The instant I opened my eyes, I knew something was wrong.
It was still dark. And pretty late, too, judging by my bedside clock. I listened carefully; Night Light, sleeping beside me, was still breathing slow and heavy, so he was fine at least. But that did nothing to make me feel better; in the way you can smell the lightning in the air before a storm, I knew something was coming.
I slipped out of bed, then shivered and pulled on my bathrobe. The air was cool, but not cold just yet—but still, slipping out from underneath those blankets wasn’t exactly a welcome feeling.
I padded down the hallway in the dark, guided by the dim light of my own horn. I peeked in on Shiny, then Twily; both of them were still asleep, though Twilight still had her glasses still on, a book laid open on her chest. I gently closed the book and took her glasses, and set both on the bedside table.
I walked out to the kitchen and looked helplessly around. I rubbed my shoulders with my hooves, then walked over and sat at the dining table. Everyone was asleep, no one was sick or dying, and the entire house was locked up tight.
So why did I still feel like a dead mare walking?
I growled a little, then got up and went to the kitchen. I poured myself some milk, then put a couple cookies on a plate. I picked them up in my magic, and was about to carry them back to the table, when my ears pricked up.
Someone was clip-clopping down the sidewalk outside.
The hairs on the back of my neck stood on end.
No, I thought, it’s just some late-night pedestrian; it couldn’t be—
The hoofsteps turned and started up our walk.
My mouth suddenly dry, I turned to stare at our front door. The hoofsteps came closer… mounted the one-two-three steps to the porch… our automatic security light clicked on… they walked across the wooden boards, and…
Knock knock knock.
I stared. Who in the name of Tartarus would be knocking at our front door at this time of night?
For a long while, I didn’t move. Then, they knocked again.
I swallowed, set down the cookies and milk, and slowly tip-hooved over to the door. I peered through the peephole, and my eyes widened. Whoever it was stood close to the door, the security light behind them; all I could see was their silhouette, black and towering and shapeless in the gloom. I almost turned and walked away, when—
“Velvet?” the mare outside asked. “Is that you?”
I knew that voice. I knew it. And the sound of it rooted me to the spot.
But soon, I snarled.
“I thought I told you I never wanted to see you again,” I growled.
For a moment, there was silence, filled with shocked surprise. The mare on the porch hesitated, then spoke again—
“Velvet—” she began.
“Get off my porch before I call the cops,” I snapped. I stepped away from the door—
“Velle?” she said. “Velle, please—”
I froze. No one had called me Velle in years. And there was desperation in her voice—true, genuine, frightened desperation. The sort that you couldn’t fake.
I stood there for several seconds, unmoving. I opened my mouth, then closed it again, once or twice. Then, slowly, reluctantly, I walked to the door. I put my hoof on the latch, and, after another moment of indecision, unlocked it.
I pulled the door open. We stood there for a second, the shadow and I, before I stepped back. The shadow ducked her head in thanks, then stepped inside. She was tall, very tall, and, despite the fact that it was still fairly warm for a fall night, she wore a thick winter parka. I pressed my mouth into a thin line, then turned and led her to the dining room. She closed the door behind her, then followed.
I sat at one side of the table, and she sat down across from me. For a long time, neither of us spoke.
Finally, I opened my mouth.
“Do you… want anything?” I said.
I still wanted her out of my house. In my head, I was composing my message to the police. But still, there were certain rituals that needed to be observed between old friends.
She just shook her head. She knew that was her part of the ritual.
“Take your coat?” I asked automatically.
She shook her head again. “I need it,” she said simply.
But still, she seemed to have taken the hint. Slowly, she lifted a hoof and slid back her hood. I fought to keep my face level as I did—as I saw the face I never thought I would see again—
The face of my Princess.
I stared. She looked just like I remembered her—and, at the same time, like something out of a nightmare. Her coat was a soft cream, but the color had faded to the dirty white of a mattress stain. Her auburn mane, which she had always worn in short bangs, hung about her face in greasy locks. And, though she had always been slim, now she was positively skeletal; I could see the shape of her skull through her skin.
“...Well,” was all I could think to say.
She seemed to catch my meaning anyway, and she gave a sad little smile.
We sat there, in silence, for a long time. I glared at her. I’d said all I had to say to her almost a decade ago, and I wasn’t about to start kowtowing now, even if she was as sick as she looked. And she… she just gazed aimlessly around the room for what felt like a half hour, examining every square inch of the life I’d built without her, and, somehow, never working her way around to looking me in the eyes.
Finally, she sighed—and let out a little, humorless chuckle. “Listen, Velle,” she said finally. “There’s… there’s a lot I wish I could say…” she said, “...and… and a lot I wish I hadn’t…”
“What’s done is done,” I snapped.
Her eyes widened a little. I leaned forward.
“Why are you here?” I growled. “I hope you didn’t wake me up in the middle of the night to reminisce.”
She shrank back a little, then swallowed several times. Then, she lit her horn, unzipped her jacket a little, and wordlessly pulled a manilla envelope from an inside pocket.
As she passed the envelope to me, I thought I saw, just for a moment, the hint of a suture scar—the line on her chest, from gullet to groin, where they’d slit her open like a fish, and scooped out whatever ugliness they could find, but no matter how deep they dug, they wouldn’t be able to find the real evil, where it lay deep in her heart—
But she zipped her jacket before I could complete the thought.
I took the envelope, undid the clasp, and lifted the flap. Inside was a thick stack of papers, typewritten, filled with hastily-scribbled corrections. As soon as I saw it, I scowled.
“We aren’t in college anymore, Your Highness,” I growled. “I’m not going to help you proofread—”
“Velle, please,” she said, her voice strained. “Just read.”
I shut my mouth and swallowed, then looked down at the paper.
I, being of sound will and mind, do hereby make this, my last will and testament. I, Princess—
I glanced up at her. She stared back at me, her gaze quiet and sad. I swallowed again, then turned my eyes back to the paper. I scanned past the introduction, then resumed reading.
Article I: I hereby assign legal guardianship of my children, Blueblood of Equestria and Celestia XVII of Equestria, to my old friend Twilight Velvet and her husband Night Light—
I stopped reading, then scanned it over once or twice more to make sure I hadn’t mis-read.
“Well,” I said again, fighting to keep my voice neutral.
She swallowed nervously.
“Do… do you accept?” she asked.
“I’m… not sure I have a choice, frankly,” I said. “I know you don’t have family, and—”
“There are others,” she said simply. “But I want it to be you—if you will do it.”
As I looked up at her, I felt a little bubble of old anger work its way up through my brain.
“Is this why you got our children together?” I said. “There’s no way that was—”
She frowned. “What do you mean?” she said.
I growled a little. “I know it was you,” I said. “I know you had something to do with Twi meeting Celestia. O-or Shiny meeting Blueblood. I mean—putting the colts in the same Ranger troop? Putting the fillies in the same classes at school?” I rose from my chair. “You can’t tell me that was an accident, that they just happened to run into each other and become best friends. I know you were trying to worm your way back into our lives, I know it—”
She swallowed. “Velle,” she said, “I had nothing to do with that. I thought that was you.”
That brought me up short. “You mean… all this time, it’s been… an accident?”
She smiled grimly. “What’s more likely," she began, "that Fate has, for some reason, decided to reconnect two old friends by apparent pure, random chance? Or that young unicorns about the same age, that live ten minutes’ walk from each other, happen to cross paths occasionally?” She shook her head. “Either way—I had nothing to do with it. I didn’t know that your daughter was even attending the Royal Academy until Cece mentioned it over dinner, nor that your son was old enough for Rangers until Blueblood brought him home one afternoon.”
I swallowed. “You promise?” I asked, hesitantly.
“I swear,” she said. “On my life.” She quirked a little smile. “For whatever that’s worth, at least.”
I stared at her for another moment, unsure of what to say. Then, I looked back down at the paper.
—and her husband Night Light. A portion of my estate shall be placed in trust to provide them with a small remittance for their time and expenses—
“I don’t want your money,” I snarled, looking back up at her.
In the old days, that would have been enough to start a fight. We would have screamed and hollered and argued until one of us stormed off. But, this time, she just lit her horn, pulled a red pencil from one of her pockets, drew a thick, harsh stroke through her remittance, and initialled the change. As I watched her, my eyes grew wide.
When she had finished, she lifted her pencil, but held it for a long moment an inch above the paper.
“Is that…” she swallowed nervously. “Is that the only deletion?”
I looked down at the paper again.
—I hereby assign guardianship of my children—
I swallowed, but said nothing. The pencil still hovered in the air.
“Velle,” she said, “I know I’m asking a lot… and I don’t deserve the help… but…”
“Shut up,” I snapped. She closed her mouth.
I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. I counted to ten, then began to speak.
“Princess,” I said, “I want you to know that you’re asking an awful lot of me right now.”
I heard her shift uncomfortably, but she said nothing.
“And, you’re right. You don’t deserve my help. Not after what happened.”
She remained silent.
“But…” I swallowed. “Once upon a time, you were my best friend. You were there for me when no one else was. And, despite what came after…” I paused. “Those memories are… precious to me.”
Again, silence.
“So,” I said, “in memory of what we once had…” I opened my eyes. “Yes,” I said firmly. “That is the only deletion.”
She swallowed, then put the pencil away.
“Thank you,” she said. “Velle, I just want—”
“Princess,” I said coldly, “I don’t mean to be short, but you’ve just about exhausted my generosity for the evening.”
She dropped her gaze to the table. “Ah,” was all she said.
She hesitated, then picked up the papers in her magic and slipped them back into the envelope, sealed it, then tucked it away in her jacket. She stood, and I followed her to the front door. She let herself out, and made her way silently down the front walk.
I leaned on the door frame, watching her go. Suddenly, against my own will, I called out:
“Your Highness?”
The shadowy form paused just inside the gate. I swallowed.
“I… have some time tomorrow,” I said. “Would you… like to do lunch?”
I saw her turn back to me, then she slowly shook her head.
“I’m… not sure I’ll be around,” she said.
We stood there, staring at each other, for a long moment. Suddenly, I realized that this would be the last time I would ever see her—my oldest friend, my greatest enemy—again.
And yet… that knowledge was not enough for me to stop her as she turned, opened the gate, and slipped out into the darkness.
* * *
Two days later, I was in the middle of scooping oatmeal into Shiny’s bowl while also trying to convince Twilight that, no, we do not bring books to the breakfast table, even if it is for homework, when, from across from me, Night Light snorted.
I looked up. He sat at the head of the table, staring down at his freshly-unrolled newspaper with a sneer on his face. He glanced up, saw me, then rolled his eyes.
“You’ll never guess who made the front page today,” he said, “nor why.”
He tossed the front page down on the table with a disdainful flick of his hoof—and, staring up at me from the table was a full-page portrait of the Princess.
I started, my eyes slowly growing wider. Somewhere in the distance, there was a faint plop, and Shiny cried out in dismay and alarm.
I didn’t need to read the headline to know what had happened. They hadn’t printed a photograph, after all—they had used her official portrait, the one where she’d had the time to put on her makeup and do her mane just right, the one where she smiled out at the viewer with one of her infuriating little half-smiles...
Twilight peered over the top of her book at the paper.
“That’s Cece’s mama,” she said.
At the sound of her voice, I blinked. I realized that I was still standing at the breakfast table in my bathrobe, unshowered, mane dishevelled, one trembling arm still outstretched, a fresh plop of oatmeal all over Shining Armor’s front. I swallowed. Mourning, for whatever may or may not have been, would have to wait.
“Go wash up, Shiny,” I said, putting on my best Mom-voice. He groaned, but got up out of the chair and waddled to the bathroom, making little ick ick noises as he walked.
I turned to Twilight. “Yes, it is,” I said. I grabbed Shiny’s bowl and carefully scooped up some fresh oatmeal for him.
Twilight looked up at me. “What does it mean, Mama?” she asked.
“It means,” I said carefully, “that Cece is probably going to be staying with us for a while.”
Night Light, midway through a spoonful of oatmeal himself, choked and coughed.
“Sorry,” I added, turning to him. “I… probably should have mentioned that sooner… but, when I tell you…” I shrugged. “I think you’ll understand.”
He pounded his chest once or twice, then scowled up at me. “I’d better,” he said. He reached out, picked up the paper, flipped it open, then held it up in front of his face. I was about to say something—but, when I looked up at him, holding the portrait of the Princess up in front of his face, it looked, for just a moment, like she was back again, sitting there, at my table, late at night. Like she was still begging me, in the only way she knew how, to help her in her moment of greatest need.
* * *
I eased open Shiny’s door and poked my head inside. He was already asleep, and Blueblood, on a cot opposite his bed, seemed to finally have dropped off, too. I nodded a little, then closed the door again.
I walked out to the living room. Cece—Princess Cece, now—lay facedown on the pull-out bed, her wings spread, heating pads on her new wing-joints, while Twilight slept on another cot by her side. I tip-hoofed up to Cece and checked the heating pads—still warm. At my touch, Cece moaned unhappily, but she did not wake. I hesitated, then leaned down and kissed her on the cheek.
I stepped back and stood watching the two of them sleep for a long while. Finally, I turned and walked to the kitchen. I grabbed a paper cup from a cupboard, and a half-empty bottle of wine from the back of the fridge. I carried these to the front door, then slipped outside.
I sat on one of the chairs on the porch, poured myself a little drink, and sipped at it. I sat out there for a long, long time, staring out at the darkened streets.
“I hope you’re happy,” I said at last, to the empty air. “I don’t know what you were trying to pull—I’m not sure I ever did—but I hope you got what you want, at least. Your kids are here now, and I’m going to do my damndest to raise ‘em right—at least, as much as I can.” I chuckled a little. “They’re sweet, in their own way, but difficult, too… I don’t know how much authority I’ll have to ground the literal Princess of the Sun, though…”
I fell silent. There was no sound save the cricket song.
“I’m still bitter, you know,” I said. “A-about what happened. Maybe it’s wrong of me, but still…” I sighed. “I can’t help but feel that you got the last laugh, somehow. That you won, in the end. I haven’t spoken to you in over a decade, but somehow, you dumped your kids in my lap. Almost like you wanted me to know that I would never be fully rid of you. That you would always get what you wanted, in the end…”
I sat in silence, hoping against hope that, somehow, she would hear me—give me some sort of sign—
But there was no sound save the cricket song.
Without warning, the front door squeaked open. I jumped, but quickly forced my face into a carefully-neutral stone mask. My courtroom instincts served me well again.
Night Light peered carefully around the doorjamb, then stepped onto the porch. In his magic, he held a fresh bottle of wine, a corkscrew, and another paper cup. Wordlessly, he walked over and sat in the chair beside me. He popped the top on the bottle, then poured a little for both of us. We drank in silence for several minutes until, finally, he sighed.
“I heard,” he said.
I grimaced, but forced my expression neutral again.
“How much?” I asked.
“Enough,” he said. “And I can guess the rest.”
I took a sip, looked down in the cup, then held it out. Night Light filled it again.
“This was her idea?” he said.
I nodded. “Mh-hm.”
He snorted. “Up to her old tricks, then?”
I hesitated. “Maybe,” I admitted. “But… you should have seen her…”
He looked up.
“She knew she was dying,” I said. “And, she knew there was still bad blood—”
“How couldn’t she?” Night Light interjected.
I nodded. “But, even so… I… I mean, it’s like...” I gestured helplessly with the cup. “You know what I mean?”
Night Light nodded slowly. “Maybe,” he admitted. He took a deep breath. “When she was literally on death’s doorstep,” he began, “with no one else she could turn to, she asked you to take care of her children. The one thing she cared about most.” He swallowed. “And… though there was still a lot of hurt there—on both sides—it was still a, uh…”
“She didn’t deserve the help,” I cut in. “She knew she didn’t, not after all she’d done. And she didn’t know she’d get it, after all I’d done. But still, the fact that she’d even ask, after all that…” I sighed. “Well.”
Night Light nodded. “Do you think… maybe she was trying to apologize, perhaps?”
I bit my lip. “Maybe,” I admitted. “Kind of a crap way to apologize, saddling us with more kids…”
“They’re good kids, through,” Nightie replied. “Mostly, at least.”
I hesitated, then nodded in agreement.
I took a sip from my cup. I thought for a moment, then glanced down at it. I saw my reflection in its surface—then chuckled.
“She regretted it,” I said firmly.
Night Light looked up.
“She regretted it,” I said. “Everything. I think she wanted everything to go back to the way it was, back then—maybe had, for a long time. But she didn’t know how to even begin.” I glanced over at him. “Would you, after all that?”
He just shook his head.
“But, even after everything…” I swallowed. “I think she still cared for me. She didn’t know how to say it, but she still remembered, deep down, what made us friends in the first place. And I think that’s what she was doing,” I said. “Among everyone she knew—all the bureaucrats, all the bootlickers, all the courtiers—she knew the only pony she could trust with her children—really trust—was an old friend she hadn’t spoken to in almost a decade. And that…” I swallowed. “That’s… that’s quite…”
“Quite an honor,” Night Light finished. “I suppose, at least.”
I nodded, unsure if I could speak.
Night Light and I sat quietly, side-by-side, for a long while, just looking at the stars. Finally, he drained what was left in his cup, then leaned over, and kissed me on the cheek.
“Well, my dearest,” he said, “shall we turn in? We’ve got quite the day ahead of us tomorrow—” he grinned. “—given that you’ve just doubled the size of our little family overnight.”
Despite myself, I snorted. “What,” I said, “they’re ‘our family’ now?”
He shrugged. “They’re already growing on me a bit,” he said. “I mean, it’s not every stallion who gets to say their adoptive daughter is a Princess, after all…”
I laughed, and he smiled, then kissed me again. “That’s my girl,” he said soothingly. “C’mon,” he said. “You’ll feel better in the morning.”
I took another look at my drink, then poured it into the planter. “I hope you’re right, Nightie,” I sighed. “I hope to Harmony you’re right.”
* * *
Shiny shifted uncomfortably beside me. “Can we go?” he whined, tugging at his collar.
“Almost,” I said.
We stood in the Memorial Hall, all six of us. The air smelled of flowers and hot solder. Before us stood the newly-unveiled stained-glass window. Towering above us in the watery winter sunlight stood my old friend, the Princess, smiling down at us.
The demands of being Princess made funeral arrangements difficult. Typically, when a Princess died, they buried her that same day, or, at latest, the next morning—all in an effort to make sure that someone else had the Peytral before the next sunrise. That sort of speed made it hard to really have a true funeral—or, the sort we ordinarily did, at least. That’s why the mourning for a Princess was never really over until at least they installed her memorial window. And so, two months after she had finally slipped out of all our lives, we were here in suits and dresses to see the Princess off again.
I hadn’t really wanted to come. I hadn’t for a long time. But with Cece and Blueblood under my roof, I had no other choice. We had to come to support them, of course—and, in my darker moments, I couldn’t help but think that, maybe, this had been part of Her Highness’s plan as well.
But, either way, we’d come. Nightie had taken Shiny to get a new suit, and Twilight and I wore simple, black dresses. Blueblood and Cece had their wardrobe taken care of by the Palace, of course—all black silk, with lace for Cece. It was almost enough to make me jealous of her…
But now wasn’t the time for that sort of thinking.
There hadn’t been much of a crowd today. Truth be told, I kinda expected that, but I think it caught Blue and Cece off-guard. The Princess hadn’t been the most popular monarch we’d ever had, after all. But still, there were a few ponies milling around—a few ponies leaving offerings of flowers, or small boxes of fresh quills, at the base of the window. Little things she would have liked.
As I saw the offerings they left, I felt the weight of the object in my bag, heavy as lead.
I watched what was left of the crowd quietly, until Nightie walked up beside me.
“I think Cece and Blue are ready to head back home,” he said, “and I know Twi and Shiny are getting antsy. You ready?”
I swallowed. “Almost,” I repeated.
I hesitated, then slowly stepped forward.
By now, there were only two or three ponies left. One of them was crying, and the others were trying to console her in hushed voices. I glanced nervously at them, then reached into my bag and pulled out the object.
I’d had to go digging in the attic for it. It was in a box in the very back, along with a few other mementos I’d almost forgotten about—my high school jacket, a college pennant, Shiny’s first horseshoes. It had taken me weeks to decide if I actually wanted to bring it or not—if maybe I should have just got some flowers instead—but somehow, it seemed appropriate. I set it down beneath the window, then took a step back and looked at it.
It was a photograph—a little faded with the years, but the colors still bright enough—in a simple, black frame. It was a picture of me, wearing a black graduation robe and mortarboard cap. Beside me stood a pretty mare, tall and slim, with a cream coat and auburn-brown mane, also in a robe and mortarboard. The two of us were hugging each other, me crying, she laughing, both of us grinning like idiots.
I stared at the photo for a long time. As I stared at the two of us—still so happy, back before all the ugliness—I felt my throat tighten. I didn’t cry—I had promised myself, long ago, that I wouldn’t cry for her—but still, my eyes misted a little.
Finally, I turned and walked away. My family—Nightie, Shiny, Twi, Blue and Cece—stood only twenty or thirty feet away, but those were the longest strides of my life. It felt like I was walking out of darkness into the sunlight—out of a memory and into the present.
I walked to my family, stood there for a second, then, without a word, turned and walked down the hallway. Night Light fell in step beside me, and the rest of them followed.
We walked in silence until we stepped out into the winter air. It was viciously cold, but the sun was out. On our way in, I’d thought the sunshine had been almost ironic—but now, it somehow felt right.
It wasn’t until after we had walked out of the palace gates that I spoke.
“Did I ever tell you,” I asked, looking over my shoulder, “that your mom and I went to college together?”
Blue and Cece looked up in surprise. Beside me, Night Light groaned a little.
“Dear…” he said, a warning in his voice.
I turned to him and shook my head a little. Not now. Then, I turned back to the kids.
“It’s true,” I said. “For a while, we were inseparable. You might not believe it now, but back then, she was smart, and funny, and always knew just what to say…”
And, as I talked—for the first time in what felt like far, far too long—I felt myself smile.
-The End-