know I’ll play my part, but what about you?” Spike crossed his arms. “What can I do? Pretend that you're okay, like how you are?” She clapped a hoof across her eyes. "No! Just don’t say anything that’ll make Twilight freak out. Can you do that much?” He scratched the side of his head. “So lie, basically.” “For Celestia’s sake, I’m not telling you to lie,” Starlight groaned. “There isn’t anything to lie about, besides! Just don’t tell her things that’ll freak her out, okay? Baseless accusations like you've been slinging my way this whole time, that sort of thing. Think you can do that?” Spike struck a pose, thinking. “Ah, okay. So when she asks, which she definitely will, for my opinion, I'll just say, ‘Everything’s fine,’ like you are." It took all her being not to glare. “Look,” she muttered slowly. “I figured that it's gonna be a struggle, adjusting to this magicless lifestyle, right?” “Um, sure." “So when I fail, promise not to go pouncing on that as proof that I’m not alright, alright?” “Starlight—” “Promise?” He needed to be on board with this, completely. “Yes, I promise! But Starlight, I think there’s a slight chance you may be missing my point.” She knew exactly what he was talking about. Through his careful wording, his "point" was still on the fact that Starlight must be lying to him about her feelings toward all this. "it’s just…” He gazed left and right, folding his claws, then met her again. “Could you do this one thing for me?” Starlight narrowed her eyes. "Depends." "Could you describe to me how you really feel about all this?" His implications felt like, no, they reminded her of the cold weight in her stomach. He... He was still on this! As far as Starlight was concerned, this conversation had ended. "This is going in circles,” she announced. “Now, if you’ll excuse me.” Starlight grabbed Spike by the shoulders. "My stomach feels like it’s trying to eat itself. This pony needs a sandwich!” And she flung him aside. Starlight’s gut followed the little dragon in a tall, narrow arc before slamming down with an “Oof!” “Sorry! Forgot I can't do magic anymore!” Starlight grinned, burning, then dropped her smile, scorching now. Did she seriously just throw him out of the way? “That would’ve been a lot more graceful if I still had my horn," she said, laughing it off. "You okay? Yeah, you are," she said as he pushed himself up. He'd taken bigger falls in the past, this was nothing. He was already on his feet as Starlight found herself face to face with a brass doorknob. Oh. “Um…” How do earth ponies do this? “I got it." A purple claw rose to clutch the knob. “Thanks.” Starlight grinned sheepishly as she trotted past. She was definitely glowing, and shot ahead ahead to cover it. I could’ve gotten it myself. When Starlight wasn’t questioning the existence of a crystal castle that’d sprouted from the ground, magical theories encircled her mind as she popped in and out to grab a snack. Other times, she would ponder the day's potential while making lunch, of all the research to be done. Sometimes she would think of nothing at all, but 'Eat, bed, sleep,' while scrounging for food in the middle of the night. So, she ate a lot! Big deal! Twilight and Spike had enough food in this place to feed Canterlot for a month and then some. A periodic snacktime wasn't going to ruin her, and flying kites with Maud proved she didn't laze about the castle all day. Very rarely, when scrounging for a midnight snack, Starlight would encounter a grouchy, baggy-eyed dragon leaving the kitchen with a bowl of cereal. The two would grunt in acknowledgement, as Starlight believed words were for fully-functioning and wide-awake brains, and she liked to think Spike felt the same. One time, Starlight heard munching from behind the kitchen door. As she magically pushed it open, she expected to find her dragon friend in the midst of a pantry raid. Starlight planned on joining him for the reaping until discovering who it really was: the head of Princess Twilight Sparkle shot up like a spooked bird upon hearing the kitchen door squeal open. Her cheeks were bulging, dusted with the remnants of a cookie platter Pinkie Pie had left from Starlight's graduation party. She was hoping to have some of those. And Twilight had eaten them all, except for one. She clenched the chocolate chip desert so tightly with her magic, it had crumbled to dust amidst the five minutes their eyes were locked. “Please don't tell anypony," she might have said, though it was hard to get out between the whir of a teleportation spell firing up and half a platter of cookies in her mouth. Starlight had blinked, then once more before popping back to bed, snackless. The mental image of Twilight scarfing down treats in secret was so real it left her totally content. All of these memories surged forth as one, bucking Starlight in the head like they were Applejack in spirit, every one flashing before her eyes. The emotion in each was so fleeting and various that Starlight just felt tight in the chest. It was so much, too much. But she couldn't teleport to the kitchen ever again, despite how clearly she envisioned it. To make matters worse, Spike had tagged along, hungry as well. She didn’t know why he bothered—Spike had a hoard of gems in his room, and the kitchen door swung freely. It's not like she needed anypony there to twist a knob for her. Though his company was more than welcome. Almost on the spot they’d slipped into their typical banter, as if everything was normal—which it totally was. Their back and forth pertained to Spike and what he’d done to endure his grounding sentence (newspaper via telepathic waves, apparently—starring his toys and stuffed animals). Starlight was impressed with how much material he'd squeezed out of that. The little guy could be really creative when the opportunity presented itself. Starlight vied for his gift. She could—used to—fuse complex spells like they were little more than paint, and herself the artist. Now she was a painter screaming inside for at least one stupid jar to open without making a huge, stupid mess. "Starlight, it's not a big deal! Just let me—!” She hoarded the mayonnaise away from Spike's advancing mustard-stained claw. "How many times do I gotta tell you?" She hooked a foreleg around it the massive jar. "Allow... me... to get. It!" Her hoof slipped and slid but the lid never budged, not even a little. Starlight scrambled on three hooves to the counter, crossing a puddle of mustard, its spicy tang burning in her snout. "Wait, I got this." Was that her fourth time saying this, or the third? I can do this. Starlight clacked the big jar between the counter and her breast. I can do this without magic. Watch me, Spike! I'm not so helpless and you didn't need to come help me in the first place! Mustard and pickle juice combined to sting her sinus with overwhelmingly sour air. It was stomach-turning. Starlight's brow beaded with sweat against her twisting, her teeth gritting. Applejack could do this, and Pinkie Pie—Now that's not fair. There were a lot of things she shouldn’t do that she just could. "Starlight..." She hugged it tighter. Maybe if she bit down and then twisted… Yeah! That’s it! Starlight felt it start to give. See? If two-thirds of Equestria can do this without magic, then so can— Her forelegs were free and squeezing her in a bear-hug. Glass singing in a twinkling, splitting cry rang in her ears, echoed over and over in her memory. Upon her hind legs, hugging the air, Starlight found herself unmovable. Rigid as a statue. This was a nightmare, it had to have been. She couldn't make a sandwich, and Luna would be trotting in any second now. But a frigid stickiness hugging her hind hooves was real. So was the thick, creamy goop, rich with an eggy musk, punching her in the senses over and over, prickling them all. Irritating them. Her sight especially, blurring, fogging, making a mess of everything in hooves' reach. You can’t make a sandwich, sneered her own thoughts. Two pairs of toast were on a plate in front of her, a soggy slice of each buried underneath some mustard-encased pickles. Her eyes fell, following their disgusting, crusty trail down the teal-colored counter. Starlight was still hugging herself. She peeled her forelegs away, their fur matted in a sticky, sickly sheen of yellowed pickle juice. This was Starlight Glimmer, now? She actually tried to pass this off as “just fine?” Her front plummeted with the heaviness in her breast, splattering grossly into the mayonnaise, splattering against her knees. What’ve I done? It was a stupid rhetorical. Starlight knew exactly what she’d done, and Spike did too. “You know,” chirped Starlight, because she couldn't sound upset as her hornless accomplishments festered on the counter, “once, I made ten sandwiches at once. I could've done that and had this mess cleaned up in a snap.” She jumped out of her skin as something cold clasped her on the knee. “Starlight,” Spike's voice floated up, “it’ll get better. It has to.” Starlight crammed the bad feelings down. "Welp, let's get cleaning!" “Uh—” “It’s time this pony learned to do things the traditional way!” She brought her hoof down, definitively splattering mayo all about, even to her chin, a sudden, tiny chill pricking her there. She was impossible now. Absolutely helpless. “Oops.” Starlight looked over, her heart dropping as Spike scraped his face clean of a huge mound. “Hm.” He gave his mayo-sheathed forearm an experimental sniff, before licking it clean with a lap of his noodle-like tongue. “Not bad!” he said thickly, smacking his lips. He winced upon looking to her. “Hey, what’s wrong?” he asked. "This's not a big deal, Starlight." “Um, did, did I say something?" Her heart raced. Harmony only knew how he was feeling about all this. He was doing her a kindness by not calling her useless. "Sorry, forget that. Sorry, again.” Spike shrugged. “It’s just a mess.” That I made. Starlight smiled out of politeness. “How about you throw a rag my way and let’s get this done.” “Oh, this is nothing.” Spike waved her off. “I’ve waited days for the chance to make myself useful again. You’ve done plenty, Starlight.” Those words hit her like a knife to the chest probably did. “Here, let me just...” Footsteps slapped behind her, fading, silencing as his words did. The silence filled with Spike's voice and Twilight’s, berating Starlight for her avoidable mistakes: ‘Instead of stepping out of your tunneled mindset,’ said Twilight—Spike adding, ‘And listening to me!’—‘Then you wouldn’t have went and made a huge mess for him to clean up!’ I’m sorry, I didn’t mean— ‘It doesn’t matter! Sorry's and good intentions aren’t going to replace three perfectly good condiments, Starlight! You ruined them! You ruined them because you never stop and think before you act!’ Starlight gasped, choked, and coughed all at once. I need to help. Immediately her heart lurched—the dragon’s chilly touch was gone. “Spike?” She looked left, right, then past her unkempt tail to find him with a mop and bucket. He wore a smile, plunging his tool in what sounded like water. “I guess sandwiches are off the menu.” “Yeah.” Spike suddenly met her eyes, his smile promptly whisked away. Yet another one of her screw-ups: killing the mood. “Don’t let this get you down, okay?” Easy for you to say. How easy would it be if you suddenly couldn’t write or hold things or-or— She was being too silent. “Sure,” Starlight chirped. No need to worry Spike further. Across the battlefield of jumbo pickles, glass, and thick pools of yellow and white gradually meeting into one, Spike proceeded to mop up the mustard. His smile was back. “You know,” he began, a humored edge to his voice, “with Twilight out, there’s nopony stopping us from having cereal.” Cereal instead of sandwiches? Why not substitute grass for gold while we’re at it? No way was Spike happy about this—he was talking up these nice sandwiches on their way to the kitchen. They debated what was going to be on them, the bread, how it was prepared. They were to share a pot of calming chamomile, and do a puzzle as they ate, since Twilight wasn’t around to force them into the dining hall… Starlight ruined all of that. Maybe Spike was just acting all nice but really he was thinking about how fake she was being, which she wasn't, but he didn't know that! Maybe Starlight was just overthinking it, being a horrible, presumptuous friend. “Come on, Starlight, breakfast for dinner!” Spike dragged the mop to and fro, halfway through the mustard. Its spicy tang bombarded Starlight’s snout, stinging it. “It doesn’t even need to be cereal! I could do waffles, prench toast; this is what we’ve been waiting for! When’s the next time Twilight’ll leave us home for the ni—?” He’d stopped. Starlight lifted her gaze, only to find him gazing, pitying her. “Does your horn hurt?” he asked, worried by whatever it was he saw. Starlight shrugged. “Nah, it mostly just itch—” A thought struck her. “I mean, yeah. It’s bothering me. Not gonna lie, it’s kinda ruining my appetite! Now I’m just not hungry anymore, Spike.” "But… you haven't eaten in three days! Starlight!" he called as she galloped out the kitchen. He kept yelling something at her from down the hall. Starlight breathed heavily as she smiled back, the dragon becoming smaller and smaller. "To be honest, I'm just exhausted!” she yelled aloud. “Think I'll just hibernate for another three days,” Starlight gasped, “you know?!" Spike’s calls were just noise, a warble chasing her down the long, empty hallway. Whatever he said, Starlight mustered the energy needed to smile over her shoulder before rounding a corner. Spike was too far to have been read. Part of her wished she parted on lighter terms, like a joke. A better one, not like the dumb “hibernate” bit. I’d offer to help clean up, Starlight told herself, but I'd probably bust a pipe and flood the whole castle again. Maybe it was a good thing she lost her horn. If she hadn’t, Starlight would’ve acted without thinking, spoken without thinking. She’d have resorted to self-deprecating humor, just like now. That would definitely worry Spike. Then he'd incorrectly inform Twilight that she was faking it. And then all of Starlight’s friends would gather and assure her that she’s great, awesome, and will figure it out eventually because she was such a strong, accomplished mare. It was all so unnecessary. Starlight wasn't that great, and there was no need to waste everypony’s time by having them spout a couple platitudes. But they were her friends, and they were unfortunately amazing. Therefore, Starlight couldn’t give them any reason to worry about her. She just needed to play it cool. Starlight took a deep, steady breath as she confronted her opponent. Before her loomed a door, distinctively sky-blue against the ocean of smooth crystal enclosing it. The brass door handle glared back, silent and implacable. She cast a glance down the hall, first one way, and then the other. Both empty. Thank. Goodness. It would be utterly mortifying if Spike or Twilight found strong and talented Starlight Glimmer losing against her first door. Not that she would, of course—most ponies opened doors with their mouths. It looked easy as cake. Stiff as she searched her memory, Starlight couldn’t recall a time before developing her own sense of magic where she’d done such a thing. Still, it was never too late to learn something new! Something raced deep within, bucking wildly against her ribcage. Without stopping to think or hesitate another second, Starlight threw herself upon the door handle, grabbing it with both forehooves. “Aha!” she cheered, as if that were the hard part. Starlight’s rush of jubilation faded quickly as she squeezed the handle tight. Pressure welling beneath her fetlocks, confidence eased a wary smile as she stepped back, then once more. She nearly fell on her backside when it slipped from her fumbling grasp. Starlight huffed. “Alright, not bad for a first attempt,” she muttered. “Now let’s succeed this time.” She propped herself on the door, gripping the handle. I just need to pull it. Starlight exhaled, long and deeply. That’s how earth ponies and pegasi do it. This should be brainless. It had to be brainless. But Starlight lost her hold again, this time flinging herself to the ground. Burning and growling, she rolled to her hooves and grabbed the door handle once more. Just as she was ready to try pulling it, Starlight perked up with an idea, and dropped a hoof to the floor. Her other, still on the handle, she angled so the underside of her condiment-smeared hoof faced her. With a grunt, Starlight pressed it through the handle, to absolutely no avail. She mewled softly; why did Harmony-or-whatever design this handle to be just small enough to stop anypony’s hoof from looping through? Starlight’s brow furrowed with concentration as she gave a careful pull. Her hoof slipped off, gently slapping her in the chest. “Come on!” Starlight snapped, striking the door. Sighing, she looked to the ceiling, glowering at her limp, tousled forelock. If only there was a spell to phase through— Starlight stopped herself, surprised and disappointed in herself. Sheesh, she thought, did I really rely on magic that much? Those days were long behind her, now. It made her nostalgic, but Starlight knew better than most that dwelling on the past meant missing the present. And it was high time she was on everypony else’s level, besides. Starlight stared down at the shiny, golden handle. It was such a silly thing. How many ponies ever struggled with opening a door? Starlight shook her head; it was only hard because she’d made it that way. The thought of all those germs writhing upon its metal, the number of ponies who’d indirectly kissed over the centuries… A shiver tore through her; Starlight was suddenly reminded of why Our Town’s blueprint demanded latchless doors. Maybe… Starlight pressed a hoof to her chin, her eyes widening. Maybe I can still do something small. Just a small pull, nothing too crazy! After all, Tempest Shadow could still fire concussive blasts (and quite the amazing fireworks display, to boot). So, why should somepony as powerful as Starlight be totally powerless? She took a wide stance at the door handle. Taking a breath, Starlight pictured it being pulled, lifting away from the door. Her breast squirmed. Starlight nearly gasped with delight at the familiar tingling within. Magic, she mouthed, her body quivering. Starlight focused every fiber of her being on the twinge of power deep down inside her. It was there. Magic was still within her and it was there, just barely out of reach! After five seconds had passed, Starlight realized she was only making herself look ridiculous. Gritting her teeth, Starlight pictured it twice as hard, with extra clarity. The power didn’t budge, neither lessening nor growing. It was like an ember, teasing warmth and magic but in no danger of becoming more. But Starlight knew she was powerful. She could rewrite spells and combine two completely unrelated ones into something new. Her cutie mark represented magic, and she’d honed hers with an alicorn princess. She had taught her best friend how to truly become great and powerful. A doorknob was foal’s play. Without warning, the power suddenly surged through her. It ravaged her forehead, racing down what remained of her horn like a swift, scorching tsunami, manifesting in a single, teal spark. Then her head exploded with pain. All conscious thought was eradicated in a blinding, white flash across her vision. She stiffened immediately, her mouth gasping open an instant before she jammed her hoof in and chomped down hard, muffling a scream as something small, sharp, and fiery tried to burst out of her horn. She panted, frantic and raggedly. Starlight faintly felt a warmth tickling her cheek. It hurt so much. Everything did, her forehead worst of all. But at least she kept quiet this time. Starlight continued biting down upon her foreleg, slowly feeling the burning between her eyes lessen as clear thought trickled back in. Perhaps I don’t need a shower after all. Tonight, at least! I mean, is it really worth all this trouble? The tang of mustard and mayo and whatever filth gathered on the floor said, yes, it was. Starlight spat her foreleg out, and blew a raspberry for good measure, cringing all the while. That was just plain disgusting. Her tongue tingled with a cheesy, tangy, and somewhat earthy taste that made her tongue want to curl. I am not spending another minute with this in my mouth. Without giving herself time to think, Starlight lunged for the knob, tilting her head with her mouth gaping wide. She bit down so hard, it rattled her teeth. Ignore it. Ignore it. Ignore it. Starlight didn’t think about the germs, the metallic taste, or all the ponies who’ve ever swapped spit via doorknobs. Ignore it all, her instincts were telling her. So she ignored, even as saliva dribbled down her chin like a drooling foal. None of that was real. They were just thoughts. Starlight could only be sure of the knob clenched tight between her teeth and her neck cramp as she slowly, carefully, lifted her head. After what felt like forever, she felt a gentle click next to her temple. Starlight’s heart skipped a beat, then again as she pushed her way in, batting the door aside. “Finally!” Starlight cried, bucking the door shut, because that thing could go straight to Tartarus. She strutted across the bathroom, toward the transparent glass enclosure in the corner. Good job, Starlight. Not bad for your first attempt. The ones to follow would be even easier. Starlight froze with her hoof on the shower door. I just spent five minutes learning how to open a door. She breathed in. I’ll have to do that again. Starlight exhaled. And again. And again, and again. Every day. The thought of opening doors didn’t make her stomach writhe, though. Surely, with time, that would become yet another mindless gesture akin to teleportation. It was everything else. It was the sight of the shower before her, its knobs, and all the coat, mane, and hoof-care products sitting in their shower caddy. It was the sink beside the glass wall, where her toothbrush sat in its holster between Spike and Twilight’s. How would she even get hers without knocking everypony’s to the dirty floor? It was on the leftmost wall, waiting patiently for the inevitable. Earlier, Starlight wondered if one of her earth pony friends would be willing to teach her how to live like them, to ease the transition. But the idea of Applejack or Maud teaching Starlight how to ‘use’ the bathroom… Starlight breathed, in-out-in-out-in-out. It’s okay, Starlight, it’s okay. This is fine. It’s all fine. This will all become easy. It’s guaranteed! She swallowed her discontent and faced the shower. Starlight only needed to look on the bright side to all this. At least the water would be warm. The parchment had a subtle yellow tint. Starlight huffed, managing a weak smile. It was astounding how she never noticed such an insignificant, yet obvious detail. How many more fell between the cracks of her daily life? Starlight dragged her hoof across the parchment, listening to it crinkle. Come on, Starlight. It’s not gonna write itself. It could’ve, once upon a time, but no longer. Not without her… mouth. Starlight groaned to the heavens. “It’s hopeless!” She flopped her hopeless face upon the writing desk, then rolled to her cheek. Three gilded jars of ink sat side by side before her, each housing a bright, crimson feather with an orange tip. It was a homemade quill set, a treasured birthday present from Princess Celestia and her phoenix, Philomena. It was truly touching that the princess thought of Starlight enough to warrant such a gift. Too bad it was irrevocably ruined now, not from an honest mistake or wear and tear, though. Both were a ridiculous notion, since phoenix feathers were as everlasting as the birds who proudly wore them, wreathed in their golden flames. Everypony knew that. Like the horn of a unicorn, it would take great strength and intentional effort to permanently mar something so beautiful. But that didn’t matter now. What happened happened, no turning back. No reason to even glance in that direction. Starlight smiled—at least she had an extra pot of ink. Plenty to… write… all those letters she was going to send. In a burst of motion, Starlight snatched the jar of ink and flung it down. It thudded hard into the wastepaper basket, even with five crumpled or shredded sheets of parchment. She didn’t dare look at it. None of it. That would mean acknowledging all those failures, or the epitome of her rash behavior lying in two priceless halves. Just call Spike. He’ll help you. You know he will. The idea lurched something within Starlight, deep in her gut. She sat back, hugging it, grimacing. If her gut disagreed, she wouldn’t do it. Taking a deep breath, Starlight reeled another quill and ink closer. Her clumsy, tedious movements were easily ignored. She’d turned three doorknobs today with her teeth, and each was easier than the last. Starlight only needed practice. But writing? She gazed upon the piece of parchment, totally blank, with its corners curled slightly. “I hadn’t written with my mouth since I was six,” she muttered bitterly. In the nineteen years since, she’d only done so a total of five times, every one of them in the last half hour. Well, Starlight thought, leaning forward, jaw trembling as she bit down upon the quill's orange tip, here’s hoping muscle memory finally kicks in! She stared down its length, into the center of the parchment, waiting for that eureka moment to come. It did not, but there was an apology to make. As with the last five, Starlight began with an apology for her sloppiness. She could never get far enough to explain why, however. Not before her jaw would tire, tremble; the quill in her teeth would waver, making her words far more unintelligible than her usual hornwriting's. This time was no different, of course. She tried, though. Starlight kept her teeth clenched tight and her head steady, drawing each line as slow and painfully as possible. She only needed to get a sense of the quill, and the motions to write each letter—surely the sixth attempt would be successful. Patiently, Starlight scratched out every skewed letter and line that, after pulling back, she found sloping halfway across the page. Calmly, Starlight ignored the stiffness growing in the back of her neck, even when the burn was searing and nothing sounded more heavenly than just letting go and allowing herself to flop upon the desk. Constantly, Starlight had to remind herself of how many ponies did this every day; how much of Equestria had this mastered, and that she had no right to loathe this with all her being. Therefore, Starlight wasn’t bitter. She was happy, really! Joy was practically bursting at the seams. Starlight was happy to have the chance to learn something new. She was overjoyed to have her health, her amazing friends, her new life. It was so much more than what some ponies had—ponies who, at that very moment, was just like the old Starlight. And Princess Twilight Sparkle changed her life. Starlight remembered the point of all this struggling, and for that she was so, so happy. This, without a doubt, was worth it. But it still sucked rotten apples. Starlight hated her pettiness, but she couldn’t get over how much she failed in the bathroom. So much shower gel, wasted. So much toothpaste and toilet paper, wasted. Starlight was probably the only pony in history who took so long in the bathroom, her mane was bone-dry by the time she was finally done. Scritch! Her head jerked left. Starlight had put too much pressure again, and the quill dashed right, cleaving through the line she’d spent however-long writing. Sighing through her teeth, Starlight hastily bobbed up and down, scratching a black nearly halfway across the paper. Carrying it right, she found herself on the bottom-right corner of the parchment. Starlight pulled back, the quill swaying freely in her slackening jaw; ink splotched the parchment all over like a Dalmation. She bit the quill so hard it should have snapped. Starlight shot a hoof underneath the parchment and smacked it over to its spotless side, as she had five times prior. It didn’t matter. Writing in general was trivial. Mastering this wasn’t even an accomplishment! It was a basic skill everyone had. Besides, Starlight was taught with her mouth—as a foal, no less—just like everypony else. She could relearn it easily, it was just going to take a bit more practice than she’d presumed. Before long, Starlight would be back to writing ten page papers in little more than an hour. It doesn’t matter. Then her “T” dashed half across the page, and Starlight snarled so hard her voice croaked like a prepubescent’s. It doesn’t matter. Starlight nodded stiffly, scratching her quill up, and down, and up and down, up-down-up-down-updownupdownupdown—! POP! Starlight jerked to a stop, clenching her teeth hard. Peering down the feather’s length, she found its brass tip was gone, embedded in the parchment. It doesn’t matter. She had a whole stack of sheets. It doesn’t matter. Starlight could do this all day. Other ponies had it far worse than this. Twilight almost died. So what if Starlight didn’t have magic anymore? It doesn’t matter. So what if she had to relearn everything, like a born-again foal? It doesn’t matter. So what if this was way harder than she initially thought? It doesn’t matter, it doesn’t matter, it doesn’t matter in the slightest. Starlight snorted like an angry bull, in and out, in, out, in-out-in before slamming herself upon the desk. "COME ON!” she spat, the quill flying forth. “A foal can do this, why can’t I?!” She stomped the desk. “Why didn’t I realize it would be this bad?!” She struck it once more. Starlight panted shakily, “Why—?!" She cupped her muzzle, collapsing back onto her stool. Starlight felt her face crumple, a tsunami of fresh pain well inside her, a wet warmth prickle her vision, blur it. Why did this bother her so much? “I mean,” she mumbled, dropping her hoof, “I knew it wasn’t going to be easy, but—” Her entire being jumped at a gentle knock on the door. Starlight threw her gaze back, then turned completely. She gulped hard, and forced a chipper, "Come in!" Her squeaky door opened a crack, and a worried little dragon stepped halfway in. "Everything alright in here?" Starlight reeled slightly, her eyes wide and ogling Spike’s sudden appearance. “H-how’d you get here so fast?” He closed the door behind him. “Come on, Starlight.” He waddled over, smiling warmly, sadly. “You didn’t think I’d leave you to the wolves, did you?” The very sight of him brought an easy smile. Flashes from the kitchen resurfaced immediately, but Starlight couldn’t help but feel uplifted by Spike’s clear concern. A sharp explosion of glass twanged inside her chest. “I wouldn’t blame you if you did,” Starlight chuckled. Spike didn’t smile back. “Starlight—” “Look,” she said aloud, despicable pity swelling within, “I’m really tired, Spike, so if you could just—” She was stopped by a pair of claws. Immediately Starlight flickered to the pleading eyes of a dear friend. “I got that mess cleaned in five minutes. I’ve been—” And Starlight just ran away. “Spike, I—” “Starlight,” he shouted over her. His eyes with deathly intense. Angry? “It’s fine.” He was obviously hiding his annoyance so she didn’t feel bad, but Starlight saw through him. “I know.” She gazed up, across the room. Spike peeled his claws off of her, saying nothing. A moment of awkward nothing, and then, “Do you… want some help writing that?” Spike wore a sad, weary smile, clearly working himself to the bone over her. The last thing she wanted was to take more of his time. He didn’t need to be here, he had a job to do! Cleaning and organizing and stuff. Yet here he was, worrying about Starlight Glimmer because she was too incompetent to take care of herself. Starlight imagined that he’d been sitting outside her door this whole time, waiting for an opportunity to swoop in and help. Because he was just that good of a friend. And Starlight, selfishly, couldn’t be happier. “Yes, please!” she hooted.