While the silencing properties of the Stream were discovered quickly, it was also found to be exceptional when used in agriculture. These simultaneous life-giving and life-altering properties mean kirin settlements in different circumstances have always chosen to settle roughly the same distance from the Stream. Not close enough that a kirin may wander into the Stream by accident, but not so far that the water cannot be used easily for agriculture. This distance has been codified as the unit "shout."
In the Warring Tribes period, silencing was used against prisoners of war to discourage escape attempts and reduce their value if rescued. The water was also itself a potent weapon in large enough quantities, but transporting it was hazardous.
Empress Morning Star was the first Empress to emerge from this period with a peaceful civilization. Even then, forceful silencing was a common punishment used against those who committed certain crimes or offended the Empress. It was considered a more merciful punishment than tongue-cutting.
There exist reports that former criminals would regain their voice, expressing the mercy and great magical powers of their Empress. In reality, Morning Star was one of the first kirin to discover that silencing had an antidote that could be created from certain flowers. She had access to a small field of these flowers that she used to cure kirin in exchange for loyalty and certain favors.
"So the Stream was first used as a punishment," Tempest muses.
"Yeah. And it was known that there was an antidote for it back then. I wonder how Autumn Blaze came to be the only one with that knowledge."
We're once again in my personal chambers, Rain Shine's translated tome between myself and Tempest. We decided that when it was time once again to delve into the magic of the Stream of Silence and search for the cure, we'd do it together. Tempest made me promise I'd find time to study, but only once the Friendship School was back open and I otherwise had nopony knocking on my door for something I missed in my absence.
Tempest volunteered after our . . . encounter that she was willing to share her own story. Her whole story, from her medical catastrophe to her time with the Storm King to her current condition and our venture into foreign lands in search of a cure. In her words, it would be the first thing she did for me as a true friend. It was a precious gift she gave me, and it let me better answer the many questions I received from the public. By no means did it reverse my mistake, but it offered justification for it. Thanks to her, public sentiment around me improved a great deal. I was no longer the irresponsible leader who took unjustified vacations—I was the Princess of Friendship who'd do anything for a friend. And it made it easier for me to justify carving out time to devote to research.
That time, unfortunately, still took far too long to come around. Of course, I'd have preferred that time to be as soon as possible, but Tempest made it very clear to me—she refused to hear another word from me until my other obligations were complete. For as emotional the appeal I gave to her was, she remained and remains driven by practical arguments and the "greater good," whatever that is. That included intervening on the part of that poor colt and providing some "therapy" for the parents; Tempest was particularly eager to have that particular conversation, and I had no qualms about her saving me from doing it myself.
It's no small amount of irony either that Tempest seems to have a better sense of "greater good" than I do, but I wouldn't have it any other way.
"It seems to be a pattern among Empresses to have power over others," Tempest comments, returning my attention to the book. "And to suppress knowledge that they have that power. Perhaps Rain Shine did, too."
I press my lips together. Knowledge is powerful, and that's why suppressing knowledge is doubly powerful and triply evil. As a particularly dark thought, all the words we're reading now are a translation, not the original source material. There's no one in Equestria—no one in the world that I know of besides Rain Shine herself—who is capable of reading the original source and could corroborate that the translation we have now is completely accurate.
I shake my head. The thought borders on conspiracy; she had no reason to inject inaccuracies, and if she really didn't want us reading this, she didn't have to give us the translation at all. "We have to believe in Rain Shine's honesty and good intentions," I say. "I'm sure Rain Shine didn't know the cure existed until Autumn Blaze found it."
Tempest merely "hmphs" and returns her eyes to the book.
The Morning Star dynasty lasted for six generations. When they were deposed and replaced by Emperor Willow Wood, the Stream of Silence remained an integral part of his reign and his dynasty, but it was used not as a penalty but as a means of social stratification.
Silenced kirin were relegated to a lower social stratum due to an inability to express themselves clearly. Silencing also could persist across generations, limiting social mobility. Two silent kirin would beget silent offspring, no Stream exposure necessary. At least one sounded kirin would beget sounded offspring, regardless of whether their partner was silenced.
Willow Wood first forbade cross-sound partnerships, though this edict was inconsistently enforced by later leaders of the dynasty. Even so, the social stigma associated with silence meant such partnerships were rare, and one rarely admitted to being the child of such a partnership for fear of being forcefully silenced.
One child of such a partnership, Morning Mist, was angry with this arrangement and deposed of the Willow Wood dynasty. Her reign was unique in that she sought to eliminate the kirin's reliance on the Stream of Silence entirely, calling it a "weapon against harmony." She even moved her hub of leadership as far as six shouts from the Stream, making it impossible to reach the Stream within a day's travel and forcing her village to use other less fertile and more capricious sources of water. She also swore to cure as many kirin as she could from silence, but her inability to find more of the necessary flower made it such that her swear was in vain.
She also had a temper, one that had her transform into her nirik form on several occasions. Without access to Stream water, kirin were forced to either wait until Morning Mist's temper cooled, or in extreme cases, strike her horn hard enough to knock her out and forcefully end her transformation. Needless to say, she was an unpopular leader. The fourth time circumstances necessitated she be knocked out, she woke up on the shore of the Stream of Silence, both her voice and Diadem stolen from her.
"Is it truly worth our time to review the Stream's history?" Tempest says.
"Uh . . ." I shake myself out of my reverie. It is fascinating to be sure, and I'd like nothing more than to spend the next week poring over the book in detail. But Tempest is right: our time would be better spent on more relevant topics. "Right. Let's . . ."
I flip through the book until I find a promising subtitle.
Properties
The Stream of Silence is best known for its silencing properties against any higher form of life. Bathing in the water for a short time or drinking more than a few mouthfuls renders kirin permanently silent, unable to make sounds from the mouth, only the body. This property does not extend to birds, squirrels, wolves, or other wildlife, however. They regularly drink from the Stream and experience no harm from it.The Stream also significantly reduces a kirin's predilection to transform into nirik. A normal circumstance that would cause a sounded kirin to transform would not if they were silenced. While it is possible for a silenced kirin to turn, this requires a particularly calamitous event. A silenced kirin who does transform remains silent as a nirik, and when they revert, they tend to fall ill for several days.
Plants and vegetation are forms of already silent life and are therefore unaffected by the Stream's silencing properties. They also appear to benefit from the water, exhibiting greater resistance against drought, flood, and pests. Plants regularly watered with Stream water also exhibit faster growth, greater resilience to natural disasters, and increased fertility. This property is why kirin have always chosen to settle relatively close to the Stream. No other source of water is as beneficial to agriculture.
Wildlife also appears to benefit from this effect, though to a lesser extent.
The effects of the Stream are permanent. Kirin who have been silenced remain so for the rest of their lives. It is not necessary to re-expose a kirin to the Stream for them to remain silenced, though such exposure has no further effect. Plants fed water from the Stream retain their enhanced growth and hardiness for as long as they are alive. Repeatedly watering plants ensures the seeds from the plants retain these positive effects.
At one time, the effects of the Stream of Silence could be reversed, but only with a tea of the foal's breath flower. The flower itself was exceptionally rare and had a number of properties that made it difficult to work with. It had no seeds with which more flowers could be made; It could not be cultivated domestically; it could not be dried or preserved without destroying it; and, once plucked, it lost its potency as an antidote against silence within hours. It's name was coined because its usefulness lasts only as long as a foal's breath.
Foal's breath was a relic from the old forest before the Great Fire and Great Founder Sheng Mofa. The fire stripped the flower of its ability to produce seeds and reproduce. As such, what flowers survived the fire were the only remaining source of the antidote.
At the time of this writing, no flowers have been found for at least eight generations, and it is believed that foal's breath is extinct.
I did find it odd that Fluttershy, animal expert and master of nature she is, didn't even hear of foal's breath until she reached the kirin village. Even this reference book thought the flower didn't exist.
"Autumn Blaze found foal's breath. Is there any left?" Tempest asks.
I sigh and shake my head. "Fluttershy actually found it, and it's a miracle that she found any at all. She needed her animals to help, and they used everything they found to cure the kirin. Past that, Autumn Blaze told me she's been searching for foal's breath for years. She scrubbed the forest clean before they arrived, and she even searched the plains beyond a few times after they left. Not that much could survive on the plains with how dry they are. She hasn't seen a thing." I grimace. "Hopefully, no kirin falls into the Stream by accident. I hate to say it, but if this book was mistaken before, it's correct now: foal's breath is extinct."
I close my eyes and offer a silent eulogy. "Extinction" is such a horrible word, but I don't argue with why it is. It is just a plant, but it's a whole species, a whole category of life in our world, gone forever for none to see or appreciate or benefit from ever again. I'm sure Fluttershy wouldn't want to hear that she was responsible for plucking the last of this species, even if it was to save another. Were there insects that pollinated this flower? Were there other animals that fed on this flower or used it for medicinal purposes like the kirin? Were there other things this flower was useful for that we'll never know about now? I know there's nothing I could have done to prevent this, but it still feels like a failure on all our parts that this had to happen at all.
"Princess?"
I twitch an ear.
"Twilight?"
Then, I open my eyes slowly and give Tempest a slight smile before I start to read again.
Magic
The effects of the Stream of Silence have been well-documented and studied, but its inner magic and mechanism of action have been less so. It is thought that kirin have a life-force energy that allows them to speak, use magic, and transform into nirik. This energy is qi.Qi is not necessary for a kirin to speak in theory, but the process of transforming thought into sound and transmitting that thought to a fellow kirin's mind is a form of telepathy and a form of magic. This is what qi is thought to be responsible for, and this is what the Stream of Silence attacks. A kirin's vocal cords are not damaged by the Stream—hence why its effects are entirely reversible with the foal's breath flower—but their ability to create sound from thought is.
Qi is also used in the transformation from kirin to nirik. When a kirin's life-energy is excited by excessive anger, it expresses itself violently in the form of flame. When this energy is disrupted and not allowed to flow freely, so too is the transformation disrupted.
The kirin's horn is the source of their qi. If the horn is ever injured, their qi is also injured and the kirin falls ill until their horn is healed. This is also why striking the horn hard enough will end a kirin's transformation—this disrupts the flow of qi long enough such that their nirik form cannot be sustained.
The Stream carries its own life-force energy, but this one does battle with qi. This countering form of life-force energy is iq, just as nirik are the counter to kirin themselves. This iq flows in the Stream, and once introduced into a kirin, remains there in perpetuity, destroying any qi that circulates the body, causing its silencing and calming effects. It, however, does not destroy the horn or the qi there, hence why kirin can continue to live and use magic. Kirin are unique in that they may isolate qi and iq in this manner.
While iq seems to do battle with qi and creatures who depend on it, no such battle occurs in plants and wildlife. If anything, they are nothing but invigorated by it. It is thus thought that plants and wildlife are themselves coursing with iq, and the Stream provides more of that energy, resulting in enhanced growth and fertility.
"'Iq' and 'qi'?" I wonder aloud.
"Are those terms at all familiar to you, Twilight?" Tempest asks.
"Not really? I've never heard of either of those." I say, unsure. I bring over the wooden decanter of Stream water that Rain Shine gifted me. It's certainly big enough to cover the "few mouthfuls" necessary to silence someone. I uncork the decanter, again observing the change in atmosphere as the water is exposed to us. The water makes no sound as I pour some of it into a glass.
I swirl it around, studying it as I would a glass of wine. It behaves exactly like normal water, though knowing it's filled with this anti-kirin "iq" has me offer it more caution. I bring my muzzle close, sniff it, and taste the air above the glass. Of course, there's nothing, but the "nothing" is even more poignant when I bring my ear to it. Tiny bubbles form as the water stills. The water diffracts light as I see a distorted image of Tempest through the glass. She's scowling.
There has to be something in here. The Stream of Silence and the magic within it was why we went to the kirin village to begin with. This water represents the fruits of our labor. It's the key to Tempest's cure, somehow. I sigh and say, "Let me think." closing my eyes again.
Back to the beginning. Tempest's condition is a result of the damage done to her horn. That meant the thaum it produced was also damaged. While ponies need thaum to survive, it became more like thaum found in the wilderness, and ponies were never creatures of wilderness. That wild thaum is slowly destroying her body. The Stream, I thought, in some modified form, could limit the damage or suppress the wild parts entirely, treating or curing Tempest's condition. After all, it suppressed wild and violent nirik transformations, but left the kirin underneath to live a long life.
But is that actually how it works?
The relic I have, the shield, depicts kirin and nirik as mirror images. One to be sought out and cherished, the other to be feared and suppressed. One normal and harmonious, the other wild and chaotic. Or at least that's how I interpreted the relic. But Tempest never thought that was the case, and now I don't either—it's part of a healthy relationship with one's own temper to be nirik, or at least not destroy the circumstances that would cause one to become one.
Being kirin is being nirik, and being nirik is being kirin. They're not mirror images. They're the two halves of a whole and wonderful being. Suppressing one half of that being is akin to cutting two of your legs off.1
It's normal to be nirik.
It's normal . . . and the Stream of Silence suppresses that which is normal. Not that which is wild. It's never done anything different.
My stomach drops, and I start breathing a little faster. I open my eyes again, and I know something has changed. The water in front of me is oblivious, sitting unknowing and uncaring in its little glass. But to me, it looks like fear and evil. The water in front of me wouldn't save her; it would kill her.
"Twilight?"
Shakily, I reach out to pick up the glass with a hoof. My hoof tremors, and I miss, knocking the glass over instead and spilling the Stream of Silence across the table. The water makes a silent cry as its power dissipates into the air. I make no move to try to save the water or clean up the spill.
Weeks. Weeks I spent chasing after a cure that never existed. Weeks for which I dragged Tempest along with a semblance of purpose on what I was doing. Weeks she'll never get back from what little time she has left. What could I have done? I sought out to do whatever it took to save a friend. And all I have is a book of translated curiosities and a stow of water from a far-off land no more useful than the water I drank this morning.
Books represent the center of knowledge that ponykind—everykind—has built since the beginning of time. They're the tool we have against forgetfulness, ignorance, and the limits of knowledge a single lifetime can hold. They are the lessons our progenitors learned through sweat and blood and wrote down for us to learn from. Ponies wonder why I read so much, even in Princesshood, and this is my answer.
So why have they failed me now? Why is every single one of them telling me the same thing?
"Twilight?" Tempest asks again.
I'm so sorry. "This . . . I . . ." I can't even get the words out. I can't tell her.
Is this what powerlessness feels like? Is this what Rain Shine felt when her daughter died?
Tempest reads my expression. She closes her eyes slowly and opens them again. In them is not surprise, not melancholy, not even anger. Just . . . equanimity. It's horrible; why isn't she angrier? "It's done, isn't it?" she asks quietly. There's no need for her to elaborate further.
"I . . ."
No . . . no! I won't! Not now, not while we've fought so hard to save her! My friends and I have never failed, not when Equestria was consumed by darkness or chaos or a void of magic, not even when Equestria ceased to exist! This venture can't have been for nothing!
"The-the flower!" I exclaim, breaking out of my stupor. "The Stream of Silence isn't going to cure you, but I'm sure foal's breath would! It reverses the effects of the Stream—it perfectly reverses them! I'm sure if we find some foal's breath or have Autumn Blaze find some for us, it would help you!"
Tempest doesn't look or sound nearly as excited as I am. She only frowns. "And . . . where would we find any? You just concluded that it was extinct."
I freeze. That is what I said. The flower has to exist, though. Fluttershy and her animals found some, so they must know how to find more. Was it the foot of the caldera that they found foal's breath the first time? And are we sure that Autumn Blaze actually searched there specifically?
"And how would foal's breath help me? We only know that it reverses silence, nothing more."
I pinch my lips together and return my attention to the book. Before I can start flipping through it for mentions of foal's breath, I find Tempest's hoof pinning it down.
I look back at Tempest, and her expression takes me aback. It's not angry; it's not intentionally intimidating; the only word I have for it is "immense." Her eyes seem to pierce through me as a deity studies their charges. "You don't need to answer that question. No one does," she says, her voice terribly, terribly calm.
She remains staring through me for several seconds. I can't bring myself to say anything in return.
She shakes her head, a modicum of disappointment appearing on her face. "Use that brain of yours, Twilight, the one that made you a Princess. The best and brightest one in Equestria. I know that you already know the answer."
That brain starts telling me things, but they're wrong, they're all wrong.
Fluttershy steps out of the shadows and stares at me, her face pitying. "Do you remember Copernicus?" she says in a wispy voice. "He died last week. I don't know if it was ever worth trying to save him. So I never did."
Tempest steps in front of her, her face a mask of impossible calm. She murmurs, "Is it really such a vice that I refuse to be a burden on others?"
I reach out to both of them, crying their names. But nothing comes out.
A wisp of flame darts around my head a few times before expanding, obscuring Tempest in a wall of flame. She disappears without a struggle. When the wall lowers, there's nothing but a pile of ashes on the ground. I try to rush up to it, but a kirin form of fire appears in front of it, blocking my way.
"The evening of the next new moon, under the willow," Rain Shine says. "Will there be enough of you to come?"
Tempest continues, her face the very same. It scares me. "We have no guarantee that foal's breath exists anymore. You don't think it does. Even if it did, we don't know whether its effects work on ponies. And even if it does, we don't know if silence is at all related to my condition."
She sighs, looking down. Her voice grows a little softer. "How many more jumps of logic are you going to make, Twilight, before you must conclude what you already know? How many more times are we going to have to have this argument?"
I shake my head, and I can't stop. I can't help it. It's a nightmare, a horrible nightmare. She's wrong, she has to be wrong. Words come out, spoken from the roiling emotion in my heart. "But th-the magic of friendship . . . we've done the impossible before!"
Tempest shakes her head too. "Friendship can't save you now," she says. Then she looks up. "It already saved me once. I'm asking it, and I'm asking you, to be content with that."
I'm still shaking my head, but I can feel tears gathering behind my eyes.
The wind gusts, and a ginkgo tree creaks overhead, releasing a shower of leaves that float lazily towards the ground. They never make it there, instead settling on an incorporeal form, giving it shape and structure. It's another kirin form, a smaller and spindly one. It walks next to Rain Shine, and she leans down to nuzzle it, even as her flames do nothing to its leaves. They form a matched pair.
It speaks with no voice at all. It speaks with silence. "Life is never fair. Will you fight? Will you rage against the fate that couldn't care less about you?"
I try to cry out again, but I don't know what to say. No one responds. Behind them, the ashes rise in the wind and begin to disappear.
Tempest smiles, something so rare for her, something I'd normally be celebrating. But never has a smile felt so painful. "Thank you for taking me to the kirin lands, Twilight. I thought there'd be nothing left of me to write when I failed to capture Equestria. But you gave me one more chance to change this world. One that I hope will serve you well as you guide this world into the great thing you envision it could be."
Something trails down my face. "Please . . . please don't make me say it," I whisper.
She steps closer, still smiling softly. "And thank you for teaching me about friendship. I still do not entirely understand it, and in some ways, I think I never will. But I no longer think of it as a worthless vulnerability. Not since you offered me yours."
And she steps forward again, wrapping her hooves around me. I can't bring myself to return the embrace. I won't give up; I can't give up. I promised. I promised . . .
Her voice grows quieter still. "I wish I never had to do this. But I'm asking you, as my friend, for a favor. The most difficult favor you'll ever have to give."
She releases her hooves and steps back just far enough to hold my head up. She's still wearing that awful, awful smile. She's weeping too.
Fluttershy steps through the pile of ashes, brushing away the last of them. She joins the two kirin, fearless of the fire they exude, and they advance as one. They do not turn to notice her, but they don't need to. The kirin stop to my left, Fluttershy to my right. I can't turn to see them, but I know they're there. Fluttershy is wearing that awful smile. They all are.
In the center, holding my head with compassion I've never seen, she speaks. They all say the same words. I can't bear to hear them.
"I'm asking you to let me go."
I shatter.
With an anguished cry, I clutch onto her so tightly, afraid she'll fall away to ashes in my hooves, just like everyone else has. Except that I know she will, one day she will. I'm holding onto an illusion, a ghost that stands only as long as fate will let her stay with me. I rage against that fate. We all have. The fruits of that rage are spilled across the table.
But I can't win.
Words escape me, but that's all they are. They have no meaning, and the words she says in response mean nothing, too. I scream and howl and curse, at her and myself and Equestria. It's all meaningless, but I have to speak. I speak because I'm angry, and I'm angry not because of betrayal or my personal failures.
I'm angry because it's the truth.
Truth is not a virtue. It doesn't care whether it will save the world or destroy it. It doesn't care how many lives it takes, and it offers no condolences or apologies because those don't change the truth. It only is.
Have faith, I thought. Have faith in yourself and your own abilities, and have faith in your friends and their ability to set things right, and they will. Believe in yourself and believe in the future you want to see, even when the world is against you, and you'll make it so. Old and scarred ponies have told me again and again that faith is a fool's strength.
Let me be a fool, I told them. Let me have that naïve optimism that things will turn out right as long as my friends are by my side. Let me show you that friendship can do what you think is impossible.
Maybe Equestria really is fluffy and inane, then. And maybe she always knew the truth. Have faith, and the truth will out, whatever it happens to be. Do not, and the truth will still out, however much you hate it. She could have been anyone, but she first chose to fight the truth she saw, a battle that lasted over ten years. I can't possibly blame her for what that battle made her become. Because I fought with her under some misguided assumption that as a Princess, I would find a truth she couldn't.
We lost. We found the truth.
In the end, she was always right. This story was always doomed to end up this way.
Open up your eyes, she said. It's time to grow up and get wise. That's what faith really is, right? Willful blindness. Refusing to see the world for how it is. I thought being a Princess meant I could impose that blind faith onto the world. But truth doesn't know what faith is. It doesn't care.2
I sob into Tempest, being nothing of a Princess or Twilight or even a friend. But Tempest, Tempest is exactly who I need her to be. There's no dignity in grief so fresh it can't help but scream, and there's no grace in emotion so raw that it strips you of who you are. But she doesn't care. She doesn't offer false words of comfort because she never would, and she doesn't console because you cannot console the truth. There's honor in that.
She's the most honorable pony I've ever known.
The first real words I can form are still colored with emotion and broken with sobs. They're only barely comprehensible. "I don't want to lose you," I whimper, the words falling onto Tempest's shoulder. I clutch her tighter, my tears staining her coat.
Tempest does not spurn the contact or ignore it. She leans into it. She feels rough against me, the hairs on her coat standing stiff and proud against mine, except her shoulder. Her shoulder is matted with my tears. "I don't want to go," she says quietly, words borne of emotion, some of the very few that come from that place.
I sob again and wipe my eyes on her. I open my teary eyes for what feels like the first time, and I can see exactly what's become of me and her. In my vanity is a reflection of me, and I can barely recognize myself. I've long shed my regalia—horseshoes, crown, and all—but a Princess should always comport herself with some amount of poise. Not now. My mane is in shambles, feathers pointing in every direction, face a grotesque mask of misery, eyes red and bloodshot. For all the wonderful ponies I've worked with in Canterlot, I couldn't trust myself to be so exposed around anyone, Horolog included. I'm supposed to be a Princess.
But Tempest . . . she's holding herself together. Her eyes are closed with the occasional teardrop marking her face, but she remains herself, strong as she's ever been. And she's holding me together, her hooves wrapped tightly around me, holding me up even as I have no will to keep myself standing. She's so warm. After everything we've been through and everything we've told each other . . .
It's not that she doesn't judge me—she does, and harshly. And it's not that she's kind—she'll sooner offend you with brusque words than try to save your feelings with a white lie. It's not even that she's a good shoulder to cry on—if she had the choice, she probably wouldn't want to be here right now. Everything I need in an emotional moment, she isn't. And yet I'm here, trusting her with myself.
Because she's Tempest.
"You'll lose them all one day."
I sniffle and manage a weak, "What?"
Tempest opens her eyes and sees me looking at her reflection. She looks back at me through the mirror. "All of your friends. They'll all die one day. I've seen them. You must have noticed that Rarity has quite a few grey hairs, or that Applejack takes her time when she stands up. We age. We . . ." She stares at me for a long moment. Then she brings her eyes down and speaks again, slower and softer. "No, nevermind. Now isn't the time to talk about this. Not while you're—"
"No, n-no," I say, trying to clear my voice enough to be more than a whimper. "I know I'm all emotional and crying and I probably can't take this, and it's n-nice that you're thinking of me. But I think . . . I think I need to hear this."
From her. I always need to hear her.
She nods, slowly. We separate, not so much that I couldn't reach out and touch her, but enough for her to fix her eyes on me. They're familiar in a good way.
"Then . . . do you remember what I said? 'This is something you'll never understand.'" She doesn't wait for me to answer. "You are young, Twilight. For a Princess, you are especially young. But you will learn more than anypony else in this world because you have time to learn and time to understand. Except for this." She pauses. "Please allow me to speak not as your subject, but as the voice of every subject you'll ever have. We say that you are a Princess, and you do not know death—you never will."
She speaks about it so candidly and easily as if it weren't the horrible thing it was. It's a taboo that no one else would ever talk about, if not for my sake, then their own.
"But you must learn to know death in a different way, in a way no one else will. Military, Princess. I have resigned myself to death since the day I began service. And I . . . will go earlier than you might wish. But I will only be the first of many. What happens when friendship fails and you must defend Equestria with might? What happens when soldiers are lost before their time, lost because of your decisions? Soldiers you have conversed with, dined with, made friends with?
"Or what happens when Pinkie Pie dies? Or Rarity, or Rainbow Dash, or any of your friends, present and future? Perhaps they will go only when they are old and have accomplished everything they wanted. Or perhaps not. What if they, in tragic circumstances, learn they will die tomorrow? Or what if they're simply not ready when it comes time? What will they say to you? What will you say to them? I have had many years to come to terms with my mortality. I have always accepted it. But consider Rainbow Dash and her loyalty to her friends: for everypony she will leave behind when she dies, I don't know if she will ever accept it.
"Or consider . . . me. Consider the pony who might be saved if only you could spend more time on them. I am not the only one. There are countless others who might be saved if only you were there to help, and perhaps they'd only need a word of advice or a simple spell. They may not be your friends personally, but they are friends to others, and friends' friends. Could you possibly save every single one of them, even if doing so only took a minute of your time? You do not have a minute for everyone. Will you abandon a friend in need when greater matters demand your attention? What would you say to the family of the one who perished only because you could not be there?"
The questions come too quickly for me to answer. If I even had an answer for even a single one of them.
"Twilight. Princess. Every subject in your realm will have these questions, and they will come to you for answers. I . . . don't know what those answers will be. And . . ." She looks away and sighs. "I cannot help you answer them. But I know it is something you will have to know, somehow, someday." She looks back to me. "Perhaps with my own death . . . I can help you learn."
They're words only she could have spoken, and I can't deny their truth. Fearless, in every way. I only wish I could be that confident.
I don't have answers, and Celestia didn't have them for me. She never even talked about this, always wanting to keep our conversations generally pleasant. Besides the occasional vague warning that there'd be painful trials I'd have to face as a Princess, she never taught me how to cope with death. Whether because she didn't want to or because she couldn't, I don't know.
If not Celestia's instruction, then my own study; I've studied plenty to be a Princess. But I haven't given any of this much thought. For all the subjects I looked at, I didn't want to study death because it seemed so unpleasant. That all seems silly now: I spent moons studying Equestria's naval tactics on the remote chance I'd need to engage in conflict over the seas. And I spent no time looking at something as certain as death.
I'm not prepared. I'm not prepared for any of this.
I sniffle and try futilely to wipe my eyes again. "You're right. You're right about everything. And . . . I should have known about this. I did know about this; I just didn't pay it any mind. I know I'll see death. I know that . . . by taking on the mantle of Princesshood, I'll see generations die."
"Then . . . why did you take it?"
"Because . . ." I wipe my eyes again. "Because I want to see the world be stronger than it was. And friendship is the way to that strength. Friendship forms the web of relationships that keep us together and happy. I want to foster that web and make sure ponies, griffons, kirin, and everyone who calls this world their home can know friendship. Because a moment of friendship is better than an eternity without it.
I stand a little straighter. "I'll . . . I'll see my friends die. And I'll be sad. I'll miss them so much. I'll be so much more miserable than if they weren't my friends and I didn't know them. And I'll wonder whether any of it was worth it. But then I'll be happy because . . ." I sniffle and despite myself, put on a smile. "Because they'll have known friendship. And because of that, they'll have helped and changed so many. They'll have been capable of so much more than they would have been alone. A moment of sadness is more than worth the lifetimes of happiness they'll have spread. Because of that friendship, they'll have changed the world."
I look behind me, and there lies Rain Shine's book, open to a passage about foal's breath, along with the decanter of water. The fruits of our labor—the trophies of our accomplishment. Slowly, I close the book.
"And because I'll have known them," I say, looking back, "I'll also be lucky enough to have treasured their gift of friendship to me. Because of them, I'll be a better pony."
I take a breath, and my voice grows stronger still as I grow more confident in the words I speak. For every horrible truth that's been revealed, these are the truth, too. "Even if friendship isn't the miraculous tool that turns every impossible situation around, that's not all it can be. If you alone can't solve a problem with friendship, the friends you make along the way might, and in a way you could have never known. And even, even if they can't, the friends they make could. It makes a problem a single pony couldn't solve into something a whole group of friends can tackle together. That strength exceeds the power any one pony could hold on their own."
I shout my exultations to myself as much as Tempest. "Friendship is the web that keeps us together. Take out one, two, ten friends, and the web will hold together as long as we stay strong for those who can't be. The holes will mend, and new friends will find their ways into them. Wrap the world in friendship, and it'll outlive us all."
New tears start gathering in my eyes, but these ones are different. "Ask me to explain it, and I'll give a million different answers on a million different days. But on the million and first day, when I'm gone too, the world will live on. Today, that's my answer. That's the magic of friendship!"
I look at the magic in front of me. She's smiling too. Slowly, she dips into a deep bow.
"And that," Tempest says, voice suffused with pride, "is why you are a Princess."
With another sob set against my smile, I open my hooves. "Come here, you!"
She walks to me, and I capture her in my hooves once again. We embrace for minutes. I cherish her contact, her warmth, her strength, her friendship. It almost feels like the hugs I have with the rest of my friends, when we share our happiness like nothing is wrong.
I relax into her, letting her vast strength sustain us both. It's such a rare respite she offers, one even my best friends can't do for me: the opportunity to be weak. To stop being the leader and stop worrying about how everything I do has consequences, if only for a moment. I don't need to be a Princess in front of her. She already knows who I am, whether that be a Princess or not.
"Words from a wise pony," Tempest begins. "I've wondered why I never forget the things you say. It's because they always have a way of coming back to offer advice. I follow you not because you'll always make the right decisions . . . but because you have a good heart."
Maybe this world does have room for faith, after all.
There's nothing I can say except a weak, "thank you." It's one thing for my friends to say they believe in me, but it's something else entirely coming from Tempest, one so independent and proud that she offers herself only to those she deems worthy of the privilege.
But the moment can't last. I can almost feel her slipping away from me as the seconds go by. Like leaves from a ginkgo, resuming their fall to the ground to the ashes below; winter is coming, and soon, the tree will be barren.
I will never know what it feels like to be on borrowed time. But I must learn how to appreciate what time I'm blessed with. I know, eventually, she may end up only being a paragraph or two in my book—but hers is approaching its end, and it's not worth my searching for her to have a few extra pages. I have to help her write her ending—and her epilogue.
"But . . ." I begin, sniffling again. "Is it okay if I'm sad? Just for today?"
"Of course, Twilight. You already know. Why are you asking me?"
"I just need a friend right now. No . . ." I bury myself a little deeper into her shoulder. "I need you. I know that you'll . . . need to leave soon. But . . . don't rush. Please?"
She offers a black chuckle. "You know, I wished to pain you in a way you would never forget during the war. I wanted to show you how powerless you were when you ignored reality and depended so much on others for your own strength. I wanted to leave a scar on your heart."
She lowers her head and presses the remains of her horn against my breast. In any other circumstance, this would be a threatening gesture. To have her horn in all its destructive power this close to me, I couldn't stop her if she wanted to send a bolt of lightning through my heart. Even a moon ago, I would have stepped away.
I cradle her head with my hooves, pressing my head against hers desperately. My tears drop onto her mane.
"I suppose I got my wish."