You're broken. That's the long and the short of it, the warp and the weft; you were strong but you were brittle, too stubborn for your own good. You refused to bend and refused to bow, and then you broke. But, oh, you were beautiful; you stole the breath from my lungs, and not in a million years would I ask for it back. You took it with you, in your foolishness; you flew up beyond the firmament, and hung yourself with stars.
You come to my house every morning for coffee, slack-winged and dull-eyed. You used to love coffee, and somewhere deep down, you still do. You never say please when you take your cup and your spoon and your three lumps of sugar. I love that about you, even when it annoys me. There's no second guessing, no hesitation. Not even now.
But the spark of you is gone. You used to talk about all sorts of things–the little mundane concerns that were so important, so vital to the process of being you that you used to bellow and whisper and laugh about them. They were shallow and they were silly, but you loved them. Where did they all go, I wonder? Did the tiny things you valued disappear into the huge thing that you wanted? Maybe you collected them all up, like autumn leaves, and burnt them in the flame that, one day, would consume the rest of you as well.
“How's the castle?” you ask, and drink the last few drops of your coffee. Down to the dregs, as always. Some things never change.
“The castle is fine.” The castle is always fine. It was fine the last time you asked, and it'll be fine the next time. That isn't what you're asking. You're asking about me, in a roundabout way you never would have bothered with before. When did I become your castle, your home, your haven? I wish I knew. I wish I'd been watching. That was always my problem–too distracted by lofty ideals to notice the things that were right under my nose.
You nod, as though agreeing with the thoughts running through my head, and cast an eye around the room. You're not looking for anything; in this house, you know exactly where to find what you need.
“Is something the matter, Rainbow Dash?” I ask the question with a touch of sharpness, to tug you back from wherever you're drifting. It takes a moment for the old, familiar bravado to kick in, for you to grin and ask me if I know who I'm dealing with. It's scary how much difference a few seconds can make.
“I'm just thinking about breakfast. AJ's got some apple fritters she hasn't used up yet, and I could use the fuel. There's a flying competition at the end of the month, and everypony'd be disappointed if I skipped out on it because I hadn't practised. You know how it is.”
It's my turn to nod now. We both know what it's like to be wanted by somepony, and to not return the sentiment. You've begun to realise, now, that having fans isn't unambiguously good, that being beholden to the crowd is as tiring as the hours of practice beforehand. But you still love them and the attention they give you, because to be ignored is almost as bad as being forgotten, and being forgotten is as bad as death.
“Speaking of which, I'd better be going. Be seeing you, Twi. Thanks again for the coffee,” you say. There's a heaviness about you, as if you don't want to leave. But you will, because you always do, because that's what you think should happen–the princess stays in the castle, but the knight stands outside it. Everything should be a fairytale, where the hero wins against impossible odds and magic can fix a broken heart. The world isn't like that, and it hurts you, and that's how I know you're worth fighting for. You're jaded, but not made of stone. Not yet. Not ever.
The next time I see you, you're done with practice for the day, wings dipped low at your side and flanks streaked with sweat. You're tired but you're glowing with triumph, radiating an intensity that's scary and exciting all at the same time. Like the crack of thunder, it's brief but powerful. You never look more at home than out in the sun, on the little practice field you keep for your friends. Everywhere else is just a passing sanctuary.
“Hey, Twi. You see me slalom through that orchard down there? Pretty rad, huh?”
'Rad' isn't quite the word I'd choose, but it certainly was something. Crazy, reckless, practically suicidal–I don't want to say any of them, for fear you'd take it as a compliment. You're crazier than I am, sometimes. I dip my head, paw the ground a little; it's no use, of course. Hints were never really your thing.
“Well, I guess you probably had your head stuck in a book or something,” you say, airily, a little flutter of your wings to give it levity. The air stirs up the field, and the smell of fresh cut grass and daffodil pollen. I read once that daffodils are an acquired taste, due to that aroma–some ponies like it, and others detest it. The breeze picks up where your brief eddy left off, and the fresh smell of the river comes with it. The sun is warm and bright and warms the very core of me; I can't help but bask in the light.
The moment passes, and suddenly you're close, waving your hoof in front of my eyes and glaring at me. “Hey, Twi, I'm talkin' to you. Don't just doze off in the middle of a conversation. Geez! And ponies say I don't have any manners.”
“Sorry. I was just thinking about something.”
It's a poor excuse and we both know it. “What else is new?”, you mutter, and your good mood seems to dissipate like smoke. Then, pointedly: “She's gonna get mad at you if you keep calling her a 'thing'.”
The conversation has changed before it even really began. We always do this nowadays, and I don't want to. I don't want to talk about this, and I don't want to have to dodge talking about it. It isn't fair that I have to argue with you.
“Don't call her 'she', Dash,” I say, too sternly, and regret it. I'm just adding fuel to the fire, but it's too late to take the log back when it's already ablaze, too late to get to lower ground after the lightning's already struck. I don't want to fight here. Not with you, in your place, ringed with oak trees and camping chairs and wind-tattered flags with polychrome stripes.
“She's big enough and old enough to take care of herself. She's the Princess, after all,” you say, deliberately off-hoof. You flick your muzzle to feign nonchalance, in a way that's much too theatrical to ever work. You learned from Rarity and Pinkie, I suppose. Applejack, too. The belligerent way you talk sometimes always reminds me of when you argue with her.
Honestly, there are so many things I want to say, want to do. I want to retort–she's not just the princess, she's my soulmate!–but I'm not going to stoke the flames twice in the same conversation if I can help it. Part of me just wants to grab you by the shoulders and shake you, try to snap you back to the way we were before. Another part of me just wants to laugh, firstly because you're being so foalish when I know you can be more mature about things, and secondly because you were actually pretty witty there. You can't exactly accuse Celestia of not being big, or old.
So, I laugh. I laugh because you don't expect me to laugh, because it's the one thing I can think of that isn't picking a fight or running away from one. I laugh because you're stupid and I'm stupid and the whole situation is ridiculous. I laugh because friends can laugh at each other, because I trust you enough not to walk around on eggshells. Eventually, you laugh too, although I'm sure you don't know why.
“Geez, Twi. Sometimes, I don't know if you're a princess, or a space alien,” you say, breathlessly, trying not to break down into giggles again.
I smile, and I can guess from your exasperated look that I'm doing my 'satisfied egghead' grin. I look at her wings, so much stronger than mine, wings that could reach the edge of the world if they wanted. I wonder if you know what I'm thinking.
“I'm definitely a space alien.”