The sun was being stupid. Again.
Twilight glared towards the horizon, brows furrowed in a blend of rage, annoyance, and drowsiness.
No, that isn’t being fair to it, she thought. It is being utterly ridiculously royally a pain in my flank.
She shifted her stare of hate towards the dial held in her magic, fixating her eyes so intensely that surely it would be scared into working by the pressure alone. Unfortunately, it did not, and so Twilight broke her gaze and opted for peering towards her hooves, which were adorned in her usual royal regalia.
Closing her eyes, she drew in a deep breath, held it for four seconds, and let it go slowly. This was not the first morning she was unable to raise the sun, and it likely would not be her last.
Lifting the moon? Easy, could do it without thinking (and sometimes without the dial). Lowering the moon? Even easier, she never used the dial for that anymore.
But the sun?
Putting it generously, one could say she struggled mightily with anything in relation to the sun. Bluntly, she was absolutely horrid.
Looking towards the empty horizon once more, Twilight fought the quickly gathering moisture back into her eyes.
She was a leader, and she couldn’t let silly things like these get to her so often.
“Why can’t you just be here to help,” she asked, her voice wavering slightly. “You were always better than me at this,” she said in a voice she barely could hear. Casting her watching eyes to the empty sky, she sighed audibly and shook her head in a knowing recognition. “I miss you …”
“Struggling with it today, are we?” asked an abrupt voice from her balcony’s doors.
Caught off guard, Twilight sluggishly turned about to be greeted with the sight of her number one assistant. Or rather, her number one Friendship Ambassador—a thought that sent waves of emotion through her; she still was so proud of him.
“Hello, Spike,” she began, smiling unconsciously at his sudden appearance. “And yes, it would seem our little friend in the sky wishes to be … difficult today,” she said finally, gesturing to the bare horizon with poorly hidden frustration.
Spike offered her a gentle expression, his claws neatly hidden behind is back. “You know what would help?” he said, a twinge of excitement arising in his voice.
She didn’t need to wait to see what he had brought; she smelled it already, which only softened her expression and extended her smile even more.
It was tea. She sniffed slightly, and her smile grew just a bit more. Chamomile—perfect for moments such as this.
He knew her very well, didn’t he?
Seeming to sense his friend’s realization, Spike raised his eyebrows in mock annoyance.
“You could at least pretend to not cheat and spoil my perfect surprise,” he said, finally bringing the delicate cup of tea into view. “Do you know how hard it is to make tea with these things,” he gestured to his massive hands and claws, “Let me tell you, a legit nightmare.”
Twilight simply rolled her eyes, gesturing for her companion to join her on the balcony. Letting his mocking features reform to a genuine smile, Spike took his place by Twilight looking out over the city of Canterlot.
“Technically, Spike, it would only be cheating if I used something beyond which I am naturally capable of,” she said, a tinge of smugness entering her voice. This was accompanied by the dragon standing next to her rolling his eyes in an equal fashion.
The city’s lights were still on, shining brightly and painting the empty sky in artificial specks of luminescence. Sooner or later, ponies would start worrying …
Taking her friend’s offering in her magic, Twilight took a sip from the tea, which was, as described, perfect. She savored the rich taste, not wanting to let the moment go.
“Thank you, Spike. This means a lot … you have no idea—”
Before she could continue, Spike raised his voice. “I know, Twilight, trust me. It is the least I could do for you. I get how hard this must be for you. Just relax and let it come to you.”
Twilight looked to him, smile returning just a little. She wrapped a large wing over his shoulders, pulling him into a warm hug. Closing her eyes again, she let out a content sigh, focused her magic, and began to channel it into the stubborn ball of plasma.
As always, the seconds during her effort dragged on for an eternity, almost forcing her to give up out of anxiety.
She bit her lip. Was it still not working?
Warmth answered her, along with a familiar light pouring from where she was facing. Another sigh, one of relief, escaped her lips as she opened her eyes.
Finally, the sun was peeking over the horizon, its bright morning rays streaking across the empty sky to fill it with light and hope of a new day.
Only a few minutes late this time, Twilight thought, relief flooding her mind. She nestled her head into Spike’s shoulder, once more trying to let this moment drag on forever.
“See?” he said. “I knew you’d get better at it.”
Twilight yearned for this to last, to be allowed this briefest glimpse into what being truly content with things might feel like. It was a burst of hope in what felt to her an entire ocean of regret, words left unsaid, and pain.
Unfortunately, this moment of hope and confidence and victory—however small a victory—was meant to die. Twilight knew it even when it had begun.
Knocking could be heard from within the room behind the pair, and judging from the frantic nature of it, Twilight assumed it was not her wake up call.
Breaking free from the embrace, Spike dismissed himself to answer the door.
Twilight remained on the balcony and looked at the gradually brightening city below. She could hear the conversation behind her but chose not to really listen to it. It would spoil the moment.
So she remained, drawing in as much of the rich, warm air as possible, soaking in it. Everything was fine; most likely, some noble or something was complaining about something ridiculous and felt that it wasn’t a matter that could wait until her scheduled court.
Everything else can wait, she thought. Just let me have this. Just this once.
An audible gasp tore her moment in peace asunder, forcing her to open her eyes and finally acknowledge the conversation occurring behind her. Still, she could only hear Spike’s voice but not the meaning behind his words.
Furrowing her brow, she turned to enter her room, hellbent on asking the pony who so rudely interrupted her morning what was so important, so pertinent that she needed to be bothered so early.
Her sudden anger faded immediately at the sight in front of her door. Spike was talking to a unicorn, one that was a member of the staff at the castle. This did nothing to worry Twilight. What worried her was the uniform: ICU scrubs, which could only mean one thing.
She was in trouble.
Twilight froze at the sight of doom at her doorstep. She didn’t even realize it when the two stopped talking to look at her, nor did she notice when Spike took a step towards her, concern plastered on his face.
“Twilight, I know you what’s going through your head. Don’t panic, she’ll be fine, I promise.”
Even as he said this, the nurse behind him looked at Spike with an almost pained expression, unsure if what he claimed was in any way moral to say.
It was an expression that said, “Don’t make promises that I’ll have to pay for later.”
Twilight suddenly felt very light-headed. Her knees felt as though she had been carrying both the moon and the sun on her back for a century. Before she could truly collapse, Spike reached out to catch her.
She felt numb to his touch. Thoughts sped through her head too fast to even fully acknowledge; it was coming far too quickly. She needed more time. That’s all she wanted: more time.
With more time, she could follow what she had found last night. With more time, she could finally do something worth the title of Princess of Equestria.
With more time, she could actually save her.
“Twilight, listen to me!” Spike said, shaking her from her thoughts with a voice seeping with worry. “You can’t just shut down right now; we need to go. If you want to help her, you need to actually be there. Do you hear me? Luna needs you there now.”
She didn’t respond. Not verbally, anyway. Rather, Twilight nodded numbly and followed Spike, who had his large arm wrapped around her in a half-hug fashion.
And so, the trio made their way towards the infirmary’s ICU, a fact that Twilight was increasingly aware of. The thought turned her stomach over and over until it was all Twilight could do not to throw up.
She wasn’t ready yet. She couldn’t face the situation yet. She couldn’t see what was wearing her face.
Today was not going to be a good day.
She was flying.
Yes, that was the right word, right? She couldn’t be sure. Words were funny things, and they often worked against her anyway.
It took her decades to get used to the modern Equestrian way of speaking, mainly due to her own stubbornness to learn.
But what was the fun in thinking about that? There were so many beautiful stars and colors and shapes around her! And she was flying.
Or falling. Once again, she couldn’t be sure and once again she thought words were funny and that they … worked … against her.
Did she say that already? Or would it be think that already? She hadn’t actually spoken in what seemed like ages. Either way, she thought, she would have remembered if she had said that before. It was preposterous to think otherwise, so she moved on from that headache.
But the headache followed.
She worked to push it away, and with some effort, succeeded a little. Smiling at her little victory, she looked to the dark ceiling that she swore was the night sky just before.
Her smile faded. No, it was always the ceiling, she concluded. Why did she think it was the sky? The pain in her head returned, accompanied by her chest becoming tighter, if only a little.
She shifted uncomfortably in her … hospital bed? That wasn’t right: she was just in her bedroom … right?
Panic arose within, and her breathing became quick and shallow, which worsened the increasing panic in her head.
Why was she in a hospital bed? Why was she in a hospital? Where was Celestia?
With each thought that pounded in her head, the headache grew worse and worse, eventually forcing her to squint from the pain.
She focused on using her horn but was met with a low hum followed by the sound of a magical energy ward stripping her spell of all its strength. Why in the world did she have a magic blocker on her horn? More importantly, how was it powerful enough to stop her magic use? That shouldn’t be possible, surely.
She found herself sitting up in her bed, frantically looking around the room for something, anything, or anypony who would be able to help her or explain things to her or something!
But no pony was there. Not a single soul in her room, and not a single soul to turn to.
She was completely, mind-numbingly alone.
Another wave of pain shot through her head, forcing her back down into the bed’s pillow to escape the onslaught of burning.
Where was her sister? Her sister would keep her safe; she always had. Celestia always knew what to do, always knew how to help. She had to get out of there. She had to leave. She had to—
Her panic-induced thoughts were interrupted by something cool entering her right foreleg. Looking down, she saw what appeared to be a clear liquid flowing from a bag into her aforementioned foreleg.
Her vision blurred, and the panic seemed to evaporate as quickly as it had appeared. What had she been worried about again?
Looking up, she saw a brilliant black canvas covered in stars. Her stars, in fact.
And she was flying!
Or falling. She couldn’t be sure. Words were funny …
Twilight looked through the one-way mirror into Luna’s room, her expression grave as if already preparing to grieve.
Maybe she had already started grieving. Maybe she had already failed …
Shaking her head, she refocused on the pony that was once Luna behind the glass. She was lying down, seemingly sleeping peacefully. Twilight’s horn illuminated gently, casting a rich lavender hue around the darkened room. With some thought, she planted memories of good times into the mare’s dreams.
Ironically, Twilight had learned the spell from Luna a long, long time ago.
“Luna …” she spoke softly under her breathe, her eyes filled with a longing sadness.
“… I’m afraid, Princess, that we are doing all we can, but even we have limits to what we can do. If I may be honest, she’s slipping more and more, and I don’t think she can make it through another episode like the one this morning.”
She had asked to see her without the wall of glass to separate them. She wanted to feel her embrace once more, to hear her speak without the medicine further clouding her already broken mind.
She was told it would be potentially too harmful to Luna’s already fractured psyche. Even if they were right, she didn’t have to like it.
The doctor—Doctor Reinhoof—had been talking to her. She hadn’t been listening, and he knew it. He understood.
But he didn’t, not really. How could he?
“I’m sorry, Twilight,” the doctor began once more, this time catching Twilight by surprise with the lack of her title, “But I don’t see her making it another week like this. I implore you to think about letting her go. It may be less painful, for both of you.” He was cautious when saying “For all of us” so quietly only he could hear it.
Though retaining his professionalism, Doctor Reinhoof spoke with a sincerity that etched away at Twilight’s already meager resolve.
He wasn’t being blunt or harsh. He wasn’t even speaking to her as a patient’s loved one. No, it was worse than that.
He was speaking to her as a friend, through-and-through.
Spike sensed his friend’s withering composure, opting to answer for Twilight.
“Thank you, Doctor. I think it’d be best if we had some time alone to go over your suggestions,” he said, gesturing to Twilight to emphasize his point.
Doctor Reinhoof understood immediately, thankfully, and was quick to dismiss himself from the room. Spike sighed as the doctor left the room and looked back to Twilight.
She was sitting, wings sagging to the cold floor with one hoof pawing the lifeless glass window. Shoulders sagging to mimic Twilight, he crossed the room to stand beside her. And so, they stood there and waited, neither daring to speak first.
“Twilight … I know how you feel about it, and I know you don’t like it. But Doctor Reinhoof is right—we can’t let her sit here like this and waste away,” Spike finally said, wincing visibly as he did so. He knew his words were true but … not even he believed it was fair.
Without looking, Twilight spoke with an almost chilling calmness, one that threatened to break Spike’s already artificial confidence in his statement.
“No. The answer is no, and that is final. I can fix this, just need a little more time. I know I’m on to something this time, Spike. I'm so close to—”
Spike had already heard enough. Once again, she was making this out to be something she had to fix. That is was something that she needed to handle alone, like no pony else (or dragon) had a role in helping or grieving or … anything when it came to this.
It broke his heart, but it also filled him with frustration and anger.
She wasn’t the only one who felt at a loss in the world. She wasn’t the only one whom it hurt to look at the once powerful Princess of the Night be reduced to whatever resided just beyond the glass. She wasn’t the only one who missed her.
“Twilight, that is enough! You cannot keep putting all of this on your shoulders. You have so many ponies who are willing to help you through this, so many who are waiting for you to just let them.”
Spike spoke with a confidence that still seemed to surprise himself. “We all have lost and grieved, Twilight. Heck, I’m here for you Twilight. I always have been and always will be, but you haven’t even tried to talk to me about anything. You just push me and everypony else away. I can’t keep making you tea and hoping you get better if you won’t even let us help you.”
Spike paused to look at Twilight, who was still looking into the window at the pony in the bed. Her face was contorted in an effort to keep from breaking, her brows furrowed in clear hurt and pain. This caused his expression to relax a little as he gained a little bit of hope.
Maybe she’ll actually listen this time.
“Twilight …” Spike began, fumbling with his next words that seemed to leave him. “Twilight, this isn’t what Luna would want,” Twilight sunk deeper into herself at that, expression growing more and more pained. “This isn’t what Celestia—”
Spike stopped abruptly, casting his vision forward into the window. He knew it was a mistake even before the name left his mouth.
The air in the room grew cold and deathly still. The silence threatened to suffocate him.
That was so stupid of me. What was I thinking? Real silver tongue there, Spike, he thought to himself.
Twilight’s expression shifted quickly and drastically. What once was pain was now replaced with anger. What once was remorse was now resentment. What once was grief was now a blend of hurt.
“Don’t you … don’t you dare use her name against me!” Twilight seethed through clenched teeth, still looking forward. “Don’t you dare stand there and tell me that everything I have been doing to help her, to fix what I couldn’t before, is only hurting her.”
Twilight was shaking in what Spike could only presume was emotional exhaustion and anger. He closed his eyes and clicked his tongue. Spike just stood there, taking in what was being said by his angered friend.
“I can’t believe …” Twilight struggled with tears as she tried to continue. “I will fix this, Spike, even if … even if it kills me," she ended, fixing her gaze back to the window.
Silence followed.
“I want you to cancel my appointments today—” Twilight paused as Spike turned to protest, but she cut him off with a wing.
“—I don’t care what you tell them. Tell them about the situation with Luna. Tell them I’m sick. Tell them I’m tired. Tell them I didn’t want to be there. I don’t care what you tell them. Just do it … please,” Twilight ended, her voice returning to its original pain-ridden calm as before.
Spike, though against it, simply nodded. He had already said too much for the moment being.
“Thank you … now, if you need me, I’ll be in the library. Again.”
Another nod from her scaled friend.
Twilight turned to leave, avoiding Spike’s eyes with her own turned to the still cold floor of the hospital room.
Spike stared into the other room, thankful the argument failed to wake the sleeping pony in the bed before him. She looked so peaceful, given the circumstances.
After hearing the door click shut, he sat in the chair to his left. The past months had been difficult for everypony, but it seemed it was finally catching up to the normally optimistic dragon. He couldn’t help but think about everything he and Twilight had lost.
Their friends.
Their family.
Spike fought to contain the emotion rising from inside of him. He hated crying; he always had, but with everything that had been happening, it was getting to be far too much.
First Celestia, now it seemed Luna wasn’t too far behind.
For the first time in a long time, Spike put his face into his hands and cried.
It was in the midst of him sobbing that he heard a voice, a vaguely familiar voice, one that sounded as though it was filtered through fog.
It whispered to him, most of it being either inaudible or unrecognizable. Looking up from his hands, he looked around the still dark room. He strained to hear, to understand.
What he heard left him confused and, for some reason, anxious.
From somewhere in the air, he could hear somepony call to him in his time of loneliness.
“Find me … tell her to find me … in the place with no green. In the place flanked by rods of ice.”
“Who’s there?”
“Find me … where no life can grow.”
The voice stopped, leaving him alone once more.