The windows are open; upon the wind rides the smell of meadows and rivers from lands far off, the pollen of grass and the stirrings of fish at the riverbeds. The room, though sumptuous, is spare; cheerful oak in place of sombre mahogany, honest cotton in place of soft silk, it is perhaps the only room in the castle furnished in such a way. The only true extravangaces are the pair of candles sitting atop the dresser, which are violet in colour and smell of spices from long forgotten lands; nevertheless, their wicks are kept trim with all the skill of a consumate miser. The bed is little more than a nest of covers, arranged with care and long-held habit, with no pillows on which to lay a weary head and no mattress to soften the hard wood of the floor. Nestled between an Ottoman full of dresses that have never been worn and a bird's perch that has been charred darkest black, there is a well-used beanbag in dire need of re-stuffing.
Upon it rests the ruler of all the land, beloved of her subjects, Princess Celestia. Regal even in relaxation, she peers into her magic mirror and watches the world unfold. The mirror she holds is the only mirror in the room; she has never been particularly interested in seeing herself. After a few more moments of quiet contemplation, she huffs, and carefully places the mirror in a fine silk bag, wary of scratching the enchanted glass. Once done, she places it between the two candles on the dresser, precisely in the middle; she takes no time over the matter, and her exactness is a question of habit more than attention. With that, she rises, stretching her long legs, and calls out a few words in an ancient, forgotten language. As if in answer, Philomeena swoops in through the open window, and alights on her charred perch. She shakes her fiery plumage before chirping a few notes; they sound soft and golden, like sunlight across fresh-cut grass.
"How goes the day, old friend?" Celestia asks, with the habitual quiet of a pony who knows she will be listened to.
The phoenix responds with an undignified gurgle, and Celestia allows herself a chuckle. "Oh, yes. I'm sorry, I forgot. No, you don't look a day over four hundred."
The phoenix is her oldest friend, in many senses of the words. She is one of the only surviving creatures that can claim to be older even than Celestia herself, having died and been reborn thousands of times over many centuries. The country she was born in no longer exists, its mountains long crumbled away before the fist of time, its hills levelled and its valleys filled.
Theirs is a relationship necessary to both of them. Nothing feels loss quite so acutely as the phoenix, who sees its friends as carers and protectors when it is a chick, sees them comfort it on its deathbed, and sees them do it again on the very next cycle. For a phoenix, every friend is something between a sister and a mother, a brother and a father. But eventually, time claims them, and the phoenix lives on alone. Celestia, if nothing else, has spectacularly failed to die for over a thousand years, and this alone is worth more to a bird of rebirth than all the magical artefacts in the world.
For Celestia's part, she requires someone grounded, who is unimpressed by royalty and her age and will counsel her appropriately. Never has Philomeena failed at this, and although her advice is at times cynical, at times wry, it is always good.
The bird warbles a few notes in ancient Maresopotamian. Celestia's lips move as she translates. When she's finished, she frowns at the bird, who ruffles her feathers smugly.
"No, I will not throw away that beanbag. Stop asking," she scowls. The phoenix responds with a cadence of notes that sounds taunting even without prior understanding of the language they're in.
"Fire hazard? Oh, yes," the princess says sarcastically, and rolls her eyes. "A pony that uses magic to raises a huge fiery orb into the sky each morning and who spends her days with a bird who periodically becomes an inferno must be afraid of a small house-fire!"
Again, the bird sings a retort, a little longer this time but just as curt. "What do you mean, listen to your elders? I rather think we're past the point where age makes any difference. Hm? Old enough to be my mother? Well, yes, but that only gives you a lead of about twenty years or so, Philameena. Hardly impressive, given the company you're keeping."
Philomeena shakes her head and begins to preen herself. Celestia feels the smile creep onto her face. She is always refreshed by their morning arguments; they allow her a chance to be openly foalish and, at times, even petulant. They will not lead to a change in policy, will not contain oblique hints or threats to other nations, are a waste of time and words; all as it should be, but all too often isn't. Nothing will come of them, and that is its own form of reward.
"Still, it could use some patching up," she mused, looking towards the offending bag. "I shall have to smuggle in some needles and some stuffing."
The phoenix yawns, then makes another barrage of chirps. She's the type of bird that always needs to get in a parting shot.
"It is not useless," the Princess argues. "Well, perhaps to you, but I happen to have hindquarters, you know. Oh? Why, that's a splendid idea! Shall we make a bargain? I'll get a new beanbag, on the condition that you get a new perch."
The terms, predictably, are dropped immediately. It is no secret that the phoenix is quite attached to her perch, and she has kept it for over a century. The beanbag, on the other hoof, was a fillyhood possession of Twilight Sparkle. Few knew that the studious librarian had once been a great aficionado of beanbags. She'd grown out of them as she'd matured, but when she was young she could hardly been seen without one. They were a comfort, and eased the strain from long nights of studying that she was not yet accustomed to. Few were the mornings when she did not wake up snuggled into her favourite seat, with a candle burnt out atop the table and an open book as a pillow. Of course, nothing lasted forever, and the first beanbag, a present from her family, was no exception. When it finally tore, she had run to her teacher, and collapsed into a fit of inelegant blubbering that the Twilight of today would blush even to think of.
Celestia had listened, and nodded. The day after, she had gone out in secret (or as secretly as a Princess could) on a little shopping trip. The bag she picked out was vast, soft and violet, perfect for her favourite student; it found its way into her student's room in the dead of night, and Twilight had always assumed it a gift from her brother. Years later, when the unicorn had decided that the softness of the chair was directly inverse to the success of the studying that took place sat on it, she had left it in her room at Canterlot after she was called away to Ponyville. Celestia had spirited it away before the maids had found it, and been delighted by it; the number of times she wished she could trade her throne for a nice, comfortable beanbag had since been innumerable.
Her recollections are disturbed as Philomeena caws; the bird's attention is directed to the dresser drawer in which she puts Twilight's letter's for safe-keeping. The drawer below it contains letters from Twilight's friends, still treasured but quite separate. That draw she ignores, and instead places her hoof on the drawer full of her student's missives. In one smooth movement, she pulls open the draw and ducks. To nopony's surprise, a magically compressed boxing glove launches itself from the drawer at the space where her face would have been. Despite herself, Celestia gives a low chuckle. There's only one pony in the kingdom mischievous enough to think of such a thing and yet brave enough to do it.
Fluffing her wings and brushing her mane as she goes, she bustles through the corridors towards the breakfast hall where her would-be prankster no doubt awaits. Surely enough, Princess Luna sits at the head of the table, bleary eyed and quite ready to get some sleep.
"Good morrow, dear sister! Hast thou slept well?" Luna asks from across the room, before remembering that she's indoors. Her cheeks colour a little as everypony in the room stares at her. After a second, she meets their looks with a regal glare, and all attention is suddenly directed elsewhere.
"Wonderfully. You did fine work with the stars last night, might I add," Celestia greets, sitting down beside her. The Princess of the Night puffs out her chest imperceptibly. She doesn't have to arrange the stars, but she still does so with care and attention. The night should be beautiful, even if nopony is awake to observe it.
"Didst thou observe the owl and the condor? Not since days of old have I returned that constellation to the sky. It has taken many weeks to get the positioning correct."
"Indeed. It brought back memories of my fillyhood, dear sister. Speaking of fillies and their ways," Celestia replies with a smile, "I found your present in my drawer this morning. I'm afraid Philomeena alerted me ahead of time."
"Drat. Well should I have known that your phoenix's silence was not to be bought for a mere three boxes of crackers. Next time, the crackers shall be doubled!" Luna exclaims, but lets out a polite cough. "By the by, dear sister, you may rest easy; I have no pried into any of your student's missives."
"You shall need more than six boxes of crackers to stay Philomeena's tongue. She's not fond of them, anyway. Something about it being demeaning and her not being a parrot. You might try apples; she's got a small weakness for them. As for the letters, you really should take a look at them sometime. They're quite delightful,"Celestia says with a smile.
Luna fluffs her wings slightly and returns to her cereal-- the Royal Canterlot equivalent of a nonchalant shrug. She has never seen quite the appeal in Twilight's letters that her sister sees; but then, she is younger, in mind if not in body. The years upon the moon are a simple blur to her, and may for all intents and purposes be discounted. She still has much to learn about this new world.
Celestia, on the other hoof, did her learning long ago. The things Twilight writes to her about, she already knows from long ago; what appeals to her is the very keen sensation of discovery that seeps into everything the unicorn writes. A lesson confirmed gives only a sense of smugness. But a lesson newly learned is the opening of the eyes to a world vast and beautiful. It is that sensation, among others, that keeps Twilight's letter's precious in the Princess' heart, for all her lessons were learned in centuries past, and the joy of discovery is rarer than gold.
"My commendations to the chef who invented these little circlets of wheat and blanketed them in the milk of cows! I wouldst have another serving!" Luna announces to the castle at large, her bowl empty. A servant obligingly scurries over with a box of entirely generic breakfast cereal and a bottle of semi-skimmed.
"Careful, dear sister. They contain rather more sugar than you're accustomed to," Celestia warns, but her words go unheeded. Soon, then, her sister will have her eyes opened to the vast and beautiful world of the sugar crash. "Speaking of my dear student, I have news for you. Shortly, she and her friends will be commandeering one of our halls for a party, to which you are most emphatically invited. Something, I believe, about one thousand birthday parties crammed into one evening."
"...She wishes to invite me? To a party?" Luna asks, sounding both touched and anxious in the same breath.
"Oh, no. She doesn't want to go at all," Celestia replies cheerfully. "From what I can gather, it's all her friends' idea and she, personally, is convinced that a great disaster is fated to befall the evening. I think the main part of her motive for even coming is that she wants to see to it that you have some fun."
Luna sniffs, very quietly. She has curbed her use of the Royal Canterlot Voice, but has not quite given up the old ideas of royal dignity yet. "...well. I suppose it would not be a great problem if I were to, perhaps, spend an hour fewer on arranging the stars so as to attend. Wouldst thou not agree, dear sister?"
"But of course. My only regret is that I shall be away for the night on which it's scheduled. I trust you will take care of my faithful student," Celestia says, although in her mind she wonders whether it will be her faithful student taking care of Luna. It doesn't seem an unlikely scenario.
"...A shame such ponies must, in the end, grow old," Luna says, a wobble in her voice. She's getting emotional, getting tired. Soon, all that sugar will kick in to perk her up, and the servants of the castle will have an interesting few hours ahead of them.
"I agree," Celestia says. The thought of Twilight ageing has haunted her for years, now. In the blink of an eye, the filly became a mare; in another blink, she might grow to be middle aged, and then old, and then, finally, returned to the earth. The years passed so quickly. Sometimes, on the longest and loneliest evenings, Celestia thought about doing something about it; she did not think that Twilight would object to joining the ranks of the alicorns, and she had no fear of the power going to unicorn's head. But it would take magic, great magic, magic of the kind she hadn't tried for centuries, the kind that suspended the laws of biology and physics in the favour of miracles. If she did it today, it would almost certainly kill her.
But then, sometimes she thinks that would not be such a bad thing. Philomena has long told her that death is nothing to be feared, and although she accepts that such an opinion may not be too trustworthy coming from a bird that's reborn every time it dies, she can certainly understand the logic. Besides, a thousand years is not such a brief tenure over the lands of the living. All things must change eventually, and... secretly, she still wonders what there is after death. She has heard countless theories over the years, and to think that the joy of discovery may be the last thing she knows is nothing but a comforting thought.
She hopes, in her heart of hearts, that reincarnation is the way things happen on the other side of the veil. She'd like to see the world through young eyes again. If she had a choice, she would probably be reborn as a phoenix like Philomeena. There was something rather romantic about the way they lived, dying and being reborn, rising and falling like the sun.
But all that was foolish procrastination. Here and now, there was a country that needed to be run. Princess Celestia, the ruler of all the land, beloved of her subjects, rises from the breakfast table to begin another day of a long and prosperous reign. She pauses before she goes, and looks her sister dead in the eye.
"Remember, dear sister. I am counting on you to take care of Twilight Sparkle. Do try and enjoy yourself at the party, though. Oh, and...before I forget, tell Twilight that if she ever hears a phoenix tapping at her window, she's to let it in immediately," she says, with the smallest smile on her lips.
"If that is your will. Hmm...Dost thou think the kitchen staff would object to a good-natured trick? My vitality seems to have returned."
"Oh dear. May the sky and the earth spare us all!" Celestia laughs, and her voice is as warm as the sun.
A/N: This was only meant to be a short character study to practice getting into the head of everypony's favourite tyrant, so I didn't bother to give it a great ending. Still, I thought you guys might want to see what I do when I say I want to practice a character, so here y'are.
