"You could just burn him, you know."
The voice had always been there, but it had only recently gained a face, and perhaps more importantly, a name, granted by the dreams of a frightened unicorn and her own mistakes.
Ponies of old had thought that names held power, and perhaps they had been right. The voice had grown bolder as of late.
"He's nothing to you. An ant. You could destroy and replace him just as easily as you could scratch your nose."
She dismissed the thought. He was a subject, her subject. However inane his complaints were, they were important to him, and thus they were important to her. Worth hearing out, at the very least.
"He'll be dead soon anyway."
That didn't make his points any less valid.
"Or any less pointless. You shouldn't have to suffer through this. You are a goddess."
She wasn't.
"You are. However much you may try to paint yourself otherwise."
Goddesses look down from on high. I do not.
"You could. It's all you deserve."
Celestia deemed the argument pointless. The voice begged to differ.
"Look at him. He's nothing. You won't even remember him come tomorrow morning. In a few decades, nopony will."
You made that point already.
"It bears repeating. Look at him."
This conversation is meaningless. He is my subject.
"Then why aren't you looking at him?"
That caught Celestia off guard.
"You aren't even listening to him."
I am.
"No you aren't. If you were, you would have answered his question by now."
Celestia started. She looked down at the little pony stood before her throne, and he was looking back up at her.
"He's nervous. Afraid, even."
He's not.
Celestia asked the stallion a question in return, prompting him to launch into another diatribe about grain subsidies or somesuch.
"He is. I know fear, I can tell."
You don't know anything.
The voice smiled. "I know more than you think I do, Celestia. More than you do, even—or more than you're willing to admit."
Enough of this.
"No, I don't think so. Look at him."
Celestia did.
"Look at how he goes on and on and on... Grain subsidies. You needn't trouble yourself with grain subsidies."
He is my subject, and his concerns are my concerns.
"You're going in circles, Celestia. Are you still looking at him?"
Yes. Of course.
"Look at his face. What do you see?"
I see a stallion.
"Is that all? Is that all you see anymore?"
What more is there?
"Look at his face, Celestia. He's terrified."
He is not.
"You're deluding yourself. He's hiding it, certainly, but look at the way he moves. Look at the sweat on his brow. Listen to the way he's talking, the way he hesitates on every third sentence."
She looked.
She listened.
"He's terrified, Celestia. Why do you think that is?"
He's just nervous.
"Even you cannot be this dense, Celestia. That isn't nerves, it's fear. Cold, pure, fear. He's afraid of you, Celestia."
He can't be. He has nothing to be afraid of.
"He has everything to be afraid of. You could destroy him in an instant."
But I wouldn't.
"But you could. And you have no reason not to."
He is my subject—
"And his concerns are blah, blah, blah." The voice sneered. "Isn't it interesting that you need to find excuses?"
What do you mean?
"Not once in this entire conversation have you argued against killing him for any reason other than his concerns being important."
Your point being?
"Simply that you've ignored the basics of normal equine decency this entire time."
Celestia's eyes widened slightly.
"You've not said a single thing about morals, or ethics, or the inherent value of a mortal life. Do you even still believe in that? Or are you as numb to the concept as I am?"
Celestia's mouth grew suddenly dry.
"Face it, Celestia. You're far more like me than you want to admit."
The stallion continued to talk.
"Burn him, Celestia. He's nothing to you."
Celestia breathed.
"Burn him."
The stallion prattled.
"Burn him."
The voice shouted.
"Burn him."
"Enough." Celestia said aloud. The stallion winced as if he had been struck.
"P-Princess?" he stammered. "Have I said something wrong?"
Celestia put on her best smile. "No, my little pony. I'm very sorry. I'm just feeling a bit under the weather today. If it's not too much trouble, could I ask that you come back another time?"
"O-oh, yes Princess! I'm very sorry!"
As he scurried away, Celestia climbed down from her throne.
"Court is canceled for the rest of the day," she said to her guards as she passed. "And I'd like not to be disturbed until tomorrow."
"Yes, Princess," they said.
As Celestia walked down the hall to her chambers, she passed one of the castle's staff, polishing a window.
"Quick," the voice said, "what's her name?"
Dawn Star, Celestia replied.
"Dawn Star died a century ago. Try again."
Earthen Ware.
"A century and a half. Tell me, Celestia, when did you stop caring enough to stop remembering the names of your servants?"
"I never stopped caring," Celestia mumbled under her breath. "There's just been so many..."
"You're making excuses again, Celestia."
She said nothing.
"You know, King Sombra never bothered to remember the names of his slaves, either," the voice continued. "Perhaps there was something to that..."
"I am nothing like him," Celestia hissed as she entered her chambers.
"Of course you aren't," the voice said. "He was a pathetic worm who believed he had the power to become a god. You are a goddess who believes she is better off pretending to be a worm."
Celestia slammed the doors to her bedroom shut behind her. She was alone, now; as alone as she could be.
"I have had enough of this," she said.
"And I," the voice replied, "have had far more than enough of this constant charade you subject yourself to."
"It's no charade. I care deeply for my subjects, each and every one of them."
"We both know you don't really mean that, Celestia; if you did, you would still remember their names. For instance—what was that boring stallion's name, again?"
Celestia said nothing.
"Oh come now, you just spent two hours 'listening' to him. Surely you at least remember his name."
Celestia grit her teeth.
"Not even that?" The voice sighed. "Really, Celestia, how can you still believe that these ants are worth anything to you? You're deluding yourself. I can see where this is going, Celestia, even if you can't. Or won't."
"Oh?" Celestia hissed through her teeth. "Where is this going, exactly?"
"You're going to keep going like this," the voice said. "Decade after decade, century after century, nothing changing, everything perfect. But with each generation, Celestia, you'll grow number and number. Soon, you won't feel anything at all!"
Celestia shivered. "No."
The voice continued, uninhibited. "One blink, and the children are adults. Another, and the children are dead, over and over and over... but you won't care. You won't care in the slightest. They won't mean anything to you, Celestia."
Her teeth grit and her hooves shook. "No."
"You'll finally see them for what they truly are, Celestia: a bunch of worthless, pointless, insignificant insects.
"And then," the voice said, "you'll have become me."
"NO!" Celestia shouted. She smashed her hoof into the marble floor, cracking it. Her mane whipped and writhed around her on violent winds, and her horn lit with the fury of the sun.
"I will never, never let myself become like you!"
"Oh, you will," the voice said, and Celestia was sure it was smiling. "Sooner than you might think."
The doors to her room shot open. "Princess," her guards shouted, "are you alright? We heard shouting!"
She did her best to compose herself. "I'm... fine. Perfectly fine."
"Are you sure, Princess?"
"Yes," she said. "Everything is fine."
The two guards nodded and turned to leave.
"Wait," Celestia called out, and they did. "Your names. What are they?"
"Erm... Shield Bash, ma'am."
"Righteous Spear, ma'am."
"Good. Good," Celestia said. "And... do you happen to know the name of the pony I was talking to earlier, during court?"
"I believe it was Boysenberry, ma'am."
"Right. Thank you, that will be all."
"Are you sure, ma'am?" Shield Bash asked.
"...Yes," Celestia said. "That will be all."
