The best part about having oneself was that it was who she knew she could never be. Edges of memory were softest in the throne room, where she was the crown jewel upon a center of gold. Princess Celestia always hesitated to call it a heart, the world was filled with too much life than she ever wanted to suggest. A heart was beyond the masterwork of what a machine would be capable of, and the pleasant, unfeeling static she lived in was not something that she wanted to transfer to the world that threatened her just outside her skin. Whether it was just the course of nature, or something else at hoof, she had found herself less likely to linger near the stack of books that had been donated to the castle library. They had been hauled to the castle on a cart like any other, pulled by lowly mules and tucked alongside a host of other goods.
Princess Celestia rarely found herself casting so much as a second glance at spellbooks — that was Luna's unhealthy fascination — but these stoked something in her. And something was unpleasant, the turning, burning sensation of feeling. It was something that Princess Celestia could not stand, she knew full well to give dreaded these things strength until they could bloom at all. To risk being immersed in them was too close to how drowning ought to be like. Though, when death and decay were an impossibility for her species, she could only guess. Guessing surpassed imagination in all ways, to imagine was to dream while awake, to indulge in the fancies of the psyche that interfered with the needs of the state.
Nothing could detract from the cold weight of the crown upon her head, the very one she wished that she could commission a heavier version of.
Unfortunately, when her regalia was the gift of trinkets and forces beyond mortal ken, she knew that nothing her little ponies slaved toward could ever compare. They could pour their whole lives into a single craft, and every skill passed down for generations would not come close to the gifts she wore. No technique could capture material beyond their minds, and regardless of what she wished, mortal metalsmithing would not give her the imperfection of poor weight and jewels that her ponies would be capable of. The draconequus was stone and the war was done, with her nation yet to be repaired, the twin thrones of Equestria could handle some modesty until the peasants of her land had the lives of the foremares before such chaos.
She retired imagination and the abundance of feelings through as many natural means as she could — and really, it was no hard thing to do. Princess Celestia was never prone to the depth of moodiness, passion, and coldness she saw in the shadow of Equestria's second throne. Nopony was, and Princess Celestia was not one to think any possibilities of ponies who had worse or equal displays of heart. To do so would create a sudden, clawing opening — perhaps it would be in her stomach, or in her chest. So many names could be woven into sensations like that, and all of them were undeniably evil: fear, anxiety, dread, pride, melancholy, panic, and so many more. It could truly overwhelm somepony, and how was it that Princess Celestia could see herself as anything but blessed for not having a body as inclined to slip into the tight fires of anger, or the soaring, unsinkable, and downright stubborn bubbliness of manic pride? Wishing otherwise was no different than if a pony wished a burden like seasonal allergies upon themselves.
Princess Celestia was simply pleased that she lived life like a jewelry box. At its center, none would find anything as rich as a core nor as weak as a heart. She was poised with the same painted grace, neither as hot or cold as those swamped in feelings around her. She could hold herself as the crown jewel, a centerpiece to the whole world — and she only did so because ponies said she was. Any tune that was played she would dance to. Its notes and her steps would always be the same. She would always be necessary. Her motions would have the perfectly engineered requirements of whatever the situation called for, all done in a way that was undoubtedly beautiful and good without winning more than kindness. She never had to succumb to all the charged sensations that were the curse of life instead of one of its more positive aspects.
Anypony who owned a jewelry box and had any thought of their true worth would be aware of one universal fact. No matter what piece spun in the center, whether it was a painted pony or a jeweled one, all that was of any importance was below the surface. The machine was all that mattered; whether it was aware of its nature or not determined how easily the dancer spun. Any craftspony who was not caught up in the frivolity of artistic fancy simply ensured that the little dancer would be some graceful creature (and by that, all knew it would be a pony or Alicorn, since nothing else would sell) that pleased the eye. To draw too much emphasis meant that the center would have a dragged-out click to a gait not meant to be burdened. And it would all be because somepony had insisted on being an artist and making one stand out — and thus, to stand against the very nature of the machine. It was all the most talented, humble, and worthy of tinkers who could craft what really mattered in such a beautiful box. All beauty was derived from perfection, and no perfection could be found in that which lacked unflinching order. Anything less was not the blessed mercy called Harmony that should be strived for, and anything more did not exist.
(Anypony who said otherwise was not the kind of liar worth listening to.)
Machines like those that lurked in simple jewelry boxes were as much of a microcosm of how Princess Celestia (had to) live her life as much as chess was. Their purpose was to move that which brought the greatest pleasure, all without a shred of visibility or credit. The purpose of such inflexible mechanisms never faltered and was utterly unable to protest the winding up that ruled their every action. Was that simple process really any different than the destiny that Princess Celestia just knew Harmony offered all? She thought not, and because of that, there was no reason for pesky doubts on the matter, only the smooth continuation of all that was meant to be. For what was more admirable than the unceasing actions of passionless metal? To be cold to the touch and yet warm the world? Was that not unlike how she was, a beacon of light, the Sun's Very Owner, and Kindest of All who ruled Equestria from a forest said to be three steps from Tartarus itself?
Most importantly, she knew she did not breathe. Now, this was not something that she meant in the literal sense. Princess Celestia was aware of the melody of her heart, the steady and nearly invisible motions that fueled her quiet, shallow breathes. It was a constant in-and-out that was nearly undetectable, and always through her muzzle. Each was tiny, and always had been, contrary to what her size would suggest. Her whole body felt just as tight and solid as porcelain regardless of her mood, or whether she inhaled or exhaled. There were times when some of her subjects had asked her, with many stumbling apologies and begging of pardons prior to their questions, if she breathed at all. And her only response for such things was to laugh — which would always sound timed to anypony who bothered to ask. Thankfully, such creatures were not her subjects.
She knew that the world was pressed upon her withers, and it weighed more than her sun ever could. The might of her magic and the divinity she downplayed made such a thing nearly weightless in comparison. But why act as though there were anything wrong in finding some measure of contentment in the sweet, smothering sensation that quieting permeated every aspect of her life? What was she but the crown that sat upon her head? Why, she would be less than dust or the dreadful, dull look of space, star-stuff, and every unforgiving view of the night that her sister brought upon the world.
It was this unwavering sense of rhythm in her life that made Princess Celestia feel no different than that which she admired, and as though she were devoid of breath. She found that such stillness in her own existence made it easier to become invested in the lives of her little ponies, who she treasured above all things, and at any cost. Sacrifice of the highest order was essential to the virtue of nobility, and the generosity and kindness that ruled the princess. And really, it was hard to see anything ill in the idea of sacrifice — and the sacrifice of oneself for one's nation was always a gift, one that Princess Celestia would loathe for anypony to see as optional. Who was to say that there was no beauty in being poised on a throne, with all the motion of a ceramic, giving herself to a life of royal labor so intense that her regalia might as well melt and secure her to her throne of gold for good?
She could almost feel the cold pinch of misshapen gold pressing past her temples, into her neck and throat, and digging into her hooves.
The whisper was a fleeting bundle of sensations not deep enough to be birthed into a daydream — exactly as the princess liked such things — and it left her mind as quick as a breath.
Author's Note
I had this little piece of word vomit sitting around. Since it was complete and not related to anything that needed to be revised, was incomplete, dependent on a sequel, or anything of the sort, I figured it was worth publishing.
