As Mr. Waddle delivered his eulogy, the prince in the front row reflected, not for the first time, on how much easier his life would be without tabloid journalism. There had been no stopping it after he'd let those three careless words leave his mouth at the coronation, and he'd had no choice but to roll with the punches. He had made some progress though. His wife's breathing techniques. Self-help books. Courses in acting, self-control, and even anger management. That last one wasn't directly related, but he figured control over one emotion would translate to others, and he was desperate enough to try anything. Why, just last week, he'd stubbed his toe during a meeting with the ambassador to the Griffon Republic, nearly inciting trade sanctions. Every errant secretion was liable to spark an international incident. And Shining Armor was sick, SICK, of sparking international incidents. 'No. Don’t dwell on that,' he thought firmly. 'Don’t get emotional. Soul of ice.' Admittedly, bucking up a funeral wouldn't be quite as bad as insulting an ambassador, but the high profile of the deceased meant reporters, and reporters meant publicity. He furtively scanned the crowd around him. Two ponies with notepads immediately turned away as his glance passed over them. Oh, joy. “Though he was taken from us long before his time,” Mr. Waddle droned on, “we can at least take solace in the fact that he passed painlessly.” He paused. “Next, a few words from his dear friend, Prince Shining Armor.” Shining started to rise amid a smattering of subdued stomping, but was restrained by a magical grip at his neck. "You’ll be fine," Cadance hissed, straightening his tie. "Don’t worry!" Shining gave a shaky nod and proceeded down the aisle to the lectern. The reporters’ gazes dragged on his every step like iron chains. As he passed the coffin, he paused briefly to gaze upon the body of his old friend. Precious memories whirled through his head. 'No! Soul of ice!' He stepped up to the podium and turned to face the audience, notepads and all. Cadance smiled up at him. The reporters stuck pencils in their mouths. And something in him snapped. Months of constantly worrying about his “liquid pride.” Months of self-help books to keep it in check! Months of classes, and meditation, and deep breathing, and those bucking, bucking tabloids! No more! He had loved Quartz Quill dearly, and he deserved a eulogy from the heart, not a robot! Tears sprang to his eyes. "Nopony takes the tabloids seriously anyway," he muttered. He squared his jaw resolutely, took a deep breath, and began his speech. [hr] He awoke the next morning to a newspaper shoved in his face. "When I said 'don't worry,' I didn't mean about the reporters!" Cadance shrieked. He didn't have to look at it to know what the headlines said. PRINCE DISPLAYS PRIDE AT FRIEND’S MURDER