She opened her eyes to find herself surrounded by friends.
At the bottom left, smiles all around, either for her or the celebration at hoof, deep down she could never tell: there was Twilight, Trixie, the Elements and even Discord and the entire royal family. In the hours preceding this captured moment, Starlight had found the strength to forgive herself in light of reforming the changelings.
Wedged in the mirror's upper right, Rarity was complimenting Starlight on her first-ever stitching job. Beside them, Fluttershy was in the midst of an eye-opening lecture on the importance of eight-legged basement critters.
Those two photos hung adjacent to one of Trixie, hoof thrown around her first friend and squeezing tight.
Below that one, Twilight stealthily snapped a shot of Starlight nuzzling her floury face against Pinkie’s, who’d found it in her heart to forgive her for burning a cake.
Starlight stopped on the final photograph: Twilight had been on near-Pinkie levels of excitement as she floated a camera before the two of them.
Within this moment, Starlight truly, genuinely believed they were friends.
“Welp! It’s all just ashes now!” Starlight had no explanation, rhyme, or reason for this feeling—her gut was telling her it was a good call, and she never had reason to doubt it before.
She fired from her broken horn a winding, serpentine bolt of lighting, splitting midway into six claws that made for each photograph, impaling and ravaging them inside out with viscous, teal flames.
In the blink of an eye, six wonderful memories from her new life had been reduced to ash. She made them so, like it was an instinct. No rhyme or reason behind it. Black snowbanks rose along her mirror, growing neath a dark flurry until her desk was overflowed.
Starlight shrugged, knowing Spike would take care of this. Who was she to consider her friends first? Starlight turned and bowed to the door as she crossed her bedroom, easily yanking it open before trotting through.
What she saw beyond made her freeze, her jaw and tongue to drop open. “Somepony pinch me.”
A buffet was spread before her. Between the apple pie and the sponge cake lathered in icing pinker than her own coat, Starlight wasn’t sure which to attack first. Did Spike make dessert for breakfast?
“We have your favorites,” Twilight remarked, suddenly beside her.
Starlight saw that it was so, for on the opposite end of the table, practically drooping over the edge, sat an angel food cake crowned with a pair of decorative fountains, spitting sparkles of magenta and teal. Starlight had always loved something with presentation. But shiny, silvery frosting only covered the half still clinging to the table. It was decidedly disgusting; how could somepony miss something so clearly bare, screaming for a pony that cared enough to fix it?
Starlight felt a pang of what must have been hunger. “You’re telling me.”
Stepping closer, more dishes came to notice. A bowl of vanilla yogurt was topped with blackberries like a garnish, arranged in a swirl that made it the most beautiful and creative of the desserts. The bowl beside it was a rainbow pudding, something Starlight had never tried, but was excited for all the same. Something so appealing couldn't be bad.
“What is all this?” It was weird. Definitely weird. Starlight smiled, having never been gifted with something so meaningful.
At a glance of one dish, her stomach turned almost mistaking it for a bowl of melted butter, but she knew the deep gold of sweet, sweet custard when she saw it.
“For you,” Twilight gently answered at the back of her head.
There was more, so much more. From rock candy necklaces, to a jar of nectar, to a bottle of apple juice beside it, particularly inciting a nostalgic tickle that made her feel giddy.
She just realized Twilight has said something. “Sorry?” Starlight turned.
Twilight smiled thinly. “All of this,” she said, nodding to the table, “it’s for you.”
"But what'd I do to deserve any of this?"
At once, the dining room thrummed with a roll of drums, shivering overhead and rattling her bones. The hall flooded with shadows—the windows glowing like emeralds, and the chandelier above, with rainbow crystals strung about, all of it lost their luster, dimming to a frigid grey. At once, all those gorgeous desserts collapsed, deflating like balloons into piles of steaming, fly-riddled sludge.
Starlight couldn't care less about that. “Why?” she asked again. She hated repeating herself. It meant things were out of her hooves, that they could hurt her. “How? I’ve not done anything special, not to warrant something like this!”
Twilight trotted in front of her, stepping before the buffet. “Yes, you have,” she said, smirking. “You've done so much to earn this, don't sell yourself short! It's unappealing. After all, you just lost your horn.”
But this wasn't worth being rewarded. Starlight only wanted to save a friend, she wasn't looking for acclaim. That was selfish, she was being selfish just for feeling a craving for this feast. “I get the feeling there’s something else you’re selling short," she deflected warily.
“Oh?” Twilight rose a brow, humored. “And what would that be?”
Starlight looked left, then right. “Um, you?” she tittered. “I mean, look at you, Twilight! You’re better now! All of this?” She threw a hoof at the buffet. “It’s only happening because of you. You're amazing! If anything, that’s what we should be celebrating.”
Twilight’s smile slunk into a frown. “Ex-cuse me?” she squawked, although her expression conveyed mild annoyance at best. “Our friends poured hours of their limited free time making these for you, Starlight. So, not only do you not appreciate it, but you up and throw it back in everypony’s faces! You’ve got some nerve, acting so ungrateful.”
Starlight wilted, choking with guilt. Was she really so insensitive? After all, she did want to feast. Was she just trying to seem better than she really was? Did that make herself more, or less horrible? “I’m sorry." It was all she could say. "I didn’t mean to sound unappreciative.” S
Blinking out of existence, Twilight’s hoofbeats clicked deliberately past her.
“Then there is a huge dissonance between what you feel and how you come off. You should be more aware.”
“Yeah.” Starlight swallowed. “I know.”
“And yet you keep putting your hoof to the burning stove.” She could hear the eyeroll in Twilight’s tone.
“I know.”
“Do you like getting burned, Starlight?”
She could only shake her head ‘no,’ her throat too closed to speak.
“Then why do you do this to yourself?”
Starlight shook her head again.
“Starlight?”
She knew exactly what was wrong with Starlight. A blubber couldn't help but burst forth.
“Look at me, please.”
“I don’t know why!” Starlight cried, suddenly boring into Twilight’s frightened blue eyes. “I don’t know why my gut tells me to do these things, I just want ponies to like me, okay?! That's all, that's it! That's all I want!"
Twilight closed her mouth into a thin, firm line. Her eyes were stern yet tender, glistening with sympathy for the mess before her. “So you’d hurt yourself if it meant getting ponies to like you."
“No!” Starlight cried, appalled by the notion. “But there’s nothing I won’t do to keep them from hating me!”
Twilight smiled faintly. “Even deny yourself a little happiness?” She gestured to the spread behind her.
Starlight wanted it. It should be so easy, accepting it. But what if it was greedy? What if she lost herself again? It was too risky, so much so that she didn't dare think about it. “Believe me, nothing would please me more than to feel happy about this.”
Twilight slung a foreleg around her, pulling her in for a tight hug. “Then why not celebrate your victory?”
The warmth against Starlight’s side speared her in the heart. “Because I’m afraid to.”
“Why?” Twilight softly cried, stunning Starling stiff.
Her dear friend’s concern manifested as a tickle deep within her. Twilight was worried about Starlight’s well-being, wanted her to be happy—realizing this only made her feel more ashamed.
Twilight squeezed her reassuringly. “You know you can talk to me about anything,” she said, as if sensing her hesitation.
That extra assurance allowed Starlight to muster courage, though not to exchange so much as a glance. “I’m,” she almost chickened out, “I don’t want to feel bad about my horn.”
“Because you miss it?”
Twilight’s words struck like an arrow hitting the bullseye over Starlight’s chest. She could only shake her head.
“Because deep down you know I’m peeved about it, and you can’t figure out why?”
Starlight smothered a shallow sob, pursing her lips like a vault to keep it in. “I’m sorry,” she muttered.
“What are you sorry about?”
She couldn’t say that she didn’t know why. Starlight wracked her brain but thought of nothing beyond the ache.
“Starlight, what are you sorry about?”
Squinting through her blurring vision, the rotting buffet a smear of dark colors, Starlight lost all strength and collapsed on her backside. She covered her mouth, but words came anyway. “I miss my magic," she said, "and I don’t want to.”
The silence, her heartache, hung suspended for a painfully long moment.
“Sweet Celestia, you’re selfish.”
Starlight’s stomach twisted. “I know.” She couldn’t even meet her teacher’s face, and looked away as she paced across her vision.
“Wow,” gushed Twilight, “I can’t believe there’s a part of you that wants your magic back! As if you don't care what that would mean for me.” Starlight trembled, she was absolutely right. Twilight saw her for the needy, self-centered mare she had always been. “My ‘amazing’ student, so brave and courageous. You know I made an actual sacrifice taking you in?”
Of course, was Starlight’s gut reaction. But the gravity of what she said still hit, roaring forth like a thunderclap. “Yes."
She could hear Twilight’s disdain as she shot back, “Doubt it! I remember where your mind was, Starlight—you only cared about how you felt, and how scared you were. Of us, no less! As if we’re horrible like you.”
“I know,” Starlight gulped, whimpering, “that y-you took a risk, l-letting me in…”
“That’s right. I put everypony’s lives on the line choosing to trust you, freeloader. I’ve given you everything, and still you have the nerve to miss your magic—”
“B-but I don’t!” Swiftly Starlight looked up and was met with her teacher’s disappointed gaze. She flinched back from the closeness. “Twilight... Twilight, please, you have to believe me. I’d rather have you than my—”
“Let me stop you right there.” Twilight lowered the hoof she’d raised. “You can barely convince yourself, Starlight. Don’t try with me.”
“Oh yeah?! Well...!” Starlight got in Twilight’s passive, pink-furred face. “Well whadda you know, huh?! Everypony acts like they know me better than I do! Spike does, you do…” Twilight simply blinked, awaiting more. “But the joke’s on you,” Starlight gasped. “It’s on you, because I'm actually happy!”
“To be magicless?”
Starlight yanked back, where she found Twilight’s straight-cut, bookworm mane had, at some point, been dyed purple and curled on the front. “To have saved you, you idiot.”
A kindly smile spread across her muzzle. Starlight, at last, was wondering if this was still Twilight. She barely resembled the quirky alicorn now apart from her wings and the extra inch or so. “I can accept that,” she said, her voice deepening ever-so-slightly, becoming a different kind of familiar. “But I have one question for you… that if that’s the case,” she wondered with a smarmy tone, “if this doesn’t really make you happy, which it clearly has not…” Twilight hesitated, her eyes sunk deeper in her skull, glistening, glassy, and red and runny, and she finished in a raspy, weak little voice, “...then is this what you’d rather have?” She stepped back, her pink coat now an ashy-grey.
Starlight’s eyes bounced up and down. How did this happen? She gasped, hardly able to breathe. “You’re sick again.”
Twilight shook her head. “This is what you’d want, deep down. Yes?”
"Starlight Glimmer!" whispered the wind.
“You’re so selfish…”
"This is but a nightmare, Starlight Glimmer!"
"I was never able to stand you, ya know."
Starlight clamped her ears shut and screamed, "Leave me ALONE!"
And she flung forth, gasping sharply in the vast emptiness of her own bedroom. A wall of darkness met her, the right splashing her wall with pale light. Something like spiders skittered across her forelegs and feather-light legs. Starlight scrubbed them down, clawed and scratched, burning her coat with a smoldering akin to sunburn, all while her eyes bounced about, taking in her loneliness, swelling with wet warmth. A drum within her chest was pounding, pounding like it was in its last throes of life. Starlight didn't care if Twilight or Spike heard, about holding it, she burst out with a bawl into her blanket like a startled foal.
It was just a stupid dream. It couldn’t have meant anything. No, it didn't, it didn't at all! screamed the logical part of her brain. It meant nothing. Nothing.
Starlight swallowed her emotions down, shoved them out of mind. There were real problems to deal with, a full night's sleep first and foremost.
Breathe in...
..breathe out.
The faux-infiltrator opened her eyes, giving way to a slanting, jagged wall of stairs to her very right, crystal columns of purple and white scaling up toward a darkened ceiling, like the teeth of some great beast against ocean-blue walls, and some sweet aroma which wrapped around her brain, flooding her senses. With what, she didn't care. Her tongue wanted to curl at the taste of it, but Tempest kept herself as still as the picture before her.
It burned her eyes. The urge to shut them tight was appealing, more so than her primal want for coming here at all. These saturated colors were painful to behold, but she kept her eyes pried open simply because she could. Because this was nothing.
Literally, nothing. Hiding was never her forte. The direct approach was always more effective, albeit "harder." As if that meant anything.
But sleeping under this roof, without speaking a word to its proprietor? It was not only impersonal, but it felt oddly unfriendly for one who signed herself as, "Your Friend," in the letter.
That cursed letter.
She breathed deep again, expunging her heart of the burning, the clenching, turning, and hatred. She had to remind herself that Twilight was not some conspirator. Either that or she was a great actor like the Storm King. In all likelihood, the princess was just young. Naive. Idiotic, really, but it was not worth begrudging. After all, there was nopony quite like Tempest Shadow.
A groan stampeded like rolling thunder down the vastness of the hall. Tempest carefully tilted left, keeping her hooves planted and noiseless so she could see from the safety of the stairwells’ shadow. There, she spotted the corner of that ridiculous, gaudy door swinging shut, an unmistakable magenta glow wreathing it, manipulating it like it was nothing.
A smothered part of her roared to life like flame, and Tempest felt the urge to greet her friend. But it was not her place to intrude on Twilight Sparkle’s family unit. And besides, she was just hiding like a freak. The dragon, waiting much like her, a puppy left in the rain, had unwittingly joined in a few feet away not long ago. To her southeast at the top of the stairs.
That was unequivocally creepy, lurking by without his knowledge. More so than the concept of making her presence known once he arrived, scaring the child. Making him uncomfortable, driving him away like everypony else in the months since her downfall.
Tempest stayed her hooves. She really, really, really didn’t want to, but she could stand to wait a little longer. Allow the two to have their reunion, at least.
A soft padding pricked her ears up—Spike’s small, soft footsteps tramped frantically down the carpeted stairs. “Twilight!” His foalish voice trembled within the entrance hall's vast open space.
Tempest couldn't help but think it again: this really was a lot of space for just three individuals.
“Spike?” Twilight breathed, sounding surprised to find him not only up, but awaiting her on the cusp of midnight. “What are you still doing—oof!”
Neither said anything. Nothing came for a long moment, and Tempest presumed they had fallen asleep on the spot like normal ponies at this hour. She shook her head of such notions. They were obviously lost in one another, loving each other. Tempest pathetically imagined herself in the middle of that.
“Oh, Spike,” whispered the princess. Tempest strained to blot out every other sense, just to hear Twilight. “I’m sorry, Spike, I’m so sorry. You’d known all about Starlight’s horn, my sickness and how I was cured. And I refused to listen, I was blind and scared an-and I’ve no excuse—”
“Twilight,” the child cut off the princess in a strong, soft voice. “Please, don't start this. That doesn’t matter now.”
“Doesn’t—?” breathed Princess Twilight. “Spike, if I’d kept calm and actually listened—”
“Twilight."
“—we could’ve helped Starlight together, but now? Now I'm afraid that my negligence—”
“Twilight!” The hall rang, and a tense silence settled. “Twilight, there are bigger things to worry about than your guilt or mine.”
Even Tempest was caught off guard by the young dragon’s maturity, as Twilight audibly stammered before answering softly, “You’re right, Spike. You’re absolutely right.”
The relief in his sigh was audible. “So, what was it you were going to say? You’ve also realized Starlight's—?”
“Yes, what happened to her. Now that we know the identity of Starlight’s attackers,” Twilight's voice neared, accompanied by hurried hoofbeats rapping against the carpet, “we can work even faster to get her the help she needs!”
“Wait, what?”
“Come on, Spike!” Magic hummed in the air. “The night is young and we've got a lot of work to do! I say Celestia ought to hear about this.”
“Twilight, wait!”
“Ow, hey! Don’t pull your ride's tail, Mister!”
It was hard not to wince, remembering that same feeling from Tempest's first attempt for the hall, wishing to greet her host properly. Was tail-yanking a common occurrence in this castle or did the princess have the patience of a... well, a princess?
“I’m sorry! But just hold up a second, okay? Slow down.” Magic hummed and was silenced abruptly, Spike thumping upon both feet simultaneously. “Now’s not the time to be worrying about that. What we need—”
“‘Not the time?’” crowed the princess. “Now’s as good a time as any, Spike. Starlight’s asleep for now, but when she finds out what I'm planning she won’t like it, not one bit. I don't want to waste another second!”
“Wh—huh?”
“But first, I'd like you to gather our friends,” Twilight ordered, though not unkindly. "Go for Rainbow Dash first, she'll quicken the process. Just tell them I have a plan to get Starlight her horn back.”
Tempest shook her head in disbelief. Didn’t Twilight know it was lost in a trade?
There was little trouble imagining that snarky dragon cocking a brow at his foolish guardian. “And,” he drawled, “why would we do that? I mean,” Spike grunted, as if vaulting over a pony’s hindquarters, “don’t you respect the sanctity of a trade?”
“‘Trade?’ Ignoring the fact that it wasn't a fair trade... Spike, she’s lost her purpose so that I could fulfill mine! How is that even remotely fair?”
“It’s not. But this was a pact between Starlight and those witches.” Their voices began to fade, passing by practically overhead. “Sweet Celestia,” he mumbled, his echo the only thing audible, “this is all so messed up…”
“You’re telling me,” Twilight muttered. “But once we deal with these monsters and fix Starlight, everything will go back to normal!”
"What's with you guys and not listening to what I'm saying?"
Twilight spoke, sounding offended, or maybe concerned. Uncertain. They were becoming harder to hear, even with the assistance of the vast hall. Tempest quickly, albeit gently, slinked along the stair like a panther, keeping close to its shadow.
“Twilight," Spike hesitated aloud, "I'm saying she needs help. What your planning won't fix it. Like, this seems to go beyond just her horn.”
Tempest reached the bottom of the stairs, peered around the gold railing. A mounted dragon and the swaying hindquarters of her friend ascended the stairs, keeping right.
“You think I've not realized that myself?" Twilight cried. "That I've been having the time of my life, forgetting she’s broken inside out because of me?”
On swift, gentle hooftsteps Tempest crept up the stairs, falling in line with the princess’s louder, muffled clops.
“Twilight, I'll be honest, I can't tell if you're getting me. But I mean it: Starlight isn’t taking this well. She needs us. She needs you. And I'm afraid getting her horn back won't fix them.”
The princess spat as if that were the most ridiculous thing she ever heard. Tempest swallowed a retort of her own, reciting the fact that Twilight was just a naive, ignorant idiot. “She’s fine, Spike. Have you forgotten how strong a pony she is? How much she’s gone through? Even now, even though she’s lost her pride and joy, Starlight manages to hold her head up high! I just... I want to make it up to her.”
One would be forgiven, assuming that Twilight was being sarcastic. Tempest now remembered how Spike predicted her acting this way: ignoring the painfully obvious with her own delusions, her pain, guilt. How Spike knew his caretaker better than herself was one of the great mysteries of friendship Tempest might never understand.
“You seriously believe that?” Spike asked, dejected by the prospect.
“Of course. Besides, you know how prideful Starlight gets. For her sake, I won't doubt her strength. "
“I know you wouldn’t. It's just that...” Spike was worried, obviously, but Twilight's apparent smarts were whittling away at his resolve. Tempest wanted to burst out this very moment, scaring them be damned. She wanted to tell him not to let that go, because he was right, more so than any of them. Starlight included, if what half of Spike informed was accurate.
“I know," Twilight murmured. "I am, too, if I'm being honest. Starlight is strong. If she needs help, she knows she can come to me for anything.”
“Uh, does she?”
“And what’s that supposed to mean, Mister? I've told her this up and down!”
"I know."
"But?" Twilight paused at the top of the stairs, freezing Tempest at once, one hoof on the next step. Twilight craned her head aside and looked from the corner of her eye. Tempest laid her belly against the stairs. “Spike? What is it?”
His head lifted an inch. “This is serious, Twi.” His voice was grave. “You haven’t seen Starlight like I have. She’s seriously messed up about this, and I don't think it's living without a horn.” The silence was loud. It was a cold comfort knowing Starlight, at least, had friends who were trying to help, even if they struggled to understand. “You know what she told me?” asked Spike. Twilight turned and stared ahead, hooves rooted to the carpet. “That she didn’t even know the witches were gonna take her horn. You know how she told me?" More silence answered. "Like it was a joke. She outright said she didn't care! This isn’t normal for her, Twilight! Starlight's lying to us, and she's hurting bad. Like really, really bad.”
“What should I do, Spike?” Twilight asked, gently, as though Starlight were asleep in the next room. "What are you telling me? Please, I want to know."
“I’m telling you that she spent, like, half an hour trying to write an apology letter to Cherry Berry herself, and she never came asking me for help! Like you, she knows that I’d be more than happy to. But for some reason, she thought I wouldn't. At first I thought she was upset about a mess she made at dinner. So I suggested we should watch a bad movie together! Figured she needed something to take her mind off things, right?"
"Mmhm."
"But you know what she said to me? She said she was exhausted, at eight-thirty! I... I think she was making an excuse not to be with me."
Tempest never thought she would empathize with a dragon, yet here she was, feeling what Spike felt towards being rejected. Thinking it was your fault when it was because of others. Starlight's behavior was a familiar song, as well. It was throat-tightening, stealing her breaths away. Tempest was not back in that time, a beast in pony skin, lashing at any who got too close. She was not there.
They weren't talking about her. They weren't talking about her. But they might as well be, and that's what made this so... intimidating. Why did Twilight need her here at all?! She ought to have sent a letter back and pushed this out of mind. But her senseless pride believed that was unforgivable, selfish even, when the princess who nearly sacrificed everything for this useless life was merely asking for a favor.
“Okay, okay!” Twilight snapped, startling Tempest. “So Starlight doesn’t want anypony thinking she needs help. Is that so unlike her? I... I expected this, Spike.”
“But I’m telling you it’s more than that,” he groaned. “I don’t think Starlight is handling this as well as she wants to, and to be honest, you're not either.”
Tempest remained at the bottom of the stair, unmoving, unfeeling, only listening for the princess’s reply.
“Right...” she trailed off. “But that's not important right now! If what you're saying is accurate, then that's all the more reason we have to get her horn back!”
She’s in denial. That much was obvious. But only now did the "why" of it strike. She’s in denial about her friend’s heartbreak. Being responsible. It’s too much on her conscience. A couple backstabbers from a lifetime ago were the very same, and they’d replaced her like a pony exchanges their horseshoes.
“Twilight, no!" Spike hopped off, ran to her front. "That isn’t going to fix this!” he said, both claws on her front. As if that could stop an alicorn.
“And what makes you think that?” Twilight snapped. "It's a start if anything, is that so bad?" Tempest advanced fast on swift, soundless hoofsteps as her friend spoke. Like it or not, Twilight needed to see the reality. “What bad thing will happen if we get Starlight’s horn back, hm?”
“It could make it worse!”
She came to a stop a step below them. “How could that make it—?!”
“He's correct, Princess.” Twilight looked back, then whirled on the spot with Spike stepping into view, both dumbfounded to her relief. No fear, at least not yet. Tempest didn't care. This was more vital than her own misgivings. "Rushing might very well make Starlight worse. You want to save her soul? Then start considering it before making a move."
Twilight blinked, growing wider still. “Fizzlepop?” she breathed, likely not hearing a word of what she'd said. “Spike, when were you planning on telling me she’d arrived?”
“I was getting to that.”
The Princess of Friendship, whom Tempest had chased halfway across the country many moons ago, gazed upon her as if reuniting with an old friend. Her smile was sweet and little, like her, with eyes huge and purple and bright, also like her. Most and perhaps greatest (Tempest selfishly thought) of all, she appeared relieved by Tempest's sudden appearance instead of disturbed.
Tempest hesitated mid-bow. "It's good to see you," she uttered stiffly. Greeting anypony, much less a princess, the one who saved her life at the risk of losing Equestria at that, was still a cumbersome social art for one as old as Tempest.
“Same, but there's no need for a friend to bow." Twilight cupped her breast. "I’m just glad you came on such short notice."
It's not like she had anything better to do, but Tempest didn't need the princess to pity her with so much on her mind. “Of course I did.”
The letter was so brief and hurriedly written, and made passing mention of a friend with a “crippling injury that may require your expertise.” All the fear in the world wouldn't stop Tempest from accepting its request, even out of simple curiosity.
Spike leaned against Twilight with folded arms, glowering threateningly as only a dragon could. “Hey, I thought you said you were going to bed!” However, he was as indignant as a pony could manage.
“I never said when." Tempest smirked at this interesting little creature before quitting the effort altogether. “And I wasn’t sleeping a wink in this castle until I knew the full extent of my purpose here.” It wasn't the whole reason, but half of it was purely selfish and absolutely preposterous.
“Wait, how long have you been here?” asked Spike.
Tempest gnawed on the inside of her cheek, a habit which stuck since her decision to take on this threatening world. “Long enough," she answered, stiffly, as she did all else. "Enough to know this goes way beyond helping your hornless friend live like me.” She and Spike exchanged glances before both looking to Twilight.
The princess’s ears wilted, sensing her opposition. “What do you mean? Do... do you know how we can help Starlight?" Hope bled into her voice. "A better way?”
The question alone proved how deep in denial Twilight was in. How she’d been firing blindly since this started, all of it being little more than one shot in the dark after another, convinced she was hitting the bullseye every time.
But this pony was not downright stupid. Not normally. Deep down, Twilight had no idea what she was doing. She knew it, and she hated it. But living in willful ignorance wouldn’t help anypony, much less this Starlight Glimmer.
Tempest took a deep breath. “No.” The light in her eyes died, then her smile. "You need to open your eyes, Twilight, or I fear it will be too late to help your friend at all.”
End of Generosity - The Broken Body