Twinkle Twinkle, My Little Star
Scratch scratch scratch.
Sharp scribbles of ink and quill gave voice to long form scrawling script as Night Light gazed through his telescope. Nestled on the balcony just outside his bedroom, the stars gazed down at him as he tilted the instrument to a new heading. A soft glow emanated from his horn, a lengthy white feather twitching as he hummed to himself.
Diagrams and star-charts were laid out on the table beside him; the gentle glow of quaint lanterns adorned the houses before him. An ornate candle burned on the railing, a silver flame flickering dangerously. He looked down at his work, comparing an old copy of prophecies that the Princess had left on his desk. Apparently, she’d found it under the letter ‘E’.
Nearly a year now, and the signs were clear. Of course, no advice was given, only two train tickets and the elegant quill with which he now wrote. The longing for the royal astronomy tower rolled over him for a moment, though perhaps less now as he remembered that it had been filled with moon-themed furniture, again, with no explanation. The princess was high on expectation, and low on explanation.
Once more, he checked the deviation of planets and stars, cross-referencing historical data as he scribbled away. The silver flame of the candle flickered once, then twice, but stayed lit. His time here drew short, and he heaved a sigh as he collected his things in his magic. Down the circular wooden steps, he set the candle on the center table, then shelved the princess’s book back under ‘E’, his hoof lingering over the cover.
He clopped up onto the table, his journal of stars before him as he raised his quill. Setting the tip into the flame, a gentle spark clung like a newborn child, a heartbeat in the stillness. He scratched into the wood, slowly, a melancholic smile on his face as a slow pressure of magic built–a dampness that sank into his coat. Silver letters swam around Night Light, his eyes closing as he recited words from memory.
The lines of magic flowed, poetry and longing, promise and protection coming into being. Moonlight, patient as the endless night, finally seeped into the room. The patterned rays of the Mare in the Moon crept forward to fall upon the table as Night Light finished. He stomped, cracking the quill in half with his magic and tossing it into the flame. Runes of old Ponish flared, planets and stars now permanently etched into the table, vibrantly aglow. A hiss rattled into the room as the moonlight coalesced. A dark, red hue glared down on Night Light, his fur beginning to sizzle as he remained unwavering. A final breath escaped him as the spell finished, a golden light passing over him to meet the luminous animosity. Then, as the two lights touched, a single sob echoed out.
It was over. The silver flame flickered in finality, and then went out. It was time to leave. Night Light looked over his–neigh, the Princess’s working. He smiled as he read each phrase: Keep safe; Be loved; Stay determined; and in the center of it all: Make friends.
Turning, he walked toward the door of the Golden Oak Library. The door banged open before he made it, and the manic face of his crazed marefriend greeted him with menace. Her eyes nearly popping from her face, she scowled into the dark where Night Light stood.
“Haven’t you seen the signs, Night Light! I’m about to pop!”
The blood drained from his face as he whipped his head left and right. “Um, why didn’t you stay with my brother? He’s perfectly—”
Tired, dripping sweat, and with her stripped mane more frazzled than after a ball of yarn in a thunderstorm, she limped into the library. “If you think I’m putting our foal in Azure’s hooves, you’ll really be seeing stars. He’s worse than you.”
“He’s not that bad.” Night Light rushed at her to support her as they came to the center table. “We were supposed to have more time, ugh. I was on my way home.” He pulled down the blankets and pillows from above, covering the table and helping her up with magic and hoof.
“You can tell the baby that, you loony light. Not everything obeys your star-charts, certainly not children.” Twilight Velvet, soon to be mother and always a little nutty, looked him deep in the eyes. “This is entirely your fault, you know. All those protection spells and you still managed to knock me up!” She raised her hooves, gesticulating as Night Light gathered water and lit normal candles. “It’s like Celestia herself demanded I have a child.”
Night Light coughed into his hoof, not meeting her eyes as he dipped towels into the water. His hesitance did not go unnoticed, as he was nearly melted into a puddle by a far greater evil than what he’d faced just moments ago.
“Night. Light. If I find out that your funky star magic and that frumpy sun-blasted pigeon had anything to do with–”
“La-la-la,” Night put his hooves over his ears. “I can’t hear you blaspheming the greatest pony in all the land. It’s not like she has a spell to instantly know if I was criticizing her or anything.” He stopped after a moment, when it seemed safe to meet his lover’s gaze. “We’ll talk about it later, okay?”
The demon that stood before him reminded Night Light why two-thirds of all marriages ended in divorce. “You’ll be the first father in history that died in child-birth, so help me, Night Light.”
There was enough screaming, kicking and pleading to the stars that there was little difference between childbirth and some cult’s colt sacrifice. Blood and tears soaked into the table and the runes below, and the whole tree quivered under their hooves. The wailing cry of a new life filled the tree, the bark, the leaves, and especially, the books.
“It’s a girl!”