Night One: Death of the Artist
Wind whipped past Princess Celestia as she forced herself upward. Her wings beat hard enough to make her sides ache, and her lungs screamed for air with each heaving inhale. She could only breathe in desperate, sucking gasps as she pushed herself along her flight. The sky was so cold up here, but she needed to be close. If she wasn’t close, her power would not reach the moon. Princess Celestia lacked the built-up connection and natural draw that she had with the moon before it even knew her. To soar above where a pony could survive and gain proximity would have to do. On this night, and every night until the resistance lessened.
Her heart was afire, and her blood was running hot enough for the cramped pains of exertion to wrack her body mid-flight. Nevertheless, the princess forced herself onward. This was only her third year managing the moon, and the struggle had barely faded. Sweat that had been flecking her coat in a greasy sheen was starting to freeze against her back and withers. Those pinpricks of pain brought by the frost and the absence of her regalia gave Princess Celestia the feeling of insulting nakedness.
It was fitting that the sensation of horrible, messy bareness would afflict the princess when she had to face her of all creatures. To have to make a feral show of celestial mechanics when she normally chatted and simply flicked the sun above the horizon as the bedecked ruler her ponies adored wounded one’s mood.
The magic aura swirling on Princess Celestia’s horn had yet to be enough. Even after three years, she still fudged up the magic considerably — and that was to put things quite kindly.
The night wasn’t hers, it was never hers, and every time she reached out at it with her power, it reacted like trying to catch a waterfall’s flow with a single sheet of paper. She was the paper, of course, and the world’s ambient energies never stopped thrumming with trying to convey the fundamental wrongness of Princess Celestia and the night.
The moon — and the mare within it — never stopped rebelling. Sealing a goddess within it only gave it more way to force itself against her every attempt. All such an alteration had done was change how she existed, not if so or if not. A steady pulse of being that needed neither rest nor food was a force in direct opposition to a mare who must activate her magic and could be depleted of will and wellness. The magic of the princess could be shaped freely, into as much as or as little as she wished — and still, what was on par with a constant ripple overthrew her.
The moon struggled to ascend higher into the sky. It barely bore even the slightest yellow tinge to show that it was the power of Princess Celestia who held it instead of its true owner.
Three years of a gauntlet come evening and dawn had pared her excess weight away. At last, Princess Celestia had become a gaunt creature for once in her life. Layers of makeup and fine gowns tailored just so hid the worst of her figure into something she could pass off as chic without coming across as totally sickly. She adjusted to catching the eye of different types of stallions, those who preferred slim mares over her more constant chubbiness. She lured no less attention, and there was no faster way to reduce worry than through normalization.
The thought of speed made Princess Celestia’s stomach feel like it was flying six lengths ahead of her. Such was how terribly it ached from her exhaustion and vertigo. The ruckus of her wings was the only anthem she had to urge her onward on these flights. Too often, the pain ripping through what little defined muscle she had made the part of her used to posh-living want to take over. It was the one that rang out like a bell in her head, drowning out all of her other thoughts with the desire to retreat to the pretty side of princesshood once again.
She would have called it cowardice, and without her here, Princess Celestia’s subjects could call her a hero instead. She let the thoughts of her cheering, adoring ponies urge her body’s struggle to be louder than the hiss of cowardice in her head.
Her sun merely required steering — and that was in all its aspects. The positioning of her most fiery possession was a single, unfoiled centerpiece. Its lighting of the sky was automatic, no tides came with it. All daytime weather efforts were managed by her pegasus subjects. To raise the sun was little more than to push the heavens’ brightest ball downhill and to beam at the spectators who cheered her on.
Managing the night required getting the post-sunset sky colors picked out. She hadn’t even realized that Luna had done that. Princess Celestia found herself with the same dispassionate indigo-ish attempt every night. She had somehow managed to make the vast, frightening night sky look flat in a way that made all the stars appear too dim. None of her constellations were visible under Princess Celestia’s nights. It made her realize how much more dazzling the stars had looked before, how much variance in colors there had been — and dazzling was not a word Princess Celestia ever thought she would even consider for the night sky.
Cold wind buffeted Princess Celestia’s chest sharply, and the force of it made her have to squint her watery eyes. The tightness of the migraine welling up under her horn was just another sharp ache to drive her forward. Even once the moon was in the sky, she wasn’t sure how if she would have any energy needed to wrangle the weather. Her domain over storms was non-existent.
Tidal activity as a result of a connection to the moon was nothing she had paid mind to until three years ago. Princess Celestia thought the night was easy, that it was like hanging up a lantern and pulling back a curtain to show the stars before she could bow out. Three years of increased hurricanes in the southern hemisphere and the lack of any new Equestrian coastal settlements said otherwise. Being able to only burn away local storms had left so many of her subjects without navigational help across land and sea — at the least. There was far too much more than mere showiness to innate, mass storm control.
To bring forth the night was like decorating a vaulted-ceiling ballroom without flight — and while only being able to hop from stepping stool to ladders. Meanwhile, an armada of chandeliers constantly needed stabilizing and proper lighting. On top of that, the walls were caving in, the garlands were falling down every other minute, the floor was lava, and there was no help.
(...or appreciation.)
The only reason that Princess Celestia received any adoration for her new tasks came from who she wasn’t — not all that she tried.
That last bit made the princess bite the inside of her cheek sharp enough that it stung like frost. She pawed at the air, kicking and flapping farther upward. Her new mountain city was a pinprick below her, and her body was dizzy with adrenaline from both the sight and her efforts. Since the Longest Night, her ponies had taken to basking in her presence even more. They applauded her as the hero-goddess of all heroes before — and now she had managed to become even more. Since the Longest Night — as her subjects had declared the day — her ponies had insisted on sun-glorifying festivals and an ever-happy princess. Upon her never-ending stream of epithets, one more had been added recently: She Who Makes the Night Pale and Powerless.
The double-meaning to it was more apparent than sliding a sword between her ribs — and hurt just as much — but she was expected to love it. And for her ponies, she would do anything — even that.
Panting, the princess let her magic lash out in full at last. Her first shot of magic towards the moon missed. She watched as the beam of gold failed to connect anywhere, and her heart fell as the stray shot did. Flipping her mane aside, the princess threw back her head and charged her horn again. The howling of wind and pumping of her wings flooded her ears. She mentally counted every second as her magic gathered again.
Eventually, she had to clench her jaw like a mare in labor to endure the build-up. The worst part about the moon floating so far and pale above her, taunting the princess with its scars, was not the hurricanes or latent rebel sealed within.
It was the magic. Everything in the universe was saturated with the stuff — every plant, rock, animal, and so forth. To be without magic was impossible; one would have an easier time being arrested for breaking the laws of physics as though they were actual laws. But the moon was not some mirror-light or low magic force. Instead, it was a hefty beacon of unruly magical force and amplifier for the world. Princess Celestia had never, ever could have realized all the folklore that only made it to her ears in trickles were right.
The moon influenced the world’s magic in the ways her sun never did — with or without a goddess inside. Months were also known as moons for a reason. Moonlight was preferred in enchantments for very good reasons. Wild places were strengthened by the night. Monsters were not also known as mooncalves because they favored the sunlight that had no strong effect upon them. Herbs and potions were not best tended to on sun-shiny days. Wishing magic’s potency was complimented by the night and specifics of the stars.
No matter how much her ponies were happy to deny these things, this is what they had lost. Even if they had known what the consequences of giving Princess Celestia the night would entail, she could not blame them for wanting the bliss of ignorance. Only when she pored over dusty old books and rummage through her things for any help did the princess realize the depth of what had been done.
At last, Princess Celestia unleashed the overload of divine energy. The beam was a hot, dangerous shot of light half her size fired constantly from her horn. Each second was another ton of weariness winding up in her. Connecting the moon really was a draining ordeal. But then—
—her power lanced it at last. The moon was encircled with the slightest tint of pale yellow to show her power security. The draining, constant magic wobbled as Princess Celestia struggled with the moon — all its weight, power, and rebellion could be felt through her magic and faintly where they impressed within her head. Magic lent many such ghost sensations, and taking the moon made getting whacked in the skull with a wooden beam feel merciful.
Princess Celestia stretched her hooves outward, forcing herself upward with the moon. Every night required this, not as a display, but as an outlet for her struggle. Bringing the night was what she wrestled with. To all her ponies, it may look like a show — and let them think it. She would never want them to know her grueling struggle.
Unfortunately, Princess Celestia felt herself at her limit once she pulled her magic from the moon. Her mind rattled with vertigo and each open-mouthed, ragged gasping breath she had to take. Thank goodness nopony could see her. Thank goodness nopony knew she would not have the stars set off right.
The part about managing what her ponies so openly had deemed ’lesser light’ for centuries was that nopony noticed when no effort was put into the job. Things could be done halfway, and in a few generations, nopony would remember nights that had not been robbed and pale.
It made her wonder why her sister had bothered with throwing her full effort into crafting each night when nopony noticed the effort. How was it different from painting pictures only the artist deemed beautiful? Why waste such energy on what could be labor alone?
Shaking her head — in an attempt to clear aches and disappointment alive, the princess changed direction. She lacked the frame and wing-type needed to plummet, but tried to add what she could of a dive in her descent.
A half-hour later, she landed in a fledgling courtyard. The last few skeletons of scaffolds had yet to be removed from the nearly completed spites surrounding her. They looked so intimidating in the dark, that the princess was glad to look away from them. Newly planted flowers were soft and inviting around her — but what beat even their gentle looks was the stallion waiting for her.
His gold armor glinted in the dark, and his eyes shone with worshipful ardor. He trotted up to her eagerly, nuzzling her wither — it was all he could reach — even though flecks of foam and buckets of sweat were drenching her coat.
All the protests she yearned to speak died on her tongue, and she wearily returned the gesture. In the dark, he couldn’t see the full scope of her unseemliness and she couldn’t see her lover’s colors or features.
“Oh, Valiant Charge, We… I am ready to collapse. Dost thou know if any others are about the grounds? We cannot suffer any of Our subjects to see Us so…” Princess Celestia paused, and drew in a few rapid pants. “The night is so…”
...pale. Our ponies are truly right to call Our night weak. Even the mooniest of artists slathers their paints upon plaster better when drunk — such is the diminished state of Our nights.
As soon as she thought that, the princess had to stifle a cringe that would startle Valiant. ’Moony’ had always been something she had used so casually, as had everypony to describe the fools who masqueraded as artists and the insane. Only now did she realize just how damning its origins were — and all the times she must have said it before. How was it any different than the new slur-word of ’nightmare’ that the Longest Night had spawned?
“My love, ‘tis magnificent!” He looked past her in blind awe to the sky, looking for all the world like he was ready to clap his forehooves. “Hast no night ere been better than this? All your hard work has done naught but rid the wickedest times of monster-fueling darkness, and so created something of the mildest beauty. None can exceed you!”
“We…” The princess drowned her words by nuzzling his mane. “Thank thee,” she said instead of the flock of worries better left unspoken.
Valiant would have been a mere colt of fourteen winters four years ago when the Longest Night happened. His parents would have made him fat on the attitude against young Equestria’s shadowy ’moon-beast’, or however they told it now. He would have been shut-up in his village right after sundown all his life, in order to protect him. Few ponies in the rural, outermost settlements that Valiant was from even knew that Equestria had a second princess. His concept of good nights would fade faster than colthood nostalgia over comely neighbor fillies.
As always, she captured his muzzle in a kiss first, letting the young stallion melt into the gesture. When she pulled away, she could see that even the dark could not hide the total love he looked up at her with. There was also a question shining in his eyes.
“Oh my bright-heart, prithee may I speak on impulse?”
A fuzzy little swoon bubbled in Princess Celestia’s chest as she swayed on her forehooves. Exhaustion and pet names were easy to wear at her decorum. “This, We grant. Dost something trouble thee?”
“When you landed, I heard you speaking ere you saw me. You were muttering of a ‘she’ whom you accused of something quite heretical — to be better at your heavenly mechanics! Who is it that hath dared upset you? What beast would dare speaketh of something so brazen that could cast you in a less honorable light?”
“Val, nopony hath insulted my divinity, We assure thee,” the princess said tiredly, though not unkindly.
“Well, who else could you be speaking of but a vile insulter?”
Her eyes were close to fluttering shut, and her mane’s sway was as scattered as her thoughts. Tiredness was enough to pluck a mare’s sense from her thoughts, and so the princess spoke without thinking. “What dost thou mean, sweetest?”
“Nopony can move your beauteous sun or the little moon, save you, my brightest heart! Yet, you spoke of a 'she' that could not be. Why is that so?”
She could only blink tiredly and rapidly, realizing what she had done — and who Valiant must have heard her muttering about. “We spoke of nopony, Val. Nopony but Ourselves tomorrow — you see, Our night will be better then.”
Valiant flashed her a broad, innocent smile — one full of so much love — and even in the dark, she could count each freckle under his helmet. Even his eyes were flooded with so much of that obvious, romantic awe. It made it hard to believe that it was she who was the one who was dizzy on her hooves.
“Now there is the light my queen hath. Each night you manage everything splendidly. I find it silly that anypony would see you as aught but the heavens’ great shepherd.”
All that she could do was give him a tired, pleasant smile and nod along happily with his words. Oh, how his belief in her was so rich, thick, and true — it was like she could drink of all that love. How could he even see anything else through it?
For Princess Celestia, love never stopped being best blind.
Author's Note
This story is pre-written. Expect updates once per week each ~~Tuesday~~ Monday until completion. Originally this wasn't going to be released for a while longer, but I figured it would make a nice early Christmas present to my followers.
Yes, you'll be able to purchase a dead tree form eventually too.
[Edit on 12/21/2020: I apparently forgot the day I intended updates to be published]
Night Two: A Four Star Game
Princess Celestia’s chest rises and falls soundlessly. She never once snored, and her pale chest maintained its simple rhythm, its was color only visible due to its contrast with the darkness. Her bed chamber is warded from moonlight with tightly-shut curtains — she was never able to sleep if she could see the moon. As long as she could hide from it, there could be nothing to haunt her — at least nothing outside of her self. To see only what made one feel positive and supported was one of the strongest pieces of advice she gave. Her Faithful Students each had that mantra — seek only validation; shut out negative feedback — cemented into them until it was stronger than any spell.
A sudden twitch crosses the features of the princess, her mouth twitching. Her eyes remain closed, and still, she cringes at something that cannot be seen. There is nothing in her room save her and her furniture. No latent magic lurks about. Not a single trace of any spell, active or otherwise permeates the room of flows from Celestia — at least nothing she hadn’t cast herself.
Erupting from the princess is a single, thin whimper as she twitches again. Her ears, once lax with sleep, pin sharply against her skull. One leg jerks sharply, lashing out against sheets that had long since been kicked onto the floor.
Her third whimper is higher than all the others, bordering on a frightened whinny. It leaves her as her muzzle is distorted with a flash of fear, ruining the angelic visage she was a stickler about maintaining. Princess Celestia’s eyes are just damp enough that if one of her hooves to stray up, it would be like someone had let water drip at her face. A temperament of eternal chill mixed with habits of tyrannically stomping back her capacity for such displays of emotion had spanned centuries before she lost her sister. These were the tears that no longer had the iron bars of Princess Celestia’s habits holding them back.
The second hand on her clocks ticked by — two, four, six, eight, nine — before the princess bolted up with a sharp scream and a ghost in her eyes.
She stared, horrified, and hyperventilating at the dozens of clocks that ruled her throughout her room. Only when she realized the syllables that escaped her — the last half of a name that had been in no history book or upon her tongue since the Longest Night — did an ill gladness rise in her. She had brought no stallion to bed with her tonight, and had not had one as a lover in a few years. Never had she shown such brokenness in front of one, not when they all craved her because she was immaculate to them.
There were a dozen lies and more she could have offered one, if she had not been sleeping alone tonight. He would have believed her. They always did. She wouldn’t like to keep them around if they did not see the mare she made for them, and love her with the worship that exceeded her most devoted thaumaturges.
But tonight, she was glad there were none — what she took no relief in was her present state. To be unwitnessed in imperfection and to be alone were two correlated things, and nothing more.
She would rather they not be anything more.
Princess Celestia let the dead song of all the clocks drag her emotions back to where she could slam a lid on them. As the meter of tick-tocks tapped throughout her room, everything about her wound back into place. Her wings folded right at her sides, and she knew she would have to preen them later. The light from her eyes faded until only kind meekness remained. The flow of her mane and tail were no longer the sharp, erratic twitches she had woke with. They flowed sluggishly, like syrup suspended being poured from nowhere.
She did not allow her forehooves the time to stop shaking before she hurled herself out of bed. Moments later, she was upright and squeezed within her calm illusion. The regalia she was frightened to sleep without was a cold weight upon her form, and the mere thought that she could possibly separate herself from them made her sicker than her dream had.
Permitting herself a sigh, Princess Celestia lit her horn. The small bit of hornlight trembled where it was reflected in the glass face of her clocks before stabilizing.
Even if she had not been wearing her great golden shoes, the princess was well-aware of the silken sheets under her hooves. To step all over such luxurious things was painful, and certainly improper, but nothing she couldn't replace. Sentiment over most trinkets was best avoided, and an entirely different matter from indulging in what her station allowed her.
One glance at her clocks revealed that it was nearly six. Her nap had been too long.
The dusk would come late.
This single stroke of error was not something that the princess allowed to register physically. The disappointment she had with herself was best swallowed, as with all bitter pills. She knew her ponies would not speak against her, or dare judge her. Perhaps there was some loveliness in that, ruling those who loved her more with each generation because they knew her less.
It was deliciously addictive.
In any other moment, when a better mood was upon her, Princess Celestia would be glad she was not a changeling queen. She knew full well that the number of passive feeding opportunities alone that her subjects could provide would balloon her to the size of the planet — or bigger. To be heavier and plumper than she already was — to have even more extra, unshakeable chub — made the prickling sensation at the back of her neck that much colder.
Princess Celestia trotted over to her balcony curtain, wishing she could think of a way to shake the eerie wordlessness she was submerged in off. Her gait was stiff, and more fitting for an unsleeping automaton than any creature — mortal or goddess, pony or Alicorn.
Her rich maroon drapes were cinched with a heavy golden rope. It was prevented from fraying or damages by enhancement and preservation magics. These helped it last a few centuries. Even though it was not worn in any way, every century that this magnificent rope had been through still showed in it.
As her magic grasped it, the weight of the rope impressed itself upon Princess Celestia’s mind, as was expected. Tired motions led to its unraveling, and when she was done she became too exhausted to handle it carefully any longer — she tore those curtains open…
...and was faced with a moon she hadn’t risen…
...with all its scars glaring down at her…
...a scalding, branding reminder that only two creatures could control the heavens…
...and that if Princess Celestia hadn’t risen it, only one being had the power to.
There was a knot heavier than the one tying Princess Celestia’s drapes forming in her throat. This one tied off all her words and flooded her with fear — and there were no greater fears than the known and the unknown; to have an answer and to have a question.
A goddess could be sealed away certainly, and the princess never had any reason to think that she wasn’t gone forever. But it was a different matter entirely to treat being sealed within an inaccessible heavenly body as the same thing as mortal death, or aboslute loss of power. Yes, she could tell all her subjects that she had brought the night forth from another location — it was only ceremonially a public display — and they would not hesitate to believe her.
But this would not make her fear of the ever-full moon wane.
The stars did not have any of the brilliance they used to when she controlled what was rightfully hers. This did not mean that there were not many subtle signs of brilliance that Princess Celestia could not give the night being thrown back in her face — like a streak of comets across the sky, one that was not seasonal or predicted by her astronomers.
And it was so totally, insultingly new.
She saw where it was pointing.
Far from the moon, in four different corners were bold white shapes so like stars.
None of them had been there the night before; even if they had their visibility would not be so painfully obvious. She knew what they were framing; who they acted as corners around. Why hadn’t she seen these dreadful things before?
Princess Celestia swallowed, her legs shaking with a few, brief, stiff jerks.
It was the seven hundredth and third year of the Solar Millennium.
The board was now set.
A cruel game had begun.
And there was nothing that Celestia could do about it.
Author's Note
Night Three: These Blind Mortals
On the inside, Princess Celestia wanted nothing more than coffee right now. She wanted gallons of it to be poured down her throat and for every hint of weariness to leave her body. Evening time was when she usually got those cravings again, for nothing short of a barrel of coffee and a whole pond of tea to give her that machine-like focus. Now, that, the sheer perfection of an automated spirit — something that was quite the oxymoron — was a greater craving than caffeine ever could be. All her usual energy was really making her feel as pale as her coat right now.
Managing the moon and its power just never stopped being a gut-wrenching, draining ordeal. When she chose to indulge in sleep at all, it was no surprise she opted for early bedtimes. The best part was that she rarely needed any sleeping aids. The night was such a forceful, rebellious power — and its goddess still had her subtle rebellions. It wasn’t as though Princess Celestia couldn’t feel who was trapped in there, resisting her magic’s touch each time she made contact with the moon.
A long time ago, when she first had started to manage moonrise and moonset, Princess Celestia couldn’t sleep. For hours afterward, she would lie on her bed, where her mane would barely twitch and she was too weak to whimper. Somehow, there was a way to be both too exhausted and too depressed to fall asleep. On the rare occasions that she was able to get to sleep, it would be shallow and she would wake from nasty night terrors every now and then. It was horrid. She had resorted to sleeping draughts. The unfortunate thing was that even in those days you needed a prescription for them — but she wasted no time in abolishing those laws, and ensuring anypony who thought to speak out would not have the platform to do so.
Unfortunately, she found that medicine was a fickle thing for Alicorns. Yes, she had her physicians, doctors, and all sorts of things. But no advanced medical knowledge needed to medicate Alicorns existed — and that meant no long-term, species-specific medications existed for their specialized woes and wildly different systems. All she had was medicine for the three races of ponies in abundance, mules, donkeys, zebra, and every kind of creature but the everlasting Alicorns.
She had to self-medicate, and she didn’t exactly think twice about it. The thoughts of the princess were simple — she wanted to think that the only difference between her and ponies came down to size. All she had to do was give herself larger doses, and when or if those didn’t work, all she needed to do was give herself larger ones still.
For a time, she ended up with slumber so deep it sapped from her all but prophetic dreams. At last, she had managed to live without dreams and all their cruelties — both ‘good’ and bad ones. All of them were wicked, hateful things. She even would have said that she was happy to do away with them, but in those days, the princess didn’t really feel too deeply about anything past her smile.
After a few decades, no amount of sleeping draught worked for her. To drink it came to be no different than drinking water or poorly made placebo potions. It was ridiculous to think that she had gone from being able to need multiple troughs worth of sleeping remedies drunk each night to the point where drinking barrel after barrel was no different than sipping bathwater.
Her routine in the great year of 987 of the Solar Millenium was much simpler. Let the exhaustion of night managing make her earlier bedtimes easier. Her dreams were docile things now. Eventually, after years of potion-binging her dreams wearily returned to her. She was just thankful that it was only her foredreams that had any vividness or malice to them anymore. All her dreams were sweet dogs, pulled of claws and teeth.
She could want nothing more.
A long time ago, Princess Celestia used to try and manage the night in full. She would try and come as close as she could to imitating her elaborate art. To get the reflections of stars just right. To whip the vastest amount of clouds into shape like she had, wiping the night clear of obstruction or sculpting it in mere hours. Her magic had been able to do all that from the Everfree Forest’s castle, putting any amount of production and mass-weather of the pegasi of the past and future to shame. There were all kinds of surprises and secrets to her techniques. They always went unspoken and now the whole world paid of the lack of her unique touch and what only her magic could do.
It was the greatest tragedy never told, because now even Princess Celestia barely remembered the art the night had been. Meanwhile, no mortal ponies knew. Even if their ancestors had the technology or means to preserve what had once been heavenly artistry, who was to say it would still exist now?
While it used to vary by season, night-time used to be roughly twelve hours of the twenty-four a day took up. Dusk would be a gradual process, an experience as thrilling and dynamic as a concert. Morning’s moonset would be equally lovely, as seen by its artist.
Ponies never used to see any of that effort and entertainment.
The princess hadn’t either.
All of that ended when Princess Celestia brought her daily methods to both halves of the sky. No longer did nights take up half of the time. Seasonal variance grew restricted, and winter solstices only became a product of unseen lunar rebellion. Only longest days reigned in the year. Eight hours of night were cut and set aside, and all the remaining hours were the light of her day. Equestria may have gained a night culture and become an accepting place for creatures who struggled as she had, but Princess Celestia was no equalizer. The sky would never obey her fully, no matter what her ponies thought.
Things had been that way for a thousand years. What Raven stood next to her princess and gaped at was a routine of centuries. It had been decided long before her ancestors would be anything traceable or even recognizable to her.
Seeing Raven’s eyes shine under her glasses was a good thing. It made a familiar, warm feeling stir in Princess Celestia’s chest, one that awoke every time her ponies could not understand what they had missed. They were so terribly sweet that way, how they saw only the best because they did not think there could be anything else.
“Oh, Your Highness!” Raven squeaked. She looked ever-so-small in Princess Celestia’s growing shadow. “The night looks perfect today!”
“Rae,” said the princess warmly, “don’t you say that about every night?”
The light of her horn thinned somewhat, gaining more shades of yellow than gold. Such was the expected result of her distraction. Perhaps Raven hadn’t noticed.
“A-absolutely, P-princess!” Raven stammered, blushing. Her stutter was inevitable anytime she realized there was a spotlight upon her. “But there isn’t anypony w-who makes the n-night like you do!”
“How right you are, my friend,” Princess Celestia said, all the sadness she meant in her reply walled off.
Raven knew nothing about what her princess actually intended with her response, and things were better that way. The only pony currently in Princess Celestia’s life who didn’t value her was Sunset Shimmer, and she was likely off doing her homework or eating her dinner right now.
At last, Princess Celestia’s horn dimmed like a bulb flicking out one final time. A few silent sputters and her horn was free of magic once more. The five minutes needed to raise the moon had been completed, and the mechanical, one-act night had come to the world in only a blink. When one moved only the moon up and down, what was once art became merely going through the motions of something previously great. What the princess did was merely throw a bucket of flat, dark blue on canvas and deem it art.
Pale nights were all she could give to these blind mortals, unable to see a proper sky.
