Today, as with many days, my eyes are wide awake. We are sleepless.
We no longer resent my sister... no more so, that is, than the citizens whom have forgotten us after our absence. We did not expect instantaneous acceptance, but we expected slightly more respect.
Patience, we counsel ourselves. Their love will come.
The love which my sister has reveled in for so long is, perhaps, something that we may someday feel as well. We cannot imagine what has changed in 1000 years, but there is still hope in our heart.
I am still the Princess of the Night; this will never change, nor should we ever hope for it to. It is a simple, yet painful, truth: My responsibilities are my own, just as her responsibilities belong to her. If one of us may be indisposed for a brief time, the other may take her sister’s duties for a brief time, but she has not yet missed any of her duties.
We imagine it is difficult enough for her at this point, allowing me my old responsibilities once more. She has been so utterly alone for so long, with no sister to request additional duties of, that we can understand her difficulties adjusting to a more social lifestyle once again. As a positive, with my shouldering of the night duties once more, she is able to visit our subjects and reassure them with her presence.
We are certainly envious, but we believe we will feel that same love as well someday.
We are finally awakening from the thrall of Nightmare Moon. She has gripped our mind for so long, we had forgotten who we were. Now, we are re-learning our own thoughts and mastering them, standing upon our own shaky hooves to become stronger as a consequence.
My gaze focuses on the window to the outside, where a dark curtain shields my body from the harsh sunlight of the day. I sigh and rise to my hooves, pulling aside the curtain to gaze upon the courtyard of Canterlot Castle.
As expected, the land below bustles with activity. Guards patrol the grounds, ensuring safety for the nobility and townsponies assembled who have business in the castle today. It is a typical day in Canterlot.
In 12 hours, the guards will remain, but in drastically reduced numbers; none but they and perhaps a visiting delegate or two will be outside at night. The ponies are afraid of it.
As they are afraid of me.
They have every right to be afraid. We have never been the easiest pony to get along with. We are not even certain that we should not be afraid of myself. What have we ever done for my subjects?
My sister missed me greatly during our absence; this much, at least, we are thankful for. It is a relief to know that we were missed at all. My sister assures us that there was much discontent following my banishment, but we see no evidence of this. It appears she allowed the populace to paint me as a monster.
There has been talk of this Nightmare Night, a celebration in which ponies dress up in costumes and distribute candy to the foals. Long ago, before even we can remember, it was celebrated as my birthday. We cannot say that this is a disrespect to us; perhaps it is something to be thankful for, to know that there is still reason to celebrate on my birthday.
We wish it still meant something.
And why would it? The princess whose birthday fell on that day abandoned her own subjects for many lifetimes. They've no reason to remember what the occasion may have been for the holiday, only that there is a holiday to observe.
If any should be blamed for this loss of significance, it would be my sister; she spoke of earlier days, those days in which my betrayal still lingered in the thoughts of the populace. They were afraid of me. They did not want my birthday to be an observance.
My sister rejected the request of the populace, instead continuing to observe the day of my birth as it was to be observed. She told me of the holidays she often spent alone, wondering what had become of me. She was forced to make public appearances on Hearth’s Warming Eve for the plays, but Hearth’s Warming was spent beside a cold hearth, the embers long dead, the most important pony in the world crying for her lost sister as if she were no more than a foal.
Similar to her Hearth’s Warming Celebration, she told me of the thousand cakes she baked for me on Nightmare Night. My sister has never been a chef of any note; she knows not how the recipe was imperfect 1000 times, but she chuckles about it in retrospect. Shortly afterward, she tells of the candles she would so carefully arrange, first the number of years since I’d been gone, then, upon no longer having enough surface area on the cake, two solitary candles burning in the center. The flames that still burned within the both of our hearts, she told me, was the symbolism.
She also explained the butchering of her observance, after a fashion.
On one of my birthdays—specifically, my 553rd—Celestia told of the cake she had baked, the candles slowly burning themselves to tiny stubs, and not a single bite being taken of the sweet she’d worked so hard to create.
There, silently grieving, she had been found by a young colt who had lost his parents in a mysterious happening involving a creeping mist from the east which originated from the Zebra Kingdom; he was too young to understand their absence just yet, but he still seeked out my sister on that night, asking her to help him find his parents.
My sister knew none of this colt’s story at the time, but she agreed to help him find his parents. There, she trotted the streets of Canterlot, this small colt at her side, as they went door to door, attempting to find information on this colt’s family. The colt, having originally come by train from Manehattan, had been instructed by his parents to come here and speak to me of them. Very bizarre circumstances, she affirmed to my questioning glance.
After a long night of fruitless searching, the final door on a city block was opened to reveal a geriatric mare with a warm smile and infinite wisdom. Upon hearing the colt’s story, she apologized for not knowing where his parents had gone, but asked if he wanted some sweets to send him on his way. The young colt obviously obliged.
The next morning, a full report of the creeping mist had come in, including the names of the colt’s parents. My sister put him in a boarding home in Canterlot and visited him throughout his life. He slowly came to terms with his loss.
The next year, upon my 554th birthday, the colt once again visited my sister and requested that she help him find his parents. She did not understand, but she went with him all the same. They went down the same street and asked for the colt’s parents. A hoofful were confused, having recognized him from the previous year, and others did not recognize him. Finally, we reached the last door with the geriatric mare.
The same ritual was performed as before; the colt asked if the mare had seen his parents, she shook her head, then she asked if he would like some sweets. He accepted, as before. Then he waited.
The next year, the mare was gone. The colt did not ask where she was, only nodding his head in understanding. He told the young mare who had answered the door that her grandmother used to give him sweets; she hesitated, then brought him several pieces of candy. He thanked her, then told her that if he ever found his parents, he would probably find her grandmother as well, and he would tell her hello for this mare’s sake.
This was most puzzling to my sister, so upon reaching Canterlot Castle once more, she asked what his reasons were for doing this on the same day every year.
The colt replied, “I saw you grieving over two lost ponies when I first met you, Princess, though I didn’t know it at the time. Now that I know, I thought today would be a good day for grieving, and I want to celebrate it with sweets, just like you do. I’ve never eaten a single one she gave me, either.”
Two lost... my sister pondered over the candles for a time. Was she as lost as I? Perhaps.
The next year, some friends the colt had made in school attended the ceremony with him. The young mare had told her neighbors of the event, and they were prepared this year.
Over the years, the group swelled, new young ponies coming in as older ponies decided they were too old to beg for sweets. Still, the same colt stayed, and every year, he asked the same of the young mare at the end of the street.
Eventually, on my 612th birthday since I’d left, the colt departed my sister to join his parents. Her silent prayer was that he find the peace he so desperately desired in death; she knew it was no escape for her, as she was already as lost as they. His premonition of two lost souls held true to my sister.
Celestia knows nothing, however, of what caused the costume-wearing.
Her suffering is nothing that we are so callous as to not understand; my sister missed me, yes.
My frustration is not with Celestia. It is, perhaps, with the ponies we rule over.
Yet, we cannot blame them. After 1,000 years, the least one can expect is that others will forget them. We believe, in some manner, it may even be for the best that they do not remember our betrayal.
Who, then, are we frustrated with? Nightmare Moon, for kidnapping 1,000 years of my life? Perhaps the Night itself, the thing that is as much a part of me as I am of it? That may be it, in part.
No, there is more to it than this. We just cannot put our hoof on it yet.
Me?
Who am I?
Let us... me... divide myself from the Night for a moment. When have we been me?
How strong am I? Can I stand upon my own hooves? What have I to offer Equestria?
Luna has never gotten. She has only given. I am loathe to recall this. Why do I loathe it?
A world in which generosity is squelched, where morals are trampled and excreted upon... this is the world which has been opened to us. All of it is so cruel, so heartless, that we—I, cannot hope to survive.
Or, perhaps I am not attempting to understand enough.
Can I perform my own duties? I am only half a mare; the other half has been given in duty. Without the other half of me, where am I?
Do I love? Do I worry? Do I care?
I do not know.
I will never know.
I do not want to be alone. Of this, I am certain. Even the husk of a mare that I am without my duties is certain of this.
Me. What have I done for me?
I took dreams and made them nightmares. I took day and forced night. I betrayed my own sister, stabbed her in the back and nearly killed her, for my own selfish desires.
My desires?
I am Nightmare Moon.
The realization sends chills up my spine. Nightmare Moon is who I am when I abandon the Night.
But I have bucked the influence of the Night now, have I not? And I am still sane. Not jealous. Not angry. Not contemptible.
Have I changed?
Have we changed?
My relationship with my responsibilities has always been a source of pride for me. For 1000 years, I have been absent, slowly driving myself insane as the co-pilot to a mind which would see my sister die. Why would she ever trust me?
She does, though. She trusts me. Not us. She trusts me, Luna. Not Princess Luna. Luna.
Have I changed?
Mother once told me that finding fault in oneself is the surest method to improve. Inside, I am a broken vase. I have shattered into innumerable pieces, some large and easy to piece together, others tiny and seemingly impossible to fit in. There are faults beyond count, and none have an easy solution.
A broken mare is a mare who may rebuild. No longer do I have anything but my duties.
Do I want more?
I want my birthday. And I no longer wish it to be a joke.
Princess Luna... a joke.
And Luna? Is Luna a joke?
They do not know. Equestria has never met Luna.
Have we ever met Luna?
Have I ever met Luna?
I do not believe I have ever met myself. Now is a good time to start.
I flare my magic briefly, brightening the lights in my room. My royal regalia is absent, clothing worn by a mare of office. I am not Princess Luna. I am only Luna.
There is a mirror affixed to my wall. I approach it, looking apprehensively at myself in the mirror. I smile briefly at the scared mare I see before me. She is as afraid of meeting me as I am.
“Hello, Luna. My name is Luna.”