Princess Celestia’s reaction to the depiction of royalty in the vulgar population’s media was invariably a quiet, albeit sardonic, sigh. It seemed that every commoner had a conception of the life of the gentry as one of extreme opulence, decadence, leisure, and power. To be sure, in her ignorant youth, she’d wondered why so rarely did emperors pay attention to the will and opinions of their people; but, a thousand and some hundred years later, she knew now that there was no easy answer to that question. Listen too little to your people, and you risk incurring their ire, being labeled a despot and overrun by your sententious neighbors; listen too much, and your country will then be guided by people whose perception of things is, more often than not, completely contrary to their reality.
Opulence? Every country was in debt; every government was just barely making ends meet. Decadence? She could see how one could think that from the palaces and from the balls she threw, but, like all things political, they were not only a facade, but an expense she worried about every day. Leisure? Since the sun was never up for less than nine and a half hours a day (she considered the winter solstice the closest thing she ever had to a holiday), she could hardly describe her life as “leisurely”—and that was to say nothing about her mundane concerns. Power? Despite what the Constitution said, she had no choice over the representatives in parliament, over what laws they decided to pass, and any influence she could exert over the gentry could always be passive-aggressively resisted. Some days she felt that she was nothing but a very expensive tourist attraction.
Would she want to be a commoner? Perhaps a thousand years ago, she would’ve said yes, but nowadays she couldn’t imagine being anything other than a princess. Sure, it was a job whose difficulties absolutely nopony could understand, much less sympathize with, but she had her pleasures. Sleeping was one of them. The other was tea, which, for maybe fifteen minutes a day, she had the luxury of being able to take alone in her chamber. This was what she was doing now, in the late afternoon on the day after the Gala.
Everypony in the palace was well-informed of these daily fifteen minutes of hers, sanctified and given force by a decree, the text to which tourists to the palace could see framed in a drawing room. “It is not unreasonable,” she had said, “that I should have time to myself to take tea. I’m a pony too.” Maybe once a month was that order actually followed; any time an advisor came running to her chamber door in a sweat, insisting that the matter couldn’t wait, the two guards who flanked the entrance always let him in—they didn’t want to take the chance of going down in history as the blind zealots who would’ve rather let a city be razed to the ground in a sudden surprise attack than disobey an order to not disturb their sovereign’s teatime.
It had been a rather quiet day, she thought, taking her second sip. Perhaps today will be the day that I’ll get through my tea without being disturbed—and she immediately wanted to slap herself in the face. Invariably, infallibly, whenever that thought occurred to her, somepony barged in. It was a jinx.
But maybe not, she thought. Maybe everything’s fine . . . everything’s fine . . . please, please . . . please let everything be fine . . .
Right on cue, there was a rap at her door. At that moment, Princess Celestia was sure that she could hear the laugh of some supernal composer as he watched her from his lofty dais, his hoof following the lines on the score of her life.
“I am not to be disturbed,” she tried.
The door flew open as if by its own volition. A pony thrust her head in: her face was covered by a disheveled mane, through which peeped an eye fixed in bitter anger, softened only by the rings of fatigue that circled it. Princess Celestia almost didn’t recognize her sister.
“Would it not be wonderful,” groaned Princess Luna, “were we able to order peace for ourselves.”
Even without the scowl, and her most unregal appearance, Princess Celestia had known that her sister had experienced some inconvenience in her duties; only in those times did she presume to barge in on her, in order to assuage her misery by making her sister share it.
“I’m glad to see you’ve woken up early, for once,” responded Princess Celestia, in the same tone she would probably pronounce the praise of the King of Saddle Arabia were he to issue a decree that would result in slightly fewer executions of his minority population for heresy. “Maybe we’ll actually be able to have supper together.”
“I think my problem,” Princess Luna went on, ignoring the comment, “was that I tried to stop the day by just not letting the sun rise. But, as much as I hate to admit it, the sun is necessary. Perhaps it would’ve been better if I’d outlawed the day by royal decree. That’s what I’d do, were something terrible to happen to you and I were to become the sole ruler.”
“Do you need me to summon the Elements of Harmony again?” said Princess Celestia, taking a sip of her tea. “It sounds as if the Nightmare were talking again, rather than my sister.”
“The fact that you could make such a comment,” said Princess Luna, sitting at the table across from her sister and snatching the tea kettle away with a levitation spell, “tells me that you still insist on being willfully ignorant as to the nature of the Nightmare.” Having lifted the lid off the kettle, she brought the gaping orifice to her mouth and took a loud, gargling sip. “The Nightmare does not turn a pony into something she is not; it is much more insidious than that.” She chewed and spat out some leaves onto the cloth table covering. “The Nightmare takes a pony’s deepest, darkest, most repressed proclivities, which she has spent her whole life struggling to keep locked away in her heart, and releases them to run rampant through her mind and soul. What you love, but which you know to be depraved, the Nightmare gives you permission to consider as virtuous. It has no power to make a good pony do evil, no ability to make her do that which she truly considers as abhorrent and disgraceful. The reason it can exist is that every pony, by virtue of nature, is fundamentally corrupt. The Nightmare should not be feared—it is merely an inert catalyst for a terrible reaction. If you wish to fear, to contemn, direct your condemnation at the true culprit: the depraved nature of ponykind. Were it that the Nightmare should merely use a pony’s body as a puppet for its malevolent designs! Then I would have nothing to repent or apologize for.”
Noticing that her sister’s teeth and lips were stained brown with tea, Princess Celestia said: “I know that we’re alone, but you really ought to comport yourself as a princess. If you get too comfortable letting your guard down, one of these days, you’re going to act unbecomingly—more unbecomingly than usual—in public.”
“How many times must we have this conversation?” growled she. “I say: if a pony who affixes the title of doctor to his name and insists that he be addressed as such—if he is allowed not to wash his hooves every ten seconds when outside of his office, then I should be permitted, when alone with my family, to behave in a familiar, familial manner. I’ve had a stressful night of work, and I would appreciate it if my sister would extend me a little bit of sympathy.”
A princess had to be regal, noble, but modest, Princess Celestia knew, though it had taken decades to wrap her mind around that contradiction. She knew, as well as one can know something by studying it out of a book, that it is impossible to truly empathize with another’s lot, and that every misery, every inconvenience ought to be sympathized with, even if on its face it seemed trivial. She knew this—yet, despite years of efforts, she was completely incapable of empathizing with her sister’s troubles and duties; she could not conceive of how it would be possible to be discontent with one’s work when it involved being asleep for most of the day and night. So she asked, more out of form than anything else: “I take it you had a rough night.”
“Aye . . . a particularly perseverative, pertinacious little pegasus . . .” She shook her head. “I don’t want to talk about it.” Then, sighing, her imperious tone relenting for an instant, she added: “Well, if I’m going to be up early, I might as well get acquainted with vulgar matters. What’s new in the land?”
Princess Celestia winced. “You know, perhaps you shouldn’t use the word vulgar like that. In common parlance, it’s come to mean something different over the years. Your subjects might take it the wrong way.”
“It is neither my fault nor my problem if the vulgar population is ignorant and uneducated in the use of our language.”
“I see. So you’re taking a qu’ils mangent de la brioche approach to governing.”
“If they want to guillotine me because I refuse to use language incorrectly, then I’ll help erect the scaffold myself, for I would neither want to be princess of such a people, or alive in such a world. But enough with such trivial talk! I asked you what the people have been up to since I slept.”
“You were just telling me you didn’t care what the people think.”
“I don’t care what they think; I care about what they do. I have to live in this country too.”
Princess Celestia unfurled a document which contained a compendious summary of all events her advisors thought it necessary she know, which they compiled daily and delivered to her after the text had been rendered in a princess-readable format.
“Not much,” Princess Celestia said. “Only thing of any interest is that the government of Quebuck announced that next month, a referendum will be held on separation.”
Princess Luna groaned. “Is it that time of year again?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“This issue is coming up so much that it seems to me that separation is the will of the people of Quebuck. I’ll order a proclamation declaring Quebuck a free and sovereign—”
“I’ve spoken to a few of the Supreme Court justices,” interrupted Princess Celestia, “and they inform me, in their opinion, that Quebuck could separate if they went through the proper legal channels, but there is some disagreement among them as to the exact procedure that needs to be followed.” She added, the tone of her voice changing to one of reproach: “There is a procedure, and we must follow it. The only way to figure out what that correct procedure is is to tackle it, one legal step at a time.”
“What did the prime minister say?” The inflection of Princess Luna’s voice had less the quality of a question and was more like the obligatory “Who’s there?” in a trite knock-knock joke.
Princess Celestia rolled the pages of the scroll back and forth till, placing her hoof on the lines to mark her place, she found the quote. “His Excellency,” she read, “the prime minister was quoted as saying: ‘Diversity and harmony are the two virtues that define our great nation. Together, as a country, as a people, in all our intranational affairs we must strive to ensure that all transitions be peaceful and that all institutions be stable. Nothing is more important to this government than that every race, every creed, ethnicity, sex, and species, no matter the dynamic, growing nature of our country, should find its own place where they will be welcomed, cherished, and accepted. It may occur, at times, that certain races, creeds, ethnicities, sexes, and species may have cause to believe that it is longer in their interest to strive toward harmony and unity; if, should such a case, which tries the very fabric of our country arise, it is incumbent upon this government, as a representative of the people, to uphold, to the extent it is necessary, the people’s core values, and to preserve, dissolve, or maintain any ties, whether they be social, economic, or political, in order to effect the lasting happiness of all.’”
“I see,” said Princess Luna. “So he said nothing.”
“More or less,” replied Princess Celestia, taking a sip of her tea. “But I thought much more interesting what the premier of Quebuck said. Listen to this: ‘I promised in my campaign that, before my term should expire, this government would have a referendum on separation, with which the people of Quebuck will decide the fate of their land; and today, pursuant to my word, I have ordered that it should be held a month today. It is no secret that, before my premiership, when I expressed my intentions to have such a referendum, I did so with the express hope that the people of Quebuck should vote in favor of separation. I do not intend to depart from my word, but I do intend to depart from my previously held convictions. Experience in office has changed my mind, and has made me see things differently. I would urgently beseech you, the people of Quebuck, when it’s your turn to vote, to consider the option that would permit us to remain an integral, indispensable part of the great nation of Equestria. While I, more than anypony else, empathize with the separatist cause, I am now that it would be absolutely detrimental to us, as a people, to separate. When you go to the voting booth next month, I would urge my fellow countryponies to weigh everything that this nation has given to them, both the good and the bad. I do believe that, should you take everything into account and give everything its proper time and place in your consideration, you’ll come to the same conclusion I did: that this country, despite its flaws, has been overwhelmingly good to us.”
Princess Luna perked up her ears. “What?” she said. “Idée Fixe said that?”
“It does appear that way.”
“Just to be clear, we are talking about Idée Fixe here?”
“I was shocked too,” said Princess Celestia. “At first, I thought there was something wrong with the translation, some perversion the media made. But I tracked down the original quote and read it for myself: no perversion—the translation is pretty accurate.”
Princess Luna brushed her mane out of her face, as if to study something more clearly.
“It is strange, isn’t it?” said Princess Celestia. “I seem to recall that Idée Fixe ran his campaign for the premiership on the issue of separation. It was the only thing he ever spoke about, both in private and in public. Why, you remember just yesterday, at the Gala, how he was berating us for nearly an hour.”
Princess Luna nodded. After a silence, she said: “Perhaps you should consider fighting out that case you have with the PRAT.”
Princess Celestia groaned. “Now, where in the world did that come from? Have we not already discussed this? I’ve given you my answer.”
“Aye . . . but, I’m just thinking . . . did you know that it was your lawyer, Due Process, who changed that insufferable premier’s mind?”
Princess Celestia laughed between her sips of tea. “I know that he was trying to help, and I am indebted to him for freeing up my time at the Gala, but believe me: his persuasive powers are much more limited than you think.”
“I’m serious. Believe me: I saw him deal with Idée Fixe when they walked off together. He convinced him to change his mind on that issue. I witnessed the whole conversation. And I do submit to you: if a pony is capable of changing the mind of a pony named Idée Fixe, he could probably convince the earth to spin in the opposite direction. You should let him make your case if for no other reason than it would be a spectacle to watch him in action.”
Princess Celestia shook her head. “It has nothing to do with whether I think he can win or not. Time is finite resource, but the demands placed on me are unlimited.”
“And you think there are no demands placed on me?”
“The day is a bit more demanding than the night; that’s when ponies actually do things.”
“Nice try,” said Princess Luna with a smirk, “at using my anger with you as an impetus to change the subject. But I see what you’re trying to do here, and it’s not going to work.”
Princess Celestia chuckled. “It worked the last hundred times. I guess it’s time to change my approach.”
“Listen,” responded Princess Luna, “if Saddle Arabia demanded that we turn over all our oil fields to them, would you just hand them over, because you ‘couldn’t be bothered’? So why let the PRAT—an entity whose power is derived only from our consent—threaten you? Why would you defend your rights from foreign threats, but allow them to be besmirched by the domestic?”
“Domestic politics is completely different from international politics.”
Princess Luna paused, noting the slight sneer that scrunched her sister’s face. She knew it too well. “If for once,” she said, “you could actually believe, for a moment, that there’s something you can learn from your younger sister, perhaps you wouldn’t have so many problems and wouldn’t be so busy. But what do I know? After all, I just sleep all day.”
Princess Celestia sighed. “What is it? Can it wait till after tea? I have only a few sips left.”
On the table, the teacup, as if by its own volition, suddenly flew off the saucer away from her: Princess Luna had grabbed it with her own magical aura; the impetuousness of the teacup’s flight knocked over the teapot that lay close by. As Princess Celestia righted the teapot, Princess Luna, with the air of a pub rat, downed what remained in her sister’s cup. Before her sister had the time to reproach her, Princess Luna seized the hoofbell and rang it with a violence that was reserved only for tocsins. At the sound, the servants rushed in—the looks on their faces suggested that they felt that the bombs were about to start falling any minute. “Take this away!” snapped Princess Luna. “Quickly, quickly!” The servants asked no questions; with the swiftness of professionals, they gathered up the tea set, changed the tablecloth, and were gone more quickly than they had come. Within the span of one minute, all distractions had been taken away, and Princess Celestia was left staring only at the smug countenance of her sister.
“All right,” said Princess Luna, “now that you’re finished with your tea—”
“I hate you.”
“—we can discuss this issue soberly.”
“I think I’m going to settle with the PRAT twice as hard just to spite you.”
“Given your lawyer was able to get Idée Fixe to change his opinion, and especially given that said opinion was what had gotten him elected in the first place, don’t you think he would be capable of turning the opinion of the PRAT, no matter how dogmatic it might seem?”
“One thing you need to learn, baby sister, is that, while it’s acceptable, and even expected, to be intimate with your favorites, you can’t let them influence your ruling, lest you endanger not only yourself but them as well.”
“What exactly are you insinuating?”
“You two spoke for a long while at the Gala—oh yes, I saw you. Did you think that I would not notice the first time you spoke to anypony ever by yourself at the Gala for more than five minutes without yelling at him? And that’s okay—even a princess has the needs of a mare—but you can’t let your feelings for him sway your judgement.”
“How dare you!” she roared, leaping onto the table, her wings flared. Princess Celestia’s affected regal pose dissolved at once, and she fell backward out of her chair. “How dare you insinuate . . . that . . . that I . . . how dare you!”
“Please get off the table. Your shoes are dirty.”
When Princess Luna saw that her sister was grinning at her from her place on the floor, she folded her wings, and leaped off the table, trying to affect the leap of a ballet dancero in a desperate effort to maintain her regal poise.
“Not that your comment has any merit worth the energy to refute,” said Princess Luna, not herself knowing why she was affecting a regal equanimity when she knew her sister knew very well that she was fuming inside, “but, if you must know, as a matter of fact I detest your lawyer.”
“I’m sure you do.”
“I have firsthoof knowledge that he is a scoundrel and a blackguard.”
“It’s a phase you’re going through. You’ll grow out of it.”
“I’ve seen his thoughts, the deepest, darkest, twisted machinations of his inner subconscious. I fear for the safety of anypony who’s around him. He ought to be locked away. In fact, as soon as he’s done with your case, I’ll have him executed at my pleasure.”
“We’ve had this conversation before, Luna. You can’t go around beheading ponies for what they do in their dreams.”
“And even so, I’ll still tell you that he can beat the PRAT. Not only that, I know that he can cast into doubt its entire legitimacy, legally and properly, such that the people will be the ones to abolish it all of themselves. You wouldn’t have to do anything.”
For the first time in this conversation, Princess Luna thought that she could see the twitch of consideration flickering across her sister’s features.
“I don’t know . . .” responded she. “Even if I were to agree with you, those hours could be much better spent doing something more productive.”
“I read the newspapers,” said Princess Luna. “They say that throughout the proceedings you did and said nothing. They said you stared, your eyes fixed on a single point in space. They said it looked as if a million thoughts, each with the power, if manifested in reality, to destroy the world. What were you thinking about?”
Princess Celestia snorted incredulously. “In truth, I was thinking about nothing.”
“Really? At every single moment during those proceedings, your mind was blank the entire time?”
“Mostly.”
“So not all the time. When you were not thinking of nothing, what were you thinking of?”
“Stupid things.”
“Like what?”
“Just thinking about . . . the novel I’ve spent the last five years reading—I haven’t had time to finish it . . . constructing theories about relationships between the characters. Sometimes I thought about taking up the piano again; I was pretty good as a filly, but just never had time to practice . . .”
“Anything else?”
Princess Celestia paused. “I remember . . . thinking that Prince Kabarda and I got along capitally during the Gala last year, and I figured . . . and that, I guess, if ever I were to marry . . . well, there are certainly worst stallions a princess could take as her consort . . .”
“That’s it?”
“For the most part, aside from trivia.”
“What kind of trivia?”
“Nothing important, just thinking about things like . . . what I would I do if I were a commoner . . . oh, also, last year’s pumpkin pie was pretty good; we should make it a regular item in our kitchen.”
“Then why do you complain about going to the PRAT?” said Princess Luna. “It sounds as if what you do there is what you do in your free time.”
Princess Celestia scoffed. “Oh, and I suppose you’re occupied with so much more important hobbies than I?”
“My point is that you spend your life running back and forth between events that require your utmost focus and concentration—no wonder you’re exhausted! So why not pursue this case? All it requires for you is to sit and daydream while your lawyer does all the talking and thinking for you. Absolutely nopony would be able to blame you; after all, you’re just attending yet one more event in your royal agenda.”
Princess Celestia lifted her tea cup to stare into it. There was still a bit of murky brown sludge left, but it was too packed with waterlogged leaves to permit any more sips.
“Can I drink tea?” she said wistfully.
“I’m sure they’d let you bring a pot or two into the auditorium.”
She paused, staring at Princess Luna, hoping to see in her some ulterior motive. But when she saw in the face of her sister nothing but a reflection of her own helplessness, all she could do was sigh. “All right,” she said. “Though my experience and judgement still tell me that this is the wrong way to proceed . . .”
“Would it kill you—literally kill you—to say: ‘My dear sister, on this issue, you were right and I was wrong’?”
“ . . . though my experience and judgement still tell me that this is the wrong way to proceed, the guiding principle of the government of this country is that we have not one mind ruling but two; and it is my opinion that, even though I cannot foresee how this option will effect the common good for us and for the country as a whole, I should defer to your opinion: I will fight the case to the end . . .”
“Splendid!” Princess Luna leaped from her seat and trotted toward the door. “I knew—”
“. . . on one condition.”
Princess Luna groaned, making a mental note to refrain, in the future, from acknowledging the few concessions her sister granted her and to depart as graciously and gracefully as possible, to prevent the birth of a bastard qualifier, such as the slimy one she now saw dripping before her. “And what . . .” responded she, taking up the spawn with the obligatory diligence of a reluctant father, “might that be, pray tell?”
“That you attend every single hearing from now till the closing as the case.”
Princess Luna snarled, stamping a hoof; out of all the things Princess Celestia could have suggested, this was the last thing she would have imagined; for, though she knew her sister was many things, she did not ever once think that she was a sadist. “This has nothing to do with me!” she shrieked. “This is your affair. This is your problem. Don’t rope me into your issues—I have enough of my own!”
“Oh, I see,” said Princess Celestia, stretching her legs. “It’s quite all right for you to insist that I must endure the odious, but the second I want you to provide me with moral support, suddenly I’m being unreasonable? No, this condition is not negotiable. You’re the one who thinks I should fight this case to the end, right? Then you’re going to be there with me.”
For a moment, Princess Luna questioned the entire point of the preceding conversation, and the entire point of being a princess. She shook her head. Attacks such as this were common, but, like a rash in an uncomfortable place where propriety forbids itching in public, they came and went, and she tried not to let them affect her too much.
“I’ll warn you,” said Princess Celestia. “You’ll have to get up early.”
Princess Luna’s cheek twitched. “How early?”
“Well, my next proceedings start at three p.m. . . .”
Princess Luna bared her teeth. “What an absurd hour! I do not understand how we, as a civilized people, can allow such things to take place at such times!”
“You will be there,” said Princess Celestia. “You will be awake, and you will be princessly.”
“You can set the example,” said Princess Luna, with a contemptuous pivot on her heels toward the door, “by not making up words. And fear not; I am never anything but princely.” At her sister’s sardonic snort, she added: “All experience hath shewn that you disagree with me on everything. Many thanks for your disapproval, Celestia; that’s how I know I’m doing everything right.”
No sooner had Princess Luna left than there was a knock at the door; and, before Princess Celestia could respond, in rushed a short, small-framed stallion, his limbs trembling as if he had just glimpsed the depths of Tartarus, his eyes red as if some substance had been responsible for this obvious overreaction. Princess Celestia sighed; he was peculiar among her advisors: in times of peace and assurance, his bearing was that of a sage; in times of problems, of that of a child. She had forgotten how he had obtained the post in the first place.
“Your . . . Your Majesty!” he sputtered. “I . . . oh, how horrible! We need . . . I need . . . you must at once . . . at once . . .”
Dismounting from her seat, Princess Celestia yawned and strolled over to him. “Good afternoon,” she said, putting a hoof on his back as she led him out of the chamber. “Please be so kind as to tell me the news. Let’s discuss this in the tulip garden; it’s a nice day, and I want to see if the new grass has been sown, as I have ordered.”
“But that’s just it, Your Majesty—they haven’t! What are we going to do? What will become of us? Oh, it’s so horrible, I can’t take it! Save us, Your Majesty—oh, please save us!”