Everything felt heavy today. And yesterday. Really, the last week or so. But these last two days were pretty hard.
Even the quill weighed, like, everything in the world. But Twilight was a princess, the Element of Magic, and one of the most powerful ponies to have ever lived.
If she could do one thing, just one little thing right, it was write.
‘Good morning, Starlight!’ wrote Twilight. Her magic went on autopilot, filling in the rest.
This was so fake. Her gut writhed, agreeing, even as her soul went into every word. Am I just making excuses not to see her at this point? Twilight wondered.
The friend who had sacrificed so much, so that she’d live against all odds?
Was this their friendship after four straight days of emotional abrasion? Twilight shuddered—actually shuddered—on this muggy Thursday morning.
It’d be so, so easy to put what she told Starlight and Tempest to practice. No. Don’t be even more selfish than you’ve already been. The last thing Starlight needs right now is more stress, and another excuse to lie. Lie in some misguided attempt to please her friend.
Twilight’s stomach throbbed so bad, even worse than before when she’d skipped breakfast. She despised this. Hated the games and the deceit! Most of all, she despised her gut reactions to these feelings, knowing that in the end, none of what had happened was Starlight’s fault. None of it. Not even her wild behavior.
After all, she’s done nothing to make the problem better. If anything, Twilight’s incompetency in a situation this severe had only made it worse. This made sense. It was logical.
But no amount of mental gymnastics could change how she instinctively felt, because part of “the blame” (such an ugly word) was still on Starlight. She’s the one who made a conscious effort to act the way she did, rather than oppose it.
In a way, she was still the heartbroken filly who’d lost her best friend. Who believed, deep down, she was part of the blame, despite it being a culmination of various circumstances.
That, similarly, was logical and made sense and stood as the undeniable fact of the matter.
And yet, and yet, because there’s always gotta be another side to Friendship Problems...
Starlight can’t help how she feels, either, Twilight thought as her signature punctuated the note. But she’s still lying to everypony. All the time. Even about her own health. Even if it could hurt others…
It was grossly irresponsible of somepony usually so mindful and cautious around others.
And so, she’d avoided her last night.
Of all the absurd, unlikely occurrences this past week alone, Twilight, the Princess of Friendship, had become the one avoiding Starlight, one of her best friends.
Instead of waiting to greet her, she’d stayed in bed, fuming over Redheart’s visit. Instead of feeling totally sorry for Starlight, Twilight had the gall to feel even a tiny bit angry. Even betrayed. Instead of empathizing, she was misinterpreting, believing Starlight purposefully withheld this information because she believed she could handle it, even the pain that would follow after her nullification charm ran its twenty-four hour course.
Did she expect to stomach it for all time? Avoid Twilight for the rest of history? No, of course not. Starlight was just scared, and Twilight was too bitter and nasty to look past her own feelings.
Why?
Why were they like this? Why couldn’t they both grow up and just talk?!
Why is she being so obtuse and strange around me and everypony else? And why am I so… so angry about it?! The platter cover jingled innocently as the note slapped down beside it, weighted in her magenta field.
Twilight trembled, sighing. Look at me. Within the silver, a gasping, sweating alicorn looked her in the eye. She was a princess, acting like a foal.
“Ready to go, Twilight?” Spike was in the doorway, pack hanging off his shoulders. Celestia only knows how long he watched her stare down her reflection in the platter cover.
“Yeah! Yeah, let’s go.”
Spike looked like he just saw her growing a second horn. “Are you sure you’re good, Twi? You don’t wanna eat anything?”
Even if she wasn’t, even it she wanted to, Twilight had a duty to fulfill. “Yes, Spike, I’m perfectly fine. Let’s go before the humidity gets too bad.”
Spike turned on his heel, but didn’t advance, lingering with suspicion.
As soon as he was gone, Twilight clapped herself in the forehead. As if faking it to Spike would do her any good? She was even wearing a mask like Starlight now, right down to its poor concealment.
Twilight shook her head. At the end of the day, my personal feelings don’t matter in the slightest. The risks are too great to get distracted by them, however valid they might feel. It doesn’t automatically include them as part of the equation.
Most importantly, she wouldn’t be of any help if she kept falling into her usual patterns of freaking out.
It’s disgraceful to put me on the same level as Celestia, Luna, or Cadance, too. Perhaps my unworthiness is all in my head, and I’m just too sad right now to see any differently. A profound ache roiled in her chest, screaming in agreement. Twilight, at last, was wholly accurate in something, and that was worth making this pledge: I’ve been a veritable antithesis to all the Princess of Friendship stands for. It’s because of this that I’ll power on through the my grief, my pettiness, and fight my unworthiness. And I will never stop, not even for breath, until I make it up to Starlight and repay her sacrifice a thousand-fold.
These words echoing within, over and over, dousing her scorching negativity, gave Twilight the strength to hold her head higher as she and Spike made for the winding path to Ponyville, and Town Hall lording over it all.
“Hey, Spike?” she asked as they entered town.
“Yeah?” He did a hop, jostling his backpack. “What’s up, Twi?”
Twilight, miraculously, felt as good as she did leaving the castle, every step taken executed with greater ease than the last. Unrelated, perhaps. Illogical—physical activity should have no genuine ties to one’s mental health.
“Until our business with the mayor is concluded,” she said, “let’s not think about Starlight, okay?” They only had between now and then to poise themselves for this crucial meeting.
“Uh, sure,” he stammered. “But that’ll be kinda hard since she’s the reason we’re going there.”
‘Good Morning, Starlight!’
Twilight’s stunning morning energy was audible even now. At least somepony’s sleeping well. Something twisted inside of her, a nasty thing, paradoxically bitter to her thankfulness. It’s like some part of me wants Twilight losing her mind over me.
Starlight shook herself free of jealous thoughts and pawed the letter closer.
‘I truly hope your day with Rainbow Dash was a relaxing one, you’ve certainly earned it.’
‘Truly.’
‘Certainly.’
This had to have been a joke. If Twilight knew of half of what she’s done, which she certainly does, because she’s Twilight…
Starlight chuckled wickedly. “Sheesh,” she sighed, smile lingering. “Our lives have become an ongoing dramedy.”
But that’s just what happened sometimes. Life was funny like that, Starlight’s life story stood as testament to that fact. Invigorated a whopping one percent, she read on.
However empty, the lengths Twilight went, pretending everything was as fine as Starlight wished they were before, it was funny.
And a little bit flattering.
‘You’re probably wondering where I am. Well, if you need either Spike or myself for any reason whatsoever, then don’t hesitate to look for us at Town Hall. We’re seeing the mayor. Just princess business, you know the drill! Anyway, I wanted to apologize for missing you morning and night these last several days. It’s certainly not intentional—in wake of “The Great Depression” (Equestria’s name, not mine), much and more has been demanding the attention of the Princess of Friendship, first and foremost friends. I promise you, I am not lying when I say it’s imperative I tend to my responsibility now than later. I know you understand, however. But it hurts me every time I leave without so much as a hug.’
One would have to be blind not to know that. But they’d have to be an idiot not to see the obvious.
How it didn’t change the fact that Twilight Sparkle, who was on the verge of ditching her own party for Starlight, was now looking for excuses to keep away from her.
Honestly, hugs? How could she forget Starlight hated that sort of thing? It’s because she didn’t—Twilight was a famously bad liar.
Starlight couldn’t blame her, even if she had the energy to care about it. She’d lost the right to feel offended after daring to end their friendship. And over the simple gesture of trying to repay her, nonetheless.
Feeling dazed from deja vu, Starlight skimmed the predictable rest.
‘I hope to see you tonight if you’re home. If not, if you are with your friends, I insist you not to worry about me. Any time with friends is time well spent, after all. Twilight.’
‘P.S.S. (Post-Sparkle Spike) I made your favorite breakfast! Enjoy.’
That explained the covered platter. So, Spike’s done with me, too, huh? The last bit’s clearly Twilight’s hornwriting.
She didn’t sign it “Your Friend” like always, either.
Didn’t she?
Scanning the last paragraph confirmed her f—observation, as well as Twilight not grouping herself as one of Starlight’s friends any longer. It might have been a mistake. Most likely. But nothing is impossible, after all. She herself might not have even noticed. Subconscious, intentional, it didn’t matter. Twilight’s feelings bled into this letter, striking and unmistakable, like the very ink she wrote with.
And then Starlight gasped, unable to breathe. Had she been holding her breath? Why? Why, I don’t care. I don’t. It doesn’t matter, Starlight. You’ve pushed her away yourself. You wanted this, and you’ll move on. You’ll move on. You’ll move on.
The twisting in her chest loosened, just enough to make breathing easier. “Hah,” Starlight sighed. “Hoo. Much, much better.” She just had to remain rational until, well, sometime better than now.
Starlight reared up, gripping the silver platter in both hooves instead of getting her mouth all over the knob on top. She was slapped in the muzzle by the warm, buttery smell of pumpkin spice pancakes upon removing it.
Twilight, Spike… Whoever, whatever, thank you. She felt the pathetic grin she wore, setting aside the cover of this simple gesture. Whatever. I needed this after… after last night.
A claw filled her vision and flashed white, giving way to unblinking brown eyes resting above a mutilated, empty smile before the world trembled to the sound of hail pelting against a window—the kind of sound only gold on crystal could make.
Starlight gasped, her heart running for the hills. Reality surged forth, bright purples and blues and pumpkin-spice blowing away the utter monsters perverting her thoughts, holding her throat. At her hooves, the chair laid on its back.
Sighing, Starlight bent over and picked it up, putting her shoulder into it past the halfway point. I could have chipped the floor, she realized, glancing down at the pristine crystal with shame. And I’d already be done with breakfast, too. Not really, though. But she’d have blinked back to her bedroom, enjoying the flavor of her pancakes before a good book. All with zero extra steps in between.
Plopping down, silver flashed and caught her eye, tucked beside the shortstack. Starlight smiled, feeling something naive, warm, and small—gratitude—blossom outwards for the samaritan thoughtful enough to leave her silverware. How kind of them to presume she was already a master of the clumsy things that capped her forelegs, and not stuck eating food like a dog. Or Pinkie Pie.
No sense in not trying, Starlight thought as she slid them off her plate, wincing even while anticipating their oft-unheard clatter against the table. She then proceeded to spend thirty seconds, failing to hold the fork in her foreleg. When it was finally grasped in the crook of her hoof, she felt like a champion again.
“Aha!” Starlight cried, proceeding to stab her breakfast with the blunt end of a fork.
Her victory, her smile, crashed down burning.
“Oh, go to Tartarus, you piece of trash!” she yelled over its twanging against the wall across from her.
Wow. Wow.
Silver lining… that was a pretty good throw.
But Starlight’s gut weighed even heavier, despite threatening to eat itself. I will… pick that up later. Yeah...
Flushed at nothing, just living up to her fate as an idiot, Starlight focused on her breakfast. How to tackle this? She analyzed one side, than the other, sagged over from the topmost flapjack. How can I avoid a mess if this’s gonna be covered in…
And, of course, another one of life’s inconveniences befell her.
“Yep. They remember the silverware, but forgot the syrup.” Like she was in any position to begrudge their generosity. “Or rather, I did,” Starlight muttered. “Not that it matters. Would rather not make a toddler’s mess, steer clear of any embarrassment. Especially since it’s looking like another day with just me and… and...” Starlight proceeded to shovel an entire piece into her mouth, her thoughts drowned in mouthwatering buttermilk. Her teeth mashed greedily. I can’t believe I snuck past her door like a foal on Hearth’s Warming. She crammed the next into her mouth, chewing and stuffing and swallowing all at once. No, no. That was the right call! She’d have just chewed me out again. I’m nothing but a dreamer in her eyes. A desperate dreamer, an antithesis to her entire life’s struggle. Regardless if I’m right or not.
Starlight barely tasted the earthiness of the pumpkin, the sweetness of the cinnamon, or the butter that’d apparently soaked into her pancakes’ plush depths. She only saw Tempest, her hate, her disgust. She only tasted her words, their bitterness at the world, awful because of one little mistake she could have avoided. And for Starlight, a pony lost in her own delusions, too far-gone to realize how they’d affect a mare too old and worldworn to take them with anything less than scorn and mockery.
Tempest’s treatment of her wasn’t any better. It shook her even now, foal she was. But Starlight was most certainly not the victim here. Nor was Tempest. But she was the jerk for poking a sleeping bear.
I’m… I am a jerk. Starlight blinked, the white depths of her plate going on forever and ever and ever. I’ve been a jerk, always. My carelessness dealing with Pharynx, the violation of my friends’ privacy, all because I was scared of Twilight’s disappointment?! Starlight gasped wetly. I can’t deny it anymore. I act like I care. I act like I empathize. But in the moment, when it matters most, I only care about myself. I’ve proven that time and again, and especially this past week, my deafness toward my friends’ worry… and my inability to be honest with them. Why can’t I just tell them the truth?!
A prospect that chilled her to her core. No. No. No, my friends—! They’re hurt enough. I’ve hurt them so much. Taken so much of their time. A soft, wet plop burst against the porcelain below. Three years of their lives, wasted with me.
Heck. Just a minute ago, she was writing off her housemates’ efforts to feed her and communicate as being done with spite! If that’s not indicative of how little she’s changed from the oppressive, arrogant, desperate mayor of Our Town…
Twilight’s Entrance Hall was in the other room, just through the door at Starlight’s left.
If she left…
If Starlight got up and left right now…
They wouldn’t miss me in the end. Maybe at first, they think they would. But after a day, maybe even an hour, the weight would lift from their shoulders. The ponies she still considered friends, even if the emotional resonance was certainly one-sided by this point, would realize how much easier their lives were without Starlight Glimmer to stress about.
And then their lives would, at last, go back to normal. It’s why I gave up my horn in the first place, after all. That’s what I wanted from Hydia when you cut to the heart of it. Or, me...
The more she thought of it, the more that idea sounded really, really nice. It offered an objective benefit for both parties in the long run, what with Starlight finally being able to focus on herself, to start again. Perhaps learn to write like an earth pony, then open a private school for teaching spells. She’d leave her advanced textbooks to Trixie, of course, she had no suitcases or compression spells to cast—Twilight would fight her, of course. It’d be easier for everypony just to rip the band-aid off. Starlight could do this. She could definitely do this. Her magical knowhow was burned into her memory from years, no, a near-lifetime thinking about spell theory and its rainbow of applications.
This was not a bad idea. It wasn’t bad at all! For once in her life, Starlight had a good, well-thought idea on her hooves!
A sharp pinging from across the table shot her heart with fear—fear of Twilight—-a burn which quietly smoldered as she took in the mare before her. A second later, Starlight grinned and didn’t bother fighting it. It was like a light at the end of a dark, monster-filled tunnel.
She was still attached, but, dang it, Starlight couldn’t deny how much she loved this pony.
Even when she unceremoniously teleported in, facing the wrong way to boot. “Starlight? St—oh! There you are!” Trixie cried with atypical flourish, as if she didn’t just make a fool of herself. Starlight had always admired that ability of hers. “How are you doing this fine morning, bestie?”
Starlight mustered the energy to smile; easy, given the rush of combined euphoric whallops. “Oh, just, you know,” she hesitated, lifting her empty plate a little, just to show, only for the knife to tumble off and clatter and make her wince in apology. “Just finishing breakfast.”
“Mm.” Trixie smiled, eyes narrowed, obviously not interested. “Well, we got a surprise for you today.”
Starlight laughed with unease. Somepony other than Trixie? “I hope that ‘we’ is part of a new act involving royalty! Or something…”
“What? No! Don’t you see? It’s me and—” Trixie gaped at her empty left, then right, then at Starlight. “Um.”
It was impossible not to snort laughing, an unladylike sound that Starlight, like the foal she was, giggled further with slight embarrassment. And even more as Trixie searched everywhere, even underneath her legs.
But she went rigid and silent as Trixie cried out, “Maud? Maudie? Oh, no, where did I put you?” There was a beat without a reply, and Starlight was ready to admit she’d nearly forgotten Maud (again) when Trixie yelled into the heavens, “Maudileena Diane Pie, you are ruining my brilliant routine!”
“Just tell me what you have planned, then we can teleport directly to her,” said Starlight.
“We’re treating you to a ‘Mare’s Day Out.’” Starlight and Trixie went rigid as one. “Also, I’m up here.”
That much was obvious, and not what surprised them both. The fact that it was a thing at all was another matter entirely.
As two best friends only could, Starlight and Trixie lifted their eyes in unison, to where Maud was draped across the chandelier, looking ready to take a nap.
Normal, essentially. “Hello, Starlight. It’s good to see you again,” she droned with as much enthusiasm as she could muster.
Emotion filled Starlight. “Yeah!” Something about her caused Maud to tilt her head, looking like some kind of cheshire cat up there. Probably because Starlight was so weird and awkward. “You too! It’s good to see you too! Both of you.”
“Is something wrong?” Maud asked.
Yes. No. Everything’s horrible but you guys are great. Starlight could only muster a smile, and a chuckle. They both came here when they didn’t have to, chose to spend their time when Starlight didn’t deserve it. When she was just thinking about ditching them, of all things.
And Starlight proceeded to cry laughing, and laugh crying.
“Starlight?” Trixie gasped, teleporting to the other end of the table, as did Maud, them both appearing on either side of her, very close. “Hey, come on. You can talk to us. Or me, at least. Owie!” Trixie rubbed where Maud hit her.
Starlight couldn’t tell them the whole truth, she couldn’t! But she did tell part of it, because they deserved that much after putting up with her. “I’m a big, gross mess,” she explained, “but I gotta say, you ponies are the best janitors a friend could ask for.”
Trixie said nothing, then “What?!” before she sputtered, giggling uncontrollably. Starlight, with eyes shut and dribbling warmth down her cheeks, knew whose forehead rested against her temple, nearly crossing horns with what was left of her own.
She then peered through the blurry, annoying veil, glad to see Maud just smiling. She hardly had reason to ever do so, yet Maud remained happy as she wrapped a foreleg around Starlight’s withers. Of all things!
It wasn’t hard seeing it as Maud’s equivalence of a Pinkie Pie-hug.
Thrumming, a deep, steady boom, and nothing more.
Twilight tapped her lap in time with every thrum-thrum. A mindless distraction. A waste of time. Both at once. The clock was only twenty seconds ahead from when she looked to it last. Starlight needed her, probably assuming the worst of her so-called friend. It hurt knowing how badly she needed Twilight, even if she didn’t think so. Needed her to be spoiled the surprise, assuming it will come to fruition, just so she didn’t think Twilight was avoiding her.
Mayor Mare knew she was coming, though. What in Equestria was she waiting for? It’s been ten minutes, and she seldom had anything on her plate this early in the morning! In all likelihood, she’d heard Twilight talking to Spike, knew that her best judgement was impaired just from hearing her panicked, fearful words.
There’s no way she’d accept this idea.
A firm smack of the cheeks forced away her terrible thoughts. “Note to self,” Twilight mumbled, “get at least one good night of sleep this week. Maybe a spell. N-no, too dangerous in my state. Zecora would have something, though.”
That’s right, Twilight. Keep not-thinking. Thinking hurts you, distracts you. It makes you flustered and anxious and emotional, everything a princess shouldn’t be. Don’t forget, you’re here to meet an equal—no! An actual politician, somepony with genuine power over this town. Never forget, you’re an upjumped outsider.
It was easy enough: not-thinking. Her brain would easily veer towards thinking, towards her very reason for being here, but Twilight would promptly yank back with a distraction before she could fall uncontrollably down the spiral of the last few days.
She just couldn’t think about it. At least until she was through with Mayor Mare, and preparations could really get underway.
But the ideals comprising who Twilight Sparkle was couldn’t up and ignore all the signs she’d been ignorant of: the constant, obvious lying, the reassurances, the skittish gaze. All while avoiding Twilight’s presence and her efforts, snapping at her friends, reducing the ex-Tempest Shadow to looking like she just encountered another Ursa.
And because of her, it’s gotten so bad that Starlight was a danger to her very health.
“We can salvage this, Spike. We can still help her.” Twilight wouldn’t be who she was if they couldn’t. She wouldn’t have been given a second chance, nor would Starlight have all those years ago, if they couldn’t.
Twilight had to believe this, the one thing that kept her inner dam together.
But somepony did, too. Somepony practical, who didn’t think she was desperate and crazy and throwing all science, reason, and logic straight out the window. Another needed to agree with her.
“Spike?” Town Hall’s lobby mocked the pitiful, needy way the princess of Equestria uttered her best friend’s name.
“You’re getting manic on me again, Twi.” A page-turn punctuated Spike’s softspoken concern.
She lowered her head. Thank goodness ponies seldom came to see the mayor. “I’m sorry.”
A cool, scaly forehead laid against her foreleg. “Don’t be, I get it. But this is the fifth time you’ve said that, and you’re worrying over nothing. Come on, the mayor loves Starlight!”
Oh, Spike. Despite the fact that he, save for the Two Sisters, was the one soul who knew of her close-shave with dark magic, despite him being far stronger and mature than she often gave him credit for, Twilight turned away. She couldn’t stand to show her face, not even partially, as the lies she told him yesterday and those she upheld today weighed relentlessly against her chest, crushing her, suffocating.
Now I’m lying, too. For no good reason, I’m lying to protect… What? My pride? Spike’s heart, or his time? Starlight’s dignity?
Nothing felt right, yet all of them did at once. It was a paradox, and Twilight just wanted it gone from her life. Only one thing made sense now: This must be how Starlight has felt. Every moment, of every day, since losing her horn. I’ve no right to be upset with her.
And yet, I am.
“Hey.” Twilight started as a cool grip wrapped around her upper foreleg. “Remember that whole week she kept Ponyville protected, while everypony else was called by the Map? They mayor was so grateful of her, and you had to personally come here and ask her to stop sending muffin baskets! Starlight was too polite to ask you to do it for her!”
She vaguely remembered, if only because so much else was occupying her mind.
Twilight shushed him—harshly—in case the pony in question could hear their gossip. It took the image of her best friend shrinking back, hugging Power Ponies to his chest, to finally show the extent to which yesterday’s dire news had rattled her.
“I’m sorry. It’s… my nerves. But if she hadn’t heard us before, well,” sighed Twilight, slumping back like the dignified small-town princess she was, “then she’s certainly heard us now. Thanks to me.”
“As if that’s a bad thing,” Spike said assuredly. “Or even a thing at all. She’s known you for years, Twi. It’s not like anything you could do is gonna impact her decision. Especially since… well…”
‘Starlight’s sacrifice,’ he was going to say, forgetting Twilight’s, ‘I’m not thinking about that this morning,’ rule that she’d broken countless times already.
“I would hope that her professionalism remains unbiased in light of recent events,” said Twilight.
“What? I thought you wanted her to accept your proposal!” Spike cried, puzzled. “You went and woke me up to rehearse a speech you’d rewritten. On the back of your toast. In jam. How come we’re not hoping for the best?”
“Actually, it was marmalade.” She really has been out of control, though, when now more than ever it was imperative that Twilight kept her emotions in check. “Look. I do want this to work out. Of course, I do. Starlight’s going to love it. But I don’t want this just for me, Spike, or Starlight for that matter. I also want it to benefit Ponyville, not hinder it. And if Mayor Mare is going to treat this with the professionalism I expect of her, then—”
“We’re a valley town tucked away in the shadow of Canterlot, whose major export is tourism and apples. Tell me, Twi: how is Ponyville in any danger of being ‘hindered’ by a party?”
Twilight inhaled, an explanation ready to swan dive off the tip of her tongue. But her brain was far too exhausted and drained and just plain empty to try and drill an economics lesson in Spike’s head.
“Politics are complicated.”
“Last time you said economics.”
“They’re the same, really.” Spike laughed. Twilight found herself smiling at the sound. “To put it simply, shutting down an entire village, even for half a day—maybe even the following morning, given how Ponyville parties—it’d put a sizable dent in its economy and productivity, basically. And no,” she said forcefully, sensing Spike’s open mouth and raised claw before setting eyes on either, “we can’t just ask Princess Celestia for, quote, ‘a boatload of money.’”
Spike slumped, only to brighten back immediately. “Actually,” he said, “I was going to suggest Ember. Haven’t you forgotten that dragons like Starlight? Remember? That time she won those teenagers’ respect? And most importantly, dragons have more gold than they know what to do with.”
They sure did. They also wouldn’t give it away freely at this point in their friendship with Equestria, Starlight or no. The Dragon Lord might, but that demanded travel, time, and a debate the Changelings shouldn’t—nor wouldn’t—delay their holiday for.
“Twilight? You’re,” Spike choked, shrinking as she simply looked to him, “well, you aren’t exactly mumbling again, but you looked like you were.”
Twilight, the mentally-sound princess that she was, pictured that, her eye twitching all the while. “Wonderful, and just as the time to meet Ponyville’s leader draws closer by the millisecond.” If Twilight couldn’t control how she looked on the outside… Was she more or less obvious than Starlight?
Spike was eyeing her with concern, a telling sign, before she met his gaze and asked seriously, “Do I look like I’m suffering from sleep deprivation?”
She must have uttered it too quickly; Spike took a painful three seconds to process this before replying just as fast, “Yes. Well, no! Kinda?”
How hard could it be to say yes or no? “Please, Spike, this is for Starlight’s sake! Which is it?”
“All of them, I dunno! You’re not giving me a lot of time here.”
“How much would you need?” Twilight muttered.
“Look at this from where I’m sitting.” Spike put his comic down, clasped his claws together like some exasperated professor. “You’re Twilight Sparkle: freakout specialist.” Mental preparations for a borderline-insulting joke were underway, signaled by a loud groan. “When you’re not busy smiling with friends or at the thought of friends, you’ve typically got this… this look goin’ on. Like a… Like a smoothie of sleepiness, anxiety, thinking, and general Twilight claminess.” He listed every trait on one claw, then held it up so she could discern the painfully obvious.
“Okay, I get it.” Twilight enveloped herself in the toasty, plush confines of her wings. “This isn’t new for me. I’m worrying about nothing like always, aren’t I?” Then the rest fully hit. “You think I’m clammy? Since when?”
“Since forever!” Spike laughed. When he noticed she didn’t, he began smoothing her violet plumage. “Twilight, I’m not tryna make you feel bad or anything. I love you. I really, really do. But this is your deal, you know? It’s who you are. Above all, it’s a lot to analyze closely. Even for me, and especially when you won’t let me.” His eyes, twin shining emeralds, emanating concern… Twilight couldn’t recall a recent memory when they weren’t so glossy. How long has he looked at her like this, and she herself too caught up in her own head to notice?
“I’m… sorry,” Twilight realized. “Spike, I’m sorry I’ve been such a pain, a-and—”
“Up-up-up!” Spike held up a finger. “Not the point. Everypony knows you, Twilight. Who you are, what your deal is, all of that. That’s who this town loves… That’s who this town almost collapsed over, because it was so sad it couldn’t even function!”
As if Twilight didn’t know. As if that made the process of dying even slightly easier. The volume of familiar visitors, who took time out of their lives to mourn her and mourn with her, brought Twilight closer to many ponies she’d only said a few words to over the years.
But that was the one thing that made dying easier. Everything else...
“The prospect still doesn’t exactly make me feel all warm and fuzzy inside.”
“As you’ve mentioned every time I bring this up,” Spike mumbled. He withstood a lot of Twilight’s quirks on the daily; if this one was annoying him, it must have been especially tiring. “But when you look at it where I’m sitting, isn’t it silly to think Mayor Mare’s gonna change her mind because you’re looking like yourself? Baggy eyes and all?”
Where he was sitting, outside of the hot mess Twilight called her rational thoughts, the notion of Mayor Mare thinking less of her over that sounded absolutely absurd.
Like… always.
“I’ll take a check.” Spike was back to reading his comic, like this was just another day for him.
“Spike…” He deserved so much more than silence, the occasional begrudging acknowledgement, or Twilight’s atypical deafness towards reality. “You know me so well, even with what to say, and how to say it. I don’t say this much, because I forget to, but I’m glad to have you in my life.” From the corner of her eye, his purple scales adopted a Cadance-esque hue.
“Y-yeah, well—”
Twilight opened her left wing and scooped him in before he could finish. “Thank you,” she whispered. Her side cooled, his belly pressed up against it. Spike wriggled, saying something about how embarrassing this was, because he was always trying to be a tough guy the world took seriously. Even now, as he relented and squeezed her back, tighter than he ever had before… before...
“How many hours did we spend together like this? In the past month, Spike?”
“From the looks of it, I’d reckon it wasn’t enough.” Twilight instinctively whipped around, taking poor Spike along for the ride. Mayor Mare’s smile was heavy with exhaustion, yet the lively spark in her aging eyes assured there was nothing she ever missed, and thus hadn’t seen in years before Twilight even heard of Ponyville.
“Of course,” she continued, head tilting as her smile sagged, “recent events have impacted many ponies in more ways than one. Chief among them being the time we spend with our loved ones. You’ve created a ripple, Twilight, whether you like it or not. In my opinion, it’s for the better. Ponyville has always prided itself on its comm-unity,” she chuckled, as Spike groaned, “but this past week has been at an all-time high. However, I’m sure you’ve not found yourself in my office to discuss the sharp incline of positivity around town, and your hoof in making that happen.”
“N-no, Mayor.” Twilight was still sitting. She practically threw herself away from the chair, lowering Spike upon her back as she did so. “If you think about it, then I suppose it’s inadvertently related. You see, I—”
“Wish to throw a town-wide celebration with all of Starlight’s friends in the name of her heroism and selflessness?” The mayor’s wry smile deepend as Twilight, and definitely Spike, went slack-jawed. “This is a tall order, Princess. Especially for a town our size, the distance between us and the Changeling Hive and the work that must be done before tomorrow evening. But if we all work together, I believe we can make it happen.”
As Twilight picked her jaw off the floor, Spike spoke her mind and asked, “Hey, are you Pinkie Pie wearing a suit or something?”
“Nope! But she is with her!” cheered a familiar voice. Sure enough, a poofy pink head stretched out of the mayor’s office, a manner anatomically impossible for normal ponies, but pure Pinkie Pie to the mare in question. “Gasp!” she cried. “Twilight! Spike! I knew you guys were smart, but I didn’t realize great minds literally thought alike!”
With another stroke of the brush, Trixie’s mane felt ever-lighter, ever free of last night’s tangles and split-ends.
This was a marvelous idea, if she had to say so herself.
It was official: once things were settled down, and Her Royal Highness was back to resolving disputes over “he said, she said”s or whatever, Trixie would petition to have Aloe and Lotus ascended to alicornhood. Mud baths, pre-sauna massage, mane grooming, they were a master of all and second to none, with every visit better than the last!
The Spa Twins were far more worthy of such an honor (and had Sparkle beat in poise and looks to boot). When voicing such objective facts, Aloe and Lotus laughed gently under their breaths and dismissed themselves as “lowly masseuses.”
They were humble, too! And more graceful than Princess Sparkle at that.
When Starlight pointed out that it isn’t an alicorn princess who decides when a pony Ascends, it led to a long discussion on the higher mysteries. Or, more accurately, a long interrogation, as Starlight was tight-lipped about the whole thing, even when Trixie asked about those witches. She felt kind of bad after, especially in receiving the judgemental sidelong look sent from her bestie’s other side.
On the one hoof, Trixie was offended Starlight would tell Twilight and even Maud Pie about the incident, even after she respectfully restrained herself from the urge the other day!
All in due time, Trixie supposed. But I can’t lie to myself: being denied only makes me want to know more!
More about the creatures so powerful, they could save Twilight from absolute death; the ponies who dwelled somewhere so obscure, that nopony but Starlight herself knew where; beings who scared her so terribly, the ever-confident and cocky Starlight Glimmer became a neutered dog at their mere mention.
And whom she didn’t even mention to her best friend before diving happily into danger for Twilight “Ungrateful” Sparkle.
Trixie sighed, treating her jealousy as one would a bawling foal. Most ponies would consider her the bawling foal—that’s what Maud had implied back at the restaurant, and Rainbow did yesterday. Absurd. Trixie was the one who was selfish? All that self-righteous talk of Twilight, how she and her lackeys cared so much about Starlight they thought being blatantly sneaky would be helpful in any way.
“I am not the most insightful pony around.” It had torn her apart to say this aloud, but Starlight needed to hear it after Trixie had brought up Rainbow when they were bored and sweating in the sauna. “Nor is Trixie the best mare around when it comes to making ponies feel better. But she is insightful about you, Starlight, and she’s obviously the best at making you feel better in these troubled times.”
“Uh-huh.” Starlight still got sour when Trixie demeaned her so-called “friends.” Incredible. She was simply too good for them.
“And in Trixie’s great and humble opinion,” she continued without missing a beat, “Rainbow should have known to stick to a direct approach as she’s typically wont to do. She knows you’d have happily accepted quality time with her if she’d asked.”
“I know, right?” Starlight agreed, before changing the subject.
Trixie was careful not to spoil the others’ intentions. She might not love them, but those girls loved Starlight, and causing mischief between them would only stir discord the likes the God of Chaos would grow misty-eyed towards.
And he was the last individual that needed to get involved in this. Trixie would rather swallow her pride, bare herself to Starlight, and swallow the Sucky Six’s schemes in quiet than introduce more chaos into the mix.
Starlight had given her opinion a solemn, “I agree,” and changed the subject to the prior topic: The Dragon, the Mage, and the Bureau, a series she and Trixie adored and had been trying to get Maud into.
It suddenly occurred to Trixie, as Lotus combed through her mane, that she’d busied herself recalling the last five minutes out of sheer boredom.
For goodness’ sake. Starlight was more talkative than this! Was she actually feeling awkward after their little cry-session back in the castle? She was either blind or, Celestia forgive Trixie, being a big dumb dummy not to notice her great and powerful affection.
At least, that’s what she was nowadays, which they had Twilight and her sacred, precious, cosmic importance to thank for that.
“Hey, gi-irls!” she moaned as Aloe, working in tandem with her twin, hit the sweet spot within the frog of her back-left hoof.
There was a snort, but a Starlight-sounding chortle simultaneously. “Something deep and personal you’d like to tell us?” Maud croaked. Croaked. Trixie knew she was going to love this place!
“Unrelated, but I’m happy to be right,” she replied. “Oh, and that you’re clearly enjoying yourself over there.”
Past the sudsy mane of Starlight, her tub, and the hot steam enveloping her pleasure, there was a denser, greyer cloud beginning with Maud’s placid expression and ending in Bulk’s muscular back-half, all of which emitting the sound of a saw cutting through rock.
It was a testament to how complacent she’d gotten to weirdness, how Trixie was more surprised she was able to think with that grating sound. “You are enjoying yourself, are you?” she wondered.
Maud didn’t so much as budge from looking into the ceiling. “I’ve never felt so good in my entire life. It almost feels too. Good,” she enunciated.
For emphasis, right? “And… that’s a good thing?”
Starlight cast her a glance, smile, and one brief nod as Bulk Biceps reared his giant head, the sawing abating. “You want me to stop?” he asked. “Or slow down?”
“No. Go faster.”
“Right on, dude!” And Bulk vanished into the dust cloud, proceeding to hurriedly sand the grit as part of Maud’s hooficure. If it were somepony other than Trixie inspecting her for dishonesty, they’d have missed the tolerable Pie’s throat pulsate, her lips part a centimeter with a soundless sigh.
“This is so nice,” Trixie groaned. “No drama-talk. No threats or tension. Just three girls, pampering themselves in preparation for a party.”
“You said it.” Starlight sank into the sub, her chin becoming submerged. She looked practically asleep.
Trixie drew her eyes shut as well, the sawing across the room weirdly nice to think to. You definitely needed this, girlfriend.
With the combination of such peaceable thoughts, the repetitive grooming of her mane, and the careful kneading of each of her hooves and their respective legs, Trixie didn’t realize she’d fallen asleep until she was nudged, and awakened to Starlight’s apologetic smile.
“I almost considered leaving you here. C’mon.” She jerked her hornless head aside. “Let’s get back massages.”
Once the aggressive beating of their backs abated, and their words no longer sounded like they were driving a coach over gravel, Trixie asked, “Have you ever wondered how they make cranberries,” she paused, swallowing another moan as Aloe worked her magic near the base of her dock, always tight from sitting on it, “hoo, into a sauce? ...Girls?”
“Really?” Starlight muttered.
“No,” said Maud. “Too bitter.”
The irony from her. The dispassion of the other. Trixie never thought she’d have associated with these girls three years ago. “Oh, come on, you two. Haven’t you ever stared into that gelatinous Hearth’s Warming dish incorrectly labeled as a ‘sauce,’ and wondered just how berries turned into something like that?”
“I swear we had this settled last Hearth’s Warming.”
Trixie was too wrapped up in silly emotion, finally celebrating the holiday in a house (granted it was a castle) with friends (granted one of them was Twilight Sparkle), to remember much else. Pitiful, yet true. At least neither of them remembered.
“‘It doesn’t matter, who cares?’ was not a satisfactory explanation, believe it or not.”
Sure enough, Starlight didn’t recall saying that. “Oh, uh, sorry. Um, you just mash em up into paste, then mix in some sugar. Then you chill it with a spell.”
“Or an enchanted box. A refrigerator.”
“Right.”
“That’s still a spell, Maudie,” Trixie just had to point out. After all, she was the dumbest one here at this moment.
“Only technically. An enchantment is permanent until broken,” said Starlight.
“Uh, so?” Trixie scoffed.
“So, it’s different enough to warrant the distinction. Spells are temporary. Otherwise, every unicorn who’d ever cast an enchantment would have a glowing horn twenty-four-seven. Sure, the casting of enchantments requires a spell, but they’re about as closely related to each others as mares are to stallions.”
Trixie blew a raspberry, then buried her muzzle into her folded forelegs. “You’re no fun,” she muttered.
“That’s… just how it works! Eh-heh, heh… s-sorry. I’ll shut up now.”
“You don’t have to apologize!” Trixie and even Maud said in their respective volumes.
“Alright, sorry!” she replied defensively.
“You don’t have to be, Maud said, though was drowned out by Trixie’s, “Stop. Saying. Sorry.”
Trixie rested on her right cheek, looking to Starlight, who mirrored her, right down to looking all weepy-eyed. “You don’t have to apologize for every little transgression. We’re used to ragging on one another, aren’t we?”
Starlight, thankfully, smiled back. “Y-yeah. Yeah, you’re right. I’m… not sorry,” she chuckled alongside Trixie, “but I still, I dunno, feel bad. About a lot. I… I don’t know, girls, I’ve just been messing up lately. A lot. I’ve been weird this whole time, I know—”
Trixie waved her off. “You’ve been fine.” She noticed Starlight’s eyes shimmer before she turned away, the towel wrapped around her head swinging down with the movement, concealing it. Must have been the light, then.
But now, Trixie didn’t know what to say. She wanted to avoid presuming Starlight’s mental state, and avoid worsening their once-jovial atmosphere, but still. Something was obviously bothering her.
“You’re fine with us,” said Maud. “There’s not much different about you from how you’ve always been, today especially.”
Starlight paled, even as she remembered to nod and how to speak. “R-right. That’s… it means a lot to hear that from you two. Seriously. I’m just thinking too much about what others think of me.”
Trixie would kiss Maud if her stable door swung that way. “Another commonality of yours, which I am fairly fond of,” she said coolly. Because while Trixie wasn’t so different, Starlight never felt the need to pretend how she felt. To hide this fear. “I find it admirable. The way you hold yourself in spite of it.”
“You mean skittish and sweaty?”
Trixie bit back her laughter, for, yeah, that was also applicable. “Rather your honesty, and the way you treat others around you. I’ve noticed it tends to attract like-minded ponies, as opposed to, well, repelling everyone. Maud, Sunburst… Twilight, and yes, even yours truly, we hide it better than you, Starlight. But it makes you far more approachable, too. And that’s the truth… Starlight?”
If Starlight thought she was weird, needy, or worse, insulting for saying all that, Trixie might just die—
“I heard you! I… I heard you. Thanks,” Starlight sighed. “Thank you. Both of you. That was,” a heavier sigh, “it was a lot to take in, that’s all.”
Trixie looked back over, where Lotus was tackling Starlight’s withers, her client’s face conveniently in her forelegs. It was hard not to feel dread at the prospect of Starlight and her thoughts alone together.
“Are you okay?” Trixie hated how conscious the effort took, sounding as sincere as she felt.
Starlight heard it, thankfully. She nodded, never lifting her face. “I’m good.”
Trixie’s body flushed with relief, a unique mental sort that felt better, somehow, than the skillful kneading of her withers by Aloe’s hooves. Starlight’s fine, it assured her. She’s going through a lot, but it’s like Twilight always said, cheesy as it is.
‘Good friends can make the worst of times seem like the best.’
Starlight must recite that in her sleep by this point. She was the most mature of her circle of misfits. She was the strongest. And her idea of “messing up” was foal’s play stacked against Trixie’s, by a long shot.
Honestly, it was surprising. That is to say, how Starlight stood by her all these years, as her best friend, no less. She was a better mare than she believed, in almost every way that mattered. Actually mattered. It was a crime, the way that ungrateful princess made her feel, how she’s reduced such a great and powerful friend, however unintentional.
Just you wait, Twilight. I’ll make this r-RIGHT! Trixie nearly screamed in delight as her vision flashed white, a crack thundering from her mid-back area.
“Now that was impressive,” Starlight remarked.
“My, my,” Aloe breathed, her breath hot in Trixie’s ear, “even I did not realize you carried such tension, Mizz Lulamoon. You hide it vell!”
“Apparently, not well enough.” Trixie didn’t bother trying to deduce whether Maud was making an observation or a jab until, seconds later, she added, “Did I poke fun correctly?”
“Yeah, you did,” said Starlight. “You attacked a friend’s insecurity with lightheartedness, demonstrating that you’re aware of her depths and are close enough to riff on her, who in turn understands that it wasn’t spoken with malicious intent. You’re good, trust me.”
“Wow. Thanks.”
Starlight laughed breathily, trembling a little as Lotus compressed her withers, and perhaps the tension from yesterday’s peculiar magic incident. A memory tingled Trixie’s curiosity, and was immediately dispelled. She knew herself enough to know she’d begin asking about it incessantly, had she not done so. For whatever that was, whether Starlight was lying to hide it from Rainbow or not, it’s her business. Not Trixie’s. Despite the fact that besties told besties everything, there were some things about herself she’d never tell Starlight.
Even she would loathe to know the true Beatrix Lulamoon.
A sentiment that was lost on Rainbow Dash, to be sure. Knowing her, she was already whispering hypotheticals in Twilight Sparkle’s ear, conspiring with her, on their way to make the problem worse. That’s Sunday’s problem, Trixie thought. After the party.
Later on, long after the disastrous Gourd Fest, Trixie would come to regret her stupidity here, her innate inability to empathize with her best friend. The depth of her problems, how ingrained they were in her being, their startling familiarity—all of it. Conceitedness that took years to build up the Great and Powerful Trixie had only made her situation worse, especially in the week that followed.
For most of what followed was entirely avoidable, if only Beatrix was even half as good as Starlight Glimmer.
And Trixie regretted every step she took, or lack thereof, in the days leading into their breakup.