The make-up sex after the physicians left was slow, and cautious, and under a hanging blanket of suffocating tension.
They sprawled on opposite sides of the straw mattress afterward, Clover staring at the fire, Celestia staring at Clover.
She was the first to break the silence. "I've been thinking," she said, "about that amulet of yours."
Clover closed his eyes, drew in a slow breath, and let it out. "I'm sorry I did it," he said. "If you hadn't hurt me … but you won't, not any more. I'm destroying it in the morning."
Celestia was silent for some time.
"Actually," she said, "I've had a lot of time to think, and you know, it might be the best thing that could happen to us."
Clover lifted his head and looked back at Celestia. Her expression was unusually somber. "I'm serious," she continued. "Remember what I said about living at full intensity? We live life at different speeds, Frumpy. I love …" her voice faltered. "I love the idea of you, and I love our time together, but your half-measures and your weaknesses start to drive me crazy and after a week or two I just want to strangle you. But this way, every time I start to resent you —" she made a little gesture with her hoof — "flip! And look at me! A year later, I'm desperate for you again."
"But you wanted to strangle me the first time I came back."
"Because I didn't know what had happened! I spent a whole year thinking I'd lost you, just like that! But this way I'll expect it, and I don't have to resent you for making me tone myself down for you." Celestia reached forward and tentatively touched a hoof to his shoulder, giving him a hopeful smile. "What do you think?"
Clover chewed his lip for a few moments, then rolled over to face her, wincing as his weight shifted onto his tender side. "Celestia," he said, looking into her eyes. "Listen to me. I do love you — and I don't really have a life beyond my job and my studies and my two best friends. But I would have to give up that life for you. Watch years vanish in between moments. Do you understand what you're asking?"
Her smile wavered, and she forced it back to her muzzle. "I know. But I can promise you me, and I can promise you only the best of me, for every moment we're together, for every moment of the decades you have." She patted a hoof to her flank. "I can be your sun, bringing eternal brilliance to your life, and you can be my planet, grounding me and giving me something to shine for."
Clover couldn't help but laugh. "That's poetic. Have you been studying the classics?"
She laughed back. "Nobody's been stupid enough to go to war with us since I scorched the Wastes. I spent a lot of time last year with literally nothing better to do than page through your stupid books."
"Hey!" He swatted her playfully on the shoulder. "They're not stupid."
"Psssh," Celestia said, rolling her eyes. "Me neither. 'Cause there's at least two of them I made it through without falling asleep four pages in."
They shared another laugh, and then Clover leaned forward and gave Celestia's chest a long, slow nuzzle, closing his eyes to feel the rise and fall of her breathing.
Her voice pierced through the gentle haze of his exhaustion. "Clover?"
"Yes?"
"I …" She faltered for a moment. "I was serious."
He looked into her eyes and brushed a hoof to her chin. "I know. And I'll seriously consider it." He sighed. "It's just … it's a lot."
"I know." Celestia swallowed, then opened and closed her mouth several times, at first staring into Clover's eyes, then tearing her gaze away.
"… Please," she finally said, then snapped her mouth shut with the clack of teeth, and her lower jaw trembled.
Clover's heart twisted inside his chest.
He closed his eyes and swallowed, knowing that there would be no going back from the choice he was about to make. An odd vertigo settled in. He took a deep breath.
"Well," he said, wriggling forward into her embrace and laying his head on her leg, "you know I can't resist a well-read mare."
Years spun into decades, and the world aged in the split seconds in between.
Before each flip, Clover would retreat to Everfree Palace to take a day or two for himself — checking in with Pansy and Cookie when they were there, and writing them lengthy letters when they weren't. Sometimes he caught up on news, and sometimes he deliberately avoided it. Sometimes — after Celestia had misjudged his limits and enjoyed his company a little too enthusiastically — he just slept for a day or two to let his body heal.
Captain Pansy changed his bandages, and listened to his tales with an unshakable smile.
Clover tried to tell himself that Platinum was doing alright without his counsel. Many would have argued she was, with the Tribes at peace and the world being inexorably tamed. But every time he allowed himself a few hours to get swept up in work — or scheduled an audience or a meal with her — she was a little more distant. A little more tired. A little more surrounded by the petty sort of pony that grew like barnacles on the hull of court.
Then, one year, Platinum refused to see him at all. He was bluntly informed by a minor official that a small trust fund had been set up for him, and he would be allowed to rent his old room for three nights per year at nigh-extortionary rates. Despite his best efforts at getting within eyesight of Platinum again, that was that.
By the next time he flipped, Major Pansy had bought a house in the forest near Everfree, with a spare bedroom that never failed to smell of fresh linens. And despite her pegasus heritage, she had cultivated an enormous flower garden worthy of a family of earth ponies, which always seemed to be in bloom no matter the time of year he arrived.
On one of their visits, Smart Cookie introduced him to a taciturn pegasus mare with penetrating eyes — a young sergeant on leave from her military garrison on the Crimson Coast. The next visit, she was wearing Cookie's marriage-band over a permanently scarred leg and split hoof, and their two foals were already learning to walk.
Colonel Pansy's house was never empty — Clover could scarcely stay an hour there without one of her fellow officers, or a neighborhood colt or filly, wandering by for tea or cookies. But she never introduced Clover to anypony, other than the casual introduction of one friend to another.
Clover watched Snickerdoodle turn from a round foalish blob to a stout, shaggy colt to an awkward, stammery teenager to a quiet, grounded young stallion to a sous-chef in Queen Platinum's kitchens. He watched Sugar Cookie turn from a frail, bony infant to a bedridden, sickly filly to a shy perpetually-coughing youngling to a brilliant young mare of letters. Then he didn't get to watch her at all, as she followed her father into diplomacy and took a permanent post overseas.
General Pansy — whose garden was still unfailingly, perpetually in bloom, although it seemed to be more a community garden than a pony's, judging by the constant stream of soldiers in with fertilizer and out with flowers — said Sugar had grown into a very sweet mare, and her legs shook only a little as she showed off her chests full of Sugar's letters.
Three visits later — when he hugged a graying, wrinkled Pansy goodbye and stepped outside her front door and flipped his necklace and turned around to knock — it swung open on silent hinges to reveal the looming presence of Luna.
Clover froze.
Then his brain parsed the cold fury in her expression, and he bolted.
Or tried to, anyhow. The air took on a midnight glow, and Clover glanced down to realize his hooves weren't quite touching the ground as he galloped. Luna — her horn lit — strode forward next to him and sat down. Her muzzle was set in its usual mask, but her eyes were as frigid as a windigo's.
"You missed her funeral," she said.
Clover stilled his flailing legs. "What?"
"She had one request on her deathbed," Luna said as emotion twitched at the edges of her mouth. "Only one. She wanted you to be there. To tell you how she felt. And when I explained to her that you were not to return to us for six months yet, she said, 'Well, it would be lovely if he was there for the funeral.' Those were the last words she ever spoke."
Clover's heart unclenched, only to plummet into his ribs. "I …"
Luna whirled on him. "Alone!" she shouted, lunging in — then restraining herself with an effort. "Alone and broken-hearted at the time she needed you most." Her muzzle curled back to reveal clenched teeth. "Which might well have fulfilled the prophecy," she hissed, "if I believed there was any possibility whatsoever that Star Swirl was speaking of her."
Clover couldn't muster any more than a deflated whimper.
Abruptly, Luna's hornglow vanished, and Clover landed with a bone-jarring impact. He staggered for balance, scrambling a few steps backward, then risked a glance at the alicorn. Her eyes were closed and she was breathing through her nose.
He glanced around the side of the house at the garden. It was overgrown and deserted, many of the bushes a drab out-of-season green. And the enormity of it finally hit him. In the span of an eye-blink, one of his dearest friends was six months gone.
A friend who had loved him.
"Luna," he ventured — and when there was no response, swallowed and pressed on. "I'm so, so sorry."
"I am certain you are," she said, eyes still closed. "It is insufficient."
"I, I don't," Clover said softly, tears gathering at the corners of his eyes. "I don't know how I never saw it. I was a fool."
Luna was silent for several seconds.
"I am not certain whether it reflects more poorly on you," she finally said, "that you spent Pansy's entire life blind to her feelings for you, or that you think I am here because of her."
Clover froze, mentally reorienting himself.
"Well, that isn't going to happen with Celestia," he said, putting as much conviction into his voice as he could. "This was the life I gave up for her. This was the sacrifice I made."
"More fool you." Luna's eyes finally opened again, and the calm in her voice somehow felt even more ominous than her barely controlled rage. "My own foolishness has been every bit as great. I assumed at first that Celestia would break you, and you would retreat to the comforts of a mortal mare and inflict your curse upon some pony of no consequence. Then, when my sister made her oath, I assumed that my warning would suffice to prevent you from acting rashly for the few years or decades before she lost interest. But now that the mare has passed on who you might have otherwise reciprocated the love of, and Celestia's irrational fixation on you has not waned in the slightest, I can no longer take refuge in denial."
"What denial?" Clover protested. "Didn't you just say Pansy died alone and broken-hearted? The prophecy doesn't say how I felt about her, only that I —" his voice hitched for a moment — "I failed her."
Luna snorted. "No, Clover. I shall not allow you to repeat my own error with so much at stake. The prophecy would not have referred to the trifles of mortals, or Star Swirl would not have wasted my time with it."
Clover swallowed, knowing how much danger he might be in if he couldn't hold his emotions at bay long enough to talk Luna down. "But the only way this isn't about Celestia is if it's about the trifles of mortals," he said. "Isn't that what we're trying to make it about? Shouldn't we accept it for what it was?"
Luna's eyes narrowed. "Do not try my patience by ignoring context. You were perfectly capable of breaking that mare's heart without the gift of a priceless artifact." She stepped forward. "And you continue irresponsibly, callously encouraging the infatuation of the sister I love beyond mortal capacity."
The alarm bells that had been quietly ringing in the back of Clover's head cranked up to a deafening peal. He glanced around, beginning to wonder what he could do if the situation turned ugly. If Luna had been willing to wait in Pansy's house for him to reappear, he had a sinking feeling that a flip of the amulet wouldn't do much to save him.
"Nay," Luna continued, "his words were a warning for exactly this moment, to ward off disaster before it was too late." Her horn glowed for a moment, and she stepped forward — her form shimmering oddly before snapping back into focus. "Clover the Clever, when I shared his prophecy with you, I believed you would have the wit to handle it with greater care. Had I suspected then that you would aim the blade of my warning at Celestia's heart, I would have ended you on the spot."
She locked eyes with Clover, her own devoid of emotion. A chill ran down his spine.
Clover tried not to squirm under her unflinching gaze. "What do you want me to do, then?"
"You will walk away. Give me the amulet and leave my dearest sister. Find another mare to fall deeply, irresponsibly in love with, and spend the rest of your days with. And, when that ends in sorrow, the prophecy of your failure will speak of the power you gave up for her."
Clover's throat tightened. He couldn't do that to Celestia … could he? No. She loved him, and it would break her — most likely in a way that made the prophecy horribly self-fulfilling, and leave him fleeing Luna for the rest of his extremely short life. On the other hoof, he wasn't certain that he would be walking away from the conversation if he pointed that out.
"Luna, it doesn't have to be like this," he murmured instead. "Help me find a way."
Her eyes narrowed. "That is what I just offered."
"But we could —"
"No, Clover," she interrupted. "I am not fool enough to beat my head against walls in search of a false door — not when the exit lies within sight."
Clover swallowed and tried again. "You've toppled empires with your wit. I've saved ponykind with mine. Imagine what we could do if we worked together."
"Indeed. If you simply saw reason we could save my sister from an unimaginable tragedy." Luna's horn lit. "This is not a request, mortal, and I will not repeat it. Your selfishness places Celestia in the greatest peril. Relinquish the amulet, or face my judgment."
Clover, mind racing, took a step back from Luna — only to bump into something. He glanced over his shoulder to see his hinds against her chest and her glaring face inches from his muzzle. Clover yelped in shock, flinging himself forward. A midnight glow again surrounded his body, and before he could react, he felt himself being lifted and slammed spread-eagled into the wall of Pansy's house.
"Don't!" Clover squeaked. And then, in a burst of desperate inspiration: "Don't do this to yourself!"
Luna — the one he'd backed into; whatever illusion she'd cast had vanished from her original spot when he'd looked away — strode up to him in stony silence. Her face remained unreadable. But, Clover noticed, her ears had angled back slightly at his plea.
He swallowed and tried to dig at that tiny crack in her armor. "How will Celestia react? What happens when she finds out you were responsible for this?"
"She will thank me," Luna said. "Someday."
"I … don't think you believe that."
"What you think is immaterial, so long as you remain a danger to her."
Luna glared up at him, the shimmer of her horn intensifying. The air by her shoulder deformed and rippled, and a gleaming spear twice the length of her body — its shaft an eerie pale metal, its blade limned in blue-white light — emerged into her horngrip.
Clover squirmed uselessly against the iron grip on his limbs. "Luna. Celestia has never once in her life backed down from a challenge. You do anything to me, and she's always — always — going to look back on this, and see you ripping her heart in half because you were too scared to let her try to fight."
The spear angled toward Clover's throat, its tip quivering. Luna's face twitched for a moment. She squeezed her eyes closed, nostrils flaring in inhalation, before refocusing her glare at him.
Clover swallowed through a suddenly dry throat. "Please, Luna! I'm not worth losing your sister's love —"
Luna's horn flared. The spear shot forward — and buried itself halfway into the wall by his neck, vibrating from the impact.
Clover opened and closed his mouth wordlessly.
He … wasn't dead.
Luna snapped her eyes shut and screamed.
For a fraction of a second — as a thin film of midnight blue distorted his vision — Clover felt a rush of air blast back his fur, whip his mane, and fill his lungs. There was a cascade of sharp cracks from behind him, followed by a prolonged rumbling roar nearly matching the shriek in intensity. Clover froze, uncertain what might happen if he so much as twitched.
It was long seconds before Luna's scream trailed off into a gasping sob, tears spilling down her cheeks. Her horn stuttered out, and the blue field around Clover instantly dissipated. The world began angling away as he — and the spear, and the pony-shaped fragment of wall behind him — tipped backward.
Clover had just enough time to yelp before he crashed down amid the scoured rock and snapped foundations which had once been Pansy's home.
"You impossible idiot!" Luna thundered. There was a deafening crack as her hoof came down, and the ground lurched, nearby trees swaying. "Are you even capable of understanding what you sacrifice upon the altar of your love?"
Clover sat up, staring wordlessly as a curious mix of emotions coursed through his blood. The adrenaline of his life flashing before his eyes, of course. And the terror of facing a rampaging goddess face-to-face. But also a hysterical and indescribable relief: Luna had conceded to his logic.
… Or had already known it was a bad idea to hurt him. And he'd been foolhardy just long enough to call her bluff.
The alicorn abruptly whirled away, wings quivering. He could see her barrel rise and fall in short, sharp spasms as she struggled to control her breathing. Little dark dots blossomed on the ground beneath her muzzle.
Clover drew in a shuddering breath of cool, dusty air. "The future's not set in stone," he said. "We can't change prophecy — but we can control how we fulfill it."
Luna's body convulsed. It took Clover a moment to realize that she was shaking in silent laughter.
"Thus speaketh the cleverest, cruelest doom ever to walk on four legs," Luna said bitterly — and her shift back to the deference of the Earth dialect stabbed at Clover's heart with surprising ferocity.
"We'll change that," Clover said with quiet conviction. "I promise you. We'll change that."
Luna flexed and refolded her wings, then slowly turned back around. Her cheek-pelts were wet and matted. Her sky-blue mane was in disarray. And her expression was a dull and distant resignation.
"Perhaps, impossible as thou art, thou might," she said. "And perhaps, as thou dost, thou wilt comprehend at last the nature of the love which thou pretendest at. True love — which would pay any cost for Celestia, no matter how dear."
A sickly glow — as much the black of shadow as the blue of a starless night — encircled the spear by Clover's side. It sailed back to Luna, and with a twisting flourish, vanished into empty air.
"Alone and broken-hearted," Luna said, turning to leave and fixing him with a dull stare over her shoulder. "If thou'rt at her side — then why does the Imperatrix grieve? And where is the sister who would give her life to keep the smile 'pon Celestia's lips?"
A dull nausea spread through Clover's gut.
Oh, he thought.
Luna stepped forward into a shimmering blue mist and vanished. And Clover was left alone amid a shattered forest, silent as the grave, at the scar in the earth which once had been Pansy's home.
Celestia took one look at his face, and her delighted smile fell away.
She blinked rapidly. Tried several times to speak. Then finally settled on "What's wrong?"
Clover knew they needed to talk. But the idea was unthinkable. What was there to say? Our relationship is going to kill your sister?
"I need a year," he finally managed. "A real year."
Confusion and concern warred on her muzzle. "Okay," she said slowly. Then recognition sparked. "Oh! General what's-her-name?"
Clover's ears flattened. Somehow, being reminded of the death of one of his dearest friends didn't make him feel worse — but the knowledge that it didn't, did.
"I'm sorry," he blurted out. "I — she —" and he wondered if even mentioning Pansy's destroyed house would crack the seal of the topic which couldn't be breached; and a small voice noted that at least he could be fairly certain Luna wasn't going to break the silence for him, because I'm going to die for your relationship was an equally unthinkable conversation that would provoke a meltdown just as big — "it's, it works both ways, right? I want to be good for you, I, I'm not sure I can —" tears were blurring his vision — "I'll come back, just pretend I flipped again —"
"Shh," Celestia said. One hoof came to rest on his shoulder. The other brushed his cheek. "I get it."
You don't, he wanted to shout. You really don't.
But what was there to say?
Clover knew he had to talk to Smart Cookie, too. There weren't any awkward prophecies in the way of that, but he still couldn't work up the nerve. Every time he thought of Cookie, he thought of Pansy — and the home that an alicorn had blasted into dust, and the love that he had blasted into dust just as mercilessly.
Clover had failed one of his dearest friends. She'd sacrificed everything for him, and he'd never even seen it. Cookie knew — he had to have known. And he had every right to be furious, even without knowing how much more damage Clover was poised to cause.
Clover couldn't bear the thought of Cookie's judgment. Naturally, the idea refused to leave his brain.
He visited Everfree only long enough to cash out his trust fund. He put all the bits into a large bag, galloped for the coast, and boarded the first clipper ship he found. Only when they were four days into the journey did he realize it was headed to the okapi port town where Sugar Cookie was posted.
It was too late to change his destination, but it worked out anyway. The bad side of the city was easy enough to vanish into. It had cheap rooms, and cheap taverns, and an extremely cheap liquor that alternated between making his head too dull to care and making it hurt too much to think.
Nine months later — after the money ran out, and the headaches cleared, and he worked up the nerve to visit Sugar long enough to beg for some bits for a boat ride back home — Clover found himself back at Canter Peak, sobbing uncontrollably into Celestia's chest.
They didn't talk about Luna then, either.
Clover was broken. Celestia was the only one who could pick up his pieces. And the possibility that she might learn enough to hate him terrified Clover beyond rational thought.