by Honey Mead
***
Twilight Sparkle walked into Celestia’s solar.
Completely utilitarian, a visitor could be excused for mistaking it for a lowly scribes office—were it not for the Royal Guards outside and the rather unique pony occupying it. The desk, which took up most of the space, was little more than a wooden table with draws tacked to the bottom. Every wall was hidden behind a bookcase weighed down by books and scrolls (a less math inclined pony might describe them as beyond count, but Twilight had come up with a rough guess of upwards of one thousand books and two thousand scrolls). The only other piece of furniture to be seen was a single cushion set off to one side.
Twilight Sparkle did not retrieve the cushion.
Princess Celestia of Equestria did not look up immediately. There were, after all, only two ponies who would walk so boldly into her solar without at least knocking first. Her sister, never one to allow formalities to hold her back—though always the first to demand them when they suited her—was the first. Then there was Twilight Sparkle, her wife. Finished with the report she’d been reading, Celestia finally looked up with a smile.
Twilight Sparkle was not smiling.
The argument began as such things do, with concern, hurt, and a pinch of hope. Hope is the cause, for without hope there is no will to fight. It was not the first time, that had been four years ago. It was not the tenth time, that had been two years ago. What it was, was the last time.
Twilight Sparkle struck first.
They’d been together for years, thirty to be exact. In that time, Twilight had noticed a pattern, she noticed it four years prior. She’d done the math, used her journals, day planners, and court records to corroborate her memory. The trend: obvious. The outcome: inescapable. Numbers do not, after all, lie.
Twilight Sparkle weathered the rebuttal.
It wasn’t a surprise. As it turned out, Celestia was entirely predictable if one simply took the time to pay attention… that and it was the same rebuttal as before. She was a Princess. She had responsibilities. Nothing had changed since the day they met… or, well, nothing on her side at least.
Twilight Sparkle fought on.
The war they waged was one of love. But war, no matter how well intentioned, always wounds, scars. Neither could surrender. Neither could let the other give in. They were both right… and wrong. When the words finally stopped, when the small room was silent save for the heavy breathing of its occupants, both had won, both had lost… both were broken beyond repair.
And Twilight Sparkle left.
And progress ground ever onward.