It is near night.
I look up at the ceiling.
Wood. Of course.
To my side.
The most beautiful, the most wonderful mare in the world, Bon-Bon, working the keratin off her hooves so that we may continue this.
Of course.
I’ve managed to do a lot of work, the last three days we’ve had in our little hermitage; composing a veritable skin to the epic poem, with Bon-Bon besides me. I’m content; I’m happy. Her very presence inspires me, and it’s not like I really miss going out to play for alms.
Not, of course, that she ever required rent; she just let me be as I was, on those months where I didn’t get much. Pocket-change.
But despite her withdrawal into eremitism—our withdrawal into eremitism, really—she seems to be working ten times harder than usual, setting up various bits of ‘infrastructure’. I don’t understand half of the things she says, and perhaps it’s for the best.
She bites down hard on the pencil and, with that beautiful look of determination, fills up another form.
But she’s not happy. I can see it in her eyes—those beautiful, sincere eyes. I just don’t know what to do. Don’t know what to say to her.
Of course I know, deep down. But I can’t. I can’t bear to witness the shock I would cause. So I keep quiet, and occasionally talk to her, and she always responds with that kind of tired warmth, no less sincere as it always has been.
And yet, looking at her, I can’t help but wonder what she thinks. What she feels, under that amazing exterior. She’s not happy, that much I can tell, but she’s trying so hard to make it seem as if she is; and her beautiful soul has no capacity, I think, for deceit.
I carry my contemplation on to the night, and I think deeply; but no amount of thinking can solve an unsolvable problem. But I think nonetheless, and grind against the stones with toothbrushes, because there’s nothing left. Just thought. Just mind-numbing thought, feathers thrown against a Royal Guard.
A whisper.
“Psst.”
That voice.
Celestia damn it.
I don’t bother asking her how she got in.
“Yes, Pinkie Pie?”
“I have another idea.”
“I don’t want to hear it, Pinkie Pie.”
“It’s a great idea.”
I sigh and speak as quietly as I can. “Bon-Bon isn’t happy. I’m sacrificing her happiness just so I can spend more time with her, and that’s horrible; I can’t bear to do that to her. Everything you’ve done so far’s just made it worse.”
“C’mon. Hear me out.”
“You’re not going to leave me alone, are you?”
“Nope!”
“Fine.”
She tells me to do what I know I have to do.
And then I realise that I have to do it, no matter what happens.
“...thank you, Pinkie.”
“No problem!” she says, and I sit up to observe her method of entry, she is gone.
I lie back down, and I know what I have to do.
I wake up that morning to see Bon-Bon working as hard as she always had. “Good morning.”
“Good morning, Lyra!” she says, tiredly cheerful as always; probably happy that I’m still there, that I haven’t been stolen away from her.
“I need to tell you something, Bon-Bon.”
“What is it, Lyra?” She’s earnestly attentive, smiling at me even though the wrinkles around her face betray her fatigue, her utter exhaustion. I’d expected her to be so engrossed in her work that she’d delay me, give me time to formulate what I’m about to say.
“It’s something, er, that I’ve never told you before.”
She laughs a bit, the gentle sound filling the room like a short string of expertly arranged, high-pitched notes. “What is it?”
“Please don’t be mad at me.”
“I’d never be mad at you, Lyra. Friends don’t get mad at each other for telling the truth.” She puts her hooves to her sides, turning to face me as she laughs that same laugh. “Besides. It’s not like you’re gonna tell me you’re a filly-fooler or anything totally ridiculous like that.”
“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about, actually.”
“Hmm?” she says, uncomprehending.
I take a deep breath, and I put my heart into it.
“I’m a ‘filly-fooler’, Bon-Bon. And I love you more than anything else in the world.”
And behind those stunning, motionless eyes, and behind that angelic, unmoving smile, I see a world breaking apart.