Holes
Twilight stands by the window, staring out at the darkened city below her. A few, dim yellow lights flicker from the little shops and stores, but the entirety of Canterlot seems swallowed by endless blackness. She takes comfort, however, in the display of swirling, twinkling stars and galaxies in the sky above. Luna has taken extra care in her work this night.
Twilight leans just a bit further out over the ledge. The summer breeze, chilled by night, stirs the loose feathers of her wings. She isn’t cold, though she shivers anyway. She wants to stay here, so motionless that her chest barely rises with each breath, and watch over the quiet ponies; content and untroubled. It is a passing—tempting, but passing—thought to tip forward and plunge down and down, watch the stars fade and be—
“Twilight?”
Twilight immediately stiffens and steps back from the window. She doesn’t turn around, but she flicks her ears in acknowledgment.
“Twilight, come here.”
She could ignore the voice and carry on drowning in the silent sky, where she doesn’t have to think. Normally, Twilight loves thinking. (Only on certain things.) She turns around anyway and meets Celestia’s gaze. The princess lies out on the bed, nestled in blankets, her pastel hair gathered in a bun on top of her head. She offers a comforting and small smile at Twilight, but her eyes are crinkled with sadness. Twilight knows that Celestia is no stranger to grief. She often remarks, in an oddly cheerful way, that she and grief are rather good friends. Sure, she hides it well from her kingdom, but the tears behind closed doors tell a different story. Each wrinkle and imperfection is a lost life.
Twilight walks over to the bed and perches herself on the edge of the mattress. Celestia tugs her into the middle and holds her tight against her breast. It makes Twilight feel indescribably small. “I know today is hard for you,” Celestia says quietly. Twilight gives no response. “It’s hard for me too.” Of course, Twilight knows this is true. She squashes down the ugly part of her mind that objects. It is, not that anyone else knows, the 100th anniversary of the first time she and her friends met. In a way, she’s glad the general public is unaware. Call her selfish, but she wants the memories to herself.
“Thank you,” Twilight finally manages. She pushes herself back from the thicker fur of Celestia’s chest and takes a deep breath. “Should I—“ She breaks off and bites her lip. Celestia nudges her nose against hers, a silent Go on. Twilight closes her eyes. Faces dance across her lids like a film, fresh as ever. The awful feeling in the pit of her stomach worsens. “Has it been long enough?” As soon as the words are out of her mouth, she wants to take them back. She isn’t sure what answer she needs to hear. Her throat closes up.
Celestia’s expression is stone for a moment. Then it wavers and collapses. “Oh, my faithful student, of course not.” The old endearment sets something off inside of Twilight, and she feels her resolve melt and drip out from between her eyelashes. “Of course not,” Celestia repeats, softer, her words thick. She takes a hoof and gently tilts Twilight’s chin up. Twilght quickly blinks away her tears.
“I don’t believe there is ever enough time for the pain to completely go away.” Celestia stares out past her at the stars for a moment. “I don’t believe there’s enough time in the universe.” Twilight manages a small nod and swallows the rising lump. It had been very hard at first. She knows, deep down, that it will never truly heal. It is like a bruise being iced; bound to ache again. In the first couple years after they had all passed, the ice had been too numbing. As she would walk around town, she would pause and wonder if Fluttershy was home for a quick visit, or if Applejack needed help on the farm. She would find it odd, after a while, that Rarity hadn’t invited her over for a little tea and gossip. Then she would look up at the clear sky, where no pegasus sat lounging, and say, “Oh, that’s why,” and be overcome with agony.
She can laugh now, though. That had been a challenge. She would snort at something funny somepony said (a groan-worthy pun from Spike, a snarky comment from a waitress) and then stop herself. Her smile would slide off her face and fall to her hooves, and she would think, Stupid, that’s not funny. She would excuse herself from her present company. (Nothing is anymore.) And an all too familiar giggle would haunt her for the rest of her day.
She thought it would get better. She was wrong. Sure, ask her today as she’s buying bread at the farmers’ market for an all-time high price, and she’ll smile and say, truthfully, “I’m okay.” As she chats with delegates and school children she keeps her head held high and her eyes shining bright. But now, as she tastes salt on her lips and feels her barrel trembling, she’s not.
Twilight tightens her grip around Celestia—her lifeline. Her oldest friend is crying, much as she tries to hide it, and it only makes Twilight hurt more. She swallows a lump rising in her throat. “I know,” she gasps out, clenching her jaw. “I mean, I always hoped it would, somehow, stop hurting so much and...” She cuts herself off and shuts her eyes tight. It is in moments like these, when she’s at her lowest, that she wants somepony to take her in their hooves and soothe her, tell her everything will be alright. Like a foal. “But it hasn’t.”
Celestia takes a deep breath, one that resonates in Twilight’s own chest. “I know it hasn’t,” she says softly. She clears her throat as she smoothes back Twilight’s mane. “Even after thousands of years, I still think fondly back on my very first student.” She glances back at Twilight, a wobbly smile curving her mouth. “But don’t worry, Twilight, you’re still my favorite pupil.” Twilight can’t help but let out a soundless laugh. Celestia softens. “This student, though, she was brilliant. She had a sort of wit only rivaled by your own. And sometimes, when I’m feeling particularly wistful, I like to think back on her.” Celestia pauses. “It still hurts, Twilight. Isn’t that funny?” she whispers.
“What was her name?” Twilight asks after Celestia fades into silence. Celestia sighs.
“Dusk Fall. I could never forget a name,” she says, her eyebrows drawn tight.
Twilight watches her, trying to find the right words. “But, what I’m trying to say,” Celestia continues carefully, “is that you never really move on. At least not in the sense most ponies think. Maybe the pain has dulled a bit with time. But it’s still there, waiting to be found.” Twilight stills. “We’re always grieving for things that aren’t, and things that were, or will never be. Of course, you’re allowed your happiness. You can’t let it consume your life.”
She meets Twilight’s gaze. “If I’ve learned anything, it’s that the best thing someone can leave behind is a hole,” she says. Twilight shrinks down until she’s up against the princess’s chest.
“What do you mean?” she asks, less than a whisper, but she’s afraid she already knows. She can feel the holes deep in her heart right now, the seemingly bottomless ones that can never be filled back up.
Celestia tucks her chin down to rest on the top of Twilight’s head. “They’re holes in your day-to-day life. Holes that used to be words and actions and smiles. It’s what’s left when somepony very important leaves us.” Celestia’s voice catches at the end. “Right now, you have a lot of holes. So do I. Five of them are far deeper than the others. And they’ll keep digging more of themselves. The best we can do is honor the pony that once stood in that space.” She falls silent.
They lay in that quiet for many minutes, until Twilight is afraid Celestia’s fallen asleep. “Celestia?” she murmurs. “I miss them.” There is no answer. Twilight closes her eyes, though all she sees is the inside of her lids.
“I do, too.”
Twilight nuzzles impossibly closer. Everything smells like warm honey and home. She imagines the rest of her home is here, too, with Pinkie, Rainbow, Fluttershy, Applejack, and Rarity by her side. Spike is small again, and curled up in her arms.
She cries.