“Princess?”
I look up from the stack of documents that, I swear, seems higher now than when I started going through them. Twilight, my faithful student is standing in the doorway. At thirteen years old, she’s already more powerful than most sages I’ve known in my time, and she’s still developing. In place of the excited smile she usually greets me with, however, sits an emotionless frown; a mixture of what looks like shock, and sadness that she doesn’t know how to deal with.
“Hello, Twilight.”
I put the remaining documents down and beckon her into the room. I can’t stand to see her sad, so with my next question, I start prying at the seams of her emotional state, trying to get to the core of what’s bothering her like I’ve done hundreds of times already.
“What is the matter?”
“My grandmother died,” she replies sorrowfully.
That was easier than expected, though not entirely without cause.
“I’m sorry to hear that, Twilight.”
The next question, for it is always the next question whenever somepony talks to me of death, is the one I dread most. Even for all my power and knowledge, death does not parley with the living no matter how much we wish that it would.
“Princess? Why does life have to be so unfair?”
A bit of a whine creeps into her voice, but the fact that she hasn’t asked me what I was expecting is enough to add several seconds to my response time.
“What do you mean, Twilight?”
She looks down at the floor, as though the words she’s looking for drift among the melancholy she exudes in spades.
“She fell over an oven-lid and broke one of her legs, and they said that that’s what killed her.” She stamps a hoof on the floor in a flurry of anger. “It’s not fair! I broke my leg last year and I was fine! Why’d she have to die?”
Explaining death to anypony is a difficult prospect in and of itself. On top of that, the younger and more intelligent the pony you’re explaining it to, the less willing they are to accept any given answer. Because it was her time, flits across my mind as an explanation, and I shoot it down just as swiftly. That never helps.
“Because life is fragile, Twilight, and your grandmother was old.” It’s not much, but it’s the best explanation I can give. She looks up, ears perked, but rather than acceptance, her anger grows.
“You’re old!” she exclaims, stamping her hoof again. “Much older than my grandmother was!”
I put a thin smile of sympathy on my face. Losing ponies you care about is difficult, even moreso the first time it happens. And the sad part is that it does not get any easier with each subsequent one. You learn to deal with it, move on because you have to, but it will always hurt.
“If you could, would you have traded my life for hers?”
It’s a mean question of me to ask, but if I want to help her get through this, she needs to think about it rather than just react. I would much rather draw her close, hold her with my hooves and my wings while she cries into my coat and lets the sadness of it all bring her some peace. Which brings me to notice the fact that she hasn’t shed a single tear. Not since she arrived at any rate, it’s possible that she cried earlier, but no, her eyes don’t look puffy or red. As expected, my words take the wind right out of her sails, and her ears droop when most of her anger leaves her.
“No,” she replies tersely, as if she has to force herself to say it.
I let out a deep sigh and shake my head. “Come, Twilight, sit down.”
She does as instructed with a mechanical stiffness to her movements, and sits down far away from me, her current antagonist in her quest to make the world seem fair. She still hasn’t shed a tear, or even sniffed. It is being supplanted by the anger. There’s too much left, and it doesn’t all fit into so small a pony.
“Can you tell me about your grandmother?” I hear myself ask before I’ve even thought through the possible reactions.
“She is— was, the greatest. She was always nice and had nicknames for everypony. Me and Shiny loved listening to her stories about her youth, and all the adventures she’d had...” Twilight smiles a little, though it’s more sad than anything else. “They weren’t really... she was never any good with magic, and in her stories she levitated and teleported and... and...” She peters out before taking a deep breath. “And she was the best cook in all of Equestria, whenever she invited us over for dinner, she’d spend entire days in the kitchen and make the best lilly roast, just for me.”
I smile at her, futile though it may be. “She sounds like a lovely mare.”
Her shoulders tense and her ears flatten against her skull. More tense than before she started talking about her grandmother. Not the response I was hoping for, but then that’s what generally happens when I don’t think my questions through isn’t it?
“She was, but now she’s gone,” Twilight says, retreating into her anger, where she doesn’t have to feel the pain. “It’s not fair.”
I want to tell her all at once, the things I’ve learned about dealing with pain. Like the fact that anger is exactly the wrong thing to take shelter in, it twists sorrow into bitterness at the world, whereas crying can cleanse and help heal. I make it sound easy, but it isn’t, especially not for those who feel that wrenching pain in their gut, threatening to tear them apart if they carry it around for any length of time. The most difficult part is knowing that the road to offering that knowledge is not a straight line. It’s different for everypony, and some never accept it at all.
“It never is, Twilight.”
Even I do not know what to say sometimes. This is one of those times, which leaves me with no other options but to sit with Twilight in silence. Hopefully offering her at least some amount of comfort with my presence.
Time passes more slowly when you have nothing to occupy your mind with save for your thoughts, and so it seems like an eternity before Twilight speaks up again.
“Have you ever lost anypony, Princess?” she asks, looking, if nothing else, at least a little less tense.
“Many, many friends, though I have never had a grandmother or even a mother like you, Twilight.”
“Did you cry when they died?” She shifts towards me, becoming more curious by the syllable, though the tension remains noticeable, especially in her shoulders.
She is finally looking at me again, so I reinforce my answer with my body language and nod. “Every single time, but I also laughed and cheered, and sometimes, I cursed them and was angry like you are.”
She looks herself over self consciously before aiming her bright intelligent eyes on me once more. “Why?”
“Because grief is something difficult to deal with, Twilight. I cried because they were gone, and I loved them. Or I cursed them for leaving me all alone.” Twilight’s ears droop again. “But... I knew my friends. They wouldn’t want me to just be sad because they were gone. They wouldn’t want my life to end just because theirs did. They would want me to remember their silly moments, and their triumphant moments.” The words tumble out of my mouth now, unhindered by the thought process I usually employ to govern my speech. Sometimes, words need to come from the heart. “Just because they are dead, doesn’t mean they are gone. I will always remember them, and you only really die once you’ve been forgotten.”
“Princess?” Her voice trembles. “I loved my grandmother.”
I wait a moment for more, but when nothing comes, I answer with: “I know, Twilight.”
“So...” Her voice cracks and breaks. “Why can’t I cry for her?”
I scoot over and pull her close with a wing. “Maybe because you are trying to remain strong for your parents, or your brother. Or maybe, because you don’t properly know how you feel yet. Or perhaps because you think it makes you look weak...” I squeeze her softly with my wing. “It’s okay to cry, Twilight.”
And so she does, clinging to me with all her might while the tears are finally allowed out of their confinement. They roll down her cheeks and are shaken loose by the frequent sobs that wrack her little body.
And I join her in crying, sharing in the pain she feels by remembering all those lost.
Author's Note
Written in the span of about an hour based on my own real life experiences, and almost completely unedited. (thanks to those people pointing out mistakes in the comments 
)
Sorry to all of those that do not care for tragedy stories, I just had to get this off my chest. After fourteen years of walking around with a tight feeling in my chest every time something reminded me of my grandmother, I finally found the strength I needed to cry and mourn her.
Normally, I would say I hope you enjoyed the story; that's not what I'm going to say here. Here, I will simply repeat Celestia's words: "It is okay to cry." And don't let anyone tell you otherwise.
