The air hung still.

Celestia didn’t like it. Why, she couldn’t quite place her hoof on—or perhaps, she simply didn’t want to.

Though really, her private dining chamber had always been a bit stuffy. The plainly decorated space bore a low ceiling and no windows, which worked to keep the atmosphere a hair on the stale side. It wasn’t the most ideal room in which to share meals with those whose company she very much enjoyed, but, locked away amid the entangled halls and corridors of the castle, it was difficult to find. And that, she knew, was a rare gift indeed.

With a bit of ceremony, Celestia rearranged herself on her purple pillow, the thick, oaken table before her bare, but for two sets of plates and some silverware.

She sighed irritably.

The air was stiffer than usual. It was thick, almost, like an oppressive blanket she couldn’t unwrap herself from. In the silent stillness, she felt rather like a boat out at sea, its sails hanging limply in the lack of wind, the waters as motionless as a pond.

She caught herself tapping a hoof, and frowned at the blatant show of apprehension. Nervous energy was a like a virus, and if she wasn’t careful it would quickly spread to the servants delivering her meal. She was, after all, the most contagious of any pony. It came, unfortunately, with the age.

With a light shake of her head, a new ripple slowly swimming down her mane, she settled her mind on her dinner mate.

Twilight Sparkle.

Would she still come? Surely; the young mare hadn’t missed a meal with Celestia ever since she had known her.

Briefly she indulged a small chuckle, a memory rising up of her young student, dragging books on three body levitation to one such dinner, attempting to simultaneously converse with the princess and study for a midterm the next day.

But Celestia felt a touch of guilt at the recollection; it had been rather comical at the time, watching her student across the very table she sat at now, but it had been…thoughtless of her. She knew Twilight needed—or rather, wanted, as she always does, despite how well prepared she always is—to study. Celestia was the one giving her the test, after all. But she had asked her to dinner anyway. Twilight did have the option to decline, as always, but she would be lying to herself if she ever thought Twilight would take it.

At the time, she had reasoned that it was to teach her a lesson; that no matter the exam, it was important to make sure one still allowed time for others, and to enjoy oneself. Life brought many tests, and to try and prepare perfectly for all of them would ruin you, sucking the life out of your soul, drying you out like a husk.

But hindsight was clearer than spring water. It had been a particularly stressful day, politically. A dear friend had to be let go from their position, and Celestia had spent the evening battling a sense of overwhelming helplessness. The thought of dining with Twilight had been…well, she needed it.

She should have let Twilight alone to study; it was the only thing that would combat her anxiety during the test. But she didn’t. She chose to be selfish. And while it certainly made a memorable moment for her, Celestia now felt that she had rather wronged her student. Made things…difficult. And she hated making Twilight’s life difficult.

But, that is what she seemed to always be catching herself doing, wasn’t it?

It was yet to be seen in regards to today, though.

She gazed in quiet contemplation at the plain door across the room, through which Twilight would enter.

She hadn’t spoken to her since the…little… incident earlier, during her court. Of course, that was purposeful. Often, all Twilight needed was some time on her own without any interruption from Celestia, to analyze her own actions and realize her errors in judgment.

The princess had long since moved beyond the need to outright scold her—usually. Instead, her absence said enough.

Or is it avoidance? Celestia frowned at the thought. Taking a deep breath, she straightened her posture.

Things had gotten rather complicated in the months following Twilight’s coronation, hadn’t they?

As she shifted, she noticed once more the weight of her crown; it felt heavier tonight, a constant drip in the still pond of her serenity. Her golden shoes were tight on her hoofs, and her torc hung uncomfortably about her graceful neck.

“A dinner between two princess, eh? Sounds political.”

“Oh indeed,”—a chuckle—“so much so that neither of us will be wearing our crowns. It’s advanced politics. Goes over the heads of most nobles.”

“A pity. I always liked wearing my crown while eating. It seems to give my food a certain level of elegance.”

“Well, I’m afraid you’ll just have to be rather unhappy tonight.”

“So no princess-like attire? I’ve worn nothing but since being in Canterlot. Is this an order from Her Royal Majesty herself?”

“Of course!”—and then, more seriously—“Twilight, you know I would never let a crown of gold get in between the two of us. I’ve been looking forward to this dinner for weeks. Tonight, I want us simply to be two mares, taking enjoyment in each other’s company.”

Celestia adjusted her crown slightly, attempting to convey a sense of absentmindedness in the action.

The air was oppressive and tight.

With a striking click that cut through the silence, the door opened, a pretty mare walking in.

“Announcing Princess Twilight Sparkle,” she said in a clear voice, her poise befitting the presence of Royalty.

Celestia felt her spirits fall. Twilight hadn’t asked for a formal introduction like that since the very first time they had shared a meal, all those years ago. Unbidden, her back arched slightly.

Twilight Sparkle entered. She was staring at the ground at first—a behavior Celestia recognized as anxious—but she quickly caught herself, looking up and meeting the gaze of the mare who was, self-professedly, no longer her teacher.

Celestia’s heart sank even further. Atop Twilight’s head rested a crown of gold, and on her hooves lay shoes studded with the insignia of her cutie mark.

Two simple mares…

No, it seemed…tonight, they were each of them a princess.

Twilight had the grace and presence of mind to smile first. Celestia, regretting not doing so before she even entered, returned it warmly with the practiced ease of centuries.

“Welcome—Twilight.” Her smile stretched a little. She had to hold herself back from uttering the title of princess.

Twilight bowed her head, a gesture that struck Celestia as surprisingly irritating.

“Thank you for having me, princess.”

Celestia’s smile, as forced as it was, fell, and she was unable to catch it. Thank you for having me. Since when did she have Twilight, as if she were a some guest or acquaintance she was going out of her way to welcome out of politeness and the rules of etiquette?

“Now…now, Twilight. No more of this formal banter,” Celestia said, surprised by her own unpleasantness. “There’s no pony else I’d rather have dinner with right now.”

A disbelieving light sparkled in Twilight’s eyes, and they momentarily glanced up at Celestia’s crown before jerking back to the ground.

“Right right, of course, you’re very right, as always,” she said—with some effort, Celestia noticed. She motioned towards the pink, satin pillow on the other end of the table. Twilight promptly sat down.

Her hooves seemed to tremble, and her young wings fluttered the tiniest bit. There was such a nervous energy trying to contain or hide itself. Twilight was gifted and intelligent beyond measure, but one element she had yet to even govern, let alone master, was concealing her inner state. Where Celestia was a granite pillar, Twilight was more like a balloon of water, every little disturbance visible as a ripple on its surface.

But this was familiar to Celestia, and she took comfort in confronting behavior whose inner workings she was quite adept at traversing.

“Well, Twilight, how does some Dandelion and Burdock cordial sound?” she asked, the earlier irritation purged from her voice.

“I’d love some.”

Celestia nodded towards the mare who had introduced Twilight, and with a short bow she trotted through the door on the opposite side, behind Celestia.

The princess returned her attention to her former student, who was staring off to the side as if looking out a window. She needed to pick the right topic to start off the conversation. Choose poorly, and Twilight’s very clear anxiety would worsen.

Gently, and with an inviting expression, she asked, “So, how went the research? I trust you enjoyed a day free from politics to spend on it.” Mostly free from politics, at least.

Her studies had always been a point of pride for Celestia, knowing that she had helped fashion Twilight into the juggernaut of a researcher that she was, though she could hardly take credit for her extraordinary levels of insight. And Twilight, obviously, took great pride in her talents.

Twilight flashed a glassy smile. “Oh, the research was…fine.”

Celestia raised an eyebrow. “Just fine?”

“Yes.”

The sound of the door opening interrupted their repartee, and the maid from earlier brought in a generous sized bottle, floating alongside two glasses in her magic. The silence was palpable as she set them down, filling first Celestia’s glass and then Twilight’s. She left the bottle on the table, asking before she walked off, “Anything else for your majesties?”

“What is being served for dinner?” Twilight asked.

Celestia blinked. She hadn’t asked that question in years, in all the meals they’d shared together. Not since Celestia had “off-hoofedly” remarked she herself restrained from doing so, as it asserted a certain lack of faith in the capabilities of one’s host. Twilight used to do nothing but ask about what food she was getting, though thankfully she had caught on to Celestia’s subtle nudging immediately. She always was observant, her Twilight.

“The princess has requested Turnip and Tater and Beetroot Pie, with a side of hotroot soup and oat farls.”

Twilight licked her lips; something else Celestia thought she had taught her against.

“That sounds very delicious, I’m sure. Thank you,” she said, with a slight nod of her head. It made the corner of her crown catch a gleam of torchlight, coming from the wall. The maid retreated.

“Do you approve of my choice of nourishment?” Celestia asked, taking a graceful sip of her cordial.

Twilight gave her an indiscernible look. “Of course.”

Celestia gave a little hum in response. “You know, I thought I had taught you better etiquette than what you just displayed now.” She was careful to keep her tone neutral, an expression of almost playful interest dancing across her features.

Twilight blinked, and Celestia caught her glance upward once more at her crown.

“Well, you always led more by example than outright lessons in that regard,” Twilight said, focusing her attention on her glass. She made a noise that sounded something like a strangled chuckle. “You could probably teach me something with a twitch of your cheek, or a flutter of your eyelash,” she said, half mumbling.

Then she met Celestia’s own intent gaze; though her voice was confident, she couldn’t hide from the princess the hurt in her eyes.

“But if you found my behavior too informal for the occasion, princess, I apologize and promise to watch my…impulsiveness.”

Impulsive. Rash. Unwise.

Celestia didn’t know whether she wanted to laugh, or cry.

~~~~

The room had gone eerily and suddenly silent.

Not one echo bounced off the grand, vaulted archways of Celestia’s throne room. Even the breeze coming through the open windows lining the gleaming hall seemed to have paused in suspense.

Everypony was staring at her.

Well, her and Twilight.

The Princess of Friendship had just finished teleporting—from the other side of the hall—unto the dais on which Celestia’s opulent throne rested, a glinting, golden image of the sun resting at its top. Her posture appeared strained as she stared down at the middle aged stallion, standing after having just received Her Royal Majesty’s judgment.

Which Twilight Sparkle had just overruled.

~~~~

“No, Twilight, you…haven’t been too informal.”

Twilight didn’t respond, instead hiding her face behind her glass as she took another sip. Celestia idly swished around her own drink in her magic. She watched Twilight raise a hoof to adjust her crown, only to catch Celestia watching and self-consciously lower it, crown untouched.

It seemed to catch the torchlight more than it ever had; it practically glowed atop Twilight’s young head, impossible to ignore. Every time she touched her glass with a hoof, it made a metallic ting that reverberated about the room.

Celestia’s own hooves were moist from sweat, uncomfortably tight within their golden cases. She rolled her shoulders, attempting to adjust her torc without having to visibly do so. Twilight tried to act as if she didn’t notice, but Celestia was beyond fooling. In irritation, the elder princess clucked her tongue.

“So,” she said, unwilling to let Twilight’s earlier attempt at escape end successfully, “you weren’t able to make progress in your studies? I’m sorry to hear it.”

She gave Twilight an understanding look, hoping to draw her out from her earlier reservation. Twilight, however, simply frowned. “I never said that.”

Celestia knew this, but berated herself nonetheless for trying such a simple ploy on her. Of course Twilight would see through it.

“Well, no, you did not,” Celestia consented, not missing a beat. “But what else was I to assume? I’ve always been privileged to know the state of affairs when it comes to your research and studies, and I know how much they mean to you,”—[i]how much my approval means to you, and how I long to give it endlessly—“and how important is that you get adequate time to make progress.”

Twilight slumped. “Adequate time. I recall a day when I used to know what that was. What time is there for Twilight Sparkle, but for Princess Twilight?”

Celestia felt a coldness grip her heart. “Twilight, what—”

“I-I’m sorry princess,” she cut in, “I don’t mean to complain.”

Celestia leaned intently forward, waiting for Twilight to meet her gaze, which she eventually did, as she always eventually did.

“Twilight, you know you can share any burden that you have with me. If it is about being a princess, please,” she said with conviction, “share it with me.”

Celestia gazed pleadingly at Twilight; when it came to this, she would beg if she had to. Anything to keep Twilight’s back from bending. In quiet moments or alone in her bed at night, she often feared it was her hooves which pressed down on it, her relentless tasks and missions and requests and favors that piled stones atop her precious Twilight’s back.

Twilight couldn’t hold her gaze; she looked aside, chuckling ruefully after a few moments.

“You…you know, I shouldn’t lie. I have time…have had time. Like when…” she didn’t finish, instead looking like she was strangling herself.

“When…?” Celestia prompted.

Twilight flashed a weak, glassy smile. Nervous energy was coming off of her in waves. But she plowed ahead.

“Like earlier today, when I had all the time in the world, and did nothing.” She locked gazes with Celestia, who found herself jolted by the accusation she saw, as she added, “In the library.”

Was Celestia really surprised—had she truly not seen this from a mile away?


~~~~

Twilight looked down at the convicted stallion below. Celestia knew she should intervene, but a part of her was too engrossed, too fascinated, too angry.

“I have learned that forgiveness is more powerful than judgment, Dusty,” Twilight said with such a convincing air of authority that Celestia couldn’t help but feel a touch of pride, despite her shock. “What you did was wrong…but I have been there myself. I did not take your course of action, but I know your heart. Your friends care about you, Dusty.” She gestured toward a group of ponies standing farther back, confusion and surprise overlaying features worn dry from a wound of deep disappointment. “Don’t ever doubt it, and never forget it. The crown forgives your actions,”—Whose crown! Celestia cried—“but it cannot replace the forgiveness of your friends. That is what you must seek the most. Do not let your friendship fail, for it will always be the strongest thing you have. Now go, be on your way, and may you never stand where you do now for reasons so foul again.”

Silence.

Everypony—diplomats, nobles, guards, palace servants, officials of state, and civilians from all over Equestria—turned their heads to gaze intently at the princess of the sun. The air suddenly felt very thin.

Two princesses, two judgments; one of justice, one of mercy.

Twilight turned to her, seemingly unaware of the hundreds of stares the two of them were receiving, her expression proud. Celestia closed her eyes, summoning every ounce of calm she had. Quietly, she took a deep breathe, and let it out slowly.

For Twilight’s sake, not hers, she looked at the young princess, and with a pleased smile on her lips said, “Very well spoken, Princess Twilight Sparkle!”

Twilight’s brow furrowed at the use of her title. Celestia rarely used it, after all.

She observed the ponies around the hall, watching the subtle change overcome their expressions—it was the difference between a fear she was no longer in control, and the relaxing assurance that she very much was.

“As I predicted, you made the wise choice.”

This was her throne room; she was its master. She held the cards, and made the rules. Twilight had nearly destroyed her political future in one fell swoop, but for her sake, Celestia would redeem it.

Twilight’s confusion only seemed to grow, her previous confidence eroding fast away. Celestia flashed her a smile that, to everypony else, was pleasant and happy; but to Twilight it was a fierce warning.

Calmly, still asserting control over the situation, she dismissed her. “Now, Princess Twilight, you may be off to the castle library; I will finish up here.”

Twilight opened her mouth to protest—to say something foolish, but Celestia’s smile only grew more pleasant looking—the warning more dire—and her eyes threatening. Twilight slowly closed her mouth. Taking a quick look down at Dusty, she stepped off the dais. She paused momentarily, flashing a shaky look back at Celestia, a quick glance up at her mighty crown, before walking stiffly out of the courtroom.

Making a show of settling more comfortably into her throne, she looked about all the staring ponies, adopting an air of surprised curiosity.

What could you all possibly be finding so innocently? she asked silently.

As if nothing had transpired, the ponies returned to the business, the last few moments no more than another in a long line of curious, unexplainable happenstances in Equestria.

~~~~

Celestia gazed back at Twilight.

“Ah, so you waited for quite a while at the library, didn’t you.”

Twilight didn’t respond, but the manner in which her breathing labored told Celestia enough. The princess sighed.

“I was hoping to give you some time alone to think about your rash actions earlier today,” Celestia began, stopping when Twilight suddenly got up from her pillow. She walked stiffly over to the wall to look out a window; it was something she did often when they conversed in her study or private chambers. It was a source of distraction for her. Only here, there were no windows, just dark, heavy stone lit by yellow torchlight. As if realizing her mistake, she shifted about awkwardly; she didn’t want to go back to her seat, and she didn’t want to stare at a wall. Finally, she sat down with a thump.

It was important to give Twilight not only her space, but the time she needed to organize her thoughts and feelings. Granted, Celestia no longer had to worry about frustration spilling out in the form of uncontrolled magic, as she had in the early years. But now the consequences were worse—a mare who could walk away, to the ends of Equestria, if she wanted. Many unpleasant nights had Celestia dreamt of seeing Twilight figure, turned away, disappear into the distance.

Twilight began drawing her hoof about the stone floor.

“Rash, you say, huh?” She didn’t look up.

“Yes.”

“Why?” Twilight asked, challengingly.

Celestia let a silence hang before answering. “I’m honestly rather surprised at you Twilight. I would have thought you better than anypony would have understood the consequences of what you did. Politically, it would have been a nightmare, had I not acted as I had, pretending it was all a part of some test I had planned.”

Twilight seemed to wilt under the princess’s accusation. She wasn’t being harsh, but she was honest—she had to be. Twilight was a princess now, and as much as it hurt Celestia to be tough on her, she knew the world would only be tougher.

“I must admit I don’t really know why you saw fit to intervene on my ruling of young Dusty’s situation, he—”

“Young?”

“Pardon, young for me,” Celestia quipped, slightly impatiently.

“Oh.” Twilight’s gaze hardened. “But I said why I “intervened”; it was because I had been in his saddle before.”

Celestia raised an eyebrow. “I am quite sure you have not committed the shameful acts he did against his friends, Twilight.”

She had expected Twilight to consent to this, but instead her gaze grew terribly burdened, like she was revealing an old wound. “No, but…I know what it’s like to think everypony you love and count on doesn’t trust you or care to take you seriously, no matter how much you beg.”

Celestia rolled her jaw. She didn’t miss the accusation in Twilight’s gaze, and painful memories of a certain wedding she thought she had buried too deep to resurface scratched at the back of her mind.

“I know what it’s like to feel that, and to act inappropriately because of it.”

The memories scratched louder.

“So right at that moment, when you were condemning him—as is your right,” she added quickly, “I knew what he needed, because it was what I needed.” She sighed heavily. “Both to receive and to give.” She looked at Celestia. “Forgiveness.”

Oh Twilight…

Celestia felt an urge to go over and cradle her little princess, but she restrained herself. Her sickening job was not yet finished.

“I understand that, Twilight,” Celestia said, “but what you did was wrong. For one, you could have come anytime afterwards and addressed the issue with me—I would have gladly listened to you, and while I certainly can’t promise I would have assented to your request, I would have considered it deeply.”

Twilight made a show of surprise. “You don’t agree with my judgment?”

“Careful at whose hooves you lay the privilege and right of “judgment” in my throne, Twilight Sparkle,” Celestia said, her tone hardening. Twilight winced and recoiled slightly, to which Celestia scorned herself.

“I’m sorry Twilight, I didn’t mean to snap at you. This is just…there’s a lot you have yet to learn about being a princess, and this I do not hold against you.”

Twilight looked almost hurt, but covered it up with an incredulous glare. “You prefer judgment over mercy or forgiveness?”

Celestia grimaced, irritation at her lack of control over directing this conversation rising.

“Justice,Twilight,” she stressed, “ and no, not always. But in this instance, yes.”

Twilight deflated.

“I waited for five hours in the library today, alone. Waiting…punishment. So, please, tell me now, what is it?”

Celestia nearly let slip a strangled sob. “Oh Twilight, there is no punishment—I saved you from a punishment! If I hadn’t acted as I did, you would have been politically scorned for the rest of everypony’s lives there! Please understand that, Twilight.”

She was silent for a while, staring down at her hooves. Finally she looked up, and, somehow, managed to defy Celestia.

“I don’t believe you.”

Celestia reeled.

“Excuse me?”

“I don’t believe you!” Twilight repeated, this time nearly shouting it. Her eyes were moistening, and Celestia steadily felt the ground beneath give sway.

“I promise you I tell the truth. What you did was unforgivable in the eyes of everypony there.”

“Why?” Twilight challenged.

“Because I am the sun,” Celestia said with a sudden shout, her temper conquering her serenity. “Every pony in that palace worships me. To them, I am their goddess, and you stepped on her hooves when you overruled her. You stepped in the way of the sun, and cast a shadow over everypony there, Twilight. You put yourself over their idol, and for that they would never forgive you."

Twilight recoiled, stepping back.

Celestia opened her mouth to say something, but nothing came--she was too shocked at her own words.

"Twilight, I..."

There was a sudden flash, and then Twilight was gone.

Celestia blinked in the silence, staring at the vacant spot where her former student had been.

She sighed helplessly.

The servants came in carrying food.

She wasn't hungry.




--------------

Note. This suuuuuuuucks.