Golden rays tumbled lazily through the small window, hurling up mountains of dust as they cut
through the thick, stuffy air that filled Twilight ́s study. She had never minded the suffocating
viscosity which even now hung around her, as though the shortage of oxygen somehow helped her
to learn, conserving the knowledge which she stockpiled in her head like marinated chanterelles in
the airless interior of a glass jar.

At the moment, Twilight stood serenely at her desk, her hungry gaze devouring the ink trail on one
of many ancient scrolls stored in her library. The alicorn princess had the good fortune of one whose
passion coincides with her cutie mark, and she could devote hours to the dissection, interpretation
and evaluation of a written document without so much as shifting her hooves on the cool floor.

At present, eyes dragged across the arid parchment, picking up sparse scraps of a lengthy
biographical account of an obscure scholar who had left this world countless years ago.

The mare ́s name had been Ringing Whicker; her poetry had long ago encoded the most dazzling
achievements of her time ́s social theory - new ways of thinking which had helped hoist, over the
course of decades, Canterlot ́s and Cloudsdale ́s starving masses out of abject poverty.

Sadly, it seemed this peerless creative mind had eventually been blinded by the radiance of her own
genius, had proclaimed herself a prophet, the destined defender of Equestria. A motley handful of
madponies had followed her to the gates of Tartarus, and set up a pitiful log fort to fend off the
monsters they thought would break out in a matter of months. They had finally deserted her when
she had claimed that a monument they had erected in her honour was the real author of her literary
works.

For near a century now, Ringing Whicker had been swept under the rug of indifference by
academics. But Twilight knew better than to inherit this her intellectual parents ́ blindness. Her all-
encompassing expertise lent her a vantage point from which to view Equestria ́s history in its
entirety. She knew what connected to what, she spotted vital nodes in the web of time, she
understood which pillars supported the grand edifice of her country ́s past. Ringing Whicker was a
decisive node. Ringing Whicker was vital.

In her mind ́s eye, the studious princess placed a gentle hoof around the ancient prophet ́s neck,
leaned in confidentially till her face was nearly touching the livid one which now looked back into
her eyes incomprehendingly, and whispered:“Don ́t worry. It ́s all right. I ́ll bring you back.“

"Back from the dead,“ a snide little voice suddenly yelled out in Twilight ́s mind, snapping her out of her reverie. Not quite knowing what the interjection had meant, she scanned the room, unsure whether the voice had resounded inside her mind or whether it had been uttered by physical lips. She certainly seemed to be alone. Reassured, she was just about to return her attention to the manuscript when there was a quiet knock on the oak door. She spun around:“Come in!“. She had to remember, she thought, to move her desk so as not to have the door at her back when studying. It was very discomforting.

Spike entered, matter-of-fact yet eager to please as always. As so often, Twilight was struck by the
impression that for him, nothing currenly had substance outside of the two of them and their
unequal relationship which always and necessarily implied a certain subservience in him. He never
seemed interested in what she was doing, stayed long enough to eliminate yet another momentary
order of business, then withdrew to leave her to her work. For all the glue of familiarity and
goodwill that bound them together, there was, at times, a tinny taste of alienation in her mind when her stray glance met his face.

The little dragon rapped his claws together above his slight paunch. "You asked me to remind you,“
he said, "to pack your bags. You know... for tomorrow.“ Good heavens! She had forgotten entirely. Forgotten that she was due to leave the next day. The next day! Having set out in the morning, she would be sitting in a shaking train wagon by the time the sun reached its present position directly overhead. En route to the provincial town of Treading, tucked away in the folds of the Equestrian coastline to the east.

It was the fatigue. It had to be. Her personal health was the only thing which Twilight had consistently handled in a profoundly stupid way. Overworking just for the sake of it. Because Twilight Sparkle overworked. Because to drop the habit would have meant discarding a piece of herself. It was pathetic, and to her silent shame, she fully understood it. The smarts to recognise one´s problems and the motivation to change were two different things.

These thoughts pranced by in single file for the umpteenth time. Not getting in the way, Spike stood by, knowing he had said what he had come to say, waiting only for some kind of response to ascertain that the reminder has indeed reached its destination.

After a couple of seconds had passed, he received his confirmation in the form of an absent-minded nod and a few soundlessly mouthed, indistinguishable words. Shuffling out, he shut the door behind him.

Twilight went and stood by the window, pointing a dull gaze outside while the back of her mind mechanically set itself into motion, putting together an inventory of everything she would need: quills, extra parchment, handkerchiefs, ink, personal documents, money, blotting-paper, and more. Another part of her was revising the research she had carried out in preparation for this new assignment. And a little pocket of her brain was reassuring herself. It had probably just slipped her mind because it seemed so absurd she still had trouble believing it.

Why had Celestia sent her to report on a mental institution of all places? Far be it from her to question her mentor´s judgement, but even so... Oh, right, she told herself. Almost forgot. She would also be needing a present for the institution´s head, who was, after all, an old friend of hers. Propriety demanded that she go out immediately in search of something fitting.

The princess let out a slow breath as she closed the book still on her desk. At the very least, the air would be better in Treading than in her study.

Author's Note

My first creation.
A shorter version of this chapter has already been uploaded to my Deviantart.