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// Spoken by the Peace 
// Story: Words spoken on Painted Canvas 
// by LucidTech 
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        Soft scratches surrendered to silence, then slightly sought a subtle sound. They rose and fell like escalators, growing and fading through time itself. Alice rubbed her head a bit, and with dreary eyes gazed once more. Looking there upon her canvas and the work at which it held. She placed the brush against it’s surface and drew with lines of paint, emitting now that scratching sound that kept the void at bay. Colored streams, like waterways, danced across what she had drawn, altering so covertly what she had done before.

        The moon outside hung at its apex, the world cast in eerie glow. The soft blue glow was all she had to paint by, she hadn’t dared a lamp. She was drawn to paint tonight, her bones calling her to act, but the night was somber and she daren’t to break it, so lamps were left in unlit. She would hate to wake dear Fluttershy, after all she’d done to help. So our heroine, from the looking glass, made do with what she had. A tinge of some imperfect blue on a dim but constant light. 

        Blinking back the calls of sleep, Alice paced her goal, and painted upon her canvas more as the weary night crept on. Orange was used for sunset colors, recalling moments that she remembered, just a couple hours back. Streamers came in thin and wavy lines, celebrating this; a moment she had hoped so long for and had finally come to pass. This moment that she had waited on was one she longed to keep, and so she stayed up through night to keep it held for her. The canvas was her memory, and the paint held all her thoughts, and as she brought it to perfection her strokes came slow and sweet, careful not to lose the hours the easel stole so far.

Hours at the easel but none were spent at ease. She fought both drifting memory and the wily draws of her bed. It was something worth recording, something she needed drawn. And when she finished she looked back and smiled, but was interrupted by a yawn. Light had cracked the straight horizon, shifting blue to cream, and it was then she found her bed and let it take her, needing precious sleep.

Hours yet, until at last, Fluttershy would come. She’d look upon the canvas and the painter in her bed, she’d piece it all together, and she’d take beret from head. She’d place it lightly on the bedside table, let it rest as well. And she would head downstairs to cook her breakfast, smiling all the while.

The night before had been a party like no party a pony had been thrown. Fireworks had been approved, after the mayor’s hums and haws. But to surprise of all who’d gathered, damage was not there seen, Pinkie been quite apt prepared to handle all and everything between. The mayor sighed when the party stopped, happy nothing frayed, she supposed she’d been quick to judge, mare’s are grown not made. Like many kinds of creature’s, a curse is never set, from mare to all of ponykind, or some other species yet. 

Celestia and Chrysalis had shaken hoofs, the paper signed and framed. From that day on two kingdoms rested, courtesy of this; They brought no weapons to that meeting, only pens to set it straight. And both were more than happy, to have finally found accord. Peace on earth, good will to mare and stallion both. And changelings now of course.