Princess Starlight Glimmer had a secret.
She had several, actually. Nopony else knew, for instance, that she teleported snacks directly from the castle fridge and pantry into Trixie’s wagon, both to practice her precision and because it made Trixie laugh—well, nopony besides Trixie knew. Nopony else knew why Sunset Shimmer somehow remained a physical age that allowed her to attend a high school (Starlight was fairly certain it involved hijacking the mirror portal’s camouflage protocols). And nopony knew that she’d stolen her father’s jacket when she’d ran away from home because she thought it’d looked cool. And then later sold it because she had no money.
Those secrets, though, didn’t explain why Starlight was pacing in a circle about the Cutie Map at 2:30 in the morning. Nor why nopony knew where she was, or what she was about to do.
Starlight swallowed. She knew the secret—it was the reason she was here, and what had been knocking at the door to her conscious mind for months. But, even now, allowing herself to think of it made her nervous.
Starlight could still time travel.
Not a week back in time with Star Swirl’s shoddy spell—anypony could do that. Or, at least, any unicorn with a horn output in the ninety-eighth percentile, an uncommon amount of training, and knowledge of the spell’s existence, which narrowed ‘anypony’ down to maybe half a dozen candidates. Nopony but she and Twilight, however, had ever cast her modified version; the one that combined with the Cutie Map to allow travel to any time or place in all of reality. And nopony but Starlight had ever cast it unaided.
Spells, Starlight lectured an unseen audience by way of anxious procrastination, weren’t just something you cast in an instant and were done with. They were energy, arranged in a specific way and imparted onto a specific thing. Most were simply thrown into the ether and left to work their literal magic, but some took hold in objects, ponies, words, or even concepts, and took effect from there. Her modified time travel spell had been one of them. In such a rush as she was in to enact her revenge, she hadn’t had time to create a spell which could be cast by just anypony; she’d worked her creation into the very fibers of Star Swirl’s scroll, until it was more magic than parchment, and without which there was no hope of casting the spell inscribed on it.
Unless you were a unicorn whose magic output, through some bizarre psychological quirk, scaled alongside your emotions. Unless you were goaded into terrified fury by a purple alicorn and a nightmarish desert of a future. Unless you were so desperate to prove a point that you unthinkingly cast your spell entirely out of your own head.
Or unless you became an alicorn and were suddenly granted access to more magic than almost any other creature who had ever existed.
Starlight forced herself to stop pacing and look at the map, which glowed with its barely-translucent, impossibly-detailed map of Equestria and the surrounding lands.
She’d cast her spell unaided once before, and, ever since she ascended, a nagging feeling in the back of her head had informed her that, if she wished—if she grew insane enough to try—she could do so again.
So she was going to do so again.
Because she was the Princess of Empathy now. And—as had been drilled into her head by Twilight, Celestia, Luna, the Elements, Trixie, and even Spike for so long that she’d finally reluctantly accepted it—that included empathy towards herself. Even if, sometimes, she wished it didn’t.
So, lighting her horn, she called to mind the memory of a spell. A spell so nightmarishly, fiendishly complicated that no pony without a magical artifact, magical rage, or the power of a god could ever have hoped to cast it alone. And she forced nearly as much power into her horn as it could contain.
Despite her trepidation, she couldn’t help but smile as she felt her horn tingle and a wave of electrifying sensation rushed from it down every inch of her body to the tip of her tail. Because she could, she spread her wings, feeling the feathers ruffle from the sheer power coursing through her, and lifted herself several feet into the air with a thought. It was, she knew, for the best that spells like this were cast few and far between. But banish her if they didn’t feel good. Like every voice in all of time and space was singing in harmony, waiting for her to call out the melody.
With loving focus, she aligned the power in just the right way across five separate dimensions—plus one for good luck—and squinted as every part of the castle within eyesight lit up with the light of day as she forced it all out her horn and into the Map. The familiar series of concentric rings flickered into existence above the map, the familiar unearthly sounds and symbols rang all about her as if she were inside a madmare’s clock tower, and, as she closed her eyes, the familiar magical force pulled her into the time stream.
And it all vanished.
Starlight remembered to cast the invisibility spell on herself seconds before the time vortex ejected her unceremoniously into the open air. Last time, she’d wanted to cause a disturbance; this time, it was imperative that nothing go awry. Of course, the time spell itself was very… flashy, but, well. Who really ever looked up?
Blinking, she righted herself, and spread her wings to take over from her flight spell. No sense wasting power. Admittedly, she could probably hover magically for a month before she had to set herself down, but it was the principle of the matter.
Sire’s Hollow.
There wasn’t the same ache there had been when she’d dragged Twilight here over a year ago, now that she’d returned in the present and patched things up with Sunburst. She was sad to see it as it’d been nearly two decades ago—how could she not be?—but it was the sadness of… an old book, perhaps. Not fresh regret.
She ruffled her feathers. Focus. She… Actually, she had as long as she wanted. Time travel required some unusual alterations in one’s typical manner of thinking.
Still, she didn’t want to get trapped in the past, metaphorically or otherwise; she’d done quite enough of that over the past fifteen years. So, after an indulgent minute admiring her foalhood view from a slightly higher altitude, she flew in the direction of her old home.
She landed silently beside her house, not far from where she’d ranted to Twilight about Sunburst. Fortunately, this particular day was months after that, or there might’ve been a very awkward time-traveler reunion.
She’d chosen this day for a reason. Not only was it one of the few that stood out in her memory amongst the haze of misery and loneliness which defined this portion of her life—and thus one of the few for which she could pinpoint the tetradimensional coordinates the spell relied upon—but, of all days, this was one where her… presence would be keenly felt.
She prayed she’d gotten the time right; but, before long, she heard a voice shouting through the walls. Her voice.
“Let me go!”
Another voice. Her father’s; different, but barely so, from the one she’d heard when she’d visited him only weeks ago. “Pumpkin, you shouldn’t go out by yourself! Just wait a bit and I can come with—”
“And what’re you going to do?! Protect me?! Like you did when mom left? Like you did when Sunburst left?!”
Starlight winced to hear her own words, and sent a mental apology, worthless though it was, to Firelight Glimmer.
“Ah… I’m sorry, sweetie, I promise, but your daddy can’t always—“
“You can’t do ANYTHING! You can’t ever do anything! So get out of my way!”
And with that, the door swung open, and Starlight’s younger self burst out, slamming the door behind her. Her pigtails had been cast aside in favor of a messy, unkempt manestyle (which Starlight knew from memory was only partially intentional) in a black maneband, and she wore sloppily-applied eyeliner which was streaked with tears. She sniffed, chest heaving, and shrieked at the closed door, “DON’T WAIT FOR ME TO EAT DINNER! I hate it when you do that!”
Not waiting for a reply that never came, young Starlight ran out the door and towards the nearby woods. Present Starlight quietly took to her wings and followed, keeping a safe distance.
Before long, her younger self had run deep into the forest, which, fortunately, was little like the Everfree, and held nothing more dangerous than the odd badger. Starlight could’ve followed with her eyes closed; she remembered every stump, tree, and cave she’d used to wander amongst, crying, whenever she needed to be alone. Today, it was a fallen tree, whose long-suffering splintered trunk formed a hollow which would be tight for a full-grown pony, but perfect for a filly. And, more importantly, it was sheltered enough that nopony outside of the forest would hear any anguished screams or sobs emanating from within.
Starlight landed a short distance away. She took a deep breath.
This was it. She’d thought of this moment time and time again; as a princess, as a cult leader, as a nervous student, as a hopeful teenager. Now, she could actually do it. And she would. Just as soon as she calmed her nerves…
She stepped on a twig.
“Who’s there?” shouted Young Starlight with a mixture of anger and fear.
Banish it to Tartarus. Well, maybe it was for the best that somepony forced her hoof. Even if it was herself.
She took a deep breath, stepped into view of the hollow, and dropped her invisibility spell.
She was treated to the sight of her younger self’s eyes nearly popping out of her head. “Who— wait. W-what… you’re… m…” Starlight waited patiently. “You look like… m-me?”
“It looks that way.” Internally, she slapped herself. Stupid humorous coping mechanism.
Young Starlight raised a quivering hoof. “Are you my… No, mom didn’t look like you. My… Wait, are you an alicorn?”
Oh. She’d forgotten about that part. “I am.”
Her former self glared, eyes still damp. “Stop watching me struggle and a-answer me!”
Starlight winced. She wasn’t off to a good start. “I…” she began. “Am… you. From the future.” She bowed, lower than she ever had for Celestia or Luna. To not do it would’ve felt ruder than doing it felt vain.
Young Starlight gaped, speechless. So Starlight carefully sat down on what she knew to be a comfortable rock and waited.
Eventually, the filly’s expression hardened. “You’re lying.”
Starlight had anticipated that. Wearing away her foalhood cynicism had been—still was—a long, slow process. So, she’d come prepared. “When you were seven, you stole a whole box of donuts from Royal Icing’s bakery; you were too ashamed to eat them, so you hid them in the woods where nopony would find them. You hate black licorice, even though you keep telling everypony it’s your favorite now. You realized last year that you liked mares. And, right now, you’re…” She swallowed dryly. “Imagining what it would be like if nopony ever had to get a cutie mark.”
The tears in Young Starlight’s eyes had begun to run through her ruined eyeliner again. “Dad put you up to this, didn’t he? He doesn’t believe me when I say I’m fine. Nopony listens to me! He thinks he knows what’s best for me even though he can never h-help!” Her breathing was shortening, coming in quick, high-pitched gasps. “Why can’t he leave me alone?! W-why can’t everypony leave me alone?!”
In a flash of teleportation, Starlight was at her side. “It’s—oh, right, that’s not something you’re used to, get your head on straight Starlight—okay. It’s okay.” She wrapped her wings around the filly, who automatically pulled them closer. “Remember the breathing exercises you and Sunburst taught each other. You can do this. Slow.” Young Starlight’s breaths slowed, though they remained shuddery, and shook her whole body. “Slow. Deep. Calm.”
After a minute, during which Starlight’s wings were thoroughly coated in tears and snot, her younger self had calmed enough to return to an expression of disbelief. “Are you really…?”
“I’m sorry,” Starlight said apologetically. “I know it’s hard to—“
“No, it’s not,” Young Starlight interrupted, voice shaky but consistent. “You… you said my name when you talked to yourself. And I’ve never told anypony else how to breathe like that, or about mares, or… that I’ve been thinking about… that. Not yet.”
Starlight hadn’t given herself enough credit. As much as it felt like bragging—and, accordingly, grated on her anxiety and self-doubt like sandpaper—she’d been a brilliant foal. Of course she could put the pieces together.
“What are you doing here?” her younger self asked. “Why would you… Do I… Um, does…” She looked at risk of starting to hyperventilate again. “Time travel…”
“Breathing, remember?” Starlight said quickly. “And… yeah. Time travel.”
“I’m a princess?” young Starlight burst out, having decided on the most pressing topic.
Starlight smiled, and pressed her wings into a hug. “We are.”
“We, right…” Her younger self scooted herself away and turned, eyes wide and still very red. “I didn’t know ponies could become alicorns.”
“Mhm! When a pony accomplishes a singularly impactful and emotionally-significant deed, they seem to undergo a spontaneous infusion of Harmonic energy which…” Starlight trailed off, and instinctively apologized. “Sorry, you probably don’t want to—“
“Go on!” said the filly excitedly. “That’s fascinating!”
Starlight was struck by a sudden and emotionally-confusing rush of affection for her younger self. Of course she thought it was fascinating. She was curious. She wanted to learn everything, and do even more. She was her.
…At the same time, she was conscious of the risk of the conversation rapidly becoming what Twilight called a ‘depth-first search.’ She hadn’t come to lecture herself on the mechanics of ascension. And even if she had, there were topics which would be far more—Stop that!
She shook her head. “Maybe…” Later? Definitely not. “That’s not why I’m here.”
The temporarily-restrained angst returned to young Starlight’s face. “Then why?”
Why.
Because I had to. Because I couldn’t know I could and leave you, leave myself, alone. Because I wanted to see if I could survive it. Because it’ll be good for me.
But there was a simpler answer—and a far truer one.
“Because you had a bad day.” She gazed at herself with the empathy only somepony who’s experienced the same things as another—the exact same things—could feel. “And I want to hear about it.”
Her former self looked down. “T-that’s a lousy reason for time travel.”
“I don’t think so,” Starlight said gently. “You hate when ponies don’t understand you. I understand you, because I was you.”
“You already know what happened.”
“So?” said Starlight. “You know talking about it helps. If I weren’t here, you’d just talk to the forest.”
“It won’t fix anything.”
“…No,” Starlight said. “It won’t. Would you… rather I leave?”
There was a silence. Her younger self refused to make eye contact with her.
“I went to the fair today,” young Starlight said at last. Starlight repressed a sad smile, and shifted her hind legs into a more comfortable position.
“There was a fair in town, and I got dad to take me. I thought it might distract me from… you know.” Young Starlight sniffed. “It should’ve. There were rides, and games, and so many interesting ponies, and they had those candied nuts I really like. I went on all the rides and played everything I was old enough to, and I ate so much I felt kinda sick. And I just kept… waiting. I’ve been to the fair before. I know I like it. And I waited and waited, and I just kept wondering when…”
“When it would feel good again.”
Young Starlight nodded. “And it… didn’t. I never felt happy. The whole day.”
Starlight remembered. This was when it started. She knew it for what it was, now; with only one friend, and a misguided perception of the loss of that friend, she’d fallen into a depression that lasted… longer than she felt like measuring.
It was one thing, though, to recall it as a distant memory, or to tell Twilight as she recounted stories of her life over a late-night cup of tea. It was another to see the filly who’d just had the second-worst day of her life so far in front of her, barely keeping herself from crying. It… hurt. More than she’d expected. It was the pain of that day, that depression, all over again, and on top of that, even more strongly, the pain of seeing a foal before her she could never truly help. She wondered, for the first time, if this may not have been a good idea.
But the realization that it was possible to fill a day with her supposed favorite things and feel as if her heart stayed behind in her room wasn’t the worst thing to come out of that day. Not in hindsight.
“B-but I’ve thought about it,” continued her younger self. “And I’m glad I went. And I’m glad I didn’t have a good time.”
That was it.
“B-because…” Young Starlight swallowed. “Sunburst loved magic. And he got his… cutie mark for it.”
Starlight knew the answer, but she asked anyway. “Why does that make you happy you had a bad day?”
“Because I don’t want to get a cutie mark!” snapped the filly. “Sunburst left and it ruined my life! It ruined everything! Because he cared too much about magic! He cared about magic more than me!” Starlight had to resist the urge to hug her again. It would only earn her a kick to the chest. “I n-never want to care that much about anything, or the same thing will happen to me! So I’m glad I had a bad day! I hope I have another one tomorrow! And the next day, and the next day, and the next if it means I don’t get a cutie mark!”
As she shouted, a familiar whine built up in the air. Squeezing her eyes shut, the filly cut herself off, jerked her head to the side towards nothing in particular, and screamed as an electric blue beam shot out of her horn, unfocused and unaimed. It cut through the fallen tree like butter, and left the edges of the holes blackened, smoking, and dancing with angry teal flames.
The beam lasted only a second. After it flickered out, Young Starlight’s legs buckled, and she collapsed to the forest floor, panting. In the distance, branches could be heard falling, sliced effortlessly from their trees.
Starlight immediately reached a hoof out to support her younger self, who took it without thinking and leaned against her. Her eyelids were fluttering, and heat could be felt emanating from her horn.
Starlight’s magic had always been powerful, but it was only recently (from her younger self’s perspective) that she’d realized how powerful. She wasn’t just slightly more adept at school, or capable of lifting some extra weight with her corona. A month prior, when a local wizard had been administering mana output tests at the schoolhouse with a wobbly old instrument that looked like a trumpet, she’d shattered it into dust.
She hadn’t been that way before Sunburst left. Certainly, she’d been capable, but, with the small, everyday spells that a ten-year-old unicorn spent their time on, Sunburst had always been the adept. Until he left—until Starlight, amidst the first of many tearful episodes, had nearly disintegrated a wall of her house.
It wasn’t abnormal for unicorn foals to have uncontrollable power spikes, particularly in times of strong emotion; she’d known that even at the time. But for Starlight, they weren’t spikes. They were a plateau. And, with every day she spent in the colorless, aching malaise that had become her life, that plateau rose, and rose, and rose. And with so little control, and so many fragile ponies in town, and one of her primary targets of ire being her own father… There was a reason she spent her worst days in the woods.
There were fewer targets in the woods.
“I’m sorry…” whispered young Starlight weakly. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry…”
Starlight’s heart ached. “You,” she said gently but forcefully, “Have nothing to be sorry for.”
A charred piece of wood, flickering with cold flame, fell between the two ponies, who yelped in unison.
An idea struck Starlight. “Let’s walk along the river, okay?” The sound of the water had always calmed her down, on days like this one. In fact, it was what she’d done today, the first time around.
Young Starlight sniffed. “Okay.”
The first part of the walk passed in silence. Starlight had used a quick dissolution spell to clean up the remaining blue fire, and, before long, the two were walking alongside a rocky brook. It burbled happily and felt almost dissonant with the mood of the ponies beside it, but never enough to be annoying, like Pinkie Pie on some days. Instead, it was a pleasant but unobtrusive companion. Like Pinkie Pie on some other, better days.
Young Starlight broke the silence first, as Starlight had hoped she would. “You have a cutie mark.” Her expression was unreadable.
“Most fillies would be more surprised by the wings,” Starlight observed.
“I brought those up first,” huffed her younger self. “Don’t change the subject.”
Starlight kept forgetting that she was talking to herself, rather than a normal foal. She felt bad, given how much she’d prepared for this day, but it was difficult to force her brain to accept the situation it was in, regardless of its reality. “Well… Have you ever heard of a pony without a cutie mark?” Who wasn’t forced to live that way by you or a walking magic vacuum of a centaur.
“No.” Young Starlight kicked a rock into the stream. “I was gonna be the first. But it looks like I couldn’t even do that.”
Starlight chuckled, and the filly glared at her. “What’s so funny? I wasn’t joking.”
“I know,” said Starlight quickly. “Just… I think you’ve got some firsts in you yet. Even if you get a cutie mark.”
Young Starlight squinted resentfully at Starlight’s flank. “What even is it? A falling star?”
Actually, Starlight had never quite figured out its literal meaning. The marks were funny that way—she should know. “Something like that. It’s for magic.”
“What magic? Blowing things up?” Young Starlight scowled, lifted a rock within her corona, and crushed it into pebbles with a loud crack. The now-many rocks plopped into the stream. “I’ve got a lot of power I don’t want. I can’t do things with it. Not on purpose. That was always…” Sunburst’s thing.
“Yet,” said Starlight. To prove her point—and save them both a potential dunk in the water, since the bridge which had crossed here years ago was long since rotted away—she levitated both of herselves to the other side, where the trail, though more overgrown, continued. “Have you ever heard of a pony who could time travel?”
Her younger self stumbled upon being set down, then turned, eyes hungry, to Starlight. “You—we—invent time travel?”
“Not exactly,” Starlight admitted. She hadn’t been lying when she’d said Star Swirl had done the hard part. Sure, wiring the spell up to the Cutie Map has been fiendishly complex, but it was nothing compared to the cutie mark creation and removal spells she’d devised. One required rewriting a pony’s every physical and magical component while leaving their fundamental self intact, and one was merely very fancy teleportation. “We… perfect it. We’ve created a lot of other spells, though.”
Young Starlight’s eyes lit up for a brief second—but then her face fell. “So… I fail.”
“What do you mean?”
“I get a cutie mark,” the filly said tonelessly. “Just like Sunburst did. I even get it in the same thing. And everypony else keeps getting cutie marks just like us. Nothing changes. You failed.” She looked resentfully at her future self. “Why didn’t you fix it? You can time travel! You could… You could go anywhere you want and do anything to anypony to change things, or create a new spell so ponies don’t have to get cutie marks, or, or something. You’re a princess; you must have so much power. Why… didn’t you change anything? Why do you let it keep happening?”
Starlight’s mouth was suddenly very, very dry. “I…”
I tried. I tried so, so hard. I did nothing for ten years but try, and then it all fell apart, and then it fell apart even more, and I’ve been picking the pieces of myself up off the ground ever since and wondering which ones are still missing.
Her younger self’s eyes—her eyes—bored into her, like a mirror that somehow stripped her of everything she’d learned in the past fifteen years. She could feel everything Young Starlight felt; in memory alone, but the emotions were still there. They would always be there.
How did she tell that to a foal? How did you tell a foal that what they wanted most in the world led to nothing but misery, pain, and death?
She opened her mouth to say something like I’m sorry—something nicely vague that would salvage disappointment and resentment, rather than horror and fear, from this conversation—but she couldn’t say it. She couldn’t. She couldn’t let her former self go on feeling the way she did. Even if she only had this one day. She couldn’t lie.
“I tried,” she whispered. “I’m sorry.”
Young Starlight looked down regretfully at the pain in her voice. “Yeah, well…” She sniffed. “It was a long shot. Getting rid of cutie marks.”
“Not that,” Starlight said. “I’m sorry you feel like this.” Her younger self looked at her warily, having doubtless heard the same thing from every adult she knew, but Starlight had more to say. “I’m sorry you hurt so much that you can only see one end to it. I’m sorry you can’t think of any of the things a foal your age should be thinking of, or care about the things they should care about. I’m sorry nopony knows how to help you. I’m sorry our dad—and he’s sorry for it too—never knew what to do for you. I’m sorry for Sunburst, and all the ponies you couldn’t be friends with, and, and… I’m sorry I ran away.”
Young Starlight looked at her in confusion. “But… I didn’t run away. I’m going home after this. Even if I don’t really want to.”
Starlight drew a deep breath. She knew she shouldn’t be saying any of this—that it would only make things worse—but she couldn’t look into the eyes of the pony in her life who’d suffered most from her decisions and remain silent. “But I did. I ran away. And I stayed alone for years. And I hurt so many ponies, so many ponies, trying to get what I wanted because I didn’t understand that I was the problem. And they deserved better, but… so did you.” At that moment, she felt as if she were two ponies; the one speaking, and the one listening with wide, confused, tearful eyes. She saw herself, and she saw her other self, and, without hesitation, she said what she’d never been able to admit until the sight before her left her no choice. “I should’ve been kinder to you. To myself. And I’m sorry.”
The filly’s jaw hung open. Starlight couldn’t bring herself to look at her, but she could see it in the corner of her eye. She focused on the sound of the water, hoping it would bring her some amount of peace, but it was a whisper beside her own thoughts.
What was wrong with her? She’d known nothing good could come of time travel. She’d known; that’s why she hadn’t let herself do it until her ridiculous, over-emotional ego convinced her it would be better this time. And look how it’d gone. She’d failed to comfort a filly—the filly she should’ve had the easiest time comforting—and ranted about her own selfish past in her own selfish present. Just like she always did.
“I…” Young Starlight said in a small voice. “We hurt ponies?”
We. “No. I did. You’re…” Starlight gestured hopelessly with a wing. “You’re a foal. You haven’t done anything wrong.”
“Yet,” said her younger self sharply.
Starlight winced. “…You don’t know that.” The lie rang hollow through the trees. “Your future is ahead of you. You could still—“
“No, I can’t,” Young Starlight interrupted. She pointed an accusing hoof at her future self. “You’re from the future, but you obviously didn’t have this happen to you. Based on every theory of time I’ve read, if you went home right now, you’d show up in a world nothing like yours. And you’re a princess, so you’ve probably done something too important to mess with just to try and make me feel better.” Her eyes narrowed. “You have to make me forget this. So I can do the same things you did.”
Starlight’s mouth hung open—partially in surprise, and partially in guilt.
Because of course she had to make her younger self forget this. It didn’t matter if she ended up helping or not (which was a very uncertain prospect right now anyway)—she couldn’t risk what might happen to Equestria if she gave an incredibly powerful filly knowledge of the future, or especially knowledge of time travel. Both of which she’d done.
So she’d erase her own memories. She could’ve done so with barely an effort even before she’d ascended; now, it would be like crossing out a line on a scroll. She’d give her the memories of the evening Starlight herself remembered having, and leave her to wake up, none the wiser, after the time spell pulled Starlight back to the future.
But her young self hadn’t been supposed to learn that.
By now, Starlight had stood gaping more than long enough to confirm her guilt, so there was no sense in hiding it. “…Yes. I do.”
Young Starlight let out a breath that sounded more like a hiss. “I knew it.” Looking at the ground, she set her jaw, and Starlight heard an all-too-familiar whine emerge behind the sound of brook. Warily, she readied a shield spell.
But, to her surprise, the whine faded, along with Young Starlight’s magical aura. When she looked up, she didn’t look angry. Just tired. More tired than a filly her age ever deserved to. “Why come at all, then? Nothing you say will matter.”
“That’s not…” Starlight began. In a certain sense, it was true. But in another, stronger sense, it wasn’t. “It won’t change history, no. Or stop anything I did. Or help you as much as I wish so, so much that I could.”
“Then why?” She’d asked before. Now, it held infinitely more weight.
Starlight looked into her own eyes. That was the question she’d grappled with every day since she’d realized that this was an option. It was the question that’d kept her up at night, woken her early in the morning, and kept her company at all hours of the day—and now her answer would be judged by the harshest critic she’d ever had. “Because it doesn’t matter if I can’t change history. You had a bad day. I thought you deserved a better one. And I know I’m not doing a very good job of it, but I couldn’t know I could help, even a tiny bit, and not try.”
Her younger self looked at her with huge, unreadable eyes.
Then, without seeming to even move, she was hugging Starlight, who tensed in shock. But, after she got over the surprise, she reached down and returned the favor.
“You’re right,” mumbled Young Starlight into her lilac chest fur. “You’re doing a terrible job. But… everypony does a terrible job. At least you understand.” She pulled away, looking determined. “If you’re gonna wipe my memory no matter what, I want to know everything.”
Starlight gulped, remembering what’d happened when she accidentally transferred a partial portion of her memories to Sunset Shimmer. Granted, that transfer had included emotions alongside memories, but still… “I’m… not sure that’s a good—“
“You’re me!” Young Starlight said indignantly. “How do you think you would feel if this happened?”
Exactly the same. Obviously. Even as an adult, the idea of having information withheld from her drove her mad. “That’s fair, but—“
“Don’t tell me I’m not old enough!” her younger self snapped. “Or that I’ll understand when I’m a grown-up! You told me that nothing I want right now matters and that I do something awful for it! It’s too late to not make me feel bad, so tell me what I want to know.” Her glare retreated slightly, tempered by the automatic foalhood panic over having been rude to an adult. “…Please. If you really want me to have a better day.”
In retrospect, Starlight thought, it may not have been wise to assume that she could so easily waltz into her own life and expect her to go along with her tidy plans to act as a mysterious-but-benevolent source of comfort. That sounded like something a normal, mentally-sound foal would do. Not her.
And it was equally foolish, perhaps, to have assumed that she would be capable of looking into her younger self’s knowledge-starved eyes, knowing precisely the emotion she felt, and deny her the most precious thing in the world—particularly when, strictly speaking, there would be no lasting consequences.
But most foolish of all had been her expecting that she would be able to see her former self solely as herself. She’d imagined, as she meticulously planned this trip in her mind, that it would be like talking to a mirror, or her internal monologue. Or a recording. Or Trixie when she managed a voice mimicry spell. But it wasn’t. Try as she might, she couldn’t see the filly before her as anything but a separate pony—and while she could say no to herself a thousand times in a thousand ways, she could never do so to a foal who wanted her help.
…But, so long as she’d resigned herself to that fact, she might as well enjoy it. With a giddy thought to exactly how she would’ve felt to be graced with once-in-a-lifetime knowledge of the future, she allowed herself a conspiratorial grin. “Alright,” she said. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
Young Starlight shook her head, eyes wide. “I won’t!”
We’ll see. Or, well, I’ll see. On an impulse, Starlight magically lifted the filly onto her back, nestling her between her wings, and began walking in no particular direction. “So, I told you I ran away from home when staying with dad was finally too much. Or, you run away from home. I knew I needed to learn to control my magic, so I decided to look for the nearest university, which ended up being a long way north of here, and stowed away on the train…”
Over the next several hours, Starlight told her younger self everything.
Well, not everything. She left out the most… traumatic details. The agonized screams of the ponies whose cutie marks she removed, for example, were carefully omitted, as were the exact circumstances of the alternate timelines Twilight had seen and later described to her—and especially the one she herself had seen.
But the broad strokes were all there. She spoke of the decade she’d spent on her own; bouncing around Equestria, effortlessly qualifying for each institute of magical study she found and leaving each without announcement the instant it had nothing more to teach her. The ‘friends’ she told less and less about herself over the years, and how it was easier and easier to move on. The libraries she’d broken into, and the wizened old wizards she’d deceived and tricked and sweet-talked into divulging career-defining secrets. The increasing single-minded focus of her quest as she grew convinced that a world without cutie marks was really, truly possible. Young Starlight listened wide-eyed to every word, forelegs tight around her neck.
She spoke of the day she’d finally done it—removed, and then reluctantly replaced, the cutie mark of a terrified test subject who never saw her face—and how she’d frantically penned her manifesto in an ecstatic trance, all doubts and second thoughts accumulated over a decade of failures and setbacks burnt out of her mind in one victorious evening. Those few ponies who read it without dismissing it, and who followed her to the ends of Equestria to the desert she knew was the only place her new world could grow in peace.
She spoke—more fondly than she’d expected, or necessarily wanted—of the blissful excitement of the first year of her village, when ponies still believed in her and before she’d realized what it would cost to ensure their indefinite support.
Her younger self’s grip tightened as she recounted that realization.
She spoke of the Elements’ arrival, and of her fury and despair as the flimsiness of her new world was exposed. Her abandonment of her every ideal and starry-eyed goal in the face of a new all-consuming need for revenge. The hundreds upon hundreds of spells she’d learned, created, and perfected in the following months—through any means necessary.
She spoke of her plan, and the time loop, and the duel, and her surrender.
But most of all, she spoke of her friends.
The forest was dark, and the hour so late that it had swung around to being early again. A quick spell informed Starlight that 5 AM had just passed.
It was also the first lull in the conversation since her account had reached Ponyville.
Young Starlight had begun crying not long after Our Town, and had only become more inconsolable once the story had reached the Crystal Empire—and Sunburst. But eventually, she’d run out of tears, and begun instead to weep questions, which Starlight was only too happy to answer.
Yes, she really made up with Sunburst.
Yes, the Elements really had forgiven her.
Yes, she became an alicorn when she convinced a thousand-year-old shapeshifting monster to stop being evil.
Yes, she was dating a magician who spoke in the third person.
Yes, she was friends with Princess Celestia, and Nightmare Moon—though she didn’t like to be called that anymore—and Princess Cadance, and the spirit of chaos, and another princess who hadn’t ascended yet, and a biped from another dimension.
She’d described every aspect of her life in Ponyville, and every creature in it, forwards and backwards and repeatedly and every way in which her younger self begged to hear about it. And, when she’d done that, she did it again, until the filly on her back was emitting more yawns than questions and her wide eyes had drooped to thin slits.
But it was 5 AM. The sky was beginning to lighten to a dull grey. And they were nearly out of time.
“Tell me… Tell me…” Young Starlight yawned. “About Discord’s girlfriend again. I still don’t understand what she was.”
Starlight chuckled. “I wasn’t even there for that one. Trust me, I’m not all the way clear on it either.”
“Then…” Yawn. “The time you and Sunburst saved the Crystal Empire. Does… Does he still like that game? Whassitcalled…”
“Dragon Pit? He does; I’ve said that three times now,” Starlight said gently. “But… I think it’s about time—“
Instantly, Young Starlight’s eyes were the size of dinner plates again—bloodshot dinner plates. “No! No, no, please, just a bit longer? Please?”
Starlight’s brow creased. She’d never brought her younger self home last night—which meant Firelight would be up at sunrise to look for his daughter, no matter how little he knew she wanted to see him. If he’d even slept at all. She was relatively confident that she could return her young self with no trouble, provided she replaced the memories of both her and her father—maybe with an adrenaline spell to hide the fatigue from missing a full night of sleep—but the longer she waited, the greater risk she took of her doting father raising an alarm. And the more ponies she needed to deceive, the greater the risk of changing something accidentally. They were running out of time.
But… She thought about how little the tired foal on her back had to look forward to the next day. The next week. The next month. The next fifteen years.
With an eye on the lightening horizon, she nodded. “Okay. But we’re really running out of time. So… Choose carefully.” With great reluctance, she began walking in the direction of the town.
Young Starlight was silent as she thought.
“Tell me…” she began eventually, in a small voice. Starlight felt her bury her face in her mane. “Tell me that… I’m going to be okay.”
What else had she been doing for the past ten hours? “Well, you’ll have a lot of friends to look out for you, and—“
“No, I know,” Young Starlight mumbled. “Rationally, I know. I mean… Tell me things will work out. And I’ll be okay. And… you know…” She trailed off, and swallowed.
Starlight’s steps slowed. Carefully, she lifted her former self off her back and over her head with her wings, setting her down before her on wobbly, exhausted legs.
She didn’t know. Not exactly. But… she could try.
So, for what she had a sinking feeling would be the last time, she wrapped her foreleg and wings around the filly, more tightly than she was sure she’d intended. “You’re going to be okay.”
There was a muffled sniff. “R-really?”
“Yes,” said Starlight, and she didn’t know who she was mad at, or why there was a lump in her throat, but she pushed through regardless. “I mean it. Everything is going to be fine.” She stroked the filly’s mane with a wingtip, because it felt like the right thing to do. “You’ll be okay. It’ll all be okay. Y-you’ll…” A tear threatened to spill down her cheek. “You’ll be happy. I promise.”
Her younger self had found her tears. “I don’t wanna forget this.”
I don’t want that either.
“I want to c-come with you. I don’t care if it r-ruins the future. I don’t wanna stay here… I don’t… I…”
Starlight suppressed a sob. I want to take you with me too. For everypony you’re going to hurt, but more than that, I really, really don’t want to leave you.
“Please don’t leave…” Young Starlight looked up at her with damp eyes. “P-please don’t leave…”
Starlight didn’t respond.
They both knew what she’d say.
Instead, she gently lifted the crying filly back onto her back, and secured her with a magical strap. She had an idea.
Young Starlight made a choked sound of surprise. “W-what are you…”
Starlight concentrated, and, in an instant, both of herselves were invisible, which prompted another gasp. “We’re taking the scenic route.”
And, with a beat of her wings, she took off.
The flight was short; the town was barely a mile away. And it was freezing, and probably more than a little nerve-wracking for the as-yet-flightless unicorn sitting on an invisible mount nearly a thousand feet in the air. But when they finally rose above the horizon and Starlight squinted to see the sunrise explode into view, it was worth it.
And when she allowed herself the indulgence of a spell to reflect the awed expression of her younger self into her mind, it was worth it.
And when she landed to see that the filly’s tears had dried—temporarily or not—it was worth it.
And when that same filly looked at her without a trace of resentment, even as the light from the spell which was about to erase every positive memory she’d formed in the past several months danced across her face, and said “You were wrong; you did give me a good day” before she passed into unconsciousness, it was worth it. It was all worth it.
Starlight landed with trembling legs on the floor of the throne room. Behind her, the time spell clicked and clacked itself out of existence. There was no enormous flash of light or broken map this time; she’d revised the spell slightly since her last trip.
Just as she’d expected, the door burst open seconds later, and Twilight skidded into the room, a barely-awake Spike on her back. “Starlight! What in Equestria are you—“
She stopped, concerned expression finding a new target in Starlight’s face. “…Are you okay?”
Starlight lifted a hoof to wipe her tired eyes. She was smiling—she wasn’t even sure that it was entirely a lie—but her hoof came away wet with tears nonetheless.
Was she okay?
Unbidden, a question flitted into her mind. One of the first questions her younger self had asked, upon the initial completion of her story:
Are you happy?
She’d answered yes, of course; what else could she have said? But she’d known it was more complicated than that. It was always more complicated than that.
Then again…
The memory of Young Starlight’s incredulous joy upon hearing about her reunion with Sunburst drifted through Starlight’s head. Then that of her questions. And then her laughter, and her tears, and her curiosity, and her stubborn, anxious insistence upon hearing every part of a future she knew she couldn’t change. Her smile when she saw the sunrise.
For that filly… Starlight could try to be happy.
“I’m okay,” she said.
And she was.