The State of the Art

Spike wakes, stretches and breathes a small plume of smoke. Yawns an bares a maw with more teeth than a middle sized family. He rises from his nest — a bed of gold coins in a basin in the floor — and trots out of his small barn house.

From snout to tail tip he measures about seven pony lengths. He has shrugged off the puppy fat long since and is now a sleek, lean, athletic thing. His paws has grown too big to properly hold a pen, but his adoptive mother fixed that for him too.

He goes up to the main building, twilights house, and addresses a butler golem standing on the terrace to fetch him some breakfast and a couple of books. One thing he hasn't lost with age is his love of slacking off.

Mind you, Spike isn't lazy. He does good work as a diplomat to the dragon tribes in the north, and holds the recommendatory favour of the Diarch of the Sun. No, many would agree that spending a summers day sunbathing in the park and reading a good book is an excellent use of ones time.

At a quarter past noon, halfway through a popular-scientific work on economics, twilight lands next to him in the park.

"Hi spike," she says in her usual cheerful tone.

"Hello twilight," he answers in his baritone rumble.

She preens a feather in her wing.

"How is life treating you?" He asks, not looking up from the book.

"Oh, you know, same old. Research, politics, the works."

"Good, good."

Small talk is a pleasant reprise from all the heavy matters. They have a silent acknowledgement that they don't talk about work unless they are actually working, more for Twi's sake. She is still the same nerdy filly she was a century ago, she needs breaks from her work. Alicorn resilience or not stress is dangerous.

Spike puts down his book and curls slightly, to give of an air of attention.

"How are the others?"

"Oh, they are fine. Fluttershy is getting married."

"Give her my congratulations."

She nods and asks, "how are your studies?"

"I am brushing up on economy," he points at the book with a sheepish smile.

"Going for another masters degree?"

"Oh, I don't know. Maybe just a bachelor."

"That makes your seventh degree, right?"

"Yup."

"Dragon memory, huh? I am so envious."

He pokes her in the side with his tail and they laugh.

"So, how's the family?"

"Oh spike, you are family. You live right next to us."

"Yeah, I guess I am. Actually..."

"What is it."

"It might be a little... no... What I want to say is: thank you Twilight. Thank you for raising me. I think you did well."

They share a moment of silent sincerity.

"Oh, spike. Thank you for letting me."

He leans forward towards her and they share a brief nuzzle. There are no tears, for the times for tears of joy has passed. There is only joy and warmth.

"I'd better get going, Spike. Have fun!" She takes to the skies with grace, and he waves after her.

Spike returns to reading his book, feeling a little better than good. His reading is briefly interrupted when he feels someone sending him a scroll by dragon fire; he accedes the pressure and breathes a small green flame which folds up into an envelope.

He opens it and reads:

Honoured Spike esquire.

It is my pleasure to invite you to the two-hundred and sixty-fifth Sapients' Rights Conference of Broncselles, Balkium, as a representative of the dragon species. If you are interested in attending, please reply to this letter and arrangements will be made.

— Razorboule, official Dragonic diplomat of Equestria, in HED Celestia's service.

PS. Please, oh please come, Spike. It's going to be awesome. Love you, miss you, hope you are having a nice holiday.

With a smile he pulls forth paper and a pen, not to leave his significant other waiting.

"An international conference. This is going to be interesting," he murmurs to himself.