Returned

by IGIBAB

Rating: everyone
Tags: Drama, My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic, Sad, Princess Luna
Length: 2947

The nightmare is over. We have returned. But we must not forget. We have to go back. To that painful past.

The nightmare is over. We have returned. But we must not forget. We have to go back. To that painful past.

This story is about Luna coming back to the old castle after she has returned, only to find old memories, and some unsuspected sadness and... warmth.

Got inspired for a sequel I guess.

Heavily inspired by Come Home Soon - Joaftheloaf. The full writting playlist can be found here.

Cover by Taiga Blackfield.

Published 2023-07-22 20:40:00 UTC
Last updated 2023-07-22 20:40:00 UTC

Returned

Silver ornamented hooves touching the cold stone, under the glimmer of the stars. How much time since someone tread on that floor? If we forget the trails from Twilight and her friends, as well as... ours.

We look, with a twinge of regret, the cracked walls, the dust covered stones, the broken stained glasses.

The throne room. Our heart jumps in our chest, before falling at its bottom. That circular stained glass, it is we who broke it.

Everything is still here. In rags, for the tapestries, but the placement didn't change. Both of our thrones are here.

No. Something changed. The pain in our heart. Once bitter, now it is torn apart. We walk through this dilapidated hall, haunting Equestria's past, our mistakes. But if that scene is the one of our tragedy, we didn't come back here just to see it again. So many memories, there must be something here to help us understand. How to not repeat the same mistakes? How can we be certain that this won't ever happen again?

Along a hallway, we spot in a small storeroom a pile of guards' armors. Our guards.

Faces are coming back to us. Fragments of names. But nothing more. Everything is so far away. Our heart tightens. Them, who had sworn to protect us, left. A first time, during our exile. A second, at the end of their life. Here is what's left of them, those metallic pieces they were the last ones to wear as well as some gravestones, probably, with barely visible inscriptions in some forgotten places.

That path. It is the one to our wing. Our apartments. Our servant's quarters. A shiver takes a hold of our hooves. Must we return there? Must we risk it?

But, in the end, what could await us there? We weren't anything, for anyone, what are the risks in seeing what became of the places we walked by?

The room is similar to our memory of it. A resting quarter for our staff. The table, the chairs, the fireplace. Everything is still in place. The numerous doors leading to the individual bedrooms. Even that pile of cushions where we sometimes laid down, to discuss with them.

Everything is still in place. Did they abandon this place right after our departure?

... Did they only listen to our stories because of their duty, rather than for pleasure...?

The bedrooms don't contain anything different. The beds are done, like they always were. All is ordered. Only the dust gives away the time gone by.

Going back to the common room, a detail catches our attention. Near a window, there's a painting, worn off by time, the canvas turned yellow by the years gone by and gray by the dust. An easel is still present, right next to it. Miraculously, the drawing is almost intact.

As we get closer, an uncertainty blooms in our heart, the great white sphere in the middle of the painting doesn't leave any doubt as to what is pictured. Especially as we can distinguish the shape of our face, its shadow, on it. The mare in the moon.

But beyond our prison, there are other things on that canvas. Three characters, whose outlines have been painted without any real mastery of the art. In fact, one of them is painted differently, with a stroke of the brush unlike the rest of the artwork. It appears to be a pegasus. Yet, the stroke stays diligent. Passionate.

But those figures are familiar to us. That pegasus, this earth pony and this unicorn. They are standing below the moon, looking at the viewer. They are smiling. Proud? Happy? It is hard to say, as the brush strokes are done with such amateurism.

The moon, on the other hoof, is painted with great care.

The title is at the bottom of the canvas. Princess Luna and her most loyal servants. No name, no artist.

A shudder gets us. They look familiar, yes. For that green unicorn, the yellow color of his eyes come back to us, even though it can barely be spotted on this night painting. For this brown earth pony, it is the warm sound of his laugh which finds itself echoing from afar in our mind. And for that pegasus with a cyan coat... It is her presence. Her hooves close to ours.

But time has erased the rest from our memory. And they didn't think about signing with their names. Yet, ours is there.

Our heart skips a beat. Then two. Then three. For them. Them that cared for us so much.

Tears come to our eyes, looking at the canvas. Where are they? Where did they vanish? What did they do with their life?"

Why weren't we here to share the life they had dedicated to us?

We look around the room. Nothing more. No trace of any other artwork. Is it the only one they made? And they left right after? We understand them, what would they do here? Our sister must have moved to another castle quite rapidly. They had no one to serve here, they wouldn't have had anyone to serve there.

But they left a last souvenir. Maybe they couldn't decide who should take it? Maybe they left it here in our memory? Because it had to stay that way? Because they wanted... to forget?

Those dark ideas never cease to come to our mind. How hard it is to think that, maybe, they were ponies that cared for us. That this millennium had something for us. And it was lost.

Better leave this room. Leave that painting where they deemed useful for it to be.

Our visit in the past takes back its course. Through the castle, the gloomy decors illuminated by our night, our soul calms down for the trouble brought upon it earlier. The stained glasses are broken, but their memories are still here. The walls are cracked, but their greatness is untouched. Circumventing a fallen chandelier on the floor, we arrive at the foot of the stairs leading to our apartments.

The arch is terrifying. That gaping hole towards that place. The antechamber of our loneliness. The land from where we kept the night, from where we observed the people's indifference. What hatred could manifest itself again if we were to go back up there? What devil will attack us this time?

No. We grew. That past is behind us, but it's not by running away from it that we'll prevent it from appearing again on our journey. Let us fight those demons. Let us fight the errors of our ways.

In the silence of our night, only ruptured by the sound of our hooves on those stones virgin for centuries, we climb up those stairs. And our temerity turns to doubt.

A door. The wood rotten by the years, despite the protections put on it. We open it, with apprehension, and the spectacle before us is most disturbing. Did we go to the wrong room?

No. Our bed is there. But everything is so different, so many things have been... added. Yes, our wardrobes, our chests of drawers, our statues and souvenirs from the old times are all here. But everywhere on the shelves, against the walls, on the floor, on the bed, new things are here.

Paintings are on the walls, leaning against the bed, on the balcony, cushions are on the floor, stuffed toys, blankets, all embroidered by hoof, a line up of music box on the chest of drawers, sheet music laying on the bed, boxes of board games on the floor, wooden sculptures in the corners. Everything is in order, organized.

What happened here? Why? Why... do they all represent us or our night, one way or another?

The sculptures depict us or the moon, the board games tell the story of the players on a mission to save a mare trapped in the stars, or finding her in their dreams. The scores are odes to our night, the stuffed toys bear our shape, the cushions our head. And the paintings are all so much more carefully crafted than the one we saw earlier.

Our strength is leaving us, in the midst of all those objects, after understanding all this. We fall to the ground, on the cushions, unveiling all that these imply. They were here. This is where they spent their time. How much time? To create all this, only leaving what they were the most proud of, for us?

How many years?

Thinking about us?

Everything is practically intact. Enchantments were cast on them, so they would resist the passing of time. So they could reach us.

A sob shakes us, a plaintive sound escapes us. Seconds go by, in that space dedicated to us, like the years must have gone by for them. Then, we stand back up, shaking, shaken, overwhelmed by sorrow but also a hint of gladness, of relief. O, what a weird mix of feelings.

But our heart stops beating when catching another detail. A letter. Resting on our pillow. A message. Words, instead of emotions engraved in mute objects.

We take it carefully with our magic, fearing that time might have weakened the paper to the point it would crumble to dust to our mere touch. No seal can be seen on it. And another letter is located right behind the first one.

We open the latter, unfolding its content. The writing is fine, stylized, conscientious. And still readable.

Your highness. Princess.

I dare to hope that you will read those words one day. Because I learned that I will not be hearing yours anymore.

I had seen you worried lately. Reserved. More silent. I had guessed that something was weighing on your heart, but I had no knowledge of its significance.

I remember our conversation. About the beauty of your night. My praises did not look like they had reached you. I am sorry about it. I feel guilty about it. I should have been more unequivocal, more direct, more emotional, more... Less myself.

So I reiterate, the beauty of your night, the radiance of its stars, the race of the Moon, its soft light falling on the lands of Equestria plunged into darkness. The vivacity with which the thatched houses are emphasized, under the light of torches, fireplaces and candles.

The peacefulness of winter evenings, and the locusts of summer nights. The rolling of the wind on the plains, the quivering of the trees, the howling of the forest's creatures.

The silvery reflections at the surface of lakes, the utmost darkness under the clouds, the clearings in the forests.

The smell of rising dew. The caress of the lifted mist. The sparkling of the stars. The silence in the streets.

Words are not my forte, princess, and I plead your pardon for it. But none would appreciate the day, if there was no night. No fireworks would be worthy of interest, no midnight walk would exist, no sunset would be there to bring couples their oh so desired romance, and no absence of light could allow them to express that love.

Your night, princess, was, is, and will continue to be the most precious treasure Equestria owns, sadly unbeknownst to it.

My words came too late this time. Maybe they will be in advance for a next one.

Yours, for this night and the next ones - Tidy

A sob. Uncontrollable. That makes us hiccough a moan. A tear, blown by it, falls on the paper and almost soaks its surface.

"No no no!"

Thankfully, we manage to remove the moistness and the saltiness spread. The message is intact. This oh so precious piece of parchment.

Tidy. Yes Tidy. Our most loyal servant. The one who didn't miss any nights by our side. Who landed on our balcony at every moonrises. Whose words weren't able to touch us in time.

But they reached us today. They sink deep in us. They save us. Our heart torn apart by the past receives a bit of warmth, a bit of rest, despite the pain of this letter.

We left her. But we were wrong. We were blind. But we were loved.

The second letter. What does it contain? A farewell? A message from the two other devoted souls?

We slowly open it to read its content. It is the same writing, yet oh so slightly more shaky.

Princess.

You left sixty-three years, three months and seven days ago. I kept counting them, since your departure. I kept on staying by your side, by your belongings, by where you used to be, so long before my own birth. Before you saved me.

No grain of dust, no crease, no misaligned plant. Everything is clean. Everything stayed organized.

I am sadly the last one. Shift and Starry stayed for many long years. But in the end, they too decided to leave your service. Not by hatred for you, but because they thought it was what you would have wanted.

I did not contest them. Who are we to know what you would have desired, us who could not even understand you while you were still here? Words not being their forte, they only wrote a short message that I'm joining to this letter.

Now, I pace up and down the corridors, alone. I look at your stained glasses, alone. I pray for your name, alone. My nights are now dedicated to moving my numb body in your apartments, making sure everything is in place, including the gifts we crafted for you. We hope you like them. Then, I join your sister. She is not as good of a conversationalist as you are, but I must admit it is nice to have someone out there who knows you so well.

By the way, she made me promise not to tell it, but I learned a few things about your childhood. A story of daffodils and clouds, for example. May you not hold it against your sister, I think she looked for someone with which to talk about you for so long. Her guards were never very receptive to it, from her own words.

Anyway. As my days are coming to a close, I then address you those words, one last time. Even if, with the time gone by, I forgot what I would have wanted to tell you most. I would just have liked to see your smile again.

But that will not happen. Neither for me, or anyone alive in this century, aside from your sister. And I think she wishes to see your face again as much as I do, if not more.

My time in this world is coming to an end. And, by your side, taking care of you, of your legacy, it was complete. More than saving my life, you gave it a meaning.

Thank you, Luna.

Yours, for this night and the ones I have left - Tidy

Two notes are attached at the end of the letter. One on a green colored paper, the other one on a more usual letter.

Despite my horn, the real magic was found by your side, princess. It is now my turn to try and spread that magic by myself. Maybe, despite my age, I will find a family to found, in place of the one you gave to us. See you in a thousand years, princess. May my descendants know your name and respect it.

- Shift

A smile comes to our face, despite our heart tearing apart, as we read the next message.

If, when you return, some subjects talk about the swan constellation by giving it the name Celesti-honk, you will know who to blame.

- Starry

A laugh. A sobbed laugh that comes out of our lungs. Yes. He was the kind of pony to do that sort of thing. Maybe we will see the traces of it, who knows?

We hold the letters a good distance away. Tears cannot stop flowing, despite our smile. Letting them reach the letters is out of the question.

How good it is to feel all this. Painful, as well. A sweet but bitter joy. A tearing but comforting sorrow. But all of this is a thousand times better than our hatred, our loneliness. There it is, the proof that we are alive. That we were in the heart of some, longer than we were willing to believe.

Air. We need to breathe. The balcony awaits us, with a puff of nightly freshness. The telescope is here, its support lower than usual.

In the light of our moon, we see the forest below, extending its arms around the castle. Yet, as our eyes drift with our thoughts, we notice something. Behind the throne room, under the great gap we made in it. Outside. A stone that wasn't there before. Too well placed.

We only need to glide to get to it. We land in front, pushing aside the bushes that covered the flowerbed. A simple stone, a plate laid on the ground. So simple, and yet the engravings are so unreal.

Tidy, 272-368, servant of Luna, loyal until her end.

A shiver. This is where she is. And has been for nine centuries at least. The old years system is still used.

To see her here. It's a punch from reality that hits us. All those things seemed far away, almost dreamed. But there is that rock. Here. That grave. Her grave.

A long breath escapes us. Then, we bow our head, with respect.

"Thank you... For those words and for those gestures... They reached us, this time."