One Month Later
Dear...
The phoenix-feathered quill froze, heavy within the grasp of her magical appendage, stabbing the page neath a weighty magenta glow. Twilight inhaled, remembering that she and the Mother of Equestria were, officially speaking, equals.
Silly her.
Dear Celestia,
First off, thank you so much for these weekly letters! I’ll be honest, it makes me feel like your student again! Oh, and of course, Starlight appreciates your concern. Every time we read one of your letters over breakfast, she just gets this big smile and a blush on her face! Though I wish the two of you could meet for tea, Starlight always insists that you have better things to do. You insist, and insist, I know, but she wouldn’t be the Starlight we know and love if she wasn’t just a tiny bit stubborn.
It hurt, inside and especially out.
Half of Starlight felt logged, submerged in water yet slick with muck, her nostrils clenching at the damp, earthen smell. A panicked exclamation and hurried hooves clapped wetly against the cobblestone.
A groan arose, her own, she realized, as the ringing faded: “My flank… Ow…”
“Miss Starlight! Oh, Miss Starlight, let me...” An ocean-blue hoof came into view, attached to a wagon-laden stallion one had to squint to see past the rainfall—the only relief for her blazing side. “I’m mighty sorry, y-you just came outta nowhere, and...” Blues’ words trickled out, drowned by the gentle patter against her coat.
How did this happen? One moment, Starlight was galloping hard down Mane Street, cutting between huts, the next she was dashed down Whinney Ave. Why was she running anyway? She could just magic her way back home!
Wait, that’s right.
First she was at Trixie’s, again, this time softening the blow of yet another day bothering her with a plate of subpar snickerdoodles (which she made on her own capable self, thank you very much). As she started back to Ponyville, it had begun to rain, and Starlight couldn’t teleport, so she ran. At some point, she must have made another genius move in the form of cutting through the only busy street in Ponyville.
Perfect. Somepony was taking a hot, hour-long shower. Again.
“Miss Starlight? A-are you okay?”
“I’m fine.”
“Ah, uh, are ya sure? You’re looking a tad bit… hungry, actu—”
Starlight batted aside his unneeded kindness. “Watch where you’re going next time. Please. S-sorry.” She rose. “For getting in your way. For s-snapping, too.”
And she limped home, grime and all.
Twilight didn’t dare question it.
Once again, I ask you pardon the messiness of these letters. I know I normally have Spike pen them, but between his duties and mine, there’s only so much time during the day! I have enough to write during lunch though—and, yes, as you can see, my diet has at last made water a staple. No more coffee and juice for this princess! Don’t want to let this new life going to waste, after all!
Spike pushed the daffodil sandwich closer. Twilight didn’t want to touch it. Not even look at it. The taste was good and yet awful, the grassy smell dizzying, the thought of chewing food, or even physically swallowing the stuff, made her want to gag. “Please eat, Twilight.”
“I can’t.” It was a battle just to have one bite, requiring force on her esophagus to take the nutrition her energy-demandent alicorn body sorely needed, and had been lacking for weeks.
Her bones cried out for more sleep, even as she was hunched over her work station, overflowing with scrolls bearing unbroken seals. They didn’t matter, and she used a certain pony’s copying spell to forward a pre-written thanks. Because Princess Twilight Sparkle didn’t ever receive political documents by mail—just fan letters, proclamations of relief from various mayors and leaders, or well-wishes for… for—
“At least have an orange,” Spike murmured, pushing the sphere in front of Celestia’s recent checkup. “You need to eat something today.” His voice wobbled.
If it would make him stop worrying… “Thanks, Spike.”
We’re doing well, thank you for asking! Great, even! I’m keeping myself busy, as always. Lots of friendship problems to solve, so little time. Applejack’s still in the thick of Applebuck Season, really throwing herself into her work, as is Dash with Wonderbolts training, and Rarity her various stores in Manehattan and Canterlot. It’s been lonely, but Pinkie and Fluttershy have kept me company.
And Fizzlepop! She’s been a big help. Around the castle, I mean. To tell you the truth, I probably would have gone Twilynanas without her!
“Eat something. You’re being obvious.”
“Right. Sorry.” Twilight levitated a leaf into her utter void of an inside. It was so empty it hurt, even though food was the last thing on her mind.
“Don’t apologize to me.” Fizzlepop—or, Fizzle, she’d claimed to prefer—clapped her way right, then left, like a sergeant. “Say sorry to Glimmer. Every time we have tea she tells me she notices… Have you even, really tried talking to her since—?”
“She doesn’t want to hear it.”
Behind Twilight sounded a tired sigh. ‘Failure,’ said its tone, ‘why did I take this job?’
“I’ve tried, okay? I’ve tried.” Fizzle stopped, perking Twilight’s heart with a pulse of life: regret. “I’m sorry for snapping. And… thank you for not leaving me. You still could if you want.”
A gentle, exhausted chuckle. “Sweet mercy I’m talking to Glimmer in disguise, aren’t I?”
Was Twilight really that bad? She couldn’t tell anymore. And worst of all, she just associated being like Starlight as something terrible. She really was an awful friend, a failure of a princess—
Something slipped around her neck and squeezed, strong, but not hard. “It’ll get easier. For both of you. Keep working at her.”
But I haven’t. I can’t. We can hardly stand in the same room as one another and wheneve we do talk it feels so forced and fake and I don’t know what to do anymore but I can’t go on like this but anything different might drive Starlight away and—Twilight touched her foreleg, grateful for the quiet, non-judgemental presence always by her side. Fizzlepop was amazing. She’d probably never get out of bed if not for her loving assertiveness.
Goodness, loneliness was an awful thing. Self-hatred was unbearable. Guilt and regret… it was too much. So much. How did Starlight bear it? Why did she bear it?
Twilight couldn’t hold herself in any longer, and let the tears flow. “I’m sorry for crying so much,” she gasped.
Fizzlepop, Guardian of Friendship, wrapped her other foreleg around Twilight, her armor’s weight leaning into the back of the chair. It was stiff, it was awkward, it was comfort they both sorely needed right now.
“Sorry I couldn’t be of more help,” she said, bashfully adding, “Princess.”
“Please call me Twilight.” It was so pitiful, but she already had one hurting, fearful friend addressing her so formally. Two would be maddening.
“Apologies, Twilight. I’ll remember next time,” Fizzle said for the hundredth time.
Twilight managed a smile; it was enough.
Oh, yes, she’s settled into her role nicely. Though she’s too shy to say it, I know she’s thankful every day for my trust and kindness. As is Starlight!
Whups, there I go talking about her again. But it’s true! Starlight’s really recovered since losing her horn—as if she needed it in the first place—and has really acclimated to this new lifestyle completely void of her special talent. I’m so proud of her. She’s truly grown into a selfless, independant friend.
I will never regret her coming into my life, no matter what.
Starlight couldn’t help but feel like a leech.
Though they tried their best to hide it, their efforts made it all the more obvious: from Trixie’s waning smiles to Twilight’s forced ones over meals, and Spike initiating painful smalltalk every dang time.
Fluttershy and Pinkie seemed normal. Seemed. But the rest have been gone for longer than they ever would normally, and Twilight never mentioned them much. Or rather, she didn’t after initially speaking of their conveniently busy work schedules. Part of Starlight, when she was lying in bed, thinking about everything, wondered if being near her and Twilight was too much for even her circle of friends.
What was a Princess of Friendship without those who got her that title?
An absurd notion. Those ponies were destined to be together. This felt like victory! At least, it should have. I wanted them to focus on their own lives. I got what I wanted. I’m happy for that.
I’m happy.
Finally, her friends were living their lives instead of wasting them on Starlight’s.
But Maud didn’t speak unless spoken to anymore—or rather, like she used to, more or less. But it said something, didn’t it?
Didn’t all of it?
Did I exhaust them into submission?
Are they truly just tolerating me now as an act of kindness? Remembering the old me they once knew? The uncomplicated Starlight Glimmer? The mostly-all-together-Starlight?
Part of her wanted to ask. A small part.
The rest of her, though, remembered “the day.” The one after the Gourd Fest. The day she told all those who cared and worried about her to buzz off.
It felt like victory. It should have.
So why did Starlight feel like the biggest loser, every waking moment?
Why couldn’t she just be normal?
Why wasn’t she happy?
I worry for her, of course, as all…
Twilight tapped the quill to her chin, another tissue floating toward her. Oh, forget it, she decided, blowing her nose, dabbing her leaky eyes. It’s Celestia. And I’m being just as obvious as Starlight by this point.
And so she continued, ...as all parents do. And teachers.
It annoys her to no end, but, she always knows it comes from a place of caring. As I know your concern does, too. Which is why, with all due respect, I wish you would stop apologizing for your self-proclaimed “failure” a month ago! There is no need! Me, Luna, and Cadance couldn’t unveil Flutter Valley on our own, and one could argue it felt more imperative that we had at the time! Granted, that was before we knew who, exactly, we were looking for…
Twilight considered adding, “and that they were right in front of us, around us, throughout all of Equestria all along.”
A chill skittered down her spine, across her wings.
...we were looking for. But I assure you, the effort would not have amounted to much anyway! Starlight would have appreciated it, of course, but simply put, she’d never accept any development coming from further dealings with those witches. Even the notion upsets her—and I swear, as one of her best friends, I can tell this isn’t some kind of trauma (remember who we’re dealing with! Ha!). Starlight just doesn’t want any of us losing something on her behalf. Nothing.
It’s unfair. I hate it. I know I grief about this every letter and I’m sorry I’m really sorry but it’s just so unfair! She can’t stand the idea of us repaying her, even with something as innocuous as a thank you!
It’s unfair.
And if that is how Destiny wills it, then so be it.
What was that anymore? “Destiny.” The witches in the form of a historial and mythological lie? Is that what the Tree of Harmony truly was—three grisly humans from who-knows-where feeling and guiding every pony’s every action every moment of every single DAY?
Such questions made the world spin, and Twilight feel sick to her stomach. She banished them, as always, for she knew herself, and knew such thinking would literally drive her insane.
I’m fine with it. We are fine.
Please, please stop pinning the blame on yourself. We’ve all failed in this trying time—even me. Even Starlight.
Yours,
Twilight Sparkle
With a mere thought, the Great and Powerful Trixie plucked Mommy’s flower-painted kettle off the campfire, its screeching abating in an instant.
“Hot-tea, for Trix-ie,” she sang low, floating it to her sidetable, beside a plate of snickerdoodles Starlight made. On a normal day it would sit quietly in her wagon, holding memories, but the rain peppering her wagon’s overhang obscured Trixie’s foalish tune, and any prying eyes.
“This is the life,” she sighed, hunkering down in a foldable. A snickerdoodle crashed into her open maw, crunching as earl grey poured itself into a homemade teacup. Quaffing half, a grainy, hearty warmth trickled down her throat, Ponyville in the distance silent, still, and screened in silvery rainfall.
Further back, her best friend was inside that gaudy purple tree-castle, snuggled next to a burning hearth with a good book, like she always said.
Trixie floated another cookie to her parting teeth, when suddenly—”Hi Trixie!” said an upside down, sopping-wet vampire fruit bat.
As any self-respecting pony would, Trixie screeched… and attacked. And gracefully toppled back in her chair while doing so. “EEK! Get away!” she cried over the short, sharp zip of magic, cleanly drilling a hole through the dripping forelock of… “Pinkie Pie? What the—!?” Trixie rose from the dry grass, the hole in her mane clenching shut. “Who raised you to pop out of nowhere and terrify ponies, huh?” she demanded, magically brushing her flank.
“Maud, actually!” replied the little nudge.
Fair point, Trixie decided, as Pinkie dropped before the campfire. “Ooh, toasty. Thanks!” She rubbed her hooves, somehow—and somewhat sadly—not falling forward into the flames.
Honestly, Trixie’s primary concern was a lack of memory in inviting annoying ponies to her wagon. “I’m sorry, did I offer you a place under my—?”
“Hello, Trixie,” whisper-yelled a specific somepony. “Oh, my, that tea kettle is adorable! Where did you get it?”
Trixie grimaced. Of all the ponies, of all the times… She swirled the contents of her teacup before her. “To what do I owe the pleasure, Fluttershy? Pinkamena?” Her swig was deep, near-scalding, and mind-numbing. She hastily refilled, though didn’t show it in a single deft movement.
“Okay, okay-okay-okay, you’re busy so I’ll cut to the cheese,” said Pinkie, adopting a weirdly worried look while hugging herself warm. “We need your help, super-duper-badly.”
“Um, specifically Starlight does,” added Fluttershy.
Over the drumming of rain above, Trixie’s overflowing cup tinkled unto the grass. “With what?” She simultaneously resettled Mommy’s kettle upon the sidetable and floated a snickerdoodle each to Pinkie and Fluttershy, both of them taking it with thanks, Pinkie’s muffled by said cookie in her mouth.
“Starlight and Twilight aren’t getting any better,” she explained between chews. “They’ve been getting worse, and—”
“Let me stop you right there,” said Trixie, hoof upraised. “Worse in regards to what? Starlight’s been fine as far as I can see. And Twilight gets to live again. What does she have to complain about?" Honestly, Starlight was far more concerning, from the occasional sigh, the forced pep, and avoidance of discussing home and grimacing guiltily whenever Trixie joked at Twilight’s expense. “They've been fine.”
“Um, you think that, even after their… argument?” said Fluttershy, as though it were obvious.
Perhaps to somepony well-versed in inane riddles. “Are you telling me you were a part of something, all of you, and Trixie… wasn’t even told?”
The troubled look exchanged between Pinkie and Fluttershy told it all, and Trixie didn’t need the yellow ex-doormat to spell it out for her: “Oh, dear, Starlight must have kept it from you. She… does that a lot. Or, used to, I think, but… not with you.”
No. No. That was absurd. “Oh, she tells me plenty.” In the contents of her tea, Trixie saw a mare more bothered by this revelation than her tone let on. “Every day, in fact. How tired she is, how she can’t stand being home… Pretty standard since she gave up her horn. Aside from that, we chat, go on walks, cook, read, scrapbook, croquet, disk golf...” And her mouth went on, and on, and on, her thoughts and feelings all the while asking:
Why didn’t she tell me? Did she think I wouldn’t understand?
“Trixie,” Pinkie cut in, “are ya sure you know Starlight as well as ya think you do? ‘Cause, I thought I did! And I’m me! I know ev-ery-pony. But Starlight… she almost never sees anypony. She hides in her room whenever she’s not with you, she’s apologizing a lot, and I mean a-lot, now, and—you had to have noticed! You’re besties!”
...Yes, she had noticed a slight difference in her since the Gourd Fest. And it bothered Trixie. It bothered her to hear of her friend’s whinging, remembering how Twilight accused Starlight of not sharing much, even with her best friend. It hurt to remember the old, strong, cocky Starlight. Though Trixie didn’t care enough about the difference between her and the new, gentle, softspoken one. They were both still the same courteous, encouraging, occasionally snarky Starlight Glimmer that had been Trixie’s bestie for years.
It didn’t matter enough to bother her with questions she clearly wouldn’t want to answer.
“So what?”
“And… do you know why she feels that way?” Another glance exchanged between those two, and Trixie sensed something familiar emanating from their gazes. Something like understanding.
As if they, and Starlight, knew what it was like to be a wasteral of society, mocked by everypony, loved by none. At least, until her best friend, and all the rest, followed: the companionship, the hero-glory, the fans and the shows… which she really ought to get back to doing across Equestria, outside of the central glades. Bigger crowds. And a little time away from—
No. That was a bad thought. Bad Trixie! She needs you!
“So, again, what? All I'm hearing is that I was some kind of, what, a mental escape for Starlight? One she doesn’t even use fully?”
Why, though? Where, in her best friend’s heart, was Princess Twilight that Trixie simply… wasn’t?
And with that thought emerged a slew of other selfish, old-Trixie ones: Am I just being used after all I’ve done for her? Does she fully care when we’re together? Is Twilight really more loved than me? Does Starlight still stick around here instead of joining me on the road because of that?
That had to be why. It had to.
And then a little imaginary Maud smacked her upside the head with a rock.
“Trixie? Didja hear us?”
No, but it didn’t matter. Starlight needed her, badly, and these two had come to her for help. “Yeah, yeah, I heardja. Just tell Trixie what needs getting done.”
Fluttershy smiled as Pinkie pepped up, her mane suddenly dry and frizzy as cotton candy. “Alright, great! Because we already got Maud, Sunburst, and Thorax on board!”
Part of Trixie’s heart deflated, just a little.