The Happiest You'll Ever Be
My friends are going to die.
Twilight hadn’t ever stopped to think about that. Yes, Princess Celestia was over a thousand years old, and Princess Luna was, too, and even if she hadn’t aged on the moon, she still was over a hundred and didn’t look a day over thirty. Cadance was still young, so no conclusion could be drawn about her lifespan. And that meant Twilight’s only two reference points were ageless.
Were they invulnerable? No. Well, probably not. When she was a filly, one of her classmates had asked Celestia, who’d only laughed. But when she was older, she’d asked Celestia herself, and the Princess had given her a grave look. I haven’t died yet, but I would not want to test it, Twilight Sparkle.
But who could say what that meant? Over the years, Celestia had been hurt many times, but Twilight had no idea if she could actually die. And for all that she hated to consider it, Twilight liked knowing things.
She wished she’d asked Celestia more questions. Well, actually, she wished Celestia had given her more answers, and that she herself had pushed harder for them.
My friends are going to die.
Because now she was here, two months into ruling Equestria, and she was fairly certain she was immortal.
The notion had occurred to her only that morning. Spike had made a comment, something like don’t worry, Twi, I bet it took Celestia a couple hundred years to get used to ruling, just give it time, something meant to be comforting, but it made her think. Just a stray thought, one that she pushed down immediately, terrified of the implications, but the damage was done.
Celestia is 1,121 years old.
Celestia is an alicorn.
I am an alicorn.
Twilight suddenly couldn’t understand how she hadn’t questioned it before in her years since ascending to alicornhood. The thought lit a pathway of fears and what-ifs through her mind that branched into more and more worries, like—what did this mean for her? What did it mean for her relationships? Should she even have any relationships—what was an alicorn’s lifespan, really? Friends, family—
The lives of her loved ones were just drops in an ocean of endless time. It was a realization that sank to the pit of her stomach, even as she frantically flipped through scrolls and journals for answers. She had been looking ever since that moment of realization, mere hours ago, but it was becoming abundantly clear she would have to bother somepony for answers.
“Uh, Twilight? What are you doing?”
She didn’t spare Spike a glance. “Research?”
“You’ve been jumpy all day, and you skipped Royal Court.” She looked up to see him standing in the doorway, arms crossed. And now she regretted looking up, because she was picturing his life in 100 years, and she just couldn’t— “What’s wrong?”
Part of her didn’t want to ask Celestia. She wanted to rationalize it as the desire to let her former mentor retire in peace, but she knew what it really was.
Fear. Because Twilight needed to know, but she was afraid of being right.
“Spike.” The name came out strangled. She fought to keep her voice steady. “I need you to send a scroll to Princess—to Celestia. It’s urgent.”
Spike eyed her dubiously. It was obvious he was considering the severity of her “Twilighting,” weighing his options. “Tell me what’s wrong,” he said, even as he accepted the scroll of parchment Twilight thrust into his claws.
“I—” She was reluctant to say it aloud; it felt like that would speak it into being true. But that was a silly, irrational thought, so she forged ahead. “I think there’s a chance I might be immortal.”
He stood back and stared at her.
Then: “You’re just realizing this now?”
What.
The breath caught in Twilight’s throat.
Whatwhatwhatwhatwhat—
Her whole body felt plunged in ice. “Wh-what?” she forced out of her lungs, lungs that felt collapsed, like they couldn’t—
Spike was rolling his eyes. “C’mon, Twi. You’ve been an alicorn for, what, four years now? How do you not know?”
“Wh-huh—? How do you?” she shrieked, pulling him forward with her magic, vicelike around his shoulders, lifting him to eye level, and she didn’t care that his eyes had widened.
“Well, I mean—I just figured, because of Celestia’s age, you’ve gotta be—”
He didn’t know for certain. Twilight released him at once, letting him fall back to the ground with a yelp.
“Sorry, Spike.” She hadn’t meant to hurt him, of course, but she had more pressing things to dwell on. “This whole time, you thought I was immortal? Why didn’t you say anything?”
“I thought you knew,” he exclaimed, throwing his claws up exasperatedly now that he was safely on the ground. “What did you want me to say?”
“I don’t know, ‘Hey, Twilight! Did it ever occur to you that you’re going to outlive all your friends and the nation of Equestria and be alive for the heat death of the universe?’”
Spike scowled. “Sarcasm isn’t a good look on you. Just saying.”
“Why are you being so calm about this?”
At her shrill tone, he finally looked a little contrite. “I guess it just doesn’t bother me,” he said. “I mean, you’re right, it would suck to live until the heat death of the universe, but… dragons live a long time. I had the whole outliving-my-friends crisis a long time ago, and I’m okay with it now. I didn’t think it would bother you this much.”
Twilight’s panic subsided just enough for her to be stunned. She remembered the day she’d learned about dragon lifespans, how the baby dragon beside her had furrowed his brow but otherwise hadn’t reacted. He’d been quieter since then, hadn’t he? She couldn’t remember. She’d been off in her own world.
“Spike…” She reached out a hoof tentatively. Oh, Celestia, she’d been so self-absorbed.
“But you’re right; I hope you’re not immortal,” he said awkwardly, scratching the back of his head, “because at least then we’re both gonna get to kick the bucket eventually, right?” He grimaced. “Okay, that was dark, sorry. I’m going to send that scroll to Celestia now. She’ll tell us if it’s true or not.”
Twilight felt as though her throat couldn’t constrict any further. “…Right.”
The next few hours crawled by agonizingly slowly.
Twilight attended seven meetings with dignitaries, diplomats, councilponies, and castle staff. At every moment of free time, she checked in with Spike, who had nothing to report. When the clock struck precisely six, she raised the moon and lowered the sun.
She woke up and did it all again the next day, nerves coiling tighter and tighter.
Why hasn’t Celestia responded?
It was impossible to focus on any work, and it was showing, even though she’d spent most of the night attempting to distract herself with catching up on court papers. Multiple times throughout the day, creatures made comments that despite being veiled through layers of formality made it clear that her distress was obvious to everyone.
“Princess, may I suggest a break? You appear… distracted. Or perhaps unwell.” The Secondary Councilpony was not accustomed to Twilight yet. Most of Twilight’s interactions were either with obsequious, nervous ponies, or with ponies frustrated by Celestia’s abdication and reluctant to view Twilight as a ruler. The Secondary Councilpony was something else—she made clear her concern for the change in leadership, but she was respectful and steadily growing friendlier with Twilight. Twilight liked her.
It was a shame the councilpony would be dead in a few short decades.
I wonder if Celestia even remembers this pony’s name. She has had so many council members over the years. I can’t imagine how fast they must go by.
The mental spiral wasn’t entirely made of anxiety anymore. Now it was more like weary apathy.
The pony would be gone before Twilight could blink.
“Princess?”
Twilight blinked slowly. Nope. Still alive.
She was spared a response, as at that moment, Spike burst through the heavy doors, letter clutched in hand.
Before he finished saying Celestia’s name, Twilight was out of her seat and in the air, shrilling “Meeting adjourned!” and snatching the letter.
“But Princess, the festival committee expects—”
Spike likely gave the councilpony an apologetic look, but Twilight’s eyes were already glued to the letter, even as she ushered the ponies out of the room. The doors had scarcely banged against the last pony’s hind legs before Twilight crumpled to the ground, the breath leaving her body.
Dear Princess Twilight Sparkle,
I apologize for the late response. My sister and I were enjoying an evening of pinochle with the lovely community here, and I couldn’t step away when your letter appeared. Regrettably, my memory failed me after the game, and I only remembered your letter this afternoon. If I had known the content matter, I assure you I would have acted with haste.
Because I know you, Twilight. I know that when you have concerns, they consume you. So first I will tell you, as simply as possible: no, alicorns are not immortal, in the purest sense of the word.
“You okay?” Spike asked, looking appropriately freaked out at her collapse.
Twilight managed a nod. Tears of relief wet her fur.
I should add that I am telling you this to the best of my knowledge. The only death of an alicorn I am aware of occurred long before I took the throne. The pony’s name has been lost to time, but it was reported that they lived to be two hundred before they announced their—for lack of a better term—impending mortality.
I have not aged a day for over a thousand years. You may wonder, if I am not immortal, how this came to be. I can only tell you that I had the sky to command, a country to rule, and a sister whose return meant everything to me. I could not let myself age while I was still needed. Somehow, I knew instinctively that this was the reason.
I cannot say what this will mean for you, but I trust your lifespan will be more on your terms than mine ever was.
I hope I was able to answer your question thoroughly. (And yes, Twilight, I have evidence that I truly am aging these days. As is Luna.)
In all honesty, I never discussed this with you because I assumed I must have already explained it at some point. Surely the question had crossed your mind before?
Luna sends her regards. I wish you well, and as always, write to me if you have any further concerns.
Your faithful subject,
Celestia
“I see what she did there.” Spike’s face split into a grin. He was reading over Twilight’s shoulder. “So, phew. What a relief.”
Twilight blinked down at the scroll.
“…Twi?”
Everything felt sluggish, like she was underwater. She blinked again, trying to process his voice, and then trying to summon words. A response. “Mhm.”
“You okay?”
Finally, she pried her eyes away, letting out a shuddering breath. A single, jittery nod of her head.
It was relief.
It was.
Twilight spent the rest of the week deep in thought.
The letter was nagging at her. She was tremendously relieved, to be sure—dizzy from it, even days later. But there was just—a lot to process.
Like the fact that Princess Celestia was dying, technically.
And that her immortality had been a choice, more or less.
Responsibility. Celestia hadn’t used the word, but Twilight felt its presence weighing down the ink of her former mentor’s letter. Celestia had been responsible for her country, as well as for Luna’s safe return; she’d spent an actual millennium living for a higher purpose.
Twilight didn’t know if she herself could do the same.
Isn’t that what I’m here for? she couldn’t help but think. That was the whole purpose of becoming the Princess of Equestria, wasn’t it? It was Celestia’s end goal for her to take up the mantle, the passed torch, to become someone the country could rely on for however long it needed her. To become a leader, and leaders didn’t shirk away from their duty, especially once they’d already accepted it. This was Twilight’s destiny. She’d accepted that destiny, that duty, that responsibility.
But her stomach refused to settle.
Am I responsible enough to do what Celestia did?
Should I be?
And so she spent the week pondering it. She tried not to let it distract her during meetings or important commitments, but it was a constant point festering in the back of her mind.
What if something happens where I have to make that choice? What if I have a responsibility to keep ruling Equestria, and I have to watch everyone around me die?
She wondered if she should prepare for that.
“Hey, Twilight.” Spike slid into the seat across from her, setting his breakfast on the table in between them. Their schedules rarely overlapped at the right time to eat together these days.
These days, in Canterlot Castle.
Days that might last a long, long time.
With startling clarity, it struck Twilight that Spike might not even live for as long as projected. It was entirely in the realm of possibility that he would pass away early, from illness or accident—there was a chance he could pass away that very next day. Or even now, if he were to suffer a heart attack mid-bite of pancake.
The bite in question stilled halfway to his mouth. “What’s wrong? Do I have something in my teeth?” He picked at his fangs curiously.
Twilight attempted to clear her throat, but it came out closer to a cough. “No, sorry, I just—I was lost in thought.”
She poked at her pancakes, determinedly pushing the thought from her mind. No death, no speculation. No worries.
“Uh—right.” Spike’s brow furrowed, but he swallowed the bite of pancake hungrily. “Is the coffee machine broken again?”
For a moment, Twilight considered bringing up Celestia’s letter and the thoughts that had spawned from it, but she decided against it. Spike was sick of her Twilighting, after all, and she knew what he would say—You’re still worrying about that? Aren’t you glad you’re not immortal? I think you’re overthinking this.
And he would be right. But Twilight already knew that, so there was no point in talking about it.
She was making a mountain out of a molehill. She was being silly and who cares about the future, there’s no logical reason to suddenly be struck by the fact that time is precious and who knows what could happen—
She mustered a smile.
“Trust me, Spike, if the coffee machine was broken, I’d still be asleep.”
Twilight slogged through the next week in a slump.
Week, or month? She wasn’t sure anymore. She would have to consult her calendar.
In any case, she’d had more meetings than she could count and enough paperwork to fill the royal bathhouse. Not to mention all the hours of holding court, which she was currently doing. Two unicorns were bickering in front of her, occasionally casting glares at her throne, emphasizing with stomps to the pristine tile and haughty scoffs in her direction. Something she’d learned over the short course of her leadership was that civilians rarely afforded her the same respect as they had with Celestia.
It was fine. She felt the same way. After all, she barely knew what she was doing. Maybe she’d deserve respect after a few hundred years of self-sacrifice.
Maybe not.
What were they talking about again? The gray unicorn’s garden, or was it the blue unicorn—or was it not a garden at all? Did it even matter, if those plants and those ponies were just specks in the winds of time?
The throne room’s doors burst open, and Spike shuffled inside. “Twilight, remember how I cleared your schedule today?” he asked, two guards at his side.
“Wait your turn, pal,” one of the civilian unicorns muttered, and the other growled at him.
Spike ignored them, and the guards ushered the unicorns out of the room. “Twilight?”
He was prompting her to answer. “Hm? Oh, yes. I do remember that.”
“Well…” Spike flicked his gaze to the doorway, where a group of familiar faces were poking their heads inside. Normally, the ponies would be a welcome sight, especially after so long without meeting up with them, but Twilight found herself dismayed. She was not emotionally prepared to face her friends, not now, not when all she could think about was them dying—
“Oh. H-hi, girls.” Maybe she could pass her tone off as exhaustion. She really was exhausted, so that technically wasn’t not a reason, was it? Double negative; further proof of fatigue. And that was a perfectly reasonable reason to cancel spending time with her friends, even if they’d traveled so far just to see her.
Pinkie Pie was the first to speak. “Wow, Twilight! Spike wasn’t kidding. You sound pooped!”
Of course Spike had talked to them. Twilight closed her eyes, just for a moment. “Er, well… it’s been a long day.”
“Jeez.” Rainbow Dash, hovering above the others, lashed her tail. “Can’t you set your own hours or something?”
“I reckon she’s not in control of that,” Applejack said without looking at the pegasus. She was eyeing Twilight thoughtfully.
The panic was building again, a steady simmer under her gaze. If any of her friends prodded Twilight, even a little, she wasn’t sure what she would do. Maybe have a panic attack, or burst into tears, or both.
Thankfully, Rarity’s once-over was not as probing. “Even if she were, it wouldn’t do for a princess to be too lenient with scheduling. She has a country to rule, after all.”
It was meant to sound lighthearted, and it didn’t take Twilight by surprise, but Applejack’s resulting wince made Twilight think that maybe Spike had shared the letter incident with the others. She chanced a glance at him; yes, he looked guilty. Well, she couldn’t blame him.
Even if she could—what would she do: take him aside and chastise him? What if something happened to him afterward, and that was the last interaction she ever had with him? If anything, she should pull him aside and tell him she loved him.
Same for the others; she should tell them right now, in case she didn’t get a chance—Celestia, what if this was their last time getting together? They couldn’t visit Canterlot often, and she could visit them even less, so the odds had never been higher that something could happen to at least one of them between now and—
“Twilight?”
All her friends were looking at her askance. Oh, they’d been talking.
Twilight cleared her suddenly dry throat. “Yes, sorry, I was just… I was just zoning out.” She made the split-second decision to forgo the fake laugh. It wouldn’t have been convincing. “What were you saying?”
Her friends exchanged a look.
“We were just considering… would you like to go to the spa?” Rarity’s brows were drawn. “We seldom have the chance to visit the one in Canterlot, you know, and… you look as though you could use some pampering. Not that you seem tired, but—”
“You do,” Rainbow interrupted. “So tired. Like you’re about to collapse or something.” Applejack shot her a glare, against which she defended, “What? I’m just calling it like it is!”
Twilight didn’t have the energy to argue with her. Dash wasn’t wrong, and besides, maybe the spa would be helpful, even if she doubted it. It was probably the best place to spend time with them right now, at least. And Spike had cleared her schedule, even if it made more work for her future self.
The future was so close to the present.
“I think it would be nice,” Fluttershy said, and there was a weight of understanding to her soft voice.
Twilight breathed in—then out. “Okay.”
The water was warm, the air was humid, everypony’s muscles were freshly relaxed, and Twilight felt no better than before.
Celestia, she felt like she was drowning. The humidity was suffocating her. The lack of tension in her wings and withers only added to the strange sense of unreality that had claimed her the past week or month, because she felt like she should be panicking and tense, because that was how she normally handled this sort of thing, but she wasn’t. She was just… heavy.
They’re going to die.
She couldn’t bring herself to smile when Rainbow Dash had done what she did every time they went to the spa—making a big stink about uncoolness but surreptitiously bringing along her favorite slippers—or when Pinkie unwittingly exasperated the masseuse with her chatter. They were just examples of things she’d grown to love about her friends that she was going to miss.
She was going to miss them so much.
Now Pinkie and Rarity were arguing over whether it was socially acceptable to brink cupcakes into the sauna, and it should have been just the thing to snap Twilight to her senses, but she couldn’t manage to react. It was like they were already dead.
“So, Twi.” Applejack turned to her, ignoring the squabble. “What’s been eatin’ at you?”
The words took a second to worm past her haze. “Hmm? Oh. I—nothing. I’m fine.”
The Element of Honesty raised an unimpressed eyebrow.
“Is it that letter?” Rainbow Dash butted in, sticking her head past AJ’s shoulder to see Twilight. Water trickled off her mane from when she’d dunked her head. “Celestia said you’re not immortal, right? Are you bummed about that?”
The suggestion was ludicrous enough to pull an emphatic response out of Twilight. “Of—of course not.” She was glad to not be entirely immortal. Which was why there wasn’t actually anything wrong. She was so fortunate. It was honestly the best outcome anypony could hope for, to have control over her own lifespan.
She couldn’t dump her problem on her friends because there was no problem.
“I don’t know, it might be kinda cool to be immortal,” Rainbow said blithely, spreading her wings against the back of her seat.
“It wouldn’t be,” Fluttershy said quietly from Twilight’s other side.
There was a pause, and in the silence, Twilight realized Rarity and Pinkie had stopped bickering. They were watching with rapt attention, Pinkie’s hoof smushed against Rarity’s mouth like she’d tried to shush her and had forgotten to withdraw.
“As an animal caretaker, I see many of my close friends pass away,” Fluttershy continued, eyes on Rainbow, gentle but unflinching. “Most times it’s natural. They just live shorter lives than us. Angel Bunny is aging, too, and it will be hard for me when it’s his time, but at least I know one day I’ll join him and anyone else I lose.” She paused. “Discord is immortal. He talks about what it’s like, sometimes.”
They sat in silence with that. It was a common fact, but—what would happen to him, when Fluttershy was gone? How could he continue to believe in friendship when all the friends he would make would die? Except—except for Twilight, maybe. Maybe she had a responsibility to remain. For his sake. For their friendship’s sake. For Equestria’s sake.
What was she thinking before, considering it as a choice? There was no choice. She had to.
“Well, he’s fine, isn’t he?” Rainbow said at last, awkwardly.
Fluttershy tilted her head. “I… don’t know. He makes the best of it, but I’m sure he wouldn’t wish immortality on anypony.”
“You don’t suppose he’d want you to be the exception, though?” Rarity asked. “Surely he’d want company.”
“No, I don’t think so. For all that he bends the laws of nature, he knows ponies aren’t meant for immortality.”
“Ugh.” Rainbow Dash rolled her eyes. “Sorry, I don’t believe that for a second.”
“Anywayyyyy,” Pinkie chimed in, “Twilight’s not immortal, so it doesn’t matter, right?”
The ponies looked to Twilight.
The breath had caught in her throat several sentences ago, but she wasn’t hyperventilating, not really. Her thoughts were simultaneously racing and frozen stuck like her old record player back at the Ponyville library, long since destroyed, because—what could she say? They were right, they were right, she had responsibilities, she couldn’t go on pretending otherwise.
A little desperately, Pinkie repeated, “Right?”
“…What if I am immortal, though?” The words felt like broken glass.
“Don’t be silly, darling. Spike told us all about the letter.” Rarity sounded uncertain.
Twilight’s heart was hammering. It had been for a while now, hadn’t it? Was that the heaviness she’d been feeling all this time, a silent panic beneath her fur? Well, great, another form of Twilighting to add to the collection; Spike would be thrilled.
Spike would be dead. Rarity would be dead. Pinkie would be dead, Rainbow Dash, Applejack, Fluttershy—
A yellow hoof pressed against her chest. “Twilight? Breathe. Please.”
“I am.” She was. She was. “But I… girls, I have a responsibility to Equestria as its princess. I need to ensure that the future is prosperous, just like Celestia did, and I can’t do that unless I’m alive to oversee it. It’s—it’s my responsibility.”
I never asked for this.
The guilt slammed into her like an anvil. She couldn’t think like that. She was so, so, so, fortunate.
But the thought still wriggled to the front of her mind, and she meant it, and oh, she wasn’t worthy of ruling Equestria.
“And Discord—I can’t leave him all alone, can I?” She couldn’t look any of them in the eye for too long, afraid of what she might see, so her gaze bounced wildly between them. “What friend would willingly do that? What Princess of Friendship would do that? Celestia chose me. I don’t know if I can live up to her, but I—I have to do my best. I have to let you all die.”
Silence. Five pairs of wide eyes stared back at her.
“Twilight…” Rarity sounded horrified. Twilight couldn’t look at her. “Is this what has been bothering you?”
Of course it is! she wanted to scream, but all she could manage was a nod.
“You shouldn’t compare yourself to Princess Celestia,” Pinkie said, uncharacteristically pensive. “You’re your own pony! And your own princess. You’re going to rule Equestria your own way.”
“And you’re not gonna screw it up,” Applejack added. “At least, not beyond anythin’ you can handle.”
“But I—”
“You’ll have loads of ponies to help you, including us,” Rainbow said, fluffing her feathers. “Equestria won’t need you to carry it all on your own.”
“But eventually you won’t be here!” Twilight protested. “I have responsibilities, and if I can make things better by leading Equestria indefinitely, then I shouldn’t give up on that!”
“Then train a successor,” Rainbow countered. “Celestia did that, so why can’t you do it too?”
A successor? Twilight… supposed that made sense.
A successor, just like she had been. Somepony who could learn, grow, take more time to fill into the role of a princess with more time to adjust than she’d ever had. Perhaps that was the way the throne was meant to function, not as a long-lasting duty to the world, but as a position. A… job, in a sense.
It felt dangerous to treat it as such, to leave the leadership of the country up to chance like that, changing hooves every several decades. Also, the thought was almost blasphemous, and Twilight had to consciously smother her righteous offense. But Rainbow was right; that was what Celestia had done in the end. And… Celestia had wanted that all along, hadn’t she? She’d been planning this. She’d always wanted to retire with Luna.
I cannot say what this will mean for you, but I trust your lifespan will be more on your terms than mine ever was, Celestia had written. Twilight hadn’t focused on that, but maybe she should have.
Celestia hadn’t necessarily wanted to rule for over a thousand years. Maybe her reign was the exception, not the expectation.
A beat passed as everyone processed the unexpectedly sensible solution. Then there were murmurs of agreement.
“I’m thoroughly astounded to admit it, but Rainbow Dash makes an excellent point,” Rarity said at last, ignoring Dash’s indignant hey! “If you find a successor as competent as yourself, you’ll have nothing to worry about, I’m certain.”
“I’m certain, too,” Fluttershy said firmly. “You’ll be a wonderful princess, no matter how long or short you rule.”
Twilight swallowed and blinked back tears. Part of her felt like they were hollow affirmations, but she couldn’t provide evidence otherwise. Other than: well, Celestia chose me to be her successor, and I’m going to screw up, so clearly having successors doesn’t work out.
She knew that was a logical fallacy, and logical fallacies had no place in debates or academic papers, but this was her future, the country’s future, not a thesis, and—she couldn’t shake how she felt.
Aloud, she said, “Thank you, girls. I… you’re right. It’s a good idea. A great idea.”
Applejack frowned. “There’s a but, ain’t there.”
It was a testament to the gravity of the conversation that Pinkie didn’t giggle at the word but. Or maybe not; Twilight had learned time and time again to not underestimate Pinkie’s emotional awareness.
She’d… learned a lot about her friends, over the years. They were so incredible, in ways a younger version of her could have never imagined friends could be.
“I just…” Tears sprang to her eyes again. “I don’t know the future. All of this made me think, and now… I can’t stop thinking.”
She was sure they understood that, without elaboration. It was the eternal problem: Twilight Sparkle, overthinking.
“Thinking ‘bout what?” AJ asked gently.
Twilight waved a hoof, sending water splashing. “Everything. Nothing. The parts of being a princess I’m responsible for, the parts I’m not responsible for. The future. The fact that any of you could get eaten by a rogue timberwolf today or tomorrow or in a week, and I can’t believe I never thought about that before.”
“But…” Pinkie began, head tilted and eyes wide, and Rainbow filled in: “Why’re you worried about that? The odds are, like… I dunno, but they have to be crazy low.”
“I…” Twilight hung her head. “I realized it’s going to happen—not specifically you being eaten by a timberwolf, that’d be silly, but—you’re all going to die someday. I looked into spells, potions, even how being an alicorn works, as if I could possibly discover anything—and there’s nothing I can do about it.”
Uneasy silence. It wasn’t as though there was anything they could say. Twilight was right, and clearly they didn’t want to think about it, anyway.
Finally, Fluttershy spoke up. “We’re… all going to die, Twilight.”
“I—” The tears were threatening to clog her voice. “I know that. You’re right, I… maybe I don’t have to live forever. But I also know that no matter how long any of us live, our time together is finite! Any of you could die at any time, and I don’t know what to do!”
The bewildered look from a passing spa pony made Twilight realize her volume had been steadily rising. She cleared her throat and breathed out slowly.
“There’s nothin’ to do,” Applejack said, solemn. “It’s just the way it is. Ponies live an’ die an’ grieve, but we just have to get through it. It’s acceptin’ the reality of it all, but without drivin’ ourselves mad over it. You can’t get hung up on waitin’ for it to happen.”
“But how?” Twilight asked, forcing her voice to remain at a normal volume, but not caring that she sounded desperate. “How do I stop?”
“It’s like…” Fluttershy’s head tilted as she considered her words. “You worked hard on your breathing, for when you’re stressed. It’s a strategy you used to calm yourself down. Things like that work here, too, to try to live in the present—ways to calm you down, and to accept things and move past them.”
Twilight lost the battle with her tears. They poured down her face. “But I—I can’t change them.”
“No,” Fluttershy agreed, and her eyes were shining, too. “You can’t.”
Applejack patted Twilight’s shoulder, and when Twilight couldn’t hold back a sob, she embraced her.
“Oh, this is far too much,” Rarity said, dabbing at her eyes. “Look at me, now I’m crying as well, and—my hoof’s already wet from the water, so I’m just making it worse, aren’t I?” She flung herself at Twilight, joining the hug. “Now I can’t stop thinking about it, either!”
Fluttershy leaned into Twilight’s free shoulder, lightly patting Rarity’s back. “You can’t change things, but you can let it fade to the background. That’s what I do.”
“How?” Twilight choked out.
“Practice,” Fluttershy suggested. “You could start with breathing. Or meditation.”
“Talking helps, I should think.” Rarity’s voice was muffled, face buried in Twilight’s mane.
Applejack added, “Time does.”
A sudden warm pressure took up the remaining space between Rarity and Fluttershy, squeezing them closer to her, and Pinkie’s somber face squished against Twilight’s. “Sometimes I think, ‘Pinkie, what if this is the happiest you’ll ever be?’” she said, “and I get really sad about it. Sometimes I have whole days where I’m sad about it. But a little while ago, I realized, ‘Hey! I thought about this already!’ and suddenly I was able to put it down when I couldn’t before.”
This is the happiest you’ll ever be. Celestia—what a depressing thought, and now that she’d heard it, Twilight couldn’t unthink it. Great, another thing to panic over. And suddenly she felt like laughing through her tears, because all of this was ridiculous, wasn’t it? All of these spiraling thoughts, just ridiculous.
And then Pinkie was giggling and crying with her, and the others were smiling uncertain smiles like they didn’t quite get what was so funny, but they understood something good had clicked for her, and—through her blurry vision, Twilight saw Rainbow Dash on the other side of the tub, looking immensely awkward.
“I dunno if I get it,” Dash said, “and I still think immortality wouldn’t be that bad, just saying, but you know you can always talk to us about this stuff, right?”
Twilight nudged a space between Applejack and Rarity for Rainbow to join the group hug. And with their combined reassurances, and the strangely lifted pressure from letting out her tears, and the fading certainty of her responsibilities as a princess, she smiled and said, “I know.”