Princess and Pariah

Chapters

Into the Breach
Those Who Know
Da Huangdi
Under the Eaves
Gambit
Dissonance
Conflict and Consonance
Princess and Pariah
Ashes
Interregnum
Friendship Through Fire
Soothsayer
Memento Mori
Elegy
Way of War

Into the Breach

I'm sure Horolog is rather annoyed with me now. I've had her rearrange my schedule on short notice several times, every time to push things back. Ember is probably getting rather annoyed with me, too; I haven't been able to make any progress on that dragon-student exchange program. And it may very well be that I won't be meeting with the Abyssinians at all next week.

I can't say I can bring myself to be that concerned, though.

My mind has been a hurricane of ideas on how to help Tempest. Canterlot's hospitals are always practicing the latest and most innovative treatments. My royal doctors are the best in Equestria. It would be no burden to me to have her admitted and see she received the best care anypony could receive.

She declined. She swore, thirteen years ago, ever since the paper was published, that she'd never set hoof inside a hospital again. I didn't push the subject.

I asked if she needed a personal aide, a place to stay in the castle, or funds so she wouldn't have to worry so much about money. She had no need for any of those.

The least I could do—and the only thing Tempest would tolerate me doing—was give her Priority Audience permission. Regardless of where I was or what I was doing at the time, I would make time to speak with her. My Ponyville friends have the same privilege, but nopony else does. Horolog didn't complain when I asked her to create one, but I'm sure she was none too happy about me willfully injecting a literal wildcard into my own schedule. Still . . . I had to do something.

As, unquestionably, the most powerful pony in Equestria . . . I feel so powerless.

It's why I'm supposed to be at a social function with House Sunshower right now but asked them to reschedule. It's why I could be preparing for a speech I'm due to give to Canterlot's gem merchants tonight, but I'm pleading unwell. It's not really a lie. I don't think I'm useful to anyone right now. I can't see myself focusing on anything except the papers in front of me.

It's in these moments that I wish I took an interest to magimedicine in my youth instead of the physics of natural magic. Maybe I'd have made more progress. Maybe, if I'd spent more time researching when Tempest first told me of her condition back in Ponyville, I would have already found a lead at this point.

There's precious little literature that focuses on this condition in the first place, and almost nothing from the last few years. Research advances most quickly where the community perceives there are gains to be made. Not where existing treatment is already mostly curative.

And not where the community thinks no curative treatment could exist.

Engage social work and supportive care departments. Reduce nurse engagement—deterioration is slow, and most patient-reported symptoms cannot be acted upon. If triage is required, these patients may be discharged or transferred to observation.

I toss the paper away. "Discharge" this, "hospice care" that, "no useful options" here, "lost cause" there. Everything I read is varying degrees of useless. And nothing, nothing, nothing helps!

"Princess?"

I snap my head up. No one should be bothering me right now, not even the guards! Unless—

It's Tempest, four pony-lengths away. I rush up to her. "I'm sorry, I'm trying, I'm trying to find a cure! Everything I've read so far says there aren't any options, but I don't believe them, of course. The-the doctor, my personal physician, I asked her too, she said she didn't deal with your kind of cases, but the Neurology division—"

"Princess—"

"—at the hospital. So I went to them too, but they said AS diseases were sort of interdisciplinary, and that the Critical Care unit might know more about this case, so I went to them and they said if they get any cases like that, they're already too advanced for them to help at all. I-I went to see if the diagnosticians—"

"Princess!"

"—and they said they did, but they didn't do anything to suggest therapy, they just pass the patient off to hospice care, which is completely silly! So maybe hospice does some other kind of care I need to know about, but then they said the hospital doesn't have a hospice division and to—"

"Princess!" she roars.

I stop talking for long enough to actually see the pony in front of me. It's Tempest again. But she's fully donned the robes of authority and the military attitude that made her a Commander. She looks nothing like the pony who came to me with a silent cry for help—she's more the one who stepped off her airship and demanded Equestria's unconditional surrender.

She cracks a hoof on the floor. It's a reflexive motion for me to snap up, chest out, eyes front, hooves together. "Get a hold of yourself, Princess," she says sharply. It's not a request; it's an order.

I rub my eyes and take in the room for what feels like the first time in hours. That's when I realize that it's a mess. I used to have a stack for signed and returned bills, but now everything's all over the place. The journal I was just reading (Degenerative Diseases in Healthcare) is crumpled up like someone stomped on it and worryingly close to the fireplace. Under any normal circumstance, I'd be mortified at someone being so disrespectful to good academic literature.

I take a half-step towards the poor journal before I freeze and look back to Tempest, as if asking for permission to move. She rolls her eyes, her expression equal parts expecting and unimpressed. "I'd have you reprimanded if I saw your bunk looking like this."

"R-right!" I pick up the journal, do my best to un-crumple it, and return it to my desk. At the same time, I lift all the journals and papers scattered on the floor, organize them by journal, volume, and issue, and return them to neat stacks. Maybe if I'd found some leads, I would have separated those papers from the rest, but . . .

When I look up again, Tempest is looking a little bit more the friend I know her to be and less the soldier I knew she was. A very little bit. But either pony is at odds with the one I thought she'd be, the one who'd just received devastating news. I jump. "Tempest! How are you feeling? Do you need anything from me?"

"I'm fine, Princess," she says in a tone that sounds almost bored.

"You . . . why are you visiting me, then? Do you need anything from me?"

"You said that already. And you asked me to visit you."

"I . . . did?"

"You asked me last week to come back to your chambers today so you could 'check up on me.'"

Oh. That's why Horolog was grumbling. "Right. Well, how are you feeling?"

"You said that already."

"Oh, for—" I very nearly curse before catching myself. I close my eyes and take a deep, calming breath to center myself. To put away my stresses to work on them later. To take on the Princess mantle I adopted. I take another. Three. Four. Five. Until you can feel the spirits in the air above and you can sense the blood in the earth below.

I open my eyes, and Tempest is still there, serious and still. She might be drill sergeant when she needs to be, but she's also patient enough to wait for me. Or else she just won't say to my face that I'm wasting her time. It's not a little bit ironic that I arranged today to check up on her, and now, she's the one calming me down.

"I . . ." I take one last deep breath. "I'm sorry. I'm just really stressed. I've been looking everywhere for a remedy to your condition, but everywhere I look, I'm coming back blank." I pause and screw my face to effuse determination. I haven't given up, and Tempest can't either. "I promise, I'll find something to help you; I'll find something to cure you. I just need . . . I just need a little bit more time."

. . .

Tempest hasn't moved since she entered the room. Chest proud, head up, the expression on her face nearly disaffected. It's still not the countenance of somepony who just received the worst news of her life.

"How are you so calm about this?" I ask. "I thought you'd be terrified. You were . . . not in good shape the last time you were here."

She's silent for a moment. Then she rubs one hoof against the other. "I am concerned, Princess." It doesn't wobble or carry the raw heart-breaking emotion I heard last week, but neither is it jest or sarcasm. I can't doubt that she isn't. She's just hiding under that easy facade of militancy and doing it a lot better than I am.

But then she stops fidgeting, and it feels like I only imagined her vulnerability. "But it's no good to me to sulk and be useless. If the remedy for my condition was to feel sorry for myself, then yes, I'd be miserable. But it's not, and all that does is make me less likely to be of help to myself. Pity is worthless, and self-pity is pathetic. I can choose to sulk or I can choose to live. It all ends the same way."

My heart drops—again—at hearing that. "Don't say that! I'm not going to roll over and let you die, Tempest!"

"Neither am I. But I've had over ten years to research, and . . . take action, in one way or another." She rubs a hoof again. "I can choose to do nothing with myself, or I can choose to act. Whether that action is vengeance or martyrdom."

And Tempest is a mare of action. I already forgave her for her invasion of Equestria, but I imagine so many more ponies would if they heard more of her story. She wanted power, yes, but she wanted the staff first, then she wanted the Storm King's promise. And until recently, she never quite explained why. It's easy enough to say you know good from evil when a good nation is at stake, but the lines are so much more unclear when you are at stake. "You just seem so . . . nonchalant about it, even flippant."

Tempest sighs. "I don't have a choice. It's been ten years. If I spent every day of that waiting and worrying, there wouldn't be enough pony for you to scrape off the ground."

Tempest speaks like a soldier who's seen too much darkness in the world. Mortality and death is just another subject to her. "I guess I'm just happy that you recovered so quickly."

Tempest merely shrugs. "Is there anything you need of me, Princess?"

Even now, she'll ask me what I need first. For all her foibles, Tempest Shadow is, and always has been, a mare of honor. ". . . You don't really need to be asking that question, but no. I just wish I had better news to give you today. It's exhausting crawling through all this research and having nothing to show for it." I nudge the stack of journals on my table. "It's making me frustrated."

"Have you talked to your friends about it?"

I catch myself, mouth open. No, I haven't. There's not really a good reason why I haven't either. A waste of time, I guess. If an answer exists, it's almost certainly in the literature, and I know I'm the most well-read of my friends; they probably wouldn't have much to contribute, or else they'd have trouble understanding it. And I have a deadl—a time limit. I can't waste time doing things that won't help.

I shake myself bodily. I'm not talking to my friends because I think it's a waste of time. Now I know I need a break. I look up and chuckle sheepishly.

Tempest shrugs again. "I am only telling you what you've told me so many times before."

Those Who Know

One day per moon. No meetings, no paperwork, no interruptions, no distractions. Not from the nobles or my Ministry leaders or Horolog. For me, the day is as sanctimonious as any national holiday. At the Castle, it's become something of a de facto holiday as well since the staff know they can't make any requests of me and I won't of them. We'll see if it spreads to the rest of Canterlot.

Council of Friendship Day.

We split the day between governing on friendship issues and just being friends. My friends have certainly become more ingrained into the politics of Canterlot—Applejack has become something of a voice for Equestria's rural agriculture industry, and Rarity networks with nobles so frequently she has more insight into their machinations than I do—but we're always sure to set aside time to just talk, catch up, and enjoy each other's company.

They'll never be politicians or ministers or co-rulers. They're friends. And that's the highest title they'd want or need.

"So you're not considering the continuous slipstream from Cloudsdale to Canterlot?"

"No, Rainbow Dash. You know that prevailing winds can make weather management difficult for the towns in between. There aren't a lot of citizens there, but there are some, and they're under Canterlot's weather jurisdiction. Besides, I ratified a high-speed rail line from Cloudsdale to Canterlot. Pegasi will need to get to ground level first, but when the line is complete, they'll be able to make it to Canterlot faster than any pegasus could fly."

"Except me, you mean."

I roll my eyes good-naturedly as light giggles echo around the room. "Yes, except you."

Rainbow Dash ruffles her feathers. "Well, I guess they'll have to live with that. I don't mind taking the train if it means I can be with the rest of my friends." Always the quickest to get impatient, she gets up and takes a quick lap around the throne room. The Council throne room, that is—it's a recreation of the same one in Ponyville's castle, though it's missing the Map and other familiar amenities, making it feel a bit more sterile. "Was that the last one? I'm starving!"

I swallow. It was the last one . . . were it not for the extra subject I wanted to talk about today, one I've been both anticipating and dreading.

All my friends seem to catch onto my sudden drop in mood as the room goes quiet. Even Rainbow Dash takes notice and flies back to her seat.

"Twilight? Is there something wrong?" Fluttershy asks quietly.

I sigh. "Yeah. It's about Tempest."

I fill everypony in on her situation. Given I was mentoring and rehabilitating her for a time, they're not as close to her as I was, but we're all still her friends, and we all still care about her well-being. She saved our lives at a time when it mattered most, and it's our turn to help her now, however we can. Pinkie, Applejack, and Rarity all gasp when I tell them about her condition and her prognosis. Fluttershy and Rainbow Dash seem almost angry at it.

I also tell them about the research I've done thus far. I've gone through about three-quarters of the literature I could find on the subject, and I've interviewed most of the doctors at Canterlot General who know anything about it. The more I read, the more I'm convinced the answer doesn't lie in standard established medicine. It has to be somewhere else, in the quirky, the unbelievable, the miraculous. The world has a lot of undiscovered magic. Tempest was searching—it's why she found the Staff of Sacanas in the first place—and now I am too.

"So that's the situation," I say to a silent room. It remains so for an uncomfortably long time.

"I'm so sorry, Twilight. That's simply horrible news," Rarity says, her words dramatic but entirely appropriate. "Horrible" is a horribly apt descriptor. "I saw her on the way here, and she looked just fine! I'd never have guessed she was struggling so. Is there anything at all we can do for her? I refuse to believe all we can do is watch and worry."

"I asked, Rarity. Tempest has never asked for help from anypony, and she still isn't now. I'm not going to press, or she'll just think I'm being patronizing."

"Can't we throw Fizzy a 'get well soon' party? Those always work for the Cake twins when they're feeling sniffly. There was this one time Mrs. Cake was sooooo worried she'd have to bring Pound Cake to the hospital, he was feeling so bad. But then I threw a party and fed him soup and the next day he was so much better!"

I catch a few of my friends wincing, but I try to hide my own emotions. Pinkie's still grinning at us like she heard none of what we were discussing, like she genuinely believes a simple party is the panacea Tempest needs. Her positivity is cloying, tone-deaf, and right now, it comes across as very nearly offensive. Like laughing at a funeral.

And I know that Pinkie knows this.

She isn't oblivious; she must know there are some problems that Laughter alone can't solve. But right now, she's like me: anxious. Powerless. She doesn't want to believe there's nothing she can do, so she casts her smile as a pane of glass over top the rest of her roiling emotions. Selfish as it sounds, her party idea isn't so much for Tempest's sake as it is for hers.

I'm sorry. I wish I could be on the other side too, Pinkie. I morosely shake my head. I feel the glass break as her smile turns stricken. The façade remains, but the dam is cracked.

"Well, there must be something we can do!" Rainbow Dash exclaims, jumping out of her seat and hovering once again. "She's our friend, and we're not going to leave her to deal with this herself."

"I know, I know, I just . . ." I sigh in frustration. "It's been weeks now. I've spent essentially every spare moment I had doing research. Even the most advanced pony medicine doesn't say her condition is treatable, much less curable.

"I found one lead, I guess, if you could call it that. It's one that Tempest said she had looked into once before but passed off as too unbelievable. She didn't think it actually existed. The Stream of Silence. Applejack, I think you and Fluttershy know something about it?"

They both nod. Applejack grimaces. "It definitely exists, I c'n tell you that."

"There's . . . pretty much no information I can find about it in the Canterlot Archives. The rest of Equestria's libraries don't have much information on it either, owing to it being, well, outside of Equestria. My thought is that the Stream has to have a mental and a biological effect on the kirin that go into it, and ponies too, I'd guess. Kirin must have thaum like every other living being, and from what I've figured out so far, it's at least partially responsible for nirik transformation. It probably helps power their limbic system, and the Stream therefore must be a neurotransmitter antagonist that helps . . ."

I stop as I see the collective blank faces on my friends. "Sorry. What I mean is if the Stream can suppress kirin from transforming into nirik, it could probably suppress whatever's happening to Tempest, too. I think it might be the key to curing her! Naturally, I wouldn't want to just toss her in or subject her to all the effects of the Stream, but it definitely does something that pony magic can't. Maybe we can get a sample and extract the useful parts of it!"

"Well, why didn't you tell us sooner? We could've gone to the Peaks and come back with some Stream water lickety-split!" Applejack rotates her foreleg in her shoulder like she's getting ready to punch something.

I shake my head. "It's just a hypothesis right now, Applejack. The only one I have, and I only came up with it yesterday. The Stream could help, but I don't know how. Like I said, there's barely anything in Equestria's libraries that discusses kirin or the Stream."

I take out a large wizened volume and open it about two-thirds in. "But I found a foreign encyclopedia volume from the Crystal Empire that claims to contain information on all things kirin, and given what I can glean from the pictures and the odd Ponish word, this section might be just what we need. But most of it is written in some really ancient logographs that I can't make heads or tails of. The librarian doesn't know how to translate it either."

I drop the book onto the table in front of us, and we all lean in to examine it. It's filled with complicated, meticulous characters arranged in columns, not rows. Their dancing lines convey a wealth of information, but it's lost to all of us.

Applejack looks at the book, then at Fluttershy. "Didn't you show me that mural o' the kirin transformin' into nirik? It all looked like pictures t' me, but there was a lot of 'em, an' a lot more than about just the one thing. And they kinda looked like these folk, least from what I c'n remember."

Fluttershy doesn't respond. She nods, but she doesn't look at Applejack or the book. Her frown deepens.

Applejack taps her hoof on the table a couple of times. "Probably a language, then. I'm bettin' the kirin got mighty good an' efficient at writing, owin' to their years o' silence. How else would they communicate with others? Maybe we can talk t' them and get them t' help translate." Applejack puts a hoof to her chin. "Tell y'what: lemme write a letter t' Autumn Blaze. She's a kirin we met at the Peaks o' Peril, and we still keep in touch every now n' again. I know she understands written Ponish—maybe she understands written Kirin too."

For the first time in a long while, I feel that flame of curiosity inside me ignite. There's something to discover, something to dig my teeth into—there's a new branch of knowledge to investigate, and something down that way is the key to helping Tempest. There's so much to learn—and now I have the first step to start. "Thanks, Applejack," I say, smiling at her. "This is great! I think I'll actually get somewhere with this one."

"Don't mention it!" she says. "That's what friends 'r for, right?"

"Definitely." Score one for friends. I don't know why I didn't come to them first.

Applejack leans back to pick up her Stetson and flip it on her head. "Well, give my best t' Tempest. I'm sure it can't be easy for her, dealing with all this shenanigans. But now you c'n say we got something for her, right?"

My smile falters, but just for a moment. "Well, not yet. It's just a lead. But soon!"

Applejack gets up. "We got a place picked out f'r today? I think I'm with Rainbow on this on being totally council'd out."

My smile returns as I put matters of state and matters of Tempest out of my head, at least for a few hours. "A new place opened up on the west side that I wanted to try. Chigan's Glen. Get it? It's an anagram of 'changelings'! Did you know changelings don't always consume love straight from the source? They can bake it into food, too! I don't know if ponies can taste it, but I'm excited to see."

"Sounds awesome!" Rainbow Dash says, once again circling the room, wings twitching. "Let's go!"

One by one, my friends file out, eager to get on with the more pleasant part of our day. Even Pinkie seems a bit perkier. Today, we're spending the day in Canterlot, though we'll often go back to Ponyville to hang out. True, Canterlot is my home now, but Ponyville has always felt more "home-y." And it's nice to catch up with Starlight, Cheerilee, and my other old friends.

"Fluttershy? Are you coming?" I ask. She hasn't left her seat.

She looks up, seemingly hearing me for the first time. "Oh. Right, I'm sorry." She gets up slowly.

"Is something wrong? You've been awfully quiet about Tempest. Well, quiet-er." Given she went with Applejack to the kirin lands, I would have expected her to have more to say about it.

Fluttershy pauses. She frowns again. "Do you know Copernicus?"

I blink. "U-uh, I don't think so? Unless you're talking about the philosopher. Is that the name of one of your animals?"

She nods. "A squirrel. He died last week."

"Oh, I-I'm sorry," I say, sympathetic but a little confused why she's bringing up this topic and so matter-of-fact-ly.

"It's okay. I've seen a lot of cases like his. It was a blight that passed around a few squirrels in Ponyville. I knew he had it when he started getting blue spots and refused to drink water. There's nothing we can do about it, at least as far as I know. So I just . . . hugged him a lot, made sure his family was nearby, and gave him a nice cozy bed to relax in. It's . . . not nice whenever an animal friend passes away, but when there's nothing else I can do, I try to make it easy and peaceful for them. There's a kind of beauty in death, too. Not all animals, especially those in the wild, get to go peacefully."

"O-okay. I'm glad he went peacefully, but if you don't mind me asking, why are you telling me this?"

Fluttershy pauses and shrinks back a little. "Promise me you won't get mad?"

"Of course not!"

Her voice is small, and she's looking away from me. "I remember when I first came to Ponyville, another squirrel got the same blight. I didn't know it wasn't curable at the time, so I fought. I went to the local veterinarian to ask for anything that could help. I tried to force him food and water so he'd live longer. It only ever . . . came back up. He died when he wandered out of the cottage in a bout of delirium and got caught in a snowstorm. I only found him the next season when the snow melted. He only made it a couple hooves out of the door before collapsing and freezing to death. His family got upset with me that I couldn't save him and . . . left." She brings a hoof to rub at her eyes.

"Are you—are you saying we're working too hard to save Tempest?" I very nearly raise my voice at her. It's just that . . . after all my research and work, something I've always taken pride in, somepony—and I'd never expect that somepony to be Fluttershy—tells me that I did the wrong thing and shouldn't have even started?

I snort. I've never curled up and admitted defeat. Determination and faith in my friends, even in the face of overwhelming odds, is what got me here. It's what made me a Princess. "I'm not going to give up and let her die," I say, stomping my hoof on the ground. "Tempest isn't a squirrel; I won't give up on her when there's still a chance! And Applejack just said she had a friend who would be able to help us. I'm not going to pass that chance up. We have a lead; we'll find a cure!"

She still doesn't look at me, but her eyes grow sadder. She starts slowing padding towards the door. ". . . I'm sorry. Forget I brought this up."

"Wait! Do you or do you not think we're trying too hard to save Tempest?"

She pauses. When she looks back to me, her face is filled with sadness and another emotion I can't place. Her eyes are glistening. "I don't know."

Da Huangdi

I'm fortunate that I'm able to teleport. It means I can get to most places without the travel time—a nice perk for a Princess. If I'm riding the train, it's usually for a good reason. Sometimes I'm traveling with too large a group to teleport everyone. Sometimes I'm just not in a rush and could spare the energy. Today, it's international relations. I can teleport anywhere within Equestria, and there's theoretically nothing stopping me from teleporting anywhere at all, but the leaders of other nations would understandably not be very happy if a pony—or a battalion of ponies, for that matter—could show up anywhere within their borders at any time. Acts of war are not something I have much familiarity with, and I'd very much prefer to keep it that way.

The rail line through the Windswept Plains is one of the longest lines in—and out of—Equestria. It takes several days to traverse it, days that I really don't have. I really wish I had a Princess Luna co-ruling with me who could help pick up governing responsibilities when I'm unavailable. Horolog just about had a conniption when I told her I'd be leaving for at least a week and didn't know when I'd be back. Spike has always been a wonderful assistant, and while he's helping to keep things running back home, he can't do everything.

This line is also one of the least-traveled. Ponies rarely have the need to go this far out of Equestria. As is, there are only two ponies on the train right now: myself, and Tempest.

I told Tempest about the lead I discovered and asked if she wanted to join me in investigating it. She accepted, again not expressing the emotion I thought she would from the news. She didn't seem terribly excited about it. Then again, she doesn't get excited over much of anything.

We spent the rest of the time on the train talking about what I knew of the kirin from Applejack and Fluttershy's trip. The Vow of Silence, the Stream, the cure, and of course, Autumn Blaze. That was yesterday.

Today, it's well past sunrise, but Tempest is still asleep, peacefully curled up in the bed across from me. She seems a rather heavy sleeper, sleeping through the train bumping over its tracks without a stir, the same bumps that woke me several times. Looking at her, I can't help but smile. For a long time, I wondered whether her fierce, no-nonsense, dare-I-say-unfriendly expression she wears almost all hours of the day is one she schooled herself to wear or one her face falls into naturally. I can say now it's definitely the former. Balled up like a cat and bereft of the tension she always carries, I watch the tiny rise and fall of her chest for several minutes.

I hope your dreams are free of the anxiety you've had to deal with in the waking world.

It feels like an act of evil that I have to break her out of the spell. But the scenery outside the window, normally a featureless plain of sparse trees, gives way to rocky outcroppings and angrier topology as we approach the Peaks, and the train's brakes start screeching. We'll be arriving soon.

Carefully, I approach and nose Tempest gently. "Wake up. We're arriving," I whisper.

Tempest is evidently not ready to wake yet because it takes a good deal of prodding for her to respond at all. My nose doesn't work, and neither does a hoof, so I resort to just about shoving her off the bed to get her attention. Eventually, it works; Tempest twitches a hind leg, wrinkles her muzzle, lifts her head, and looks at me with cloudy eyes. "Touch me from the front next time, Princess," she says, voice clogged with slumber and even deeper than usual. "Approaching from behind is an easy way for you to get yourself kicked."

I retreat, almost feeling her air of severity reassert itself around her and push me back. "S-sure!" I say with a half-hearted chuckle.

Tempest groans and rolls off the bed. She cracks her neck a couple times and stretches luxuriously. She squints at the light coming into the train car, looking not unlike how Rainbow Dash does when she wakes up. She clamps her eyes shut and rubs at them for a few seconds. Next she looks at me, the moment has passed. Her sleeping countenance is thoroughly washed and replaced with her usual expression. I hide a sigh.

"Orders, Princess?"

"What?"

"Your orders."

"Ah . . . none?" I shake myself. Maybe I gave off the wrong impression when I asked if she wanted to come on this trip. "I invited you because I found something that might lead to your cure, and I thought you might want to see it first-hoof or investigate it yourself." I smile awkwardly. "I didn't ask you to come to do anything. Not unless you want to!"

Tempest's expression remains unchanged. She blinks.

My smile grows a little more strained. "Just stay close to me? I have a couple ponies—er, kirin—I want to talk to. I think they might be able to help. And-and you're free to ask questions, too! If you're curious about something and you want to investigate it more, that is."

"As you wish."

I hide another sigh. It's been so long that Tempest's life has only been commands, received and issued. I put a hoof on her withers in what I hope to be a comforting gesture. Slowly. "I know it's hard for you to express yourself as a friend, but that's what I'm trying to do, and that's what I want you to do. I'm concerned about you, Tempest. I don't quite know how you're feeling physically or how you're coping mentally. It's hard for me to tell, what with your . . ." I gesture at her pathetically and nonspecifically, not finding the right word for what I'm thinking. ". . . you-ness. You don't need to hide behind commands or missions that need carrying out, come what may—I'm not giving you either. I want to give you a choice. If you'd rather be at home and conserve your strength, that's fine. If you want to join me investigating, that's fine too. Just, really, how are you feeling?"

Tempest looks back to me, her piercing green eyes meeting mine.

I remember when Tempest first stayed with me to learn more about friendship, her eyes were full of hatred. Directed at the world, at me, everypony. There's still so much of it that never left—that hatred shaped her as a pony. Even now, part of what makes her so intimidating to look in the eye is that anger—it's always there, and it puts you on edge. Even now, sometimes I have to remind myself that she's not mad at me—at least, I don't think she is.

"I feel . . . like I'd like to explore this lead. I feel like I want to know more about this source of magic I could have chosen to target over Equestria's in another world," she says.

"Okay." I give her one last smile. "Just don't strain yourself, okay?"

The twitch in her eyes tells me that I went too far. Tempest was never one who accepted the common courtesies of friendship; in fact, she actively dislikes them. I hide a sigh and retreat from her to gather my things. Tempest simply looks out the window, a hungry look on her face.

When the train stops, we step off together onto the Windswept Plains.

It's hard to believe that the kirin could make their home in such an inhospitable place. I remember seeing more than one proposal to let nature reclaim this train line because there was nothing of worth this way. Were it not for the fact I know Applejack and Fluttershy found kirin down here, I'd be inclined to agree—the plains appear to be just a morass of desert savannah, pervasive dust, and unrelenting sun. The only vegetation that survives is a couple acacias and the hardiest of scrub. Even the rocks don't seem to survive long out here before being worn away to nothing. That is, except for the massive rock ahead of us. The Peaks of Peril.

Honestly, the Peaks look even more inhospitable than the plains around it. The smooth-sided rock and the very steep grade are such that only a mountain goat could scale the cliffs. Why they would ever want to, I don't know. What would you find at the top? Snow? Sun? Certainly not sustenance or anything worth finding.

One look at their lands, and it's not hard to believe why the kirin were eventually relegated to myth. How many explorers could have made it far enough to actually find them? And even if one did make it there and back, who would be crazy enough to corroborate them? It's only because Applejack and Fluttershy have already explored here that I know for certain that they do exist. From their accounts, I know the Peaks are more Calderas of Peril; the center is lush and fertile. As for how or why . . .

Even Tempest seems skeptical. She squints at the Peaks. "And this is where the kirin of legend live?"

"Not 'legend'—this is where they definitely are," I correct. I nose into my saddlebags and pull out a letter, one from an "Autumn Blaze" that Applejack befriended the last time she was here. Although, seeing the kirin homeland in pony makes me question who's ambitious enough to actually deliver the mail.

"Are you well enough to travel?"

Tempest just glances at me, says nothing, and sets off without me. I trot to keep up with her.

Tempest sets pace at a brisk canter. Despite my legs being longer than hers now, she seems to have an easier time at it than I do. She doesn't look back to make sure I'm following, either. I can imagine it: Tempest leads a march and pays no mind to stragglers who fall off the back. If they can't keep up, they're better off not in the platoon.

Of course, I'm the Princess and the one who headed this mission; I'd normally be the one in front giving her instructions. But as is, I just try to keep trotting, putting down a wingbeat or two between steps to help keep pace.

It's about an hour's travel from the train terminal to the foot of the Peaks of Peril. They look even more intimidating up close. Were it not for the fact there are some vines slung down the cliff face to assist with climbing (assuming that's what they're there for), I'd expect only winged creatures to be able to make it up. How isolated must the kirin be to live at the top of a nigh-unscalable cliff face in the middle of a plain of desolation.

Tempest runs a hoof on the slick rock of the cliff face. Then she looks at me. "You can't teleport?" she asks.

I shake my head, looking at the summit. "Too dangerous. I've never been here before, and I can't see a safe place for me to go. If I try, I might end up with a tree trunk through my barrel." Plus there's the whole teleporting-in-a-foreign-country-means-war thing.

Tempest grunts in assent and looks to the summit too. There's two solutions: one, we stop for the night and take some time to construct a sling so I can fly us both over the peaks—I don't trust myself to carry her so high. Or two, I fly up alone and let Tempest fend for herself on the vines.

Before I can say anything, Tempest makes our choice for us. She cracks her neck and bounds to the vines. I nearly reach out to stop her or shout "be careful!" before catching myself. Instead, I sigh again and pump my wings and match pace with her climb, flying just below her in case she should lose grip.1

Tempest climbs the vines like nopony I've seen before. She coils the vines around one hind hoof and steps on that hoof with her other, wedging the vines between and letting her gain height. She coils the vines in the same way with her forehooves to hold her in place while her hindlegs grab a new section of vine a bit higher up. It's fascinating to study how Tempest learned to climb without Earth pony prehensility, but it doesn't look easy.

Her eyes are locked upwards, face drawn in a tawny visage of determination. Even still, I can see the strain slowly building on her face. Rivulets of sweat start forming on her body, but she pays them no mind except to wipe her eyes every now and again.

After several minutes of climbing, Tempest finds a large ledge and hoists herself onto it with her forehooves. The ledge is large enough for both of us, so I alight beside her. Her hard breathing is her only greeting to me. I feel guilty that I'm barely out of breath.

You're ill. Don't overexert yourself. It's unsafe for you to be climbing like this. Do you want me to carry you up? All these are things that I want to say to her, but I know they're all varying degrees of patronizing. At least, they are as I think she'd perceive them. She won't accept help, even when she needs it most.

Has it always been like this? I muse.

"Hm?" Tempest grunts through her heavy breaths.

I squeak and shrink back—I didn't mean to say that out loud. I consider apologizing, but . . . Tempest doesn't respond terribly well to those, either. Now that it's out, maybe I can get an answer, at the very least.

"I'm sorry for asking. Just . . . you've kind of not wanted to hear my concern ever since you told me about the pain in your horn. I know you're trying hard to be your own pony and not be depressed—which I find really inspiring, by the way!—but it doesn't mean you need to spurn others who genuinely care about you." I can't decide if I want to touch her or not, or whether she'd appreciate it. As is, we just sit next to each other, an uncomfortable distance between us.

Tempest remains silent for a long while, her only sound her breathing. Finally, as her breath calms somewhat, she speaks. "I have only depended on myself my whole life. You know that. I've not had the benefit of friends. And the Storm King was quite hooves-off with me, for better or for worse. I had only commands from him—it was my responsibility to determine tactics and carry them out.

"Autonomy, Princess. I must be able to hold myself up. I will not laze about while someone else does my work for me. Because when the day comes that I need to do it myself, I'll only regret that I didn't learn how to do it from the start. The moment I lean on someone as a crutch . . ." She looks at me, sees my expression, and freezes, mouth half open, words on her lips I could quote myself.

"Is the moment they walk away and leave you to fall," I finish, perhaps a bit snippier than I intended. "Is that what you really believe?"

She closes her mouth and looks away from me, her expression deviating from the usual to something I can only describe as chastised. "Old habits," she mumbles. "I apologize, Princess."

"Stop it, Tempest!" I cry. "You were never the obsequious type! You don't need to act as if I'll banish you if you say the wrong thing! This just tells me there are still some things I'd like to teach you." I take a couple breaths to steady myself again. I take the gamble and breach the distance between us, placing my side against hers. "If you'd let me, that is."

She still refuses to look at me. "Is it really such a vice that I refuse to be a burden on others?"

"Only if you refuse to let your friends share your burden. Friends don't give up on each other. And I promise I will never give up on you." I put my hoof around her. She doesn't flinch, but she doesn't reciprocate, either.

We spend several minutes in silence. It's an unfortunate familiar scene: someone affects, and Tempest tolerates. Getting her to tolerate at all was a major step forward on the face, but she's gone from being unapproachable to just being cold. I don't know which is worse.

"I hope you won't have to," she murmurs, finally. Then she shrugs off my hoof and looks up at the vines again. "We should get going." Without waiting for me, she jumps, wraps her hooves about the vines, and starts climbing again.

I sigh and pump my wings to follow after her.

In the episode, Fluttershy finds a shortcut to the kirin village. Without that knowledge, Tempest and Twilight are going the long way.

Under the Eaves

Author's Note

Mica is a fellow Fimfiction author who wrote several stories about the kirin of MLP. Those stories tell of a kirin culture heavily inspired by real-world Asian culture, and that universe inspired some of the content you'll see in this chapter and those that follow. Thank you for the inspiration. Check out his work if you're interested in things like that.

Under the Eaves

Tempest isn't easily impressed by anything, so seeing her even nod in appreciation of the kirin homeland really does emphasize how beautiful it is. It's unique enough that there's a lush forest in the middle of this otherwise barren caldera. It's even moreso that every home here looks as though Fluttershy had a hoof in making sure it didn't disturb the local biome. Applejack did mention the community was pretty, but her sparse and utilitarian words were no sufficient description.

At the same time, even seeing the place in the flesh, I can believe why Tempest thought this place was a legend. Even now, it looks like a place from legend. This whole settlement is one that shouldn't exist. The land all around here is dry and inhospitable, certainly nothing that could sustain a forest like this. What's more, while we're in the mountain's depression, we're still well above sea level. And yet, this place doesn't seem lacking for water—how did an entire running river get up here?

All this tells me there has to be more undiscovered magic here than I thought. Not just what sustains the Stream of Silence, but what makes possible this community in the first place. Is it natural magic that first made the environment, and this attracted the kirin? Or did the kirin settle on a challenging land which later turned fertile through their own magics morphing their environment? Of all pony species, only earth ponies have that ability, but kirin can also lift things like unicorns, so might they have both types? Even earth ponies can't make water run uphill, though.

There's so much to learn, so much to discover!

"So, who are we trying to meet with here, Princess?" Tempest says, bringing me back to the mission we came here for.

"Applejack's friend, Autumn Blaze," I reply. But even though she invited us to come meet her in her letter, she never mentioned who to go to or what to look for. I guess we'll have to ask around.

We enter the village. The few kirin out and about take notice of us but don't wave to us, say a word in greeting, or even smile. One of them is playing a lute, eyes closed, strumming gentle chords and arpeggios. She doesn't acknowledge us, either.

I frown. This all reminds me of the casual coldness of a city like Manehattan, but somehow set in a rural village. The moment somepony new walks into Ponyville, they're greeted with inviting words and friendly faces (if they're not accosted by a certain pink pony first). But here, I feel like a foreigner in hostile lands. True, we are foreigners, but . . .

Carefully, I walk to the kirin playing the lute. They flick their ears as we approach but don't open their eyes.

"Um, hi. I'm Princess Twilight Sparkle," I say timidly. I don't often invoke my title, but something's telling me to do so now. Almost like I felt like I wouldn't get a response if I didn't. "I'm looking for a kirin named Autumn Blaze. Can you direct me to her?"

The kirin opens one eye slightly, and it studies me. Their lute playing continues uninterrupted.

I offer a smile, trying not to look intimidating.

. . .

"I-if you don't know, that's alright too!" I offer, smile growing a little strained.

. . .

Or maybe it doesn't matter how I introduce myself. Am I being too intimidating? Do they think I've arrived with ill intent? Am I not worth their attention? Just as I'm about to ask another question, they turn their head ever so slightly. I turn to look at where they're pointing their head, and I see a treehouse in the distance with a tiny figure in front of it, frantically waving.

Looks like we've found our pony. Er, kirin. That'd be the first real greeting I've received since arriving, and if Autumn's letter was any indication of her countenance, it does fit. "Thank you!" I say, turning back to them.

The kirin merely closes their eye again, never stopping their playing. My smile twitches.

I thought the kirin spoke now. Applejack and Fluttershy said they were when they left, and they were generally a lot friendlier because of it. "Friendly" is not the word I would use to describe our welcome thus far. More "aloof." Very aloof.

What happened to them?

I don't have too long to think on the puzzle, though. I walk to the treehouse the kirin indicated, Tempest following close behind. Autumn runs to meet us halfway, a smile on her face that threatens to break her cheekbones.

"You must be the Princess Applejack was talking about, right? I've always wanted to meet a Princess of Equestria. Or, it's the Princess of Equestria now, right? Applejack told me you were promoted. Oh, it's so exciting to know someone who's friends with the Princess! Or, I guess since we're talking right now, to know the Princess! Is it really true that you raise the sun and moon now? That's so exciting that you make the entire world go 'round! Is it a big responsibility? How hard is it? I feel like I need to be extra nice to you now in case you, I don't know, decide not to raise the sun one day. Imagine that, right? I wonder if you'd call it a new day if the sun didn't rise. Or do you just call it one really long day?"

"Uh." My face is stuck in an . . . expression. I don't know what it is because I'm still processing the tsunami of words that came flooding out of Autumn's mouth. Applejack . . . Princess . . . promoted . . . got it. Are you sure you're not related to the Pies?

I shake myself out of my stupor and regain some form of dignity. "R-right. I'm Twilight Sparkle, and it's great to meet you. I'm guessing you are—"

"Autumn Blaze, yep, that's me!" she says, taking my hoof and shaking it vigorously. Still holding onto my hoof, she looks at my companion. "But Applejack didn't mention you were bringing a friend!" She makes a move, swinging her hoof out to grab Tempest's. Quickly.

"Wait, don't—"

Too fast for me to get between them, the moment Autumn reaches out, Tempest's forehooves snap against the ground so strongly they tear a pair of divots into the dirt. She launches into a backflip as Autumn and I watch on in a mixture of surprise and horror. She lands a distance away, head lowered in a threatening gesture.

"Tempest, no!"

It happens all at once but plays out in front of my eyes in slow motion. As I reach out in an attempt to calm her down, a spark of light escapes Tempest's horn. It barely covers any distance, dissipating just one length away from her. That's all that's able to happen before she staggers backwards and falls to her belly, hissing in pain. Even as I run to her, she tries to get back to her hooves.

"Tempest, stop, please! It's fine, everything's fine, just stop casting!" I cry frantically. I dive towards her and hold her, trying to stop her from advancing or harming herself further.

My eyes start tickling as Tempest falls back down and holds her head, groaning. She's no longer channeling any energy through her horn, but I can still feel some heat pulsing through it. I don't know if trying to cast in her state advances her condition, but she and I have to know that she shouldn't be doing it at all until she's better. It was instinct and reaction that bypassed conscious thought.

I hold her tighter when she tries to get up again. "Please, Tempest, just sit. Autumn Blaze isn't dangerous, no one here is! I promise. You don't need to fight, and you don't need to cast. Just don't hurt yourself."

When she opens her eyes, I see a hint of the vulnerability I first saw when she first appeared in my chambers. It tells me that for all the strength Tempest has—and she has so very much—at the bottom, she's still a pony, one who can be as worried and scared as anypony else. She just does a much better job of hiding it.

"Are you okay?" I ask. I know she hates it when I ask that, but I can't help myself.

She grunts—or is it a groan?—in response. "I'll just . . . stay here." Her voice is not much more than a whisper.

I don't let go of her, not yet. The vulnerability in her eyes is gone, replaced with some familiar annoyance. But it's put on, a shallow veneer over her actual feelings. I want to ask her how she feels; I want her to be vulnerable. But I can't. I know there's a time and place to challenge her facade, and now isn't it. Much as I know the next time it is appropriate, that vulnerability will be buried by so much strength I'll never get through it. So much of her is that strength.

Who's at the bottom?

"Just, um . . ." I struggle to think of the right phrase. "At ease? Stand down?" I shake my head. "I'll take care of this. You just, yeah. Stay here. Sit and stay relaxed. And . . . let me know if anything else hurts?"

She grunts again.

I give her a half-hearted smile. I'm beginning to understand why Tempest never had traveling companions. She is a lone wolf, and for as much as I've tried schooling her in the ways of friendship and for as much progress as she's made, she'll likely always be one. Wounds leave scars behind, and Tempest's run very deep.

I school my face into something a modicum more dignified before turning around and facing Autumn again. Her own face is a mix of surprise, concern, and not a little bit of confusion. "Uhhh, should I be worried?" she asks.

I shake my head. "She's alright," I say, not because I genuinely think she is but because it's what she'd want me to say. Then I gesture to her. "This is Tempest. She's a friendly pony, trust me. She's just . . . sensitive when it comes to other ponies approaching too quickly or touching her without permission. So uh, be careful."

"R-right. Nice to meet you anyways?" she says, waving at Tempest but not moving from her spot. Tempest doesn't respond, only looking back with a gaze intense enough that anypony would think it a glare.

Autumn sheepishly returns her hoof to the ground. "Sorry," she stage-whispers.

"She'll forgive you," I say, though I'm well aware Tempest has a hard time forgiving anypony. For that matter, sometimes I still wonder whether she's actually forgiven me. "Anyway, you said in your letter that kirin did actually have their own script and that you could help translate?"

"Oh, right!" Autumn says, peppiness returning to her voice like it never left. "We know how to speak Ponish because most other creatures know it. But we do have our own language and our own writing system, too. A more fun writing system, if I do say so myself." She chuckles to herself. "And I do say, and so do the rest of the kirin! Thanks for that, by the way."

"Don't thank me, thank Applejack and Fluttershy. They were the ones who did all the work," I reply. I also retrieve the encyclopedia, open it to the passage about the Stream of Silence, and pass it to her. Autumn Blaze picks it up with her own magic, the striations in her—horn? There's no other word I have for it but a horn—lighting up blue with a power unfamiliar to me. "Do they actually, though? I heard you administered the cure to everyone, but the first kirin I met here didn't seem to speak."

Autumn's eyes scan the characters of the page, up and down. "I definitely did. I had to use up all the flowers we found to make sure of that. We had just enough." She turns a page. "But not all kirin actually know Ponish all that well. And not all kirin want to speak it, either."

She frowns, the first time I've seen that expression cross her face. "You see, after so long under the Vow of Silence, some kirin liked the peace that came with it. No speaking means no arguments and no fire. It's definitely less exciting, if you ask me. But some kirin actually prefer it that way. It's gotten kind of political, to be honest. Silenced versus sounded kirin." Autumn Blaze twirls a cloven hoof. "Of course, there's only so much politicking you can do when you, well, don't want to talk to get your point across."

I hide a sigh. Of course no friendship problem is ever that simple to resolve. Applejack and Fluttershy accomplished a lot in one day, but it was, after all, only one day. I have to think that the kirin are in a much better state now than they were before, but they obviously still have a ways to go. I haven't started any diplomatic relations with the kirin since they haven't been causing Equestria any problems, but maybe I could under the guise of starting friendship relations. "Well, I hope all kirin of all types are making friends with each other!" I say optimistically.

Autumn doesn't respond; she keeps frowning at the pages. She flips the same page back and forth a few times, looking as though she missed something. After a few more moments studying the characters, she puts the book down and sighs. "Gee, well this is embarrassing. I'm sorry, Twilight, but I actually can't read this."

My heart falls. "Y-you can't?"

"Well, I can read about a third of the words here, not enough for me to make much sense of it.1 Something about a great founder and her family? I don't really understand it. Where'd you get this book, anyway? It's ancient!"

"The Crystal Empire Archives. It's the only kirin-language resource I could find, and I don't know where it came from. The librarians don't know either." I shake my head. "It's a long story. It's fortunate I was able to find this book at all. They were about to throw it out, much as I hate libraries throwing out books. But they didn't have much reason to research it or hold onto it since, well, we can't read it."

"Honestly, I probably wouldn't have held onto this, either. This book is before my time. Before anyone's time. Except . . ." Autumn puts a hoof to her chin. "You know, I don't know how old Rain Shine is, but she's the village leader, and she's the eldest, and she does know a lot about these sorts of things. You'd be amazed how much random stuff she knows about botany. If anyone would be able to read this, it'd be her."

I close my eyes and suppress a sigh. I'm hopeful, right? We'll find something. But I can't help but feel like this is a game of Who Said What with one too many degrees of separation. There's Tempest's condition, which I don't know a lot about. There's kirin magic, which may or may not be helpful. There's a volume about the Stream, but I don't know exactly what information it contains. And it's written in a script I don't know if anyone can read.

I'm . . . no. I'm still hopeful. I'm still hopeful. This is just one lead. And we've already come so far—we'll get the bottom of this. And we'll find a solution.

I open my eyes and ask, "Where can I find her?"

Like any language, Chinese has evolved over the years, but one particularly poignant "evolution" is one that is still happening now. Today, Chinese has two different writing systems representing the same words: simplified and traditional characters. Unlike a more organic evolution, the move to simplified characters in mainland China was imposed by China's Communist Party. Characters in both systems can be so radically different that it's often not possible to read traditional characters if all you know are the simplified ones. It's largely agreed that whatever the benefits of simplifying an admittedly complex script, it was partly done for political reasons (i.e. "erasing the past").

Gambit

I don't like the idea of having Tempest move so soon after a scare like that. I'd prefer she rest for the rest of the day and let some of my doctors take a look at her. But, as is, I obviously don't have that option, and I like the idea of Tempest staying with Autumn Blaze even less, for Autumn's safety just as much as Tempest's.

So we're all going to Rain Shine's palace. And it is certainly a palace since lesser descriptors don't do the architecture justice. This home, while still built into the surrounding environment, is built into the side of a terraformed mountain rather than a tree. Though calling it a cave is a vast disservice too. Dragon caves are simple, composed of not much more than a hollow in rock, maybe several hollows if the dragon needs a "room" or two. This structure has painted and contoured supporting columns, a tiled entranceway with meticulously detailed kirin statues flanking it, and even tall windows. I admittedly don't know a lot about architecture, but I know enough about geology that fixing a glass window into something as seismically active as a rock formation overtop a caldera is difficult to say the least.

Someone must have taken many, many years of their life to make this. Multiple someones. It reminds me of Canterlot's own genesis: it was a monumental, multi-generational feat of engineering. There were those who worked on its construction who weren't born early enough to see its beginning or live long enough to see its end. While this doesn't quite have the same scale, it's not far off; it's a level of planning and engineering that, by its scale alone, defies any single pony's understanding.

To borrow a phrase from Applejack's vernacular, "Hoo-whee."

"Right? Rain Shine really has it made in a place like this," Autumn says. "And it's even bigger on the inside than it appears from out here. It's really not often she hosts public events in the palace, but there's enough room to host the entire village, and then some!"

It brings to mind how Rain Shine was afforded this kind of privilege. Given her home, her leadership, and possibly her extended lifespan, it's evident she's different from the other kirin, kind of like how alicorns are different from ponies. She may very well not be a kirin in that sense. It's yet another branch of kirin magic I'd love to understand. Whether I have time to study it right now, though . . .

"And how do we get an audience with Her Majesty?" Tempest asks.

I look at Tempest, surprised, mouth half-open. Tempest is so strong-willed and self-assured most of the time that I just made the assumption she didn't pay much heed to royalty. She certainly didn't while she was playing the invader role. And while she does call me "Princess," this is a pony—kirin—whatever—whom Tempest has never met before. And yet she's assuming a style for her, the most respectful one there is.

"Hey Maj—you mean Rain Shine?" Autumn rubs her muzzle. "Fair enough, I guess. We never called her 'Her Majesty,' though. We never called her anything." Then she gestures at her throat, miming something coming up from it. "Obviously.

"And the village isn't that big, really. It's not like she has kirin lined up to see her at all hours of the day like actual royalty." Then she looks at me and cocks her head. "Or you, I guess."

I wrinkle my muzzle. All too true. Ponies want my time even when I'm not around. I've been getting dragonfire letters even here from ponies who want my attention, but governing isn't exactly top of mind right now.

"So if you want to get an audience with her," Autumn says, shrugging, "you knock." And she proceeds to do just that.

. . .

We wait for an uncomfortably long time. I almost volunteer to knock again, wondering if Rain Shine just didn't hear it, but Autumn doesn't seem in any hurry, so I keep my hooves to myself.

. . .

The wind whistles through the tree canopy. Birds fly overhead, chirping periodically. I shuffle my hooves.

"Why is Her Majesty your leader?" Tempest asks, breaking the silence.

Autumn Blaze looks over. "Why?" She sticks her tongue out of her mouth. "Hm. To be honest, I never asked myself that before. She has been leader for as long as I can remember, so . . ." She shrugs. "She hasn't steered us wrong yet!"

Steered you wrong? She—

"But she forced you all into the Stream of Silence," Tempest rebukes, finishing my own thought. Not that I necessarily would have given it voice.

"Well . . ." Autumn twirls her hoof in a circle. "'Forced' is a pretty mean word, and 'wrong' is kind of strong too. The truth is—"

Autumn Blaze stops talking when the door creaks open, and through the portal emerges a kirin the height of Celestia who also carries herself with her poise and formality. That inherent superiority and air of easy authority intimidates me even now.

Silently, Autumn Blaze prostrates herself before her kirin leader. Taking her lead, Tempest does too.

As for me . . . as the leader of Equestria, I probably shouldn't put myself underneath the hooves of another nation—I am Equestria now, and I can't put it under anyone's hoof. After all, I command the sun and moon, and they rise above all. At the same time, I've never met Rain Shine before, and I don't want my first impression to be disrespectful. I don't know the niceties of kirin society, and I don't know what degree of offense not bowing would cause. Better to not rock the boat.

I lower my head but don't lower myself entirely to the ground.

After a few seconds, Rain Shine taps the ground at our feet with a cloven hoof and turns it upward. We all rise.

Rain Shine looks at us imperiously, appearing staid, almost unimpressed. She gives us all a cursory glance but skips over Autumn Blaze and settles on me first. I put on a small smile, trying to appear friendly and lighten the mood. It doesn't work; Rain Shine's expression remains unchanged. It's not a frown, but it's not a smile—it's just . . . studying me. I feel like a book being pored over its every letter.

Some foreign nationals do something like this with me in my diplomacy meetings; they try to get me to make concessions or otherwise bend to their desires through intimidation. But they can't do this half as well as Rain Shine can, partially because I don't think she's even trying to do it. And she's not even a proper politician.

Then she turns her attention to Tempest. Tempest doesn't make eye contact, but as a Commander does, she doesn't yield, either. She just maintains a thousand-yard stare, looking at something just behind Rain Shine. It is exactly the same stare the Royal Guards do with me, and it's equally as unreadable. Rain Shine lingers on her for far longer than she did me, looking her up and down, studying whatever she's finding interesting, but if Tempest is bothered by the attention, she doesn’t show it.

How long it's been since Rain Shine opened the door, I don't know. It could have been a minute or an hour. But when Rain Shine is satisfied with whatever it was she was doing, the tiniest of smiles comes onto her face, and the air gets a little lighter. "Autumn Blaze," she says in a soft, lightly accented voice that reminds me—too much—of Celestia's. It's almost a greeting. "And treasured guests. To whom do I have the pleasure of speaking?"

I start, realizing it's my turn to speak. "O-oh! Princess Twilight Sparkle of Equestria. Very nice to meet you and your kin," I say, an expression on my face that I hope looks like a smile.

"Tempest Shadow at your service," she says in her usual matter-of-fact voice.

Rain Shine nods in return. "Yu Taiyang, or Rain Shine if you would prefer." She steps back and makes a "come in" gesture with her head. "Please avail yourself of my hospitality," she says in a smooth voice.

I nod and enter the vestibule. It is both exactly what I was anticipating and nothing like what I was expecting.

Ponies have a clear line between what's "indoors" and what's "outdoors." This tows the line, and gorgeously. There's a vast courtyard spreading in every direction and flowers of every size and color adorning the walks and walls. In the middle is a grand tree surrounded by a pond, large enough that it could have housed the former Golden Oaks Library. The ceiling, if you could call it that, only covers the perimeter of the courtyard; it's open in the center, letting sunbeams in and bringing the courtyard to life. The only artificial source of illumination is a few paper lanterns hung around the perimeter of the courtyard.

Birds fly in through the open windows and skylight. Most land on the vegetation, but some particularly fearless birds land straight on the ground, hopping about to find seeds or fruits to eat. One lands right in front of us and chirps a few times, clearly not concerned a giant pony or kirin might step on them by accident. I don't know how to respond.

It's evident that Fluttershy never managed to visit Rain Shine's home properly while she was visiting; if she did, she'd probably have never come home.

"I told you, right? Rain Shine has got it made!" Autumn Blaze says from behind me. She trots ahead and pirouettes merrily in front of the tree.

"Remember, Autumn: I ask for those who enter my home to keep the peace," Rain Shine says. Her words are chastising, but her tone is even. I'm still trying to make sense of what she said when she lights her horn in a gentle white glow and closes the door behind us.

Autumn stops spinning and carefully tiphoofs back and settles beside me. She flicks an ear.

Confused and a little bit frustrated, I lean over to Autumn Blaze. "What does she mean?" I whisper.

Autumn whispers back, "Just keep your voice down."

"I welcome all of your beautiful voices," Rain Shine explains, clearly having heard us, voice as quiet as ours but carrying the gravitas that makes it heard, "but I do not welcome anger, negativity, or the fire that follows. I would also humbly ask our esteemed visitors if they would be kind enough to extend the same courtesy to me, if only so as to not disturb the starlings roosting in their nests."

For a kirin who doesn't sound like she speaks Ponish regularly, Rain Shine weaves her words better than most ponies do. It's probably not her first language, but she doesn't make the many obvious grammatical errors yaks do. She doesn't make any. In fact, from what I've heard, she was well spoken from her very first sentence. She can't be unfamiliar with using her voice—after all, she's clearly not unfamiliar with spoken Ponish. How long did she enforce the Vow of Silence, anyways?

It might pay to ask some leading questions.

"Of course," I say, thinking myself Fluttershy and adopting her mannerisms. They really would get along well, wouldn't they? "I hope the kirin are happier now with their voices back. And that you aren't too bothered by the nirik."

Rain Shine looks up and also flicks an ear. If pony mannerisms extend to those of kirin, that would mean "annoyed." But then she looks back down, nothing of annoyance or any emotion at all appearing on her face. Maybe she and Tempest would get along too. "Please forgive my surprise. I fear you have me at a disadvantage. I was not aware you knew of the Vow and the events that followed."

"Right, I'm friends with Applejack and Fluttershy. They're the ponies who visited you a dozen or so moons ago and helped Autumn Blaze find the cure for the Vow of Silence."

Rain Shine once again smiles softly. "I remember those two very well. Please relay my thanks to them when next you see them. It has been too long since I have heard the wonderful sounds of my village." She raises a hoof, and the bird formerly strutting in front of us flutters to land on it, twittering happily.

So . . . is Rain Shine happy about having her village's voice back or not? Something's not adding up. Rain Shine, although she first enforced the Vow, learned her lesson and is changing her stance on voices and expressing one's thoughts. Ostensibly. But if not the silence, why does she insist on quiet and restraint akin to silence? Even Autumn Blaze, boisterous as she is, becomes a different pony in front of her, and it's not like I would say she was angry or at risk of becoming a nirik.

"I'll be sure to do that," I respond, putting on a smile in return. "They were happy to hear the kirin's voices return. Out of curiosity, how long did the Vow of Silence last?"

It feels like someone drew the fabric of tension in the room tight the moment I asked that question. Rain Shine half-lids her eyes, once again studying me closely. She glances at Autumn Blaze. Autumn grimaces and rubs at where her mane wraps around her neck. Even Tempest narrows her eyes, but she's still looking at Rain Shine. She hasn't taken her eyes off her since we started talking.

"It's kind of a sensitive subject," Autumn says out the side of her mouth. "Sorry, I probably should have warned you about that."

"Clearly," Tempest says, the first words she's said in a while. They're not as congenial as I would have expected, either. "But Her Highness would still like to know the answer."

I look at Tempest again. I'm not sure if I want to protest the request, scold her for making it, or ask why she's calling me "Your Highness" again. Before I can act on any of those, Rain Shine answers.

"It is a fair subject," she says evenly. She's like Celestia in how her voice never wavers from that tone, so you frustratingly never know exactly what she's thinking. "I enforced the Vow to protect my village. You have not seen the destruction even a single nirik can wreak upon our lands."

Rain Shine turns around and walks to the tree in the center of her courtyard. She runs a hoof under its eaves. "Arresting a nirik's fire once it is lit is insufficient to protect a village. The transformation is immediate and terrible. The anger in fire begets its own anger even if its parent is no longer fueling it. And fire moves faster than peace. The Vernal Equinox Tragedy: I am sure you know the story, Autumn Blaze." She turns to look at her evenly.

Autumn Blaze rubs a hoof against another, looking like a child who'd been caught by her mother stealing cookies. "It was before my time, but yeah. A kirin got mad at his neighbor for leaving nut shells and banana leaves in his front yard, so the story goes. He went to his neighbor to complain, and in the argument, he transformed, and the tree the neighbor lived in caught on fire.

"At that moment, the wind picked up, and it blew a whole bunch of nuts into the yard. Some squirrels came by to harvest the nuts but left the shells behind. The kirin who started the argument saw this and apologized, but it wasn't enough. The argument had already started a commotion. Other kirin heard the noise and came closer. They took sides in the argument. It probably wasn't even about littering or neighbors anymore. They were just arguing with each other about their own quarrels. No one was watching that the first fire that had started was still spreading. And then, well . . ."

"The neighbor who had her home destroyed, she was caught under the wreckage as it collapsed," Rain Shine says, finishing the story. "And she perished. This yinxing, this ginkgo is grown from one of the seeds it left behind. A physical token of her legacy among the kirin." Rain Shine lifts her hoof, and the bird on it flies to perch on one of the eaves of the central ginkgo tree. "The circumstances that led to Overcast Light's death must never be allowed to happen again."

I heard in vague terms the tragedy that caused the kirin to fall into the Vow of Silence, but maybe Fluttershy and Applejack glossed over this detail. I wouldn't blame them. Just as I'm about to apologize for causing offense, Tempest runs on ahead of me once again.

"The Princess' friends taught you that suppressing all emotion, not just anger, is no way to live. Do you intend to renege on the freedom they gave your village?"

"Tempest!" I cry, aghast. Relations with foreign leaders really ought to be handled with more tact than this—the yaks and dragons wouldn't respond well to this kind of disrespect, for example, and I've learned to be especially careful around them. I turn back to Rain Shine. She remains standing seemingly unaffected, but I see a flicker of blue-purple fire escape her horn, and a lock of her mane changes color. She seems well in control, but that's obviously not a good sign. I step back just a little. "I-I'm sorry, I don't know what's gotten into her. You don't need to answer that, that's—"

"I did hear the lesson our dear pony friends imparted to us," Rain Shine continues, tone still unchanged from how it was before. Her words suggest they might be sarcastic, but once again, her tone betrays nothing. She extinguishes the ember atop her horn, but her mane remains a haunting wavering two-tone of aquamarine and midnight. "And I do appreciate that emotions of all kinds deserve to be shared and exchanged. But for you ponyfolk, the only consequence for unrestrained anger is an injured relationship. For us kirin, anger is a weapon of destruction, one poorly restrained by its wielder. And that makes emotion itself a weapon. One cannot directly compare emotions between us, and thus, one cannot compare the necessary controls upon those emotions, either."1

Necessary controls on emotions? I don't like the sound of that. Celestia told me that it's all too easy to not just do the good things that encourage the populace to support you, but to mold the populace directly and induce their support. You should only ever stay on one side of that line. It's the line between being a monarch and a despot.

"I wish for peace because it is the only defense against the weapon of anger. The Stream of Silence is a useful tool for that peace. We have been at peace for half a generation. I would hope, even as kirin are free to express themselves, that we remain so."

Then that means there's an entire generation of kirin children who were never taught how important their own voices were. It brings perspective to the kirin I met when I first arrived. Do they just prefer not to speak? Or were they never taught how to speak?

"You realize that this is akin to—"

I fix Tempest with a glare, trying to stop her from digging a deeper hole for herself. She gets the hint, closes her mouth, and steps back. I offer an apologetic smile to Rain Shine before taking Tempest aside to chat with her quietly.

"Listen," I whisper to Tempest, "I don't like what Rain Shine is doing either, but this isn't the way to change anyone's opinion. I know what you're trying to do, but getting into an argument with a monarch on the first day is probably not a good idea, least of all when the argument itself is what the kirin want to avoid.

"And," I continue, "you know why we came to Rain Shine in the first place, right? I don't think we made the best first impression on her, and I don't think we're in a position to ask for anything now."

"Ask me what?"

Shoot. Of course Rain Shine is good at overhearing conversations. I look back, and Rain Shine is thankfully entirely back to her kirin form. When you don't talk much, you get very good at listening, I suppose. She's better than Fluttershy. Out of options, I putter. "A-a thousand pardons, Rain Shine. We were doing some research, and-and I really like doing research. Forget I said that. I, um, what we came to you for was—"

"We would ask for your help translating an old text we found," Tempest cuts in clearly, calmly. She produces the book we brought. I let out a breath. She might be blunt, but she's blunt in all the good ways, too. Then again, considering the first impressions we gave her, I doubt she'd be willing to help us.

Silently, Rain Shine lights her horn and takes the book from Tempest's hoof. She opens the book and scans the runes, up and down. Under her breath, she's murmuring some sounds I can't make sense of. Then she looks up, brows once again furrowed, this time in suspicion. Her mane flickers once again. "The Stream of Silence?" she asks.

I find my voice. "It's-it's not what you think! We're interested in learning more about its magic because we think it might be able to help . . . somepony in need."

She stares at me for a long time, and I struggle to maintain her gaze. Then she nods slightly and returns her eyes to the book. She speaks again. "Forgiveness, too, is a tool in the war for peace. For when disagreements arise, holding grudges ensures the anger returns, stronger the second time. It festers underneath the surface and returns when the time is wrong. Forgiveness robs anger of its fire. The kirin of my village, and its visitors, must know how to forgive others, no matter the circumstance, and no matter the slight."

It takes a moment for me to understand Rain Shine's insinuations, but I'm familiar with this particular trick. Forgiveness is a tool in politics too, one that can be given and withheld—but always for a price. Rain Shine is pre-emptively forgiving us now for Tempest's sharp words, but in exchange, she's challenging us not to question the Stream or the Vow or her personal philosophy on either. If we want to get what we need, that is. She wants us to behave. She wants us to stay quiet.

Maybe Rain Shine is a shrewd politician after all.

"I would ask for you to return to me in a few days," Rain Shine continues. "I can help you translate, but it has been many years since I have seen these particular characters. It will take me some time before I can return to you what you would like." Then she returns her eyes to us and smiles. It might be false, but I can't pierce the façade. "While I work, please feel free to stay in my home and explore our beautiful village."

"I . . ." But there's nothing for me to say. We came here to get help from a kirin, any kirin, who could read this ancient book, and I'm not going to leave before I know how the Stream of Silence can help. Rain Shine's terms are more than reasonable, both her spoken and silent ones.

If this is the worst I need to do to get Tempest a cure, I'll do it a thousand times over.

I glance around. Tempest isn't willing to speak over me. And I don't think Autumn Blaze is willing to speak at all.

"We'd be honored."

Rain Shine said only one sentence in the show, and in some ways, it's not entirely consistent with the narrative in this story. I frame this story not as a contradiction to canon but an elaboration. The writers told a good story, but there's only so much you can say in 22 minutes.

Dissonance

Glass shatters.

I squeal and flail, kicking off the covers. My eyes are barely open when I reflexively cast a shield spell around me to defend myself against whatever.

"What in the—"

My thought is interrupted as I'm blinded by light and a thunderclap shakes the walls. I shut my eyes and shrink back at the noise instinctually. When I open my eyes again, shocked awake, I finally have a moment to get my bearings.

The sole window in my room has been smashed to bits, and a massive storm rages outside. Incredible wind batters at the mountainside, and another bolt of lightning arcs across the sky, briefly offering me a glimpse through the impregnable dark into the chaos. Trees are leaning with the wind, and some are only just managing to stay rooted to the ground. Branches, rocks and airborne items are silhouetted against the sky, frozen in time by the flash of light as the wind carries them away.

Laying against the opposite wall of my room is one such item, a young uprooted sapling, just small enough to crash through the window. I can make out its path from the window to the wall, and the line it traces is mere hooves away from my bed.

I gulp. The tree is dusted with dirt, and so are the curtains surrounding my bed.

I let out a breath and take two more, deep and calming. Don't panic. Don't panic. Bad decisions are made under duress. Then I light my horn and call for magic as calmly as I can, detaching my bed curtains and fixing them against the window (what's left of it) to stop anything else from coming in. The wind dies down and the sound of the storms diminishes just a bit. I let out one more breath and dismiss my shield spell.

Thank goodness I was on the bed and not taking a late night to study—that tree could have gone right through me. Sure, alicorns are pretty sturdy, but we're not impregnable, either. And if it was any other room and anyone else—

"Tempest!" I cry aloud, ashamed I had forgotten her for even this long.

I don't have a moment to breathe as I dash out of my room, through a series of hallways, and through the courtyard. While protected from the brunt of the wind, the walkways are still littered with the dust and debris the storm dropped inside. I make it to Tempest's room, push open her door, and peek inside.

Tempest is still sleeping, oblivious to the storm. Safe. She's on the opposite side of the palace and thankfully, downwind from the wind's unwilling passengers and the carnage that they bring. It's remarkable how much less chaotic the storm seems over here. You'd only know how bad it is by looking out the window.

Phew. My breathing slowly returns to normal. I turn, wondering who else or what else I should be checking on. And I jump a little as Rain Shine appears in the hall. I'm too startled to offer a bow.

She appears as imposing as ever, but the words she says aren't nearly so. "Are you safe?"

"A-ah . . ." I'm momentarily taken aback, the words and her voice in Celestia's image. "I'm-I'm fine, thanks. Something came through the window, but I'm alright."

Rain Shine frowns. "There was a west wind yesterday and clouds in the distance; I should have foreseen an incoming storm." She points to a room adjoining Tempest's. "I would ask you to stay here. Until I can repair the west wing." Then she turns to walk away.

"Wait! Where are you going?" I ask.

"To ensure the village is safe." She keeps walking, and before I can interrupt her again, she turns her head and favors me with one eye. It's so focused and severe that I can't help but look and listen. "Stay here," she declares again.

I look at her askance. It is a noble and selfless aim to put yourself at risk for those you lead, and I'm impressed Rain Shine would take this step. But there's a line where "selfless" becomes "irresponsible," and this storm feels very clearly on the wrong side.

I move to call after her, to protest, but words echo in my mind, and they stop me as surely as if Celestia were lecturing me with them at that very moment. Rain Shine can keep herself safe. You may get hurt if you leave. Stay inside. The stone of the palace will stay the storm.

I find myself reaching out my hoof to nothing; Rain Shine is already out of sight. I couldn't protest if I wanted to. I debate running after her, wherever she went, but again, stay here. I might get hurt if I leave. And . . . I suppose it's all too easy to jump in the lake to save a drowning pony without thinking whether you're capable of rescuing even yourself. I sigh and drop my hoof.

With nothing else to do, I go into the room Rain Shine pointed out and stare out the window at the driving wind and dazzling lightning. Somewhere out there is a village of kirin sheltering in trees held to the ground only by the strength of their roots. And somewhere out there is a kirin leader devoid of any protection, keeping herself safe by only the magic in her horn and the strength in her limbs.

Something tells me I won't be getting much sleep tonight.

In the morning, the storm is gone like it was never here.

Well, no, that's not true. It was very clearly here—the ground is dusted with evidence. Branches and rocks are strewn everywhere, and there are more than a few trees lying on their side. Luckily, all of them seem either very young or very old, neither of which any kirin would choose for their home. At least, that's what I can see from the window.

The sky itself, too, is blue and marked with innocent white clouds. Even the eastern horizon shows nothing. The storm, for as swiftly and violently as it arrived, also made a swift exit.

These sorts of catastrophic flash storms are ones I've never seen in Ponyville or Canterlot. That's what pegasi and the weather teams are for—they manage the weather and let loose occasional precipitation so the sky can drop some of its stored moisture and "blow off steam," so to speak. That way, the sky never feels the need to grow angry and do something as dangerous as this. When unmanaged, this is what weather becomes. The fact that the kirin's homeland is at such a high elevation and the surrounding plains do nothing to temper the wind only exacerbates the issue.

"Good morning, Princess."

"Good morning, Tempest," I say, making out her mulberry form in the corner of my eyes.

She comes to my side and looks out the window. "A storm came through last night?" she observes.

I can't help but chuckle. "You don't know what you missed."

"Are you well?"

"Well enough," I answer. Rain Shine, though . . .

That's when I hear . . . sound. It's unlike any of the sounds I'm used to waking up to. It's not the bustling of castle staff. It's not the bugle of a guard trying to wake me for an early morning event. And it's not the breaking of a window as Rainbow Dash comes barrelling into my bedroom for the umpteenth time.

It's . . . pretty.

We look at each other, my expression curious, hers familiarly unreadable. In silent agreement, I walk out of my room and make my way to the courtyard, Tempest following close behind. As we walk, the sound develops. I first notice the high piercing melody of what sounds like a flute. It sings through the air like birdsong but doesn't come off as shrill. Then comes the sound of strings, but not bowed or plucked. It's not a sound I've ever heard coming from a pony instrument.

We make it out of the front door of the palace, and what we find is incredible.

It seems like every kirin in the village is outside their home, carrying various instruments and playing them to the same song. They're all seemingly oblivious to the mess of storm shrapnel around them. Some are instruments I recognize, but many more are foreign to me, bearing some resemblance to pony instruments but making very different sounds. No one is conducting them, yet they all know just what to play, coordinating with each other like a well-rehearsed orchestra. Some are playing the same line as the flute, but others are playing harmony or counter-melody lines.

Then, the voices join.

For a formerly silent species, the voices they have are stunning. Lilting but confident, and in perfect harmony. It's a haunting, beautiful melody they sing, one that doesn't disappear behind the instruments or overwhelm them but rather weaves in and out of each one in a musical ballet. I can't put words to what they're singing because I can't understand them. It's almost certainly the kirin's native tongue. That doesn't make them any less beautiful.

Loudest and most recognizable among their number is Autumn Blaze. She's not playing any instruments, but she appears perfectly happy singing to the music her fellow kirin are making. She's spinning and dancing just as she was trying to do at Rain Shine's home yesterday. This time, though, the kirin she bumps into don't chastise her or ask her to stop—if anything, they play and sing with ever greater enthusiasm.

"And I thought ponies were the only ones who spontaneously broke into song," Tempest remarks dryly. Her tone is unimpressed, but I can tell from the rare sparkle in her eyes that she's interested in the spectacle unfolding before us.

"I guess not!" I say, lifting my voice above the symphony.

This is so much more what I was expecting upon entering the kirin village—a community that expresses their feelings to one another and sees those expressions reciprocated. A community in harmony. The music in the air casts a spell, and it tempts me to join in the singing like any other song I've shared with my friends. It's almost like I know the words.

Another voice nearby does join in, but it's not mine nor Tempest's. I turn to see Rain Shine, not a hair out of place, seemingly no worse for wear for venturing out into the storm last night. She's standing tall, eyes closed, muzzle aimed towards the sky, with the most beautiful, resonant voice coming from it. She's not singing the same notes as Autumn Blaze and her entourage—she's complementing them with a dovetailing harmony. Even though she's the only one singing it, her voice carries through the whole village. It doesn't command attention or subservience by its presence; rather, it supports the rest of the village from below, a foundation essential for their fullness and letting them shine even brighter.

At that moment, a huge smile breaks across Autumn Blaze's face, and she takes, with increasing vigor, to singing a colorful descant that floats over top the symphony of sound dancing underneath it. Despite the enthusiasm and speed in her dancing, her voice doesn't waver from carrying its sound over the hills.

The music is infectious. I sneak a glance to my side: Tempest still appears unimpressed, but, perhaps unconsciously, she's swaying to the music. Music transcends cultural lines, and it has the power to bring even the hardest of us closer to one another. I close my eyes and lean against Tempest. She doesn't seem to mind.

Soon, all too soon, the number ends on a long sustained tone. Once the last note of the last instrument gives way to silence, I stomp my hooves on the ground and cheer. It's a beautiful performance worthy of laud . . . even if I'm the only one applauding.

As soon as the music ends, it feels like a pallor of sobriety reasserts itself on the village. Most of the kirin silently return their instruments to their home, pretending they didn't just spontaneously participate in a fantastic performance. Even Rain Shine, as soon as she opens her eyes at the conclusion of the song, returns to her serious, studious demeanor, and walks slowly back to her palace. Only Autumn Blaze and a few of the kirin singing with her retain their enthusiasm, chatting about the music they just made.

I move to stop Rain Shine before she returns inside. "Wait! What was that? That was beautiful! I've never heard anything like it!"

"It is our morning song," Rain Shine responds with her usual staidness but also some small amount of pride underneath. "Every morning, we thank our ancestors for the life we have now and the opportunities we stand to see this day. Music transcends our world to bring positive energy to those no longer with us, so we are sure to offer our ancestors a song every day, just as our ancestors did with theirs.

"Different songs exist to celebrate the different blessings we receive. Today, we thank them for the good fortune they bestow upon us. Not one kirin was harmed in last night's storm." She pauses. "For the kirin of my village, their coming of age occurs when they learn to contribute to the morning song. Music brings harmony and peace, so everyone must learn how to make it."

"That's amazing!" I say. "And thank goodness everyone is okay. And that you are, too!" This performance is the kind of thing ponies would go leagues to see. If the kirin were interested in opening up their community to tourism, this is definitely something that would draw crowds. And for something that the kirin were doing every day anyways!

Except, just as the fever of music passes . . . I can't shake that feeling of unease.

What were they doing under the Vow of Silence? For however long the Vow ruled over the village—and it was a long time—this sounds to me like a tradition that goes back far longer, generations at least. If they were performing their morning song for generations and then forced into their Vow, what was happening during it?

I see two possibilities; both seem unpalatable for different reasons. If they did stop the morning song entirely, that suggests Rain Shine terminated a generations-old tradition, almost certainly older than herself, just to enforce her own personal edict of silence. That's putting your own desires over that of your community, and, from what it sounds like, your ancestors too. I can't imagine anyone would be happy with that—not that anyone would be in a position to complain about it.

And if they did continue the morning song without voices, then how was Rain Shine contributing to it? She sang beautifully today, but I didn't notice any instruments in her home she could have used instead. It seems massively hypocritical to require all kirin to contribute to an ancient tradition just for the leader to recuse herself because of an order she herself made. Not to mention the many other kirin today who only had their voices to contribute; what would they be doing?

It's like that old riddle: what's so fragile that it's broken when you speak its name? Silence and music just don't coexist easily, no matter how you accommodate them.

Tempest must have noticed my fading enthusiasm because she's looking at me suspiciously, eyes narrowed just slightly. She can tell I'm thinking about something, and I bet she probably guessed what it is. I'm also guessing she has at least a few sharp words or insults on her tongue, but she's deferring to me about what to say.

Do I say anything? Do I ask the obvious question? Do I probe Rain Shine's other decisions?

The sensible thing to do is remain quiet. After all, all I wanted to do in coming to the kirin village was get some help researching the Stream of Silence. Anything I say or do about this jeopardizes that.

At the same time, if Tempest were choosing, she probably wouldn't take the "sensible" option. For that matter, I don't know if I would, either.

I didn't become Princess to defend Equestria against a hostile world—I became Princess to bring the world together in harmony under the auspices and virtues of friendship. This includes Equestria, the kirin, and everyone who draws strength from these bonds. Might fades and becomes obsolete with time—history has proven that time and time again—but friendship is forever.

The kirin must have existed long enough for ponies to create legends about them. Certainly long enough to create relics like the shield I have. For as long as the kirin lived under the Vow of Silence, when considered on the time scale of civilization and culture, it's actually not that long. This tradition is certainly older than that, and it's proven it's capable of bringing harmony to all kirin, sound or no sound.

The more I think about it, the more I'm suspicious that this whole "nirik cause widespread destruction and must be suppressed at all costs" thing is a Rain Shine problem, not a kirin problem.

I wish I could ask Celestia for help. I've tried once or twice: she always sends back my queries unanswered, save for some general advice. I understand why—she warned me that she wouldn't offer me further guidance when I took over as sole Princess of Equestria because I needed to find my own path in leadership. She refused to use me as a figurehead for her own continued governance. It's a noble philosophy and very Celestia. But when I'm dealing with others, everypony is expecting me to have the same level of easy expertise and boundless wisdom as she did. I'm constantly being tested on subjects I've never studied for but for which others depend on me knowing the answer. When that happens, all I can do is guess.

And right now, I know I guessed wrong. I've spent too long thinking—Rain Shine has already left and the rest of the kirin are busy tidying up the damage from the storm. Only Tempest is left beside me, looking unreadable as she always does. Even so, I can feel the disappointment radiating from her. Tempest doesn't wait for things to happen—she's a mare of action. And I, with a problem Tempest is clearly passionate about, did exactly the wrong thing. I made a choice; I chose not to act.

Tempest acts; she snorts and walks into the village. I follow half-heartedly behind her, not having the heart to stop her even if I wanted to. It's only when we stop that I realize where she wanted to go and why she went here.

There's one kirin who didn't put their instrument away, the same one we saw playing when we first entered the village. Dusty gray with a shocking red mane the color of cranberries, striped through with pink strands. They're still playing their lute, a delicate sound coming from it that doesn't disturb the birds in the trees above. Their eyes are closed, but the flicking of their ears tells me they're aware that we're approaching. Tempest stops a respectable distance away.

"Hello."

She was never particularly good at small talk. Like before, the kirin doesn't respond to the greeting. They do open one piercing green eye to study us, though, so at least they're engaged.

"Can you speak?"

The question is so frank I'm not sure I would have answered it. And having two strange creatures you've never seen before ask invasive questions is not the best way to get someone to open up. Exuberance the level of Autumn Blaze seems very much the exception compared to most kirin. But they do eventually answer with a careful nod.

Could have fooled me-it's pretty clear they'd prefer not to speak. But whatever Tempest is planning, it clearly doesn't involve interpreting Angel-speak. For that matter, maybe that's why the Map sent Fluttershy here in the first place.

"What is your name?"

Once again, they take a lot of time before responding, but to their credit, they do. "Huo Yinyue. For you, Fire Song," she says in a tiny whisper of heavily accented Ponish that would probably make even Fluttershy strain her ears.

"Fizzlepop Berrytwist. Charmed."

I look at Tempest. I've scarcely heard her ever introduce herself by that name—I know she prefers Tempest. Maybe she's trying not to intimidate the kirin?

"What do you think of your leader?"

To this, Fire Song doesn't respond. She closes her eye again, glisses across the strings of her lute, and keeps playing. This question, it seems, she won't answer.

"How has she been treating you and your neighbors?" Tempest presses.

Still nothing. Fire Song doesn't respond and plays on.

Is she just . . . ignoring us now? I guess we'd deserve that, seeing as we're foreigners who never really tried to get to know them. The fact she's engaged us this far and hasn't visibly taken offense is miraculous. Of course, Tempest is asking difficult questions, too. It's hard to tell whether she won't answer these questions specifically or if she just wants nothing to do with us. I wouldn't blame her for either.

Tempest shifts her weight, clearly losing patience.

I finally find my voice and try a different tactic. "I hope you weathered the storm alright. It was pretty crazy last night. Were you hurt at all?" I ask gently.

She shakes her head ever so slowly but doesn't open her eyes or stop playing.

So we can communicate, kind of.

"That's good to hear. We're sorry for interrupting your beautiful music," I say, though considering she never stopped, it's not much of an interruption. I lower my voice to match Fire Song's delicate playing. "It really is nothing like we've ever heard, and we're very impressed with you and the rest of your beautiful village." It's not exactly what Tempest—or I—wanted to talk about, but we do need to get a hoof in the door first. "Could we ask you a few questions?"

It's a little late to ask now, considering we've already asked her five—six, including this one. But it's not kind or courteous to ask questions and demand responses when she clearly wasn't expecting a conversation or interrogation. Neither is prior conversation permission to continue. Tempest probably wouldn't have asked this; she isn't used to asking for permission. Military commands to subordinates are not words to a peer, though, and I give her a little shove with my rump as a reminder.

Fire Song opens an eye but doesn't respond. I wait patiently while urging Tempest to do the same. She's not studying me like Rain Shine was—she is looking at us, but past and around us, too, like a chipmunk surveilling for predators. It's several minutes of uncomfortable silence before she finally offers a slow nod, complementing her motion with a quick run across the strings of their lute.

"Thank you!" I say, and I give Tempest a gentler nudge.

She clears her throat. "Were you allowed to continue playing under the Vow?"

Another nod.

"How do you feel now that you're free to speak and feel freely?"

Right back to the difficult questions. She stops playing for a moment, then resumes, but the song is different. Not by much, but the pulse between notes becomes muddled and inconsistent.

So . . . she doesn't want to answer this question either? Granted, it's not a yes-or-no question, so maybe she can't answer it. But no, her eye is still open, and she's not ignoring us. She did respond . . . she just didn't speak.

Tempest tenses up again, and I can feel her getting impatient.

I listen to Fire Song's music again. It's . . . honestly not easy to listen to. The melody itself is there and beautiful as ever, but it's hiding behind a terribly affected rhythm, if you could call it that. It's not a drunken rhythm—that's still a rhythm, albeit one more like the rocking of a ship. Here, there's no discernible pattern at all. I can't anticipate when the next note is coming. It makes me feel . . .

"Unsettled?"

Fire Song blinks, once.

I'm honestly impressed. Talking with Angel is impossible; I have no idea what he's saying. And while I can't necessarily say I'm "talking" with Fire Song, she's very good at evoking emotions with her music, and those emotions "talk" for her. It works. Considering the few words exchanged in the kirin village even now, "it works" is more than I was expecting.

"Could I ask why?"

Immediately, Fire Song closes her eye, adjusts her lute, and starts playing her previous melody, looking exactly like she did when we first entered the village. Before I have a chance to interpret what that means, Rain Shine walks by, heading towards a rope bridge hanging by only one end. She nods at a kirin standing in the nearest tree, and they bow. Rain Shine lights her horn and lifts the bridge, reattaching the loose end to another treetop. The kirin remains bowing even as Rain Shine walks off to clean up some other storm debris.

Only then does Fire Song open one eye again, just a sliver.

Is that . . is that really the case? Just as I try to confirm my suspicion, Fire Song opens her mouth and clamps it shut quickly.

That much I can understand, and I acquiesce to her unasked request. I point my muzzle in the direction of Rain Shine.

She blinks again. Her eye, I notice, is following her, not me.

I frown. Talking with kirin—most kirin, at least—still requires a great deal of interpretation and filling-in-the-blanks. If only she could speak and say exactly what's on her mind—which she absolutely can!

But won't. Because of Rain Shine?

I think back. Autumn Blaze, for as talkative as she was, was also cowed and silenced quickly by Rain Shine's mere presence. And what she said about it was that it—sound—was a sensitive subject. Autumn Blaze curbed her tongue because Rain Shine was sensitive to displays of emotion. It seems to me that everyone in the village is aware of this proclivity, and they're also holding their tongues because of it.

I wait until Rain Shine is out of sight—if not for my sake, then Fire Song's. When she's gone, I start whispering. "We ponies have a . . . different philosophy. Speaking is important to us! It lets you tell others not just when you're happy, but sad or disappointed or angry. And then others can help you feel better! Being unable to speak—being unable to feel—how do you make friends that way?"

Fire Song changes her music again, but this time while I'm speaking. Just as I finish, she hiccups—her music stops entirely for a moment.

One more puzzle to solve. What does this mean? It's harder to listen to someone while I'm speaking—Pinkie Pie does that all the time, and I definitely can't understand her when she does. If she's interrupting now, why? I'd never describe Fire Song as rude, but if they're now doing the marginally rude thing of "speaking" over me, it has to be for a reason.

While I'm still pondering, Tempest steps in. "How do you make friends?" she asks, not bothering to whisper.

And once again, her music hiccups just as Tempest finishes her sentence. Just as she says the word "friend."

"Do . . . do you know what the word 'friend' means?" I ask, afraid of what I might get in return.

Fire Song shakes her head.

Someone . . . someone doesn't know what a friend is. The kirin don't know what friends are. I start breathing faster.

Now I understand. Now I understand what the "peace" was that Rain Shine was spreading across her village. Fear. Rain Shine was so afraid of the conflict that came with anger, no matter how it arose, that she was willing to suppress it, and every other emotion that could lead to it, and replace it with "peace." She would erase the concepts of debate, discussion, relationships, friendship from the kirin lexicon. All so anger and niriks would also be precluded from their being.

True emotional relationships with others are what friendships are built on. No emotions, no words, means no friendship.1 Friendship is the bond that networks the world, that keeps someone around long after they're gone. They're the engines that create society and culture. What kind of society can the kirin have without it? How long can their culture last before it's lost to silence too?

Courtesy and non-confrontation and peace make the kirin appear friendly, but it's only a facade placed in front of the real feelings that always are kept in a cage. That's why Rain Shine would still work with us and Fire Song would answer all our questions. Not because they're happy to. They just won't get angry. They don't want us to get angry.

But then, how many times have I gotten angry at my friends? More times than I can count. It's not always in good faith that I do, but I remember those times just as much as the happy ones. More. I couldn't imagine being friends with anyone if I didn't—couldn't—have those memories. Massaging the ups and downs of any healthy relationship and flattening it to nothing but a plane of unremarkable "peace."

"Princess. Breathe."

Tempest is in front of me, holding my shoulders, fixing me with an intense stare. It's only now that I notice her.

I try to get my breathing under control. Deep breaths in and out. Just like Cadance taught me. I'm a Princess. Be centered. Be regal. Be at . . .

Peace?

"Let me handle this," she says.

It's all I can do to sit down and try to find myself again. The Princess of Friendship. That's where my center is, not peace. Not peace. Numbly, I nod.

I am well aware that mute persons can have friends too. Bear in mind that Twilight is . . . not entirely in her right mind at this moment.

Conflict and Consonance

How did this get so complicated? This was just supposed to be a research trip.

I know it's a foregone conclusion—whenever my friends are involved, things always get complicated. I wasn't even sure if Tempest wanted to come, and I'm sure she wasn't anticipating this. But now, belly deep in the swamp of foreign politics, she's not backing down from the challenge in front of her.

That's one thing I've learned about Tempest—among many things—on this trip. She has a profound sense of justice, not a little bit of empathy, and dogged determination to see things through to the end. I always knew she was more than the world destroyer she presented herself as during the Storm King's war, but even while rehabilitating herself in Ponyville with me, I didn't see this side of her. I tried to keep her away from conflict, understandably, but there really is a part of her that comes alive when faced with it.

She's not "happy," per se—or maybe she is? It's always hard to tell.

For as much as I could stand to be doing, I'm actually not doing much right now. I'm out of things to research, and my main area of focus is in Rain Shine's hooves (not that I could do much more with it in my own). I have a few dragon-fired missives from Canterlot, asking me where I am and why I'm not back yet, but governing is the last thing on my mind right now. I'm just fretting. But Tempest is busier than I've ever seen her since the war.

She's been interviewing the kirin of the village, writing notes, and drafting plans. I'm just tagging along most of the time. True, I've had to intervene a couple times when her plans grew too close to conquest—she wanted to have "backup plans," ones to which I disagreed vehemently—but she's quite proficient in peacetime negotiations, too. And very organized, enough to impress even me (and that takes a lot). I’ve always had little doubt Tempest deserved to retain her title of Commander, and moments like these confirm that.

Rain Shine is none the wiser, at least I don't think she is. She's been courteously distant, as most kirin in the village are. I hope she's still working on the translation—I haven't had the courage to ask, and Tempest doesn't seem interested in asking at all. It is what's keeping us in the village and her palace, though, and Rain Shine appears in no rush to evict us.

Today, we go to the mouth of the actual Stream of Silence, mainly for me to do a little investigative work myself. Tempest doesn't protest.

It's not far from the village, but the path there is riddled with fallen trees and other debris making it difficult to travel. While the kirin finished cleaning their village a few days ago, they've taken longer to clear this path and others. So it's surprising that when we arrive, we're not alone.

"Zaoshang," Rain Shine says, turning around as we approach. That's one phrase we've learned in our short time in the kirin village from those who speak.

"Good morning," I respond, offering a bow. Tempest does not nor does she respond. I hear my own voice too clearly.

The Stream of Silence is a stream of rushing water—it's babbling over rocks and switchbacks—but the sound of rushing water is missing. So is the wind. And the birds, and the animals, and the plants. My voice breaks the wall of void, riding the air but bouncing against nothing. As soon as it escapes my mouth, silence follows behind and eats the sound as soon as it can. It's a miracle Rain Shine can hear me at all and I her.

This place unsettles me. That old pony riddle doesn't hold up here. Here, sound doesn't want to exist; it has to fight to make itself known and travels only with great effort. It's even a bit physically uncomfortable: the silence exerts a pressure against my ears like somepony stuffed cotton into them. I can tell by her twitching that Tempest doesn't like it either.

Rain Shine only smiles lightly, ignoring or not noticing Tempest's disrespect. "What brings you to our Stream?" she murmurs musically. Her voice, too, carries only far enough for me to hear it.

"I just . . . wanted to see what the magic around here is like," I say. It's not really a lie. "And to take a sample of water. If you'll allow me to, that is!"

Rain Shine nods and returns her eyes to the Stream. "It is a sacred magic," she says. "And a sacred water. Water is normally a universal solvent that will assume the form of whatever falls into it, but this water will not. There is no pollution in the Stream of Silence. It is always pure, and it has always remained pure."

Besides my being taken aback by Rain Shine saying "universal solvent"—I don't know where she learned that from, but she's correct—the connotations of everything else she says are clear.

"Like fire?" I say.

"Especially fire. There is no water more effective in extinguishing fires than this one."

Tempest steps forward and gives me a slight nod. After a moment's hesitation, I nod in return. I don't know what she's planning except that she plans to enact it now. And I can't tell her not to act. Especially now when she has more purpose in her eyes than I've seen since the war. That fire would be impressive if I knew more about what it was trying to burn.

I really hope you know what you're doing . . .

"You talk about the Stream of Silence like you'd like to throw your whole village back in. Purify them."

Oh no . . .

Rain Shine controls herself better than the last times, but I can still see her pupils flash in anger. "I would not take away the voices and music of my village so soon. They deserve to express themselves. So long as they keep the peace, they may speak and banter and sing however they wish."

"'However they wish'? What if in using their voices, they don't praise your every decision? What if they challenge how you govern them?" Tempest says, a bit of acid finally making it into her voice. Of course with her, "a bit of acid" is quite a lot. "Is this how you keep the peace, by hanging the threat of a return to silence over their heads?"

Rain Shine blinks, slowly. When she opens her eyes, they're eerie facsimiles of what they were before, appearing as voids with no pupil or iris. Even then, her voice remains even. "I am happy to hear the voices of those who believe I can lead the village to greater prosperity."

"Then that makes it convenient for you that well over half of the village won't speak at all."

I look at Tempest worriedly. This is not how I schooled her to speak with others—you don't make friends like this. I've never heard her bleed so much vitriol, ever. Tempest might be fierce and rude, but she's not a bully. Tempest is honest and utilitarian with words. She could have just said she noticed that many kirin don't seem to speak regularly. This fact is not convenient for anyone, and Tempest has to know this.

"It is a choice whether one wishes to speak, and some choose to maintain the peace for the good of all kirin who appreciate it."

The silence pervading the area makes it hard to hear, but . . . is she lisping?

"And what about Autumn Blaze and others like her? She very much chooses to speak—she brought speech back to your village—but she also very much chooses not to when you're anywhere nearby. No kirin does."

"It is no act of evil to inform those who speak that they must do so respectfully."

She's definitely lisping.

Tempest narrows her eyes. "What does respect mean to you? Have you ever even spoken to your village? No, because they won't speak or communicate at all in front of you, or else they only discuss the weather or the most trite of topics that mean nothing. They do not respect you, Rain Shine; they are afraid of you."

Rain Shine closes her pupil-less eyes. "Tread lightly, pony. You know not what you are doing."

I'm getting nervous now, too. "Tempest? Maybe you want to back off a little?" I whisper, trying to give her a nudge.

She doesn't back off. If anything, she grows bolder. "I follow leaders. One who rules by fear and does not prove her worth is not a leader. Do you know who also made that conclusion?" She points to me with her head. "The Princess. The pony who originally sent her own friends here to fix the problem you caused. The pony who expected nothing in return from you except good faith that you'd respect her good intentions."

I force myself not to step back, and I hide my trepidation under an expression I hope is staid enough to pass judgment. This wasn't part of the plan either. She didn't tell me she planned to bring me into this argument. It's not that I won't support her or that I don't agree with what she's saying—I agree with her arguments in principle—but I honestly thought that I would be her fallback plan, even if she didn't know it at the time. Here comes the stubborn Commander who's a bit too belligerent and not very tactful, then comes the Princess who smooths things over with treaties and diplomacy while largely espousing the same goal the Commander tried to achieve. It's a story that's been told a thousand times.

But now, Tempest is writing a story I've never read before. I'm a protagonist in her story now, and I don't know how it ends.

"Ni ne?" Rain Shine's eyes are still closed, but I feel her presence grow against me. It's . . . terrifying.

Fear.

Fearless or foolish, Tempest does not stop. "We've talked to your village. Do you know how many kirin know what friendship is? Zero. Even Autumn Blaze, the most talkative one, barely knew the word in Ponish or Kirinese. It's an old word that's fallen out of use, she says." Tempest takes a step forward. "Friend. Pengyou. Do you know what either of those mean?"

I look at Tempest in shock. How in the world did she know that?

"I would hope to be on good terms with all the kirin of my village."

"And that means you are friends with none."

The Cutie Map works in mysterious ways. My friends and I never purported to have resolved everything on the missions we went on—we only resolve the immediate problem for which the Map identified and called us to resolve. The problem in this circumstance was that the kirin didn't speak and categorically couldn't form relationships with each other. Now they can—but will? It's evident now that there's still quite a lot left undone.

Rain Shine breathes in sharply. It's the only warning I get.

"And what would you know about friendship?"

All of a sudden, the world changes. The presence I felt against me grows tenfold and expands to pressure everypony around, including Tempest. The air grows hot and bright like we're standing at the mouth of a volcano. I shield my eyes. The oppressive silence the Stream enforced disappears, and a sound assaults my ears in its place. It's not flames snapping the wooden beams of a building; it's not water cascading over a cliff; it's not the screech of a bird in great pain; it's some terrible combination of all of those. In the wake of silence, the sound is deafening.

When I open my eyes, Rain Shine is gone. In her place is a creature made of fire and ash. Its eyes are voids of white, not lacking in expression, but filled with rage. Its mouth is bearing a set of terrifying sharp fangs, longer and sharper still than that of the changelings. Its mane and tail have been replaced by a dancing inferno of blue and purple, radiating such heat that the grass at its feet shrivels and blackens in seconds. Its horn has turned into a crest of flickering unworldly white energy, so unreal as to look like an illusion, but so hot as to sear any flesh it touches, save its own.

It stomps a hoof, and a pillar of black fire erupts from the ground. It doesn't burn my eyes like normal fire, but it unleashes a blast of heat that forces me back. I know I'm sweating, though from the fire or fear, I'm not sure. I light my horn, readying myself for a fight should Rain Shine turn violent. Taking a look beside me, though, Tempest doesn't seem bothered. If anything, she's smiling a little.

If Rain Shine was the vaunted empress of kirin, this one is the underworld goddess of nirik. As a kirin, she commands the authority of her village, but as a nirik, she commands a level of power even I'm not confident I could overcome. Not when the very air speaks to you and says, stand down, little pony. You are powerless here.

When next she speaks, it's with a voice deep, dangerous, and distorted. "Tempest Shadow. Hoof of the Storm and Scourge of Seaquestria."

And in a moment, that little smile disappears. Tempest, so confident and fearless as she normally is, takes a step back. "H-how did you know—"

"Do you not think I am not aware of those who threaten harmony? Are you so blind you do not know the infamy you live in? I knew who you were the moment you stepped into my village."

Tempest looks about ready to rebut her remarks, but Rain Shine ignores her entirely, turning her cold eyes on me instead. "Twilight Sparkle. Princess of Equestria, so new and blind to her role leading her nation that she nearly let this one destroy it."

"Wait, I . . ." I can't think of a riposte. She cuts straight into my heart.

They're words that might be construed as an off-hoofed remark, but they're obviously well-researched and disable me better than any blade. Even if the heat of her body and the pressure of her presence didn't steal my breath, I couldn't argue her point. She said exactly the words that I fret over in my constant struggle to prove my leadership. I've never come closer to failing Equestria than I did at the hooves of the Storm King. And for the moons when all of Equestria's princesses were either imprisoned in stone or had gone missing, I did fail.

"Both of you know nothing. Your only recourse from just retribution for your audacity is your ignorance. So let me dispel that for you, Tempest Shadow and Twilight Sparkle. Let me tell you about the Vernal Equinox Tragedy as it happened."

The heat emanating from Rain Shine cools, but the flames making up her mane and tail grow larger and seem to consume the rest of her body. The only thing left we can see of her is her featureless eyes and the angry white crests above them. They scatter to form a ring of fire around us as Rain Shine's corporeal form becomes one with the flames.

The flames around us do not close in, but some tendrils escape and form defined shapes within the ring. The purple and black flames turn red, yellow, and brown, tightening into the trees of autumn. Two flickering forms of white fire appear in the center that look almost like kirin. A single green spire sprouts between them, taking the form of a ginkgo tree. Rain Shine's distorted voice comes from everywhere and nowhere at once, reverberating all around us.

"It is a tragedy that has since passed into kirin legend, one that all know but few believe to be more than legend. Overcast Light was lost at the hooves of Heavenly Fire and those he brought with him in his cursed argument."

The kirin forms take color, one grey and blue, the other sunset red and orange. The grey one appears a bit slimmer and shorter than the red, but they're otherwise indistinct, painted with fire as they are.

The red one accosts the grey one, stopping her under the tree. They speak with a tongue of fire, gesticulating aggressively. The grey one only shakes their head, over and over, not returning the red kirin's words. Suddenly, the red one rears up and, with a pyre of fire that extends to the sky, transforms into a nirik of black. The grey one takes a step back at this, growing smaller.

Wisps of wind, blue and white, bring embers of nut shells onto the ground between the kirin. There's a beat when nothing happens between the kirin under the ginkgo, the nirik across from her, and the tiny brown specks that began it all. We don't get to see what happens next; the blue and white wind blows harder, turns orange and red, and engulfs the entire scene.

I shield my face from the flash of heat. The story is brief, but it's just about like how Autumn Blaze told it. It was a tragedy that Overcast Light died in the argument, but Rain Shine was there when she told it too—she knows that we know all this.

As the heat dies down once again, I open my eyes. There's only one kirin form left—the grey one, spread on the ground, not moving, pinned under the blackened husk of a tree. Another form enters, and it's a very familiar one. This one is taller than the previous two and wears a fire of sandstone and aquamarine. This one leans down to the grey one, bringing her muzzle to sniff at her. This close, their resemblance is unmistakable.

"Kirin leadership passes from mother to daughter, father to son, adopted or natural. It is a leader's greatest duty to groom an heir to be their successor and ensure the well-being of the village they rule. When the child comes of age and the former leader chooses to pass their Diadem of Dynasties to their successor, they inherit their power and authority, allowing the former to enjoy the fruits of their labor and leave this world when their work is done."

"Then, Overcast Light, she was—"

"Yes, Twilight Sparkle. She was my daughter. Fresh and bright and without a blight of anger or negativity in her heart. She would have brought our village to new heights of prosperity. She would usher in a new age that bettered mine in every way. I was eager to see her plant her ideas in the ground and see them grow. She was ready to take my place."

The form of Rain Shine raises her head and howls with a voice of black fire. Overcast Light crumbles beneath her, becoming one with the ground. Once again, only one kirin is left in the scene. That number falls to zero as that black fire comes back down to engulf Rain Shine, leaving her a nirik of black and blue and purple. She howls again, and her voice of fire becomes other nirik forms, arguing with her, each other, and nothing at all. They run, and the trails of black fire they leave in their wake consume the scene once again.

When the curtain lowers again, the other nirik are gone. Only Rain Shine is left, keening towards the sky. Around her is an featureless expanse of black ashy embers, replacing the yellow and orange trees of flame that encircled the scene before. Nothing is left.

Slowly, the ashes disappear, absorbed into the form of Rain Shine as she grows and grows in size. Once all the ashes are gone, Rain Shine herself steps out from her own false form, the real flames licking about her body replacing her conjured ones.

"Grooming an heir for leadership begins far before they wake in this world. The loss of Overcast Light echoes far beyond herself." Rain Shine's voice is well-controlled once again, but her nirik form remains and with it the unnerving distortion in her voice. "She was more than an heir. She was my daughter. She held my every skill, my every tool, my dreams for a greater kirin society. She was the key to our future. And she was proud to take on the mantle of leadership and see these dreams through.

"I was not supposed to lead into this generation. The current leader of the kirin must lead for as long as she holds the Diadem, and she cannot relinquish it until a willing and capable heir presents themselves. For however long it takes. She cannot step down, cannot become one with her village, cannot truly live until the transfer of power is complete.

"Do you understand, then, why the nirik are so dangerous? They do not just threaten their neighbors, but their neighbors' futures, and their destiny as a society. The consequences are beyond what you ponies can possibly imagine. A single kirin has the potential to change the world—and a single nirik has the potential to destroy it. Uncontrolled speech will inflame tempers and bring nirik to the fore. If the kirin must speak, they will not risk this. They will not risk their destiny."

A nirik's expression is hard to guess—their eyes lack personality, their fangs are always exposed, and the flames constantly flickering around them makes reading body language very difficult. A nirik is always angry, and Rain Shine certainly is—but if I could read her, I'd almost guess she was sad, too.

"The circumstances that led to Overcast Light's tragic loss must never happen again. That is my decree."

"I . . ."

Rain Shine glares at me with transfixing eyes, both stopping me from speaking and daring me to continue. Either way, I don't know why I said anything at all: what could I possibly say? I've been fortunate enough that none of my family have fallen ill, but with my friends . . .

"Do you know what that reads to me, Rain Shine?" Tempest says, seemingly unaffected and uncaring of the anecdote she just heard. "That you'd jail your entire village at the hooves on one long-gone kirin only to make yourself feel better. It doesn't help Overcast Light that you're making these decisions now—she's dead. And I imagine that—"

"Silence."

The quiet utterance makes itself heard above everything else. Her eyes flash briefly, and in that flash, I stopped thinking, and Tempest stopped speaking. Even the world around us hears her command, the sounds of fire from Rain Shine's nirik body falling silent even as the flames about her burn hotter. I can feel the unfathomable magic of Silence infusing her voice and the air around us, as if the Stream itself was a geyser and it erupted, cloaking the air around us in a mist and holding us by its effects. It's authoritative and effective as any spell. The only thing I can hear is the echo of her command, still holding my mind and telling me what must be done. Stop your errant thoughts. Pay attention. And for your ancestors' sakes, do not speak.

It's evident now that this isn't the first time she's done this. I shiver with fear again.

Rain Shine turns her eyes to Tempest, similarly bound by the effects of her captivation. White-hot embers escape Rain Shine's mouth with every breath. The crests of flame above her eyes are angled in an angry "V." Tempest, bound to silence, nevertheless returns the glare with impunity.

Rain Shine's voice is unemotional, but it seems to only bely the emotion in it, like there was no tone that would properly show the anger she wanted to express. "Your temerity is boundless, O Tempest Shadow. You would be audacious enough to attack my character, suggest the decisions I made were short-sighted. You speak as though you have the wisdom to mentor leaders who've experienced more than you ever have. Like you are more virtuous than I."

Rain Shine points at Tempest, fetlocks dancing flames and hoof a bifurcated sharpened sai. Percussive crashes break the silence as Rain Shine's bone-white horn crackles with lightning, issuing miniature thunderclaps with every spark.

Instead of being shamed by her words or intimidated by her actions, Tempest tightens her jaw. She lowers her head just a bit and paws a hoof at the ground.

She can't possibly be thinking . . . can she?

But before I can warn her, there's one more tiny thunderclap, this one from Tempest. It's the only one she can produce from her horn before she winces in pain and breaks eye contact with Rain Shine.

"Tempest Shadow, the one who forced an entire species into hiding just so they could avoid your anger. Tempest Shadow, the one who killed countless and was responsible for the deaths of countless more. Tempest Shadow, the pony who never had a semblance of scruple in her heart and was willing to see nations destroyed only to further her own power."

Tempest clenches her jaw again, but she doesn't raise her fetlocks. She takes a step backwards, refusing to make eye contact.

What . . . what are you doing? I've never wanted to see Tempest dragged through the mud for her past sins, but it's inevitable that of all the ponies she would meet, some of them would insist on dredging them up. And in my experience, no one has been better at defending herself than, well, herself. She doesn't always choose the friendliest option for defense—the humble apology has never been high on her list, even when she left my tutelage—but she's never rolled over and accepted defeat, either. It's just so unlike her.

"Tempest Shadow, one with so much power that she used only for ill. Peace prevails, pony. And you have failed, whether you will admit it or not. Seaquestria has returned. Equestria is whole. You have accomplished nothing, and you will accomplish nothing here. Despicable." For how hot Rain Shine's flames burn, her eyes are so very cold.

Tempest takes another step back.

I don't condone Tempest's challenges—most ponies don't need the kind of conflict that she so often brings. But I understand where she's coming from, too. She's a Commander—she doesn't accept defeat without fighting first. She's always challenging herself, and challenging others. And you were challenging her just moments ago. What happened?

"You bandy your slander to incite war. Yet your army has fled. Whether by your own hoof or by your humiliating defeat at the hooves of Equestria, it matters not. But I see that your lust for destruction has not diminished. If not through might, then through civil war, you would try to incite despair again. I will never know your motives for death and anger and fire. But you will fail again, Tempest Shadow, as long as I defend my village, my species, against your evil."

"No . . . you don't understand . . ." Tempest mouths. She retreats yet again, sliding backwards in the dirt and ash underneath her belly.

I know it's not, and she doesn't understand. Tempest relinquished her desire for conquest long ago. I've had moons with her to make sure of that. Tempest, you had a plan, a plan to save the kirin!

"I question the delusion Twilight Sparkle is under if she is complacent in your plan. For however incompetent she is at leadership, she stands for peace, as I do. You are the antithesis for those forces that hold the world together. You use the word like a weapon against me, but what do you know about friendship? What business do you have to lecture me in the subject when your existence stands to rip it apart? You have never been a leader, but you pretend to know how to lecture on leadership."

Rain Shine takes a step forward. Tempest can retreat no more, her hind hooves lapping at the edge of the Stream of Silence.

"Your purpose in this world is destruction, Tempest Shadow. You know this as well as I do. So you must also know that the world no longer has need for a pony like you." She comes closer still and raises a hoof as if to step on her. "Tempest Shadow, you are worse than a villain . . .

"You are useless."

Tempest lowers her head, a bow elicited not through respect but shame. But just before Tempest's head touches the ground, the world comes to a stop and I realize why Tempest won't defend herself.

She can't.

She's a Commander—she won't accept defeat without fighting first. And if she can't fight . . .

Violence shouldn't be the first resort, I've told her. I've wanted her to resolve her problems and arguments with others without violence, and for the most part, she's succeeded. But there have been close calls—there have been a lot of close calls. As is, even during the Storm King's war, Tempest showed the most confidence when she was on top, when she had might over her victims and could force them to listen to her. It was also, perhaps ironically, in those conditions that Tempest was most likely to come to a peaceful resolution.

Now, she's been forced on her back hooves in a situation where might means nothing. Tempest no longer uses violence as her first resort, I know—it's why she wanted to talk things through with the kirin and Rain Shine in the first place. But as a Commander, where action speaks and words are cheap, as a pony who bred herself to be invincible, might is a powerful tool. There was always a plan B. Something safe and dependable and familiar to fall back on when all else failed.

That plan is gone now, and with it, Tempest's only defense. For perhaps the first time in her entire life, she's been forced to the ground, forced to surrender.

No . . .

No!

I made a promise. I made a promise that I would never give up on her! Tempest might be a Commander, but I'm a Princess.

And a Princess always defends her subjects.

I'm still here, and I'm still standing. I'm her friend, and her mission is mine too. She's been intimidated, and she's been overawed, but she hasn't been defeated. Violence isn't the answer, and it never could be. There's still so much she has to say, so much I want to say.

But for as much as I wish I could, I know I can't fight for her—I don't have the experience. My only experience with leaders is with Celestia, Luna, and Cadance, and they've all been nothing but kind to me and just to their ponies. And my experience negotiating with foreign leaders is even sparser—I've barely begun at this job, after all. It might be my responsibility to appear confident and self-assured in my decisions like Celestia did, but it's a mask. I can be diplomatic. I can put on an aura of calm. I can even incite peace when it's necessary.

But Tempest's experience is far different, and for that, she has very strong feelings about what a just leader should be. And she is—was—not afraid to speak her mind or even cause offense if it would achieve her goal. For whatever Rain Shine will say, I know that Tempest had—has—good intentions in speaking with her and truly saving the kirin from themselves. She wants them to know emotion. She wants them to know friendship.

Because it was something she never had in her childhood. Because it's what I offered her in truth. Because it's what Rain Shine isn't giving to her people.

Because it scares them all.

But I'm her friend. Her mission is mine too.

No more masks. No more diplomacy. Tempest stands for friendship, and I do too. I can't stand on the sidelines any longer, waiting for something to go wrong and calling for me to fix it with squirrelly words or worthless concessions or whatever peace is. That was never Tempest's idea, and it can't be mine, either.

I was worried a foreign nation might opt to start a war if we were too rude, and I wanted to stay out of that. But no, we are in a war, a war for the future of kirinkind. Tempest took it upon herself to command this fight, a feat I couldn't do myself. She is the tip of the spear, but I'm the shaft—she can't succeed if I'm not behind her all the way.

Tempest has always had a plan B. She will fall—but she'll fall into something more safe and dependable than she could have ever known. I might not know leadership yet, but I know friendship. Better than anyone else.

Time heaves forward once again, and I take action.

Princess and Pariah

Simultaneously, I cast three spells. One, teleportation. I appear in a flash in front of Tempest, head lowered and teeth bared in aggression I rarely show. Two, a repulsion bubble. With my materialization, I force a pressure wave against Rain Shine, and she staggers backwards several steps. Three, a clarity captivation. It counters Rain Shine's one of silence and at once, it becomes easier to think and easier to speak.

"No. You're wrong, Rain Shine," I declare, my voice stronger than it's ever been. The statement of defiance gives me strength. "I don't stand for peace. I stand for friendship. And I stand with Tempest Shadow."

Rain Shine narrows her eyes. The flames about her own body are no cooler despite my repulsion. If anything, they grow more energetic. "Twilight Sparkle, your delusion is clouding your—"

"No! Now it's your turn to be silent and listen to me. I believe in her. If you want to take her down, you need to go through me first," I say. A moment later, I catch myself and take a deep breath, raising my head to a more dignified position—violence still isn't the solution.

"I'm not that confident about a lot of things, least of all leadership or diplomacy, but I think I know friendship pretty well. I spent moons rehabilitating Tempest after the war because I knew she could change, and I knew she could be a friend to us all. She has, and she is.

"She left my Castle not long ago, and I let her go because I trusted her. Not because I knew her every decision would be morally right or peaceful, but because I knew she had a good heart. I don't believe anyone in this world is evil, not really. I believe there are some who have different beliefs and different motivations from many of us, and when they clash with others who don't understand, we call it evil so we don't have to think about it anymore.

"We came here on a selfish mission, but we stayed here because we were concerned about you and the kirin you rule, Rain Shine. I know Tempest doesn't think you're evil, and I don't, either. We think you've experienced some grief in your past, and that's caused you to make some poor decisions that are still affecting your village."

I turn around to look at Tempest, still on the ground but looking up to me. Her eyes are more vulnerable than I've ever seen since we arrived here. It's in these rare moments that I can better read what she's thinking. There's some not-inconsiderable amount of fear in them—a rare emotion for Tempest. But there's awe in them too, awe that I would step in front of her and take control of the situation.

That awe only elicits shame in me. She shouldn't have to be awed that I stuck with her. It's what friends do—are supposed to do.

I lend a hoof to her, pulling her back to her hooves. "Come on, Tempest," I say, offering an encouraging smile. "I've done all I can. It's up to you. You're the only one who can save the kirin."

"But . . ." Tempest begins, voice broken, "you heard it yourself. My purpose is passed. I am only good for destruction." She lowers her head again. "You have a vision for what the world could be, Princess. And I'm not a part of that. I am still not a part of that."

Rain Shine's words must have cut deep. Tempest would always be the first to refute something with a sharp word, but she seems utterly unable to now. I shake my head. "You are—you're part of the guard that's spreading friendship. And just because I'm the Princess of it doesn't mean I know everything. Being a friend means recognizing and supporting each other's strengths, and that way, we become more than either of us alone. If I could do everything myself, I wouldn't need friends."

She only shakes her head. "I am . . . destruction. You know it better than I do. I have no control. A de-horned unicorn can only be destruction."

I shake my head again. "A pony who is only destruction would have died in the war. She wouldn't accept help from her arch-enemy to become better. She wouldn't learn about friendship. And she wouldn't make grand plans to save an entire species from themselves. A pony who is only destruction isn't named Tempest Shadow, Tempest."

She glances up at me, and I can see the doubt in her eyes. "Then . . . who am I, Princess? What can I possibly do in your world?"

It pains me that only now does Tempest lower her walls and show me the pony underneath all those layers. For as much as I wish I could sit down with her and commiserate her vulnerabilities, I know now is not the time. Tempest calls me a Princess, and now, I need to be one for her.

"It's your world too. You live in it, and you can make a difference in it if you think it needs to change. You said it yourself a couple nights ago—you disagreed with me and the decisions I made. Well, now's your chance to make it right. I'm sorry that I wasn't supporting you the way you needed on this trip. You might have strengths in warfare, but I think we've found another today.

"You are destruction. I won't lie about that part, because it is a very big part. But you are also justice, determination, and honor in equal measure. Your power comes not from destroying things, but your ability to elicit change. If I really can see the true nature of a pony, even when they can't see it themselves, then take it as my verdict that this is your true nature. This is who you are."

I raise Tempest's head. "I need your help, Commander. I need you." I look into her eyes and smile. "What can you possibly do? Do what you do best. Change the world."

The eyes stare back at me. She blinks, and to my surprise, they glisten ever so slightly.

Then she closes her eyes and concentrates. I see a tension ripple across her body. When she opens her eyes again, the moment has passed—her eyes are filled with familiar determination, and her face has schooled itself fierce once again. The face that intimidated and subjugated dozens of communities in the past with nary a single spell cast.

The face that will bring to light the kirin today.

She straightens up and strides past me fearlessly to Rain Shine. She stops in front of her, so close that either of them could strike the other with a heat too intense to escape from or a kick too fast to react to.

Rain Shine, meanwhile, looks past her to me incredulously. "You would put your blind trust in this one? She has caused unfathomable grief to an uncountable number, and she very nearly destroyed you. She has no purpose now."

I shake my head again. "No, Rain Shine. I believe in her to do the right thing, and do you know why? Because she's my friend."

"And you are friends with none of your subjects," Tempest contributes. "The peace and quietude you enforce may ensure a lack of violence, but it also ensures a lack of friendship."

"You speak as though you have wisdom in the subject," Rain Shine says, now looking at Tempest with disdain. "In your travails, you have made only enemies at the expense of friends. I daresay that your 'instruction' is that which no sane being of peace would seek out."

"She does know friendship," I counter. "I'm her friend, and I have faith in what she's learned from me and others. If you can't take her for her word that she means well, then take mine." It doesn't escape my notice that moments ago, I was pulled into Tempest's argument more-or-less unwillingly. Now I'm pushing myself into it. "We're not trying to make enemies with you—we're trying to help you."

"Then forgive my skepticism," she says, though she keeps her eyes on Tempest. "Tempest Shadow, you are a being bred for war. I have no reservations about your expertise in military tactics and the most efficient way to render death upon others. But whatever your learnings with the Princess, they paint over a foundation not meant to accept it. Kirin are a species bred for peace. Were that not true, only nirik and ashes would remain. The kirin could accept nothing from you."

"The way you talk of the nirik, it's like you're at war with them, with yourself," Tempest says.

Faster than either of us could react, the flames about Rain Shine briefly form into pyres of energy, shooting into the sky and loosing a blast of heat. Tempest's mane is blown back, but she is unfazed.

Rain Shine bares her frightening fangs. "Do you think I like being this way? Do you think I would wish this fire and destruction and conflict upon myself and my kirinfolk? Being nirik is only as good as how they can be suppressed."

"Then I'd like to test that." Slowly, she walks even closer to Rain Shine even as she narrows her eyes and hisses. She stops so close the flames on Rain Shine's mane lick at her coat. Nevertheless, she holds her head high, fearlessly. She says, almost nonchalantly, "I have no magic, not anymore. I cannot make fire, and I cannot repel it. I cannot strike you without being burned myself. So, here's a challenge . . ." Tempest directs a piercing eye at Rain Shine, so pointed and authoritative that even she stops to listen.

"Kill me."

Tempest, what in Celestia's name are you doing!? I want to say, but the thought is washed away by Rain Shine's expression.

For what feels like the first time, Rain Shine's eyes show emotion—if "flabbergast" could be called a proper emotion. She takes a step back. "Your delusion is only matched by your audacity, pony."

Tempest merely closes the distance again, but she makes no move to strike. "If I am so dangerous and war-mongering as you believe I am, then kill me. End my evil, release the Princess, and sleep soundly in the knowledge that I cannot infect anyone else."

Rain Shine growls, sounding more like screeching metal beams than anything equine. "The kirin are an insular species, but I am not blind to political stunts. You intend to rain melancholy and despair upon us when news returns to Equestria that the kirin have slain one of her own. There is a witness, one who could eradicate any nation in this world with a single word. You overestimate my gullibility."

Tempest cocks her head and continues speaking as though it was any other stranger and not . . . one staring her down with lethal flames behind her. "Then I will ask the Princess to return to Equestria, and we can continue our quarrel. You are far from the only one who would wish me dead. The question remains: would you kill me? Can you kill me?"

Tempest and Rain Shine leave me no opportunity to offer my own input . . . though I have no idea what I would say. It's not a meet topic to mention that one who's been quite level-headed up to this point is starting to say less-than-level things. I don't like Tempest's tactic, to be sure, but I know what she's getting at—I just disagree terribly with the consequence if she's wrong. She couldn't have possibly planned for this contingency.

Rain Shine stomps a hoof, agitated, unleashing a wave of fire that nevertheless diffuses harmlessly against Tempest's own hooves. "There are depths of irresponsibility I do not stoop to, pony. It has been generations since anyone has been audacious enough to level such words at us."

"What honor!" Tempest says, the first use of sarcasm I've ever heard come out of her. I don't know how to feel about that. "And yet you would let me live and do evil to others?"

"You have challenged me for the last time, Tempest Shadow!" Rain Shine points a hoof of flame at Tempest, then flips it upwards as if holding something. The fire follows and gathers to a single point above her hoof, turning from purple to yellow to searing white. The ball of fire turns into a ball of lightning, sparks escaping and licking at Tempest's coat. One reaches her mane, and the ends of her hair start burning. I move to intervene, worried that Tempest has finally gone too far.

The hoof trembles.

Tempest stares back, unblinking. The ball of lightning reflects in her eyes, along with the flames around her. Here is a face not afraid of her present situation nor what the future would bring. Here is a face not afraid of anything.

She closes her eyes.

"You don't want to," Tempest murmurs, so quietly that I have to read her lips. She opens her eyes again and speaks more loudly. "Because the nirik, for being the murderous monsters you seem to want them to be, are still kirin, whether you like it or not. Because if Rain Shine the kirin doesn't want to kill anypony . . ." Tempest walks towards the ball of lightning, willing herself to her suicide. With only a hair's-breadth to spare, Rain Shine pulls the ball just out of reach, saving Tempest from herself.

". . . neither will Rain Shine the nirik."

"You are wrong, pony," she says, her voice lacking the conviction it had up to this point. It's even more shocking coming from someone as frightening as Rain Shine the nirik. The ball of lightning slowly dissolves into the air in a shower of sparks, but Rain Shine keeps her hoof up like she's still holding it.

In an act of incredible irreverence, Tempest turns her back to the Empress of Kirin and shrugs off the fire that still burns on the ends of her mane. She walks to the Stream of Silence and stops before it, looking at the silently whistling water.

"The Princess briefed me on the kirin back in Equestria. So I'd know what to expect. She has this shield that shows the kirin on one half and nirik on the other. She told me the legends. So did Fluttershy when she visited, and how scary the nirik were when they appeared before her. And, well . . ." She scoffs. "Scary isn't much of a threat when I've spent my entire life being the scariest thing to walk into any room. In fact, despite being one right now . . ." Tempest turns around and walks back to us. Rain Shine remains silent. "You seem to be more scared of the nirik than I am.

"I knew, from the first moment I talked with you, that I wouldn't like you. There's one thing that you got right about me—that I'm bred for war and conflict. But, in a fact you may find ironic, on talking with the kirin of your village and the Princess, that upbringing probably makes me the best pony to slap some sense into you."

I resist the urge to zip Tempest's mouth shut myself. Rain Shine, too, is taken aback at the unwarranted insult, but she doesn't retaliate.

"Some things need teaching twice. Applejack and Fluttershy tried to tell you why the kirin deserved to speak. Now I suppose I need to tell you why they need conflict, too. As coming from a pony who knows a thing or two about the subject."

Finally, Rain Shine seems to find her voice again, but it's more desperate than self-assured. "What things do you know? How to conflict with your enemies to kill them? I concede, you have quite a bit of expertise in that," Rain Shine hisses.

This gives Tempest pause. When she speaks, she starts slowly. "Yes, and I am . . . sorry for the deaths I caused. You can bring up my sins all day, and I will have nothing to say to you. I am Hoof of the Storm and the Scourge of Seaquestria. I . . . I know what I have done. And I will never be able to adequately pay penance for what I have done. But . . ." Tempest straightens up a little, and her air of uncertainty vanishes so surely I can't be sure whether it was ever there. "I do not regret the conflict itself. I do not regret the war."

I straighten up too. I've never heard this detail from Tempest. Granted, my primary goal in rehabilitating her was to move on from the war and move into who she wanted to become—I didn't need to know what Tempest thought of the war, and maybe I didn't want to know at the time.

"I've been in more fights than I can count, and it may surprise you how many ended not in violence but some sort of truce. There's a clarity that comes with conflict. When you fight, unimportant things disappear. There are no wiggly words to hide behind and no social expectations that only force you to put up a mask and speak with other masks. There is nothing left but your soul, and nothing left to fight against but the soul of your adversary. You conflict, and the truth comes out.

"I conflicted with Princess Twilight. We fought. We saw each other for who they really were. She saw somepony worthy of forgiveness. I saw a target of needless hate. We conflicted, and the truth came out. I regret the damage, and I regret the hurt, but I do not regret the war because what came out . . ."

She looks to me, and I look back. For what I know she's about to say, my eyes are glistening with pride.

". . . was friendship."

I can't help my smile, so proud and awed am I by what Tempest has become. She's a mare of few words, but when she does speak, everyone listens. She's turned her tragic past into something truly wonderful.

Tempest turns back to Rain Shine. She, too, is listening. "That's why I hate small talk—and one of the reasons why I hated talking to you. I suppose I never have talked to you. I'm talking to the mask of the kirin that she wants to put on for visiting ponies. I'm talking with a mask that's kind and agreeable only so others will also be kind and agreeable. I'm talking with a mask so afraid of taking itself off and facing the truth that it would rather condemn an entire species to silence."

"Catharsis."

Tempest and Rain Shine turn to look at me. I shrink back a little, not meaning to say that out loud. But Tempest seems content to hoof over the reins, and Rain Shine seems willing to listen. I straighten up and go on.

"Sorry. Catharsis describes that feeling you get after you've . . . let everything out, so to speak. It's . . . relief? Happiness? I can't really explain the feeling. Fighting isn't necessarily pleasant, but when you're finished being angry and sad, you have time to . . . reorganize. Reflect on yourself and your friends. Find all the puzzle pieces that got knocked around during the fight and put them back together so you can get a clearer picture of who you are, who your friends are, and why you fought so that in the future, maybe you won't be fighting about the same thing again."

I shake my head. "Nevermind, I'm being metaphorical. What I mean to say is, Tempest is right. I don't want friends to fight. But I don't want them to not fight either if it means they'll bottle things up inside. If friends couldn't argue and express how they really felt, it would become so hard to trust one another. They wouldn't be able to tell if someone was telling the truth or if they just wanted to avoid an argument. Or maybe they wouldn't talk at all. Kind of like . . ."

"Like this?" Tempest volunteers.

I pinch my lips together and nod.

We both turn our attention to Rain Shine.

She's still in her nirik form, but she's clearly less angry than before. She's sitting on the ground now, singing the grass beneath her instead of instantly turning it to ash. The ethereal flames about her are smaller and almost translucent, allowing me to see glimpses of Rain Shine's native sandstone coat beneath the flames. Her eyes are aimed towards the ground in front of her, studying how the blades of grass under her hooves resist the fire until they wither and dry.

Tempest is right. In all the time we've been talking with Rain Shine, we've rarely ever been talking with her—only the faces she puts up. Ironically, it's only as a nirik that we're gotten glimpses of the kirin underneath. I can only hope this fiery argument will have burned away enough layers for us to start to understand who she is. And, maybe, make friends with her.

Rain Shine turns her eyes to us. "I have never purported to be free of sin or shame. It is my duty as a leader to find the most harmonious path. If that path should include things you ponies find unpalatable, then so be it."

In a clap of thunder, Rain Shine is back on her feet, the flames about her dancing again. "I shall say it again," she says. "The circumstances that led to Overcast Light's tragic loss must never happen again. And if you would be so foolish to suggest arguments are worth my daughter's life, then allow me to slap some sense into you."

Tempest, unperturbed, steps up to Rain Shine once again. "We have been arguing. And I have been giving you the opportunity to make history repeat itself." She cocks her head again, and gestures at her bared neck. "You haven't taken it. You are clearly capable of it. Why not?"

Tempest starts walking, drill-sergeant-lecture–style. "Is it because you have so much more control over your nirik form than the others who share your abilities? Despite the fact that you're equally out of practice? I doubt that crown on your head has that level of power." She turns around. "Or . . . is it that nirik are just not as dangerous as you say they are? That anger and its consequences are a part of being a kirin, like any other living being, and you just won't admit it?"

Rain Shine growls that metal-screeching growl again. "Have you ever loved, Tempest Shadow, Scourge of Seaquestria? No, of course you never have. Because if you had, you'd perhaps have an iota more sympathy. You will never understand . . ." She flicks her eyes to lock on me, and I take a subconscious step back. "But perhaps this one will."

She takes a step towards me, and I have to use every bit of my courage to maintain eye contact. "She was my spirit reinvigorated, her dreams hungry for fulfillment. She knew what I was, and while proud of her lineage, she wanted to be more. But she turned to me for inspiration first. She was . . ." Rain Shine's voice quavers, the first time an emotion other than anger is allowed to color it. "She was my daughter.

"The greatest praise a mother can receive is when she, full in the knowledge of her countless failures and always testing herself on what she could do better, is allowed to see her daughter bloom into a proper kirin. She was one. She was not capable of hating anyone. Nirik transformations were always rare, but when they happened in front of her, she was not tempted. Even when my own temper was flared, Overcast knew what to say to diffuse my anger.

"The kirin who is worthy of succession is so rare—one may go several generations before seeing a single one. Overcast was the best. When she was born, she became my greatest, most treasured work. She would be my legacy. I knew she had the potential to be greater than I ever was. So I pushed her harder than any kirin before her or since. She did not complain. She learned. She grew.

"I told her one day, 'Nu er, I am weary of leading.' And she told me, 'Ma ma, I will help you retire.'" The words that follow are flooded with so much grief that they're difficult to listen to. "Those were the last words she said to me before she died. I could not tell her how proud I was of her." She looks down. "I could not tell her how much I loved her."1

I jump back as Rain Shine the nirik as I know her reasserts herself in a peal of fire and wave of heat. She bares her fangs and glares at us with white-hot eyes. But the embers falling from them say that there's much more than anger in them. "I would tear down dynasties for her. I would chase her to the edge of the world. My greatest regret is that I was not there to save her from the nirik."

And because of that, you decided to stop anyone in the village from becoming one? I think to myself. That's before I'm overcome with shame for having it. I look down.

The thing is, Rain Shine is right, too. I do understand, in a sense. I don't have a daughter, but I do have family and many, many friends. When you spend your life with them and they put a small part of themselves into you, it becomes impossible to see things objectively. I would tear down dynasties for them. I would chase them to the edge of the world.

And I would risk enraged ministers and a seriously annoyed secretary and a nation wondering whether its leader was banished, all for them.

Suddenly, Rain Shine's measures barely seem extreme at all.

Tempest, in all her virtues and vices, with all her tendencies to hate chaff and chase the truth long after everyone else has stopped, speaks. "That's well and good if Overcast Light were alive. But the dead don't know what you're doing for them, and the dead don't care whose legacy you're trying to fulfill."

Rain Shine's flames get even larger and hotter, and for a moment, I'm afraid Rain Shine will actually carry out her threat. "The dead leave behind lessons," she hisses. "Lessons the living will carry out to honor them."

"What lesson?" Tempest scoffs. "Would you really say that Overcast Light's dying wish was to condemn her own and future generations to never argue again? Where in her final arrangements was that wish? That's not her dying wish; it's yours."

Rain Shine growls again and butts her head against Tempest's.

"Kill me if you think I'm wrong."

"You keep insulting my daughter like that, and perhaps I will."

"Enough!" I cry, using my magic to physically pry them apart and keep them separated. "Tempest, you're not helping. I know you want to make your point, but not even bothering to consider others' feelings is just callous and counterproductive."

Tempest, suitably chastised, falls silent. Meanwhile, Rain Shine calms her temper ever so slightly. They both look at me.

I didn't exactly have a plan when I interrupted except that I could feel that this particular argument was only going to go in circles. I know where Tempest wants to take this argument . . . but I know why Rain Shine doesn't want to go there. They each said their piece, and they still disagree. Who am I to try to get them to get along?

I take a deep breath and let it out. Who am I? I'm the Princess of Friendship, mediating a spat between friends. Time to figure this out.

In my best Princess voice, I say, "Tempest, apologize to Rain Shine. I know what you want to get across, but you need to be more empathetic for what she's experienced."

Tempest looks back at Rain Shine, and she her. Slowly, she begins. "I am . . . sorry. And I am sorry for not respecting your daughter's memory." I can tell Tempest doesn't entirely understand what she's saying, but it's a start.

Rain Shine doesn't respond, but the flames about her do grow a little cooler. It's too much to expect that she'd forgive Tempest so quickly, someone she's seemingly always had a quarrel with.

I turn to her. "I know that you would move mountains for Overcast Light—believe me, I know. And I know you want to honor her memory. But Tempest has a point, too. She sounds like a wonderful daughter who had wonderful dreams. Was one of her dreams really this? Peace at all costs? Did she dream about a species that would become nearly forgotten by the rest of the world because they no longer wished to express themselves?"

I don't know whether something in the air has changed or whether being around her for long enough has made me more perceptive, but Rain Shine doesn't seem as unreadable as before. Her eyes are more expressive now. There is anger, of course, and a lot of it, but she doesn't seem all that angry at me. At Tempest, sure, but even then, the picture is incomplete. There's also a longing, and a deep, deep sadness.

"She would never anger," she says quietly. "She would want a village that didn't anger. Because anger is what killed her." Even as she says it, I can sense the unease in her voice.

"I don't . . . I don't think it did," I say. "And I think, deep down, you don't think it did, either."

What if I wasn't able to rescue Owlowicious before Tirek destroyed the library? What if Spike was there? What if any of my friends were there?

What if Capper had managed to sell us into slavery? What if Autumn Blaze wasn't fast enough and Applejack and Fluttershy had fallen into the Stream of Silence and were never able to speak again? What if the Storm King indeed succeeded in conquering Equestria? What if, what if, what if?

Being the purveyors of harmony and wielding the elements that attest to it isn't easy. I can never forget that on any one of our adventures, one or more of us might not return. I'd like to think that we're all strong enough to carry on if the worst should happen, but the truth is that I don't know. We've been lucky enough so far that none of us have had to experience it, but I've seen enough to know that no one, no matter how strong, is immune to death and the ripples it causes to those around it. Not even a Princess.

Rain Shine isn't a villain. She's a kirin with a good heart who fell victim to terrible circumstances and has had trouble coping ever since. She didn't ask for this. Were things only a little bit different, she might be where I stand, and I her.

I think back to the events surrounding Overcast Light's death and how Rain Shine depicted them. Of course, her retelling would be colored by her own feelings, but even then, I have to wonder why she chose to depict it in that way. Details stand out brighter for the fact they were in the story.

The wind carries a few motes of ash from Rain Shine's hooves to mine. I dip a hoof in the Stream of Silence to wash them off.

"Tragedy," I begin quietly, "is when bad things happen to good ponies. They don't deserve it. It couldn't have been predicted. They weren't ready for it. Tragedy is so hard for us to understand because it doesn't follow rules. Being the best pony in the world doesn't protect you, and being the worst doesn't mean you deserve it. Tragedy happens to anyone, and we all have to suffer for it.2

"The day all of this happened . . . there was a storm then too, right?" I ask.

Rain Shine does not respond, but she doesn't protest either. She only observes me with smoldering eyes.

I continue. "They're so violent here, more wind and lightning than rain, and you were so concerned when this one came by that you went out during the storm to make sure your village was safe. But no one said anything. No one saw you do it. I never really understood why you did that, or why you insisted that I stay put while you walked into danger.

"You were never there to see what happened, were you? Did the tree uproot in the storm, or did the fire collapse it? There weren't any witnesses until they drew attention to themselves, and by then, it was already too late." I look down and murmur quietly, "And at the end of the day, I don't think it actually matters.

"You've shown it yourself—an individual nirik, even a powerful one, doesn't want to harm anyone. You never said that you wanted to target or kill the kirin who started the argument—I'm sure they didn't want to hurt anyone, either. It's not Heavenly Fire's fault, it's not the niriks' fault, it's not the village's fault, and it's not your fault. It's not even the storm's fault. It's just a horrible tragedy that hurt a lot of kirin, you and your daughter most of all. Blame and revenge doesn't help anyone heal or move on, least of all you."

I pause. "Rain Shine, I know you've always had to put on a strong face for your village, but . . . did you ever mourn Overcast Light?"

She still says nothing but lowers her head and turns away a little, the same motion Fluttershy does when she's trying to hide under her mane. I think we all know the answer.

I reach out to her, seeking tacit permission. She doesn't give it to me, but she doesn't shy away either or seek to repel me. In a surge of blind courage, I reach through the flames of her lion's mane and wrap my hooves around her neck. It doesn't hurt. It's the heat of a warm summer's day on my cheek and my breast. I feel the strands of her mane, soft and delicate but tickling as embers dance along its length.

"I'm sorry," I say to her. The formality in my tone is thoroughly gone and replaced by raw emotion. "I know it doesn't mean anything now, but I'm sorry."

I feel a hoof on my shoulder. I open one eye and see Tempest, an unsure expression on her face, standing an awkward distance away—closer than you'd want to converse at, but too far to hug. I wrap a wing around her and yank her closer. After a brief "urk" of surprise, she cautiously puts her hooves around both of us. She says, "I'm sorry too. It means even less coming from me, but . . . I am. Truly. I know how it feels to . . . to lose what defines you."

Rain Shine softens as we hug her, but she doesn't reciprocate.

"Grief" is another one of those words. It's not pleasant, and no one seeks it out, but it reveals itself most poignantly only with its absence. When a village needs you to be strong, you don't have time to grieve. You can only hide it under a mask and keep going. But the wound never truly heals. It's another one of the many curses of leadership.

And for as much as I claim to instruct Rain Shine on the ways of friendship, in some ways, she has more experience in this than I do. She's lived through the loss of a loved one, but I haven't. What happens when I lose someone? What happens when . . .

We remain embracing for minutes, but a rustle in the bushes ends the moment.

Rain Shine is the first to notice. She stiffens and pushes against both of us. We separate, and it's now that I see Rain Shine has entirely reverted to her familiar sandstone-and-aquamarine kirin form for the first time. It's good to see her back to normal . . . I think.

"Autumn Blaze," she says in a slightly shaky voice. And that's all she says.

For whatever sense Rain Shine has, the bush rustles again, and Autumn Blaze does step out from behind it, looking chastised and a little ashamed.

Even then, Rain Shine isn't angry at her. It probably shouldn't surprise me that she wouldn't show anger outwardly, but she doesn't seem annoyed at the intrusion, either. If anything, Rain Shine appears the more chastised if her downcast expression is anything to go by. She simply says, "How much did you hear?"

Autumn Blaze scratches the back of her head. "Almost all of it, I'm sorry to say. I was just here to grab some water. Silent water is not great to drink, but the trees love it. When I saw you coming, I wanted to talk to you, but then Twilight and Tempest came too and I . . . hid." Autumn gestures awkwardly.

The Silence is deafening.

"I'll . . . banish myself again if you want me to," Autumn offers, looking unsure.

Before any of us can protest, Rain Shine speaks. "Or . . . rather you and the village could choose to banish me."

"Wh-what? No! Why would we do that?"

"Because . . ." She lets out a great sigh, and a touch of ghostly fire comes out with her breath. She looks at no one as she says her words, low and halting. "Because I have wronged you. I let my hatred for anger guide my decisions. Decisions that affected all of you. I let my own memories taint the life the rest of you live. Making decisions not for the village but for oneself—your Empress could commit no greater sin."

I don't envy Rain Shine's position, but part of me is glad some part of what we said finally broke through. Tempest, too, I can tell, is relieved. For however much of today she anticipated and planned out—I wager it wasn't much—I gather that Tempest ultimately wanted to break Rain Shine down to where she is now. It was the only way to break through her mask to the true self underneath. To find the truth and speak it back to her.

That's catharsis.

Autumn Blaze, too. She's probably never seen Rain Shine for who she was, either. But despite the dismal words, she smiles. "Are you kidding? I've never been more confident in who I want as our leader than right now, and I'm sure the rest of the village would agree, too. We know—well, I know, definitely—that while you are our leader, you're still just a kirin. A kirin who's seen more than most of us, but still a kirin.

"Yeah, in a way, Tempest was right about the village. Some of them are scared of you. They're scared because you've basically become a goddess. When she says 'don't argue, don't make noise,' you listen. She's been here longer than you, after all, and she's kept you safe for this long." Autumn rubs her head again. "I guess I'm different because I've never been afraid to talk, but that's not really normal, either. What I mean to say is, I don't think anyone would be upset if they got to know you as a kirin instead of just respecting and fearing you as a leader. Yeah, it means we won't be able to believe you're the perfect leader who's always right, but honestly? I don't know how many of us believed that to begin with.

"I'd rather know why you make mistakes. I'd rather know who Rain Shine is so I can get along with her, rather than the 'kirin who lives in that mountain over there and keeps the peace,'" Autumn says while air-quoting. "And knowing who you are and what you've seen makes it easier to forgive you." She smiles and shrugs. "I forgive you."

Rain Shine says nothing, but I can see her shaking. With anger, sadness, fear, relief, joy: I don't know.

Tempest walks a little closer to her. Having achieved what she set out to, she seems calmer now and less agitated. "Be angry," she murmurs. "Take it from someone who's been angry all her life. If Overcast Light died through an accident and by no one's hoof, you can be angry at nothing, too. Be sad. Be furious. Fight. Rage against the fate that couldn't care less about you and abandoned your daughter to die. Life is never fair." She looks at me briefly, and I catch a glimpse of the weariness and pain in her eyes. "And . . . we'll be here when you come back."

The words trigger something in Rain Shine, because the moment she hears them, three things happen at once. One, with a howl of despair and fury so anguished it brings tears to my eyes, Rain Shine transforms once again in a massive pyre of fire and a blast of painful heat. Two, an unseen force shoves both myself and Tempest several lengths back, away from the epicenter. I'm knocked over, but Tempest manages to keep her footing. Three, a kirin, faster than I've ever seen her before, bolts in, horn still glowing from her sudden shove. She captures Rain Shine in a bone-breaking embrace, heedless of the fire and heat that clings to her body.

Rain Shine roars and screams and sobs words of anger into Autumn Blaze's shoulder, clutching her like a barrel in a storm, making sounds I've never heard from her before. She speaks in a language I can't understand, emotion clinging to every word. Autumn Blaze responds in kind, murmuring words of comfort back.

We don't know what they're saying, but the meaning expressed through emotion alone transcends language and makes itself known to those who care to listen.

It's the sound of healing.

What makes this especially tragic is that this is a well-worn story in Asian families. The Eastern family dynamic revolves more around respect and deference to parents than strictly getting along with them. That doesn't mean the love isn't there.
This definition of "tragedy" is mine. But the word is of course subject to interpretation—half of the Wikipedia article on "tragedy" is focused on defining it. One area of discussion that is relevant to Fimfiction is what the "tragedy" tag actually means. It comes paired with the "sad" tag so often (a much easier tag to understand) that they're often taken to mean the same thing—this character experienced a bad thing, and they and their friends are now sad. It's why "tragedy" without "sad" is one of the rarest tag combinations on Fimfiction. You may, therefore, want to ask the question: why is this story tagged this way?

Ashes

Word of what happened yesterday morning spread quickly through the kirin village. Rain Shine's own cry of despair also became a cry for help from her village. Many of them heard her, and all who did answered the call. What was one kirin embracing her became dozens gathered around her to offer what support they could. They didn't know exactly what had transpired, but the sight of their leader, normally so centered and wise now so distraught was enough to crack the hardest of hearts. Even Tempest's.

No one questioned; everyone only sought to help, whether it was by offering a comforting word or chasing away nosy animals or putting out the tiny fires that started when an errant ember inevitably managed to ignite something. The event also incidentally cured the kirin of their collective fear of their leader almost overnight; there was no other choice when one you perceived as mighty and vindictive appeared so weak and vulnerable. Even Fire Song spent precious little time vacillating before embracing Rain Shine, too.

And as Autumn Blaze correctly predicted, no one thought less of Rain Shine for the mistakes she made.

Today, Rain Shine was not there to participate in the morning song. I don't know how the kirin choose what to perform, but today, everyone chose to sing a simple lullaby with a repeating refrain, over and over. Even those who normally played instruments chose to sing today. As Fire Song later told me, it was the same lullaby Rain Shine sang to her daughter every night. Long had it been vaunted as sacred, one rarely performed because by convention, it could not be played, only sung. It was only after the events of yesterday that the village truly understood why. The morning song was always a ritual dedicated to kirin no longer among the living. And it was with this sacred song the village chose to dedicate their song that day to Overcast. Fire Song, always one to continue making music after the morning song was concluded, continued to sing to the heavens, eyes closed.

It's after the song that I sit on Rain Shine's veranda, watching the bustling village. Although "bustling" is somewhat hyperbolic—it's probably about as loud as it is outside Ponyville's library—but it's also a far cry from the village we arrived in and came to know in our visit. Kirin are out and about and speaking with each other. In quiet and hushed voices—Autumn's voice, as ever, carried the farthest—and not without some glancing around, like they were still worried about eavesdropping, but speaking all the same. It's the quiet murmur of a village of life.

"That's one thing that never changes around here," a deep and familiar voice behind me says. "The party."

I chuckle. "Tempest, I wouldn't exactly call this a party. And things have changed. Thanks to you."

Tempest settles beside me. "Maybe it's the music, then."

I sneak a glance at Fire Song again, still singing. Her eyes are still closed, and she's singing as beautifully as she ever played her lute, her delicate, reedy soprano floating over the village like a feather riding the wind. Maybe it's because the lullaby is a pleasant tune, or maybe it's because Fire Song is making music differently, but it almost seems like she's happier too.

"Tempest?" I start. She flicks an ear in response. As ever, whatever vulnerability she once had is thoroughly locked away, leaving the hard, unflappable Tempest as she's always been.

"I just wanted to tell you that . . ." I struggle to find a word Tempest wouldn't find patronizing or uncomfortable. As a pony, she never solicits nor expects praise. Not finding one, I surge ahead with the only word that fits. "I'm really, really proud of you. And for somepony who still didn't really know what friendship was even a few short moons ago, you've come a long way." I give her a smile.

True to form, Tempest barely reacts. She only responds back, "I was only thinking about what you would have wanted done and how to carry those orders out."

"Tempest, I'm sure you know by now that I didn't order you to do anything. Don't sell yourself short! You identified a friendship problem that meant a lot to you personally, and you used your experience to fix it. You're just as accomplished as any of the rest of my best friends."

"You would have done the same."

I shake my head. "No, I wouldn't have. And that's part of why I'm so happy for you. You heard what I said back then, that you have strengths that I don't. You can be as humble as you want, but don't forget that what you did today was something I just couldn't."

I sigh, thinking back to the argument. The argument I very nearly didn't want to participate in. "I don't have your experience in war. I don't have your perspective on conflict. I don't have nearly your personal philosophy with what makes a good and bad leader. And I don't have the initiative that you do. That courage to just . . . jump right into a new problem, neck deep, and learn to swim. I need to study things first."

I shake my head again. That sort of courage is something I'd normally call "foolhardy," but it seems to work for some ponies. "So . . . you did well, Tempest. What you did today just confirms to me that I was right in believing in you and giving you a second chance. Once upon a time, you were hated and misunderstood. And now look: you've really had an impact on the kirin. It'll be easier for them to make friends with each other, and others besides, like ponies and zebras and who knows who else. And we'll all be stronger for it. You've changed the world."

Of all the things I said, it's only the last sentence that draws a reaction out of Tempest. She sighs, not in disappointment but relief. "Good," she says. But there's clearly more to it than that.

She glances around in a familiar gesture. Here isn't nearly as private as where we normally talk, but Tempest also seems less bothered by it today. We are far enough away from the rest of the village so they shouldn't overhear, and getting up to find a room in the palace brings the curious issue that with Rain Shine missing and on the heels of a rather fiery quarrel, I don't know whether we're still welcome to her hospitality.

Tempest apparently comes to a similar conclusion because she asks no further questions and starts speaking again, more quietly. "Sometimes, I do miss the war. Not the killing or politics or questionably sane superior, but . . . everything I did mattered. Had an impact. There's very little of that to find when you're playing bureaucracy hoofball with the guard."

I don't miss the jab directed at me. Okay, I have to concede that I tried to keep Tempest in Canterlot for partially selfish reasons. She wanted to leave Equestria, but that would mean I'd scarcely be able to see her, if at all. And I did feel like that was a lot of work here that would appeal to her strengths. It's evident now that she's not content with just "finding work" and being another citizen. She wants to run at the forefront of history.

"Me among the mighty?" I murmur, quoting her.

"Something like that. Fame or infamy: either is better than being forgotten. After fate tried to erase her, Tempest Shadow will have a legacy." She stares off into the distance, a hungry look in her eyes.

It's also evident how dangerous that makes her even now, after her reformation. You can't truly understand a pony without knowing what motivates them. For the longest time, it was her horn. After the war, I don't think either of us knew what it was, and I was trying to help her discover it. Now, if it really is just "having a legacy," then nothing she's ever been motivated by is technically morally bound. It does confirm she was never truly a villain, but, as she conceded herself, she has a malleable moral compass. Now I know why. She's learned enough about friendship now that it'll always be a part of her, but she still has to be somewhere she can fulfill her purpose. If she can't find that purpose on this side of harmony, given enough time, she might not stay on it.1

It also worries me how focused she seems on the "legacy" part of it all. It's like she's more concerned about how she'll be perceived after her death than what she does in life. It's that worry that prompts me to ask another question of her. "Did you plan for Rain Shine to try and kill you? Or did you trust her so much that she wouldn't?"

She glances at me. "Not so much. But I was calling her bluff. Angering someone during a battle causes them to do things they normally wouldn't. A good strategy to try should you ever find yourself in a bad situation, Princess." Her mouth twitches. "I wanted to see where her limits were. If she didn't kill, I'd know she couldn't threaten me, and I could push her wherever I wanted. And then, maybe I could win that argument. But if she did . . ." She shrugs. "My life was always one that would end in fire, not at a desk or helpless on a hospital bed."

I look at her incredulously. Does she really have that little concern for her self-preservation? Yes, I know when it comes to negotiations, you need to concede something of yourself, but never does that mean you should concede your life! If this were the first time she made this sort of comment, I'd brush it off, but no, I feel like it's been like this ever since we arrived here. And now she's treating her life like a bargaining chip, a disposable resource, seemingly not aware or not caring you can only dispose of it once. I can't think of any diplomatic response to that.

Then buck diplomacy. If Tempest is so familiar with saying things as they are, maybe I should try it too.

"Tempest, forgive me for saying this, but that's stupid! I'd rather you back off so you could try again later. Maybe with a less risky tactic? There are plenty we could have tried instead of . . . whatever that was. Do you not care about yourself at all? Are you trying to get yourself killed?"

"Of course not," she says, though the answer gives me little reassurance.

"Then what are you doing? Why do you treat yourself like you don't care whether you live or die?"

"You ask that like it's a question." She turns to face me fully, once again fixing me with her intimidating gaze. "I'm going to die, Princess."

"Don't say that!"

"And why shouldn't I?" she challenges. "You know it's true."

"B-because you're being flippant about it! I'm talking about right now!" I cry, flaring my wings. "You deserve to live!" I huff and suppress the need to pace. Then I think about what brought us here, and I gasp. "Is this what your . . . condition is turning you into? You don't want to die slowly, so you'll die fast instead? I-I'll find a cure, Tempest, I will! If not here, then somewhere!"

"Princess," she says almost in a sigh, "you misunderstand. Sit down."

I blink and realize that I'm reared up, wings extended again, even as Tempest remains sitting, not even raising her voice to me. I fall back on all fours, chastised. This is personal to Tempest, and I ought not to be raising my voice to her, especially out in public. And I definitely shouldn't need Tempest to remind me of that. I'm supposed to be the calm and centered one—it's expected of me. I take a couple deep breaths to calm myself, then sit down, curling my tail about myself neatly.

Tempest continues. "It has always been like this, Princess, long before any of this happened. I sacrificed myself once for you already, at the end of the war. You recall?" I nod numbly, reliving the scene when Tempest jumped in front of us to intercept that orb of black magic. "I wasn't gambling that you'd find a way to bring me back to life. I decided at that moment I would give my life to save yours."

"Th-thank you?"

Tempest narrows her eyes, unimpressed. "Everyone's life in the military, even a officer's, is disposable. Your life does not belong to you—it belongs to those who command you and want something done, however it happens. You are always working to achieve something greater than yourself, even if that thing is something you do not and will never understand. I'm sure even your brother knows that. I sacrificed myself that day because, provided you came to no harm, you could do more good for the world that I ever could—and I did what I thought would give you the best chance to let that happen.

"Same concept today. I had a mission to save the kirin from a corrupt leader. And I did what I believed needed to be done to make that happen. The cause comes before the individual."

You didn't have to carry out the mission, though, I want to say. I don't say it because I know what Tempest would answer with. And I can't ask her not to do: she's made that very clear many times.

In the end, this feels like an argument we've had once before. Some lessons need teaching twice, as it were. She won't stop taking bone-headed risks in pursuit of what she believes is right—it's part of who she is. And I won't stop being concerned for my friends and protecting them, even from themselves—it's part of who I am.

Tempest must realize this too because she relaxes a bit and says quietly, "If you don't like it, give me an order."

Your life does not belong to you—it belongs to those who command you. What she just said echoes in my mind for the responsibility it entails. For however much it's true—Tempest is far from the only pony who'd give her life if I ordered it so—I still don't like it. I don't want this responsibility, to own a pony's life and be able to command them to their life or death. But then, I also do: if I didn't, what would she become? A pony without guidance who wants to leave a legacy, whether for good or ill. She'll find a way; she always does.

Power unshackled and with nothing to lose: the most dangerous force in the world.

Whatever the case, Tempest is offering herself at my heel, as her leader. An offer that only stands for as long as she gives me the privilege. I sigh. "I order you to . . . be careful. Don't wager your life for anything again, okay? At least not without talking to me. It's not worth it."

Tempest stares at me a moment longer, then slowly raises a hoof in salute.

I sigh again. "I'm sorry for arguing."

Tempest scoffs in amusement and smiles just a bit, an exceptionally rare sight on Tempest. She looks back out on the kirin village. "Don't be. It's how we learn."

To that, I smile too and shuffle a little closer to her. One way or another, she's still my friend.

The village has quieted. Fire Song has returned to playing an unnamed musical line on her lute, and most other kirin, save Autumn Blaze, of course, have returned to their homes. She's still prancing around, approaching the kirin or even the animals she finds and engaging them in conversation, for however much they want to talk. She finds one such animal, a parrot in a tree overlooking the village fountain, nibbling on safflower seeds. Autumn appears to chastise the bird like a mother would, and lights her horn to lift the seed shells from the water and deposit them outside of the village.

Dry leaves crunch behind us.

We turn around. There's Rain Shine, regal and beautiful as ever. She looks very much like she did when we first met her—dignified, serious, and unreadable. There's only one difference—a deep-seated weariness in her eyes.

"Your Majesty?" Tempest says, resurfacing the style she first used with Rain Shine. Challenging her to be worthy of it. She doesn't respond.

"H-how are you feeling?" I ask, going for a more informal tact.

Other than a twitch of the ears, she doesn't respond to me either. She studies Tempest long and hard, just as she did when she first met us. Tempest matches her gaze effortlessly.

Now that Rain Shine has had some time to gather herself, now that she's back to being the leader of the kirin village, I don't know how much of what happened yesterday will stick. Certainly, this is the same kirin who could have killed Tempest and threatened to do so a few times. It's also the one who finally found some much-needed emotional release thanks to her.

Rain Shine makes no motion to strike or hug Tempest. They continue to stare at each other. Two unbreakable souls who will never admit defeat to each other.

Finally, she speaks. "I do believe we will never be friends, Tempest Shadow."

Before I have a chance to protest, Tempest responds, "Likewise."

No one blinks.

"Violence is not appreciated here. It will never be appreciated in my village. A being of war will find it difficult to reconcile themselves in such a place."

"But conflict? Will you tolerate conflict?"2

Once again, Rain Shine doesn't respond. Instead, she produces three things. One, the encyclopedia volume I first asked her to translate. Two, a small hoof-written item that reads History and Magic of the Stream of Silence in Ponish on the front. Three, a stoppered wooden decanter. She offers them all to me but keeps her eyes on Tempest, and I take them in my magic. Carefully, I remove the cork from the decanter: the sudden feeling of pressure against my ears is all I need to know what's in it.

Before I have the chance to say anything or even thank her for her gifts, she turns and walks away.

"W-wait!" I call after her. Rain Shine does not turn around, but she does stop.

"Overcast Light's funeral will be the evening of the next new moon. Under the ginkgo."

She keeps walking.

A pony's purpose is represented by their cutie mark, right? So what's Tempest's? The movie, the show, the figurines, the mobile game, the comics, and even the card game (yes, that exists) are all frustratingly determined to keep that particular detail unknown. So screw it; this story is also going to conveniently not give an answer.
Tempest, as ever, has been rather culturally insensitive in this story. Most East Asian cultures do not ascribe nearly as much value to confrontation as Western culture, and I make no judgments as to which approach is "right." Being unable to confront is a different matter.

Interregnum

Maybe I ought to find a co-ruler.

It's not so much that the work I have to do on any given day is overwhelming—Horolog does a great job managing my schedule even at the worst of times—it's that nopony is there to take up the slack should I, well, slack. Spike is helpful as ever, but he's still an assistant—not to mention Equestria would never tolerate a dragon leading them for any significant amount of time.

And then there's the matter that the Ministries that wanted time with you for one reason or other still want time with you when you're back. Every. Single. One of them.

"Mister Trotsky," I begin, "all I can say to you is to give them a chance. You know I've made it a city ordinance to accommodate creatures of all species and all types, right? And this is Equestria's officially sanctioned orchestra. Yes, you are managing the performance at Canterbury Hall, and yes, the Philharmonic has been traditionally only unicorns. I understand that. But that doesn't make it right that you won't release the 'budget' of non-unicorn members that may be admitted or even allowed to audition."

"But think about how that would dilute our culture!" Trotsky says, a grey stallion with a bushy beard I'd almost be intimidated by. "Unicorns have always been purveyors of the art, just as pegasi have been stewards of the sky and earth ponies have, well, been farmers of the ground. And other species, well, who's to say their music is even suitable for us ponies?"

Some of the other members of the Ministry nod in assent. Most though, I can observe, are looking at Trotsky nervously. I suppose there is a level of blasé even the most traditional of unicorns will catch onto. Most nonsense in the Ministries I have to let slide simply because there's so much of it, but right now, I'm in no mood to entertain.

I twitch an ear. I maintain a formal decorum, a Princess' countenance, voice level as if giving a speech. "Mister Trotsky, I understand we have a relationship that goes farther back than most. You engaged me several times in discussions about music theory when I was still Celestia's student, one of the few things I was interested in. But—" I let a careful bit of my ire seep through "—I'd appreciate it if you didn't insinuate that as an alicorn, I didn't represent all three races of Equestria, and, as its leader, I didn't look out for them in addition to every other species that calls Equestria home."

Trotsky goes pale, realizing his mistake. I don't like to pull that card often, but this isn't the first time I've heard this argument either.

I sigh and continue, letting my expression return to neutrality. "As the Philharmonic represents the best musicians Equestria has to offer, it should represent everyone in it. And that's everyone, not just everypony.

"And . . ." I frown. "Isn't your composer-in-residence, your long-time friend from the Canterlot Conservatory, and the one who wrote your most recent symphony, a griffon?"

Trotsky doesn't need to nod to tell me I'm right. He must not have expected me to do my research.

"Just because you're not familiar with the yovidaphone doesn't mean it can't make beautiful music in the right hooves. Or have you heard of the hippogriffs and their glass harmonicas? They're beautiful, even moreso if you ever have the opportunity to listen to a concert underwater. Or that of . . ." I pause, thinking about my personal library. The library with a new volume.

I shake my head. "Excuse me. That of the kirin and their morning songs. Few kirin are raised to be musicians, but they can all come together to create a beautiful symphony with each other."

A nearly inaudible sound on my left from a pony clearing her throat tells me to wrap things up. Thank goodness.

I get up and make a show of stretching. Horolog gets up with me. "I'm afraid that's all the time I can spare for you today. I need to get going." As I walk off, I say, "Just . . . give things a shot, okay? Make this next season's open audition truly open. And listen with an open mind. Close your eyes, even, if that helps. I think you'll be surprised."

I don't wait to hear whether anypony protests, my patience having run thin about four meetings ago. As soon as I'm out of the room, I let out an inglorious groan, not caring about whether anyone hears me. "Anything else for the Princess?" I gripe sarcastically, asking no one in particular.

Horolog, attentive and as ever, answers the question anyway, pulling out a notepad. "No, Your Highness." She scribbles something down on it. "You have nothing else scheduled for today, unless you count the private study time you asked me to block off for you. You have a briefing with the Central Canterlot Intelligence two hours before sunrise tomorrow, so I'd suggest turning in early tonight."

'Oh, thank Cel—well, thank me, I guess." We arrive at the doors to my personal chambers in short order. "And thank you, Horolog. You really are a lifesaver. I appreciate you, you know, keeping the country running while I was gone. That can't have been easy for you to manage."

If she's upset about my unplanned disappearance or pleased with my laudatory words, she doesn't express either. She only offers a bow and says, "I live to serve you, Princess."

"You can turn in early, Horolog. I shouldn't have any more need for you tonight. Thanks again for your help."

Horolog bows again before leaving. I frown, distracted by an errant thought. I'm just now counting the number of times she and other ponies have bowed to me or Celestia and comparing that to the number of times it's served a functional purpose—it's not a great ratio.

I huff and enter my chambers. Horolog might have been advising me to sleep early to prepare for tomorrow—a recommendation I'd be happy to take any other day—but evenings are the few times I actually have time to myself.

I step inside and crumple onto the plush carpet in a heap. Silently, I light my horn and bring over the newest addition to my library: History and Magic of the Stream of Silence.

If only I could clear out my schedule so I'd have more time to study this. But Horolog made it very clear that I'd already burned virtually all the goodwill I had from my previous non-stop study sessions and my unscheduled escapade. Everypony wants my time now, and they won't wait. If I asked her, she'd figure out a way to do it, I'm sure. And I'm tempted, I definitely am. But I don't know how many more times I can put my head down and ignore Equestria before someone breaks down my door.

In any case, I use the little time I've carved out for myself to crack open the tome and read what Rain Shine spent so many days and nights creating for me:

Formation
For as long as kirin and their ancestors have settled on Da Huangdi Shan, the Stream has blessed them with life and prosperity. Its formation can be attributed to the Great Founder of the kirin, Sheng Mofa. She created the Stream when she was foraging for her family. A bolt of lightning struck the ground, igniting the trees and bushes. Sheng Mofa was unable to stop the fire, and it quickly spread. The fire devoured the forest of the mountain and the plains around it, leaving everything unfit for even the smallest of animal.

When she returned home to ascertain the safety of her family, she found they had all perished, along with the thatched home which had been in her family for generations. She spent three moons weeping, and her tears created the Stream. Even so, she could not live with her sorrow, and she chose to lose herself in the water. Her love bestowed upon The Stream the properties that make it as it is today.

While not the only source of water at Da Huangdi Shan, its properties make it an excellent location for settlement of civilization. The water is particularly fertile and creates excellent farming conditions when used for irrigation and watering. It also does not flood or drought, unlike the other rivers at Da Huangdi Shan. Neither does it wander or create new streams as rocks and ground wear away. For as long as kirin have settled near the river, it has never deviated from its path, making it a consistent and dependable resource.

The Stream is wholly responsible for the lush foliage and fertile grounds of Da Huangdi Shan. It keeps its lifeforce concentrated on the mountain, creating a fertile area over one hundred shouts across. Da Huangdi does not benefit from the Stream and thus remains unfit for civilization. What water sources it does have are cursed, polluted, and prone to vices the Stream does not have. They cannot sustain a settlement. Thus, Da Huangdi forms a vast natural barrier that discourages roaming tribes from wandering inside and disrupting the harmony Da Huangdi Shan. Travelers must know what is at Da Huangdi Shan and be determined enough to make the journey.

The first civilizations at—

I start as my door crashes open.

"Princess!" a gruff and demanding voice calls from behind me.

I take a deep breath. Slowly, I close the tome before me. So much for that. My door's being broken into already. I speak in a warning tone, not bothering to hide my frustration at being interrupted. "This has better be good." I turn around and immediately recognize the lanky build and pretentious demeanor of the stallion who broke into my chambers. Chancellor Neighsay. My annoyance grows threefold.

I frown. "What's so urgent that you needed to break into my personal chambers in the middle of the night to tell me? Why shouldn't I call the guards to escort you out? You have ten seconds: start talking." I normally wouldn't be this rude, but, well, rudeness greets itself with rudeness, and I don't have the patience for him today.

Chancellor Neighsay growls, then says, "Your secretary wouldn't let me near you today."

Gee, I wonder why.

Suddenly, he produces a large tome of his own and slaps it down in front of me. I read the title just as Neighsay says it: "Friendship School Spring Budget." The tome glows a faint orange as he flips through the pages. "The meeting to finalize the budget was supposed to be a week ago," he growls to me. "You were not in attendance."

"And?" I ask.

"And!?" he asks incredulously. "We've been planning the meeting for moons. Moons, Princess! You were supposed to approve it! You were needed to approve it!" He settles on a page of the tome near the back, neatly showcasing a line with an "X" in front of it. Conspicuously, it calls for a signature, but there's nothing written there.

I stifle a snort of derision. "Chancellor, you're the head of the Equestrian Education Association. You know more about the education system than I do. If I'm not there, you have the authority to sign the budget for me. You and the Ministry have the mandate, and you should know that."

"'I have the mandate,' she says! Well, Princess, if I do know more about the education system than you do, allow me to educate you. The Friendship School was one that you chartered and constructed by yourself. I was only made aware of the school after you already created it, and it was over my—initial—protests that it continues to exist. It was never made under EEA guidelines, and it exists beyond its oversight.

Tell me something I don't know. We both know you're still upset you don't get to control it.

"That is how it continues to operate—outside the auspices of the EEA and Ministry of Education. We have no direct say in how it operates, only recommendations and guidelines—and this is by your express wishes. Celestia first provided a grant to you to construct and operate the school, but it, as does any school, requires continuous funding to operate. The Ministry of Education does not approve funding for the Friendship School. The Crown does."

All of the sudden, the annoyance and frustration I felt towards Neighsay vanishes. I have reason to be annoyed at him most of the time, but not when he has a point I can't argue with. I reach the same conclusion long before he spells it out.

Chancellor Neighsay puts on a grim sort of smile. "Say what you will about me, Princess. We have our disagreements. But I do care about the proper education of our ponies of Equestria and whomever else you think should tag along. You did not express your approval of the budget before you left on your little escapade. You did not provide any interim funding. You did not even ask to delay the meeting. The Ministry has its hooves tied when it comes to administering your school. And that is why it is by your negligence that the Friendship School will not be operating for the next semester.

"Already, students and their parents have asked the Ministry why school has not reopened for them. We cannot answer them—this school is not an EEA school. We can only say the Princess did not approve funding for it. Since she has complete executive control of the school, she makes the choices regarding its operations. The choice to staff it, the choice to fund it, and the choice to shut it down. I do not envy the task you have ahead, explaining to the press, your instructors, and your students why the school will not be opening."

My heart sinks at every word Neighsay says. I don't have a snippy response to counter them, either. Because they're all true. Some part of me must have been aware that all this was happening back home—I just chose not to think about that part. Already, I can think of many more consequences Neighsay didn't mention.

The School's not been operational for very long, and it's still trying to form a reputation for itself in the eyes of Equestria and other nations. Being endorsed by a Princess but not Equestria's own Ministry gave it a mixed reputation from the very start, a hole it's still trying to climb out of. The fact it's shutting down now, even if temporarily, isn't going to do that any favors. Students will be concerned about its stability.

It reflects poorly on me, too. Starlight might be Headmare now, but I'll always play an integral part in it, just as Celestia did for her School for Gifted Unicorns. My name might as well be on the school, like hers. I could have harmonized the school with the EEA once I began governing, but I chose to keep it separate—the farther away the school could stay from Neighsay and his restrictive policies, the better. It shouldn't have been a problem, and in every other circumstance, it wouldn't. What does it say about me, the Princess of Friendship, when I chose to keep the Friendship School in my sole hooves and out of the hooves of politics, and I still couldn't keep it running? What could others say about me, a new and inexperienced leader, if they were already skeptical?

Neighsay must have read the mortification on my face. He nods duly. "You see why I felt I had to interrupt you at the first opportunity?"

I nod numbly.

Neighsay bows quickly and shallow, just enough to skirt around irreverence. "The Ministry lives to serve. But I'm afraid that right now, Princess, you are on your own."

Once he leaves my chambers, I bury my face in my hooves.

Friendship Through Fire

"Scandal" is such a strong and loaded word. And I hope this event will eventually fall off from being called one. But "new Princess of Equestria" and "scandal" put together is just too good a story to pass up, I guess. I sift through the newspapers and tabloids on my desk:

Princess Twilight's Shuts Down Her Own School of Friendship: What's She Planning?

School of Friendship Languishes While Twilight Goes on a Safari

62% of Hippogriffs and 71% of Yaks Disapprove of Equestria's Government

Add that to the schedule—I've spent some significant portion of each day answering questions about what happened, why I did it, when the School would be open again, if the School would open again . . . they're endless. And I really don't have a good answer.

I can't say the real reason—it involves Tempest, and I can't bring her and her personal struggles into this "scandal" just to save face. I can't be that self-centered. Based on train ticket records, ponies did figure out I went to the Windswept Plains—though most of them weren't aware there was any significant civilization there past roaming nomads. (The kirin really have fallen into legend.) The best I've been able to put together? I can't talk about what I was doing in the Windswept Plains, though I will in due time. Rest assured, it was very important. I was so busy that I was unable to sign the budget for the Friendship School.

And I'm very, very sorry about my negligence.

Most ponies were not convinced by this answer and ballyhooed that I was avoiding the question. I don't blame them. They're right.

On their part, my friends, including Starlight, were quick to forgive me and offer me their support. They knew why all this happened, and they didn't blame me for it. Starlight even managed to pull some strings and keep the School open for tours for prospective students. And she's been invaluable in damage control, mentioning to anyone who will listen that she has no qualms about the Crown's stability or the School's continued operation.

That's not saying I haven't had to do a lot of damage control myself. I think I've had more arguments in the past few weeks than I have in the rest of my life. Even something as innocuous as a midday meal has turned into a political jousting match. A seemingly harmless bit of small talk like "The upper boroughs of Fillydelphia are looking dry today" can turn into a heated discussion about whether I've been appropriately managing the weather services up there. Because, well, if I made a mistake with my own school, we'll have to check the rest of the Princess' work, right?

Ever since I arrived home, ponies have been vying for me to explain why I said this so many moons ago or clean up something pertaining to that. That is, if they're not already talking about the School (which they are). Somehow, Horolog has found time for me to accomodate all this and still give me time to breathe at the end of the day. Just enough time to breathe—I couldn't pick up a bit from the street without falling behind schedule.

So despite being surrounded by ponies at all times, these are the times I feel especially alone.

As one of my first priorities on getting the ill-timed news from Neighsay, I did manage to secure funding such that the School could open again in a few weeks, but only for recreation, grounds maintenance, and minor electives. The Friendship School follows the same academic schedule as every other school in Equestria—it might be divorced from the EEA, but it's still a school—and there's only so much you can do with half a semester.

I groan, still reeling from the public interview I gave just a moment ago, one of many, this one with some of the parents of students who were set back a semester. This cohort was full of questions, not all of them friendly. Yes, the students would attend as soon as the school was open again; yes, they would graduate as scheduled; yes, the same professors would be teaching. One family in particular was particularly insistent that their son return to school as soon as possible, even though their son didn't appear particularly happy about it. I'd normally stop the interview, take the son aside, and try to understand why he wasn't excited about friendship. But considering everything that's happened, I can't say I'm terribly excited about it, either.

The question I couldn't answer was why. Not that I didn't have an answer—I tried to answer in the same way I did the newspapers: that it was a mistake on my part and it wouldn't happen again. But if their follow-ups were anything to go by—what broke that needed fixing, what political faction forced me to shut down the school, where was the money redirected to—they wouldn't take that as an answer.

And I can't say I wasn't expecting that. The public seems to be of two minds about this event: one is intent on using it as cannon fodder to make the case that I'm not ready for leadership. The other is convinced this is part of some grand cosmic chess game, and they're intent on figuring out where they are on the board.

I groan again. "How can I get ponies to believe that I'm still Twilight? Nerdy librarian, likes making friends, reads lots of books, governs on occasion? And is capable of making honest mistakes? We sang a whole song about that once." I grouse aloud.

"I'm sorry Princess, but I don't have an answer for you," she answers curtly but not rudely, not looking up from her notepad.

I frown and nod to myself grimly. Sometimes, I get annoyed by the fact that Horolog doesn't offer me feedback on what I'm doing past telling me what I have next on my schedule—while she's nominally a secretary, she's been around me long enough that I'm sure she could be a great sounding board for ideas at the very least. Just as my friends were to me while I still lived in Ponyville.

But then I remember all the nonsense I put her through and all the situations she's gotten me out of in the past few weeks, and she accepted all those with nary a complaint. Horolog is a professional—in every sense.

Sometimes, I hate professionals.

It would be nice to have a companion I could vent to who lived in Canterlot and didn't want something from me—there are few enough ponies who meet the latter requirement. I vent to my friends, but they're not always around—the Council of Friendship won't reconvene for another week, and then they'll be gone for another moon. Even Princess Celestia had her sister for this (for the latter portion of her reign, anyway).

"Do I have any other ponies I need to talk to today?" I ask in a sigh.

"One, Your Highness. I'm afraid somepony asked for a personal audience with you." Horolog frowns. "Considering what you've needed to do in the last few weeks, we tried to say you weren't available, but she showed us a Priority Audience card." Horolog pauses and squints at her notepad. "For 'Tempest Shadow.'" She looks up. "Did you want me to cancel?"

I bite my lip. I have been planning on talking with her again since coming back from the kirin lands, but owing to my catch-up and now this "scandal," personal time has been very hard to find. And the fact that Tempest is asking to speak with me is concerning. She even pulled a literal rank card to do it. She's never done that before. I can only think of one reason why, a reason that, because of how much time I've had to study (none), I still don't have a good answer for.

At the same time, I'm also relieved. Here's a familiar face somewhere in my endless parade of sycophants and politicians. And she wants to talk about something that, indirectly, has caused me no end of stress recently. It would be nice to talk with somepony who didn't have an agenda with me, whether about my recent decisions or decisions I've yet to make. Talking about anything different would be a welcome break. And now, more than ever, I could use a friend.

"No," I say wearily. "Please send her in and leave us be. Thank you, Horolog."

She quickly scribbles a few more notes into her notepad and offers a short bow before leaving.

I light my horn and lift Rain Shine's translation from the bookshelf I'd been stowing it in before leaving it to hang in midair, contemplating. I sigh and replace the book back on its shelf.

Tempest comes in in short order, making herself known not by slamming the door or clearing her throat but by her indomitable presence, as always.

I turn to offer her a small smile in greeting, but it arrests, half-formed on my face. Tempest's expression is hard, harder than normal. Her brows are furrowed, as always; her eyes are narrow, as always; and she's frowning, as always. But it's some miniscule amplification of all of those features that tell me that she's upset. That she's upset with me.

"T-Tempest?"

"I wasn't expecting this from you, Princess," Tempest says. There's just a bit more edge to her voice, too.

"I-I'm sorry; I haven't had much time to research the Stream for your cure," I say, unsurely.

"Do you think I'm upset about that?" She snorts. "Princess, I've read the news too as I'm sure you have. The School closed. Students don't have classes this semester."

"I-I'm sorry?" I say, taken aback. I . . . wasn't expecting Tempest to grill me on exactly the same subjects everypony else has been these last few weeks. I didn't even expect she'd be interested in them.

"One of the ponies who attends the school lives close to me, you know. I was walking home when he mentioned he couldn't go to school, and that caught my attention." She glares at me with piercing eyes. "He doesn't get along with his parents. He had to convince them to let him go to the School, and they only agreed because it would be an excuse not to have him in the house any longer. He stayed in the dorms year-round so he wouldn't have to return home for as long as he was enrolled. Now this, and he has a semester he's spending with his parents instead of his friends."

"I, uh . . ."

"His parents beat him. He had bruises, well hidden, when I found him. He tried to hide them from me, but I've seen more than enough bruises and wounds to know what they look like, even if their owner doesn't want them known. And this all happened in the short weeks between sessions. He was an earth pony born to a generation of unicorns. When he was born, they wanted to disown him. They wanted to outcast him because he was . . ." Tempest glances up at her horn before leveling her steely gaze back at me. " . . . different. Couldn't do the same things the unicorns he was surrounded by could. Couldn't make friends because of that.

"It's only in Ponyville where ponies and creatures of all types come together that he was able to get along with others. Where he finally made true friends. It's at the school that he finally found his cutie mark, a pickaxe, last session. He intended to find his way in Ponyville or Appleoosa upon graduating and to never return home again. That's how bad it got. Now . . ." Tempest narrows her eyes. "Imagine what his parents thought when he returned from exile with a thoroughly earth pony mark."

"I'm, uh . . ." I take a deep breath, trying to find myself again in Tempest's unexpected tirade. "I was at the Peaks of Peril. I can't say what I was doing there, though I will in due . . ."

What am I saying? Tempest was there, and she knows what I was doing there. What we were doing there! She of all ponies should understand. I shake my head violently.

"Tempest, you remember what we were doing! And why we were doing it! I'm sorry, I really am. I'll find this colt and these parents and give them a piece of my mind, I promise. And I made a mistake, I know. But I made it already, and I would make a hundred more for you!"

"Then you are more of a fool than I thought, Princess," she says darkly. "Have you considered that perhaps you shouldn't have done it?"

Are we actually back to this again? How much of that self-preservation instinct really exists in her? I stand up, voice growing louder. "No, Tempest, because you're my friend, and friends stick together! Friends are loyal to one another, and they don't give up on each other! I'm not giving up on you, even if you seem to have given up on yourself, not for anything!"

"'Anything'? Be careful what you wish for, Highness, because 'anything' means anything. Would you look this colt in the eyes and say what you said to me? Would you condemn him to moons with his parents and whatever goes on in an earth pony-hating household? That you would will him harm in exchange for a few tchotchkes for a pony he barely knows? And say his suffering is the due cost he has to pay?"

"I . . ." Why does Tempest need to be so argumentative but so logical? She's wrong, I know she is, but the points she's bringing up are real points that are difficult to argue with. "I want to save your life, Tempest!" I cry. "Why are you arguing with me?!"

"Because his is not the only story in this mistake of yours." Tempest grows louder too, her voice carrying all the authority that made her a Commander. She doesn't need to be loud to be heard, so she's doubly frightening when she is. She takes a step closer. "If it was him alone and the cure was absolute, then yes, do what you need to do. But it isn't, and it's not. He was one I talked to, but there are dozens more with whom I didn't. Perhaps their crises are greater or lesser than his. I do not know, but I do know there are more like him.

"And then there are your remaining responsibilities you fobbed off as well. Yes, I read about those too. Can you say that none of that didn't hurt ponies? Can you say no one was hurt by those actions or inactions?"1 She takes one more step. I can feel her breath on my face. "I am not that important, Princess. I am not you—I am not someone for whom Equestria will stop functioning if she doesn't exist. I will not be a burden on others, and I absolutely refuse to be a burden on dozens of others, any one of whom has a story to tell just like that colt. Can you honestly say that a single pony's life is worth more than all of those consequences put together—nay, a chance at a single pony's life? Even if it is my own?

"Is that who a Princess is? Someone who acts more in her own interests than those she represents?"

Once again, I struggle against Tempest's points and her suffocating presence, that which makes it hard for her to lose arguments, no matter how asinine. And it is an asinine argument. I know that in my heart. Even still . . .

Even still, I feel my will to continue to fight against Tempest's point after pointless point dwindling. It's not even what I wanted to talk with her about! Not that talking about her condition or my progress at a cure would be pleasant either, but now, she's making it out like she doesn't even want to hear about the fruits of the mission we spent the better part of a moon to win!

What I really wanted—what I really needed at a time like this—was a friend. Someone who'd listen and not judge me for every decision I made. Someone with whom I know I could talk about anything to and not jeopardize our relationship. Someone I could tell about all the stupid and stressful things I've been doing lately so that in the end, I might feel better having let it all out. I needed someone kind. Or loyal. Or honest or generous or laughing.

I didn't need this.

With a vast howl of frustration, anger, and grief, I crumple onto the floor of my chambers, holding my head in my hooves. I don't care what Tempest is doing. I don't care if my guards hear and break down my door. I don't care if Horolog tells me I have a meeting with the dragons in one minute and they'll burn Equestria to ruins if I don't attend. That just makes it another stupid consequence I didn't calculate.

I look up, angry tears in my eyes. Tempest stands high above me, but with a vastly changed expression. She's shocked.

Good.

"Then maybe I'm not a Princess," I say with a broken voice and a broken heart. "And maybe I never was. If that's who you want to follow—someone who can always calculate the best decisions and carry them out for the good of everypony—then you should move on and find someone else. Because that's not me. Maybe I lead Equestria now and I speak for it, but leadership doesn't define me, and it never did. That was always Celestia's forte, not mine.

"I . . ." I sniffle and struggle not to turn it into a sob. "I'm just a friend, and that's all I'll ever be. I guess . . . I guess you'll never know how it feels when your friends' lives are being held hostage before your eyes, and one of those friends tries to convince you to let them go. One of them says 'we aren't worth it.' Friends whom you've been with for so long that they define your identity. I knew, I always knew, that my friends would come first, no matter the cost. Because without them, life isn't worth living. Without them, Equestria isn't worth saving.

"So no, I didn't calculate what the value of your life was compared to all those I hurt. I didn't consider that there might be more affected by my actions and that it might add up to be something bigger. And maybe when it comes to the 'greater good,' whatever that is, there is a better answer, and Celestia would have seen it and chosen it. And maybe Equestria would be better off if I was more like that. But I know I'm not like that, and I never will be. B-because for everything in Equestria and all that it's worth . . ."

With a wretched sob, I rear up and grab Tempest's shoulders with my forehooves. Her eyes meet mine, and for the first time, my gaze is stronger than hers.

"You're worth everything to me!"

I release her and fall back to the ground, unable to speak further. I shield my head with my hooves as if they might protect me from another righteous attack on my decisions. I've felt a lot of things since becoming Princess of Equestria: uncertain, inarticulate, in over my head. But never in despair. The tears come unrelenting, hard and fast.

Once I can find my voice again, I make no attempt to hide my emotions. Tempest appears before me as nothing more than a soggy shape in my teary eyes. "S-so if I'm condemned by the press, if I'm condemned by Equestria, if I'm condemned by you for the actions I make for my friends, in the name of friendship . . . I guess I'll keep getting condemned, because that's who I am."

I turn away from her and try to wipe my eyes again. It's all this that forces me to think: did Celestia really make the right choice in ceding an entire nation's leadership to me? Everything I said was the complete truth. And I do genuinely believe that the bonds of friendship are what give Equestria strength. But if I were given a chance to wager the entirety of Equestria against my best friends, or even a single one of them, I know I wouldn't take that bet. I never have. How would Celestia feel, how would Equestria feel if they knew I felt this way? That I'd willingly throw them all away for someone who only means something to me? Does that make me selfish?

Friendship can be a curse, I know. When your friends betray you, even for a moment, it hurts, and it hurts so much more than if you hadn't been so close to them. Other nations have governed themselves just fine without friendship at its helm. What I'm doing is new—it was new to Celestia too—flying this virtue to be of paramount importance to Equestria. I need to convince the world that I know what I'm doing, and all I have is my own barely-existent governing experience to do it with. Even Neighsay has more than I do. Celestia believed in me to bring Equestria to greater heights through the bonds of friendship, but do I believe in myself? There's an entire nation at stake. I don't know whether I'll fly us straight into the ground. Guided by the blind.

And maybe that makes me a bad leader. Considering Tempest, I may very well trust her to have a better eye for proper leadership than I do now. If this is truly what it takes to be a leader—an objective view on the actions you make and their consequences on those you lead—I will never live up to that expectation. How much of a leader can I be? How much of a leader can I possibly become?

So it's surprising that I feel a coat and muzzle nestle itself against my side in a warm embrace. It can only have come from one pony.

"I am sorry, Princess," Tempest says in a foreign voice. It's hers, but soft and pitched with uncertainty. "No. I am sorry, Twilight."

"H-huh?" Even as I'm saying that, I can't help but press myself a little closer to Tempest. It's just . . . I don't really understand why she is, but she's offering exactly what I need right now . . .

"You did not fail Equestria as a Princess. I failed you as a friend. And . . ." Her voice grows more contrite with every word, a tone I've never heard from Tempest. "I should have known that from the start." She brings a hoof over my back and wings and squeezes me. It takes every bit of my willpower for me not to collapse into her hooves as an insensate mound of melancholy.

Tempest's voice is low and quiet in my ears, her words warm and far divorced from the commanding and deliberate tone she normally has. "You spent moons rehabilitating me in your castle in Ponyville, trying to teach me about the auspices of friendship. And you believed that I learned of it well enough to instruct Rain Shine in its ways. I . . . I evidently still have much to learn.

"The time in the mountains that I spent with you taught me something. It's that no one should be above or below in friendship. I call you Princess because you lead Equestria, you have a pure moral compass, and you have proven you deserve the title. I've said all that to you before. And for everything I've said today, I still believe it. But . . . I also call you Princess because you instruct me, and because I defer to you when making my own judgments. You know the way.

"For as long as I have known you, you have only ever been the Princess who offered me clemency, the one I owe my free life to. 'Learn from her,' I told myself. 'Learn and do not question why, and do not question her, or you risk losing everything you've ever gained, any happiness you now have, any purpose you might find.'

"But with the kirin, you let me question. You let me question you and your philosophy on how we should have saved them, or even at all. You let me experiment with whether I knew the way. And then, when I tried to walk down the path I'd set for myself . . . we came together to truly find it. Both of us, accomplishing something neither of us could alone. Something we couldn't have done as just Princess and subject. But I didn't acknowledge it at the time, that we did it together. Rather, it was you who commanded my hoof to move, and it did. That is how it's always been. You were still Princess. You still led. You still knew."

"I don't," I respond in a small voice. "Sometimes, I feel like I don't know anything. I'm just a pony. I've only just started this leading Equestria thing."

"I know. And it's okay that you don't. But I grew . . . offended when I met that colt. Because when I saw him, I also saw a Princess who was supposed to know the way but instead threw away so much time and responsibility for a mere side project. That colt asked me a question: 'Why isn't the Princess letting me go to school?' I didn't have an answer for him. I couldn't tell him the Princess failed to protect him." I hear Tempest sigh from beside me. "Military, Pr—Twilight. Do you understand? The mission comes first. And I thought you had forgotten.

"You stepped down from the mantle of unassailable Princess. Or pedestal, should I say, because it was one. But I had not yet found another place to put you. In my mind, you were one who led, and one who had a bad approach in how to lead. 'It worked on Rain Shine,' I told myself. 'It must work on this one, too. Correct her.'

"But our adventure in the kirin lands taught me you're more than a leader. You are a friend. You're . . ." She squeezes me a little tighter, and I feel a little warmer. "You're my friend. A friend with wishes and desires and a heart as fragile as anypony's. A friend who can be hurt by the flippant words I speak when I am no longer awed by her Princesshood but neither do I see her as a friend deserving of compassion or empathy. And I should be more sensitive about that. You taught me that friends should stick together. They're loyal, and honest, and kind, and everything else you have ever instructed me about. And . . ."

Tempest noses at my own muzzle, and I turn to face her. There, I see eyes that are unmistakably Tempest but also terribly alien. Gone is the easy confidence and guarded disdain that only spoke of intimidation and made her Tempest Shadow, Hoof of the Storm. Instead, here is uncertainty and vast vulnerability and regret, crushing in its depths and nearly as crushing to observe.

"I have been honest with you, Twilight. But I have not been loyal or kind. And I have not been a good friend to you. I am sorry, Twilight, for not being there when you needed me. Will you . . . forgive me?"

Looking in her eyes, it feels like I'm seeing Tempest Shadow again for the first time. And in a way, I am. I've never seen this pony before—but I'd like nothing more than to get to know her. I put on a smile that breaks us both, and I wrap her with both my forehooves.

"Of course, Tempest," I whisper. "You know I will. Friends always do."

Tempest returns my hug with encompassing warmth. "I'm sorry for yelling at you."

I can't help but offer a small chuckle. "Don't be. It's how we learn."

There's a word for this in moral philosophy: utilitarianism. I think it's fitting that Tempest subscribes to this philosophy.

Soothsayer

While the silencing properties of the Stream were discovered quickly, it was also found to be exceptional when used in agriculture. These simultaneous life-giving and life-altering properties mean kirin settlements in different circumstances have always chosen to settle roughly the same distance from the Stream. Not close enough that a kirin may wander into the Stream by accident, but not so far that the water cannot be used easily for agriculture. This distance has been codified as the unit "shout."

In the Warring Tribes period, silencing was used against prisoners of war to discourage escape attempts and reduce their value if rescued. The water was also itself a potent weapon in large enough quantities, but transporting it was hazardous.

Empress Morning Star was the first Empress to emerge from this period with a peaceful civilization. Even then, forceful silencing was a common punishment used against those who committed certain crimes or offended the Empress. It was considered a more merciful punishment than tongue-cutting.

There exist reports that former criminals would regain their voice, expressing the mercy and great magical powers of their Empress. In reality, Morning Star was one of the first kirin to discover that silencing had an antidote that could be created from certain flowers. She had access to a small field of these flowers that she used to cure kirin in exchange for loyalty and certain favors.

"So the Stream was first used as a punishment," Tempest muses.

"Yeah. And it was known that there was an antidote for it back then. I wonder how Autumn Blaze came to be the only one with that knowledge."

We're once again in my personal chambers, Rain Shine's translated tome between myself and Tempest. We decided that when it was time once again to delve into the magic of the Stream of Silence and search for the cure, we'd do it together. Tempest made me promise I'd find time to study, but only once the Friendship School was back open and I otherwise had nopony knocking on my door for something I missed in my absence.

Tempest volunteered after our . . . encounter that she was willing to share her own story. Her whole story, from her medical catastrophe to her time with the Storm King to her current condition and our venture into foreign lands in search of a cure. In her words, it would be the first thing she did for me as a true friend. It was a precious gift she gave me, and it let me better answer the many questions I received from the public. By no means did it reverse my mistake, but it offered justification for it. Thanks to her, public sentiment around me improved a great deal. I was no longer the irresponsible leader who took unjustified vacations—I was the Princess of Friendship who'd do anything for a friend. And it made it easier for me to justify carving out time to devote to research.

That time, unfortunately, still took far too long to come around. Of course, I'd have preferred that time to be as soon as possible, but Tempest made it very clear to me—she refused to hear another word from me until my other obligations were complete. For as emotional the appeal I gave to her was, she remained and remains driven by practical arguments and the "greater good," whatever that is. That included intervening on the part of that poor colt and providing some "therapy" for the parents; Tempest was particularly eager to have that particular conversation, and I had no qualms about her saving me from doing it myself.

It's no small amount of irony either that Tempest seems to have a better sense of "greater good" than I do, but I wouldn't have it any other way.

"It seems to be a pattern among Empresses to have power over others," Tempest comments, returning my attention to the book. "And to suppress knowledge that they have that power. Perhaps Rain Shine did, too."

I press my lips together. Knowledge is powerful, and that's why suppressing knowledge is doubly powerful and triply evil. As a particularly dark thought, all the words we're reading now are a translation, not the original source material. There's no one in Equestria—no one in the world that I know of besides Rain Shine herself—who is capable of reading the original source and could corroborate that the translation we have now is completely accurate.

I shake my head. The thought borders on conspiracy; she had no reason to inject inaccuracies, and if she really didn't want us reading this, she didn't have to give us the translation at all. "We have to believe in Rain Shine's honesty and good intentions," I say. "I'm sure Rain Shine didn't know the cure existed until Autumn Blaze found it."

Tempest merely "hmphs" and returns her eyes to the book.

The Morning Star dynasty lasted for six generations. When they were deposed and replaced by Emperor Willow Wood, the Stream of Silence remained an integral part of his reign and his dynasty, but it was used not as a penalty but as a means of social stratification.

Silenced kirin were relegated to a lower social stratum due to an inability to express themselves clearly. Silencing also could persist across generations, limiting social mobility. Two silent kirin would beget silent offspring, no Stream exposure necessary. At least one sounded kirin would beget sounded offspring, regardless of whether their partner was silenced.

Willow Wood first forbade cross-sound partnerships, though this edict was inconsistently enforced by later leaders of the dynasty. Even so, the social stigma associated with silence meant such partnerships were rare, and one rarely admitted to being the child of such a partnership for fear of being forcefully silenced.

One child of such a partnership, Morning Mist, was angry with this arrangement and deposed of the Willow Wood dynasty. Her reign was unique in that she sought to eliminate the kirin's reliance on the Stream of Silence entirely, calling it a "weapon against harmony." She even moved her hub of leadership as far as six shouts from the Stream, making it impossible to reach the Stream within a day's travel and forcing her village to use other less fertile and more capricious sources of water. She also swore to cure as many kirin as she could from silence, but her inability to find more of the necessary flower made it such that her swear was in vain.

She also had a temper, one that had her transform into her nirik form on several occasions. Without access to Stream water, kirin were forced to either wait until Morning Mist's temper cooled, or in extreme cases, strike her horn hard enough to knock her out and forcefully end her transformation. Needless to say, she was an unpopular leader. The fourth time circumstances necessitated she be knocked out, she woke up on the shore of the Stream of Silence, both her voice and Diadem stolen from her.

"Is it truly worth our time to review the Stream's history?" Tempest says.

"Uh . . ." I shake myself out of my reverie. It is fascinating to be sure, and I'd like nothing more than to spend the next week poring over the book in detail. But Tempest is right: our time would be better spent on more relevant topics. "Right. Let's . . ."

I flip through the book until I find a promising subtitle.

Properties
The Stream of Silence is best known for its silencing properties against any higher form of life. Bathing in the water for a short time or drinking more than a few mouthfuls renders kirin permanently silent, unable to make sounds from the mouth, only the body. This property does not extend to birds, squirrels, wolves, or other wildlife, however. They regularly drink from the Stream and experience no harm from it.

The Stream also significantly reduces a kirin's predilection to transform into nirik. A normal circumstance that would cause a sounded kirin to transform would not if they were silenced. While it is possible for a silenced kirin to turn, this requires a particularly calamitous event. A silenced kirin who does transform remains silent as a nirik, and when they revert, they tend to fall ill for several days.

Plants and vegetation are forms of already silent life and are therefore unaffected by the Stream's silencing properties. They also appear to benefit from the water, exhibiting greater resistance against drought, flood, and pests. Plants regularly watered with Stream water also exhibit faster growth, greater resilience to natural disasters, and increased fertility. This property is why kirin have always chosen to settle relatively close to the Stream. No other source of water is as beneficial to agriculture.

Wildlife also appears to benefit from this effect, though to a lesser extent.

The effects of the Stream are permanent. Kirin who have been silenced remain so for the rest of their lives. It is not necessary to re-expose a kirin to the Stream for them to remain silenced, though such exposure has no further effect. Plants fed water from the Stream retain their enhanced growth and hardiness for as long as they are alive. Repeatedly watering plants ensures the seeds from the plants retain these positive effects.

At one time, the effects of the Stream of Silence could be reversed, but only with a tea of the foal's breath flower. The flower itself was exceptionally rare and had a number of properties that made it difficult to work with. It had no seeds with which more flowers could be made; It could not be cultivated domestically; it could not be dried or preserved without destroying it; and, once plucked, it lost its potency as an antidote against silence within hours. It's name was coined because its usefulness lasts only as long as a foal's breath.

Foal's breath was a relic from the old forest before the Great Fire and Great Founder Sheng Mofa. The fire stripped the flower of its ability to produce seeds and reproduce. As such, what flowers survived the fire were the only remaining source of the antidote.

At the time of this writing, no flowers have been found for at least eight generations, and it is believed that foal's breath is extinct.

I did find it odd that Fluttershy, animal expert and master of nature she is, didn't even hear of foal's breath until she reached the kirin village. Even this reference book thought the flower didn't exist.

"Autumn Blaze found foal's breath. Is there any left?" Tempest asks.

I sigh and shake my head. "Fluttershy actually found it, and it's a miracle that she found any at all. She needed her animals to help, and they used everything they found to cure the kirin. Past that, Autumn Blaze told me she's been searching for foal's breath for years. She scrubbed the forest clean before they arrived, and she even searched the plains beyond a few times after they left. Not that much could survive on the plains with how dry they are. She hasn't seen a thing." I grimace. "Hopefully, no kirin falls into the Stream by accident. I hate to say it, but if this book was mistaken before, it's correct now: foal's breath is extinct."

I close my eyes and offer a silent eulogy. "Extinction" is such a horrible word, but I don't argue with why it is. It is just a plant, but it's a whole species, a whole category of life in our world, gone forever for none to see or appreciate or benefit from ever again. I'm sure Fluttershy wouldn't want to hear that she was responsible for plucking the last of this species, even if it was to save another. Were there insects that pollinated this flower? Were there other animals that fed on this flower or used it for medicinal purposes like the kirin? Were there other things this flower was useful for that we'll never know about now? I know there's nothing I could have done to prevent this, but it still feels like a failure on all our parts that this had to happen at all.

"Princess?"

I twitch an ear.

"Twilight?"

Then, I open my eyes slowly and give Tempest a slight smile before I start to read again.

Magic
The effects of the Stream of Silence have been well-documented and studied, but its inner magic and mechanism of action have been less so. It is thought that kirin have a life-force energy that allows them to speak, use magic, and transform into nirik. This energy is qi.

Qi is not necessary for a kirin to speak in theory, but the process of transforming thought into sound and transmitting that thought to a fellow kirin's mind is a form of telepathy and a form of magic. This is what qi is thought to be responsible for, and this is what the Stream of Silence attacks. A kirin's vocal cords are not damaged by the Stream—hence why its effects are entirely reversible with the foal's breath flower—but their ability to create sound from thought is.

Qi is also used in the transformation from kirin to nirik. When a kirin's life-energy is excited by excessive anger, it expresses itself violently in the form of flame. When this energy is disrupted and not allowed to flow freely, so too is the transformation disrupted.

The kirin's horn is the source of their qi. If the horn is ever injured, their qi is also injured and the kirin falls ill until their horn is healed. This is also why striking the horn hard enough will end a kirin's transformation—this disrupts the flow of qi long enough such that their nirik form cannot be sustained.

The Stream carries its own life-force energy, but this one does battle with qi. This countering form of life-force energy is iq, just as nirik are the counter to kirin themselves. This iq flows in the Stream, and once introduced into a kirin, remains there in perpetuity, destroying any qi that circulates the body, causing its silencing and calming effects. It, however, does not destroy the horn or the qi there, hence why kirin can continue to live and use magic. Kirin are unique in that they may isolate qi and iq in this manner.

While iq seems to do battle with qi and creatures who depend on it, no such battle occurs in plants and wildlife. If anything, they are nothing but invigorated by it. It is thus thought that plants and wildlife are themselves coursing with iq, and the Stream provides more of that energy, resulting in enhanced growth and fertility.

"'Iq' and 'qi'?" I wonder aloud.

"Are those terms at all familiar to you, Twilight?" Tempest asks.

"Not really? I've never heard of either of those." I say, unsure. I bring over the wooden decanter of Stream water that Rain Shine gifted me. It's certainly big enough to cover the "few mouthfuls" necessary to silence someone. I uncork the decanter, again observing the change in atmosphere as the water is exposed to us. The water makes no sound as I pour some of it into a glass.

I swirl it around, studying it as I would a glass of wine. It behaves exactly like normal water, though knowing it's filled with this anti-kirin "iq" has me offer it more caution. I bring my muzzle close, sniff it, and taste the air above the glass. Of course, there's nothing, but the "nothing" is even more poignant when I bring my ear to it. Tiny bubbles form as the water stills. The water diffracts light as I see a distorted image of Tempest through the glass. She's scowling.

There has to be something in here. The Stream of Silence and the magic within it was why we went to the kirin village to begin with. This water represents the fruits of our labor. It's the key to Tempest's cure, somehow. I sigh and say, "Let me think." closing my eyes again.

Back to the beginning. Tempest's condition is a result of the damage done to her horn. That meant the thaum it produced was also damaged. While ponies need thaum to survive, it became more like thaum found in the wilderness, and ponies were never creatures of wilderness. That wild thaum is slowly destroying her body. The Stream, I thought, in some modified form, could limit the damage or suppress the wild parts entirely, treating or curing Tempest's condition. After all, it suppressed wild and violent nirik transformations, but left the kirin underneath to live a long life.

But is that actually how it works?

The relic I have, the shield, depicts kirin and nirik as mirror images. One to be sought out and cherished, the other to be feared and suppressed. One normal and harmonious, the other wild and chaotic. Or at least that's how I interpreted the relic. But Tempest never thought that was the case, and now I don't either—it's part of a healthy relationship with one's own temper to be nirik, or at least not destroy the circumstances that would cause one to become one.

Being kirin is being nirik, and being nirik is being kirin. They're not mirror images. They're the two halves of a whole and wonderful being. Suppressing one half of that being is akin to cutting two of your legs off.1

It's normal to be nirik.

It's normal . . . and the Stream of Silence suppresses that which is normal. Not that which is wild. It's never done anything different.

My stomach drops, and I start breathing a little faster. I open my eyes again, and I know something has changed. The water in front of me is oblivious, sitting unknowing and uncaring in its little glass. But to me, it looks like fear and evil. The water in front of me wouldn't save her; it would kill her.

"Twilight?"

Shakily, I reach out to pick up the glass with a hoof. My hoof tremors, and I miss, knocking the glass over instead and spilling the Stream of Silence across the table. The water makes a silent cry as its power dissipates into the air. I make no move to try to save the water or clean up the spill.

Weeks. Weeks I spent chasing after a cure that never existed. Weeks for which I dragged Tempest along with a semblance of purpose on what I was doing. Weeks she'll never get back from what little time she has left. What could I have done? I sought out to do whatever it took to save a friend. And all I have is a book of translated curiosities and a stow of water from a far-off land no more useful than the water I drank this morning.

Books represent the center of knowledge that ponykind—everykind—has built since the beginning of time. They're the tool we have against forgetfulness, ignorance, and the limits of knowledge a single lifetime can hold. They are the lessons our progenitors learned through sweat and blood and wrote down for us to learn from. Ponies wonder why I read so much, even in Princesshood, and this is my answer.

So why have they failed me now? Why is every single one of them telling me the same thing?

"Twilight?" Tempest asks again.

I'm so sorry. "This . . . I . . ." I can't even get the words out. I can't tell her.

Is this what powerlessness feels like? Is this what Rain Shine felt when her daughter died?

Tempest reads my expression. She closes her eyes slowly and opens them again. In them is not surprise, not melancholy, not even anger. Just . . . equanimity. It's horrible; why isn't she angrier? "It's done, isn't it?" she asks quietly. There's no need for her to elaborate further.

"I . . ."

No . . . no! I won't! Not now, not while we've fought so hard to save her! My friends and I have never failed, not when Equestria was consumed by darkness or chaos or a void of magic, not even when Equestria ceased to exist! This venture can't have been for nothing!

"The-the flower!" I exclaim, breaking out of my stupor. "The Stream of Silence isn't going to cure you, but I'm sure foal's breath would! It reverses the effects of the Stream—it perfectly reverses them! I'm sure if we find some foal's breath or have Autumn Blaze find some for us, it would help you!"

Tempest doesn't look or sound nearly as excited as I am. She only frowns. "And . . . where would we find any? You just concluded that it was extinct."

I freeze. That is what I said. The flower has to exist, though. Fluttershy and her animals found some, so they must know how to find more. Was it the foot of the caldera that they found foal's breath the first time? And are we sure that Autumn Blaze actually searched there specifically?

"And how would foal's breath help me? We only know that it reverses silence, nothing more."

I pinch my lips together and return my attention to the book. Before I can start flipping through it for mentions of foal's breath, I find Tempest's hoof pinning it down.

I look back at Tempest, and her expression takes me aback. It's not angry; it's not intentionally intimidating; the only word I have for it is "immense." Her eyes seem to pierce through me as a deity studies their charges. "You don't need to answer that question. No one does," she says, her voice terribly, terribly calm.

She remains staring through me for several seconds. I can't bring myself to say anything in return.

She shakes her head, a modicum of disappointment appearing on her face. "Use that brain of yours, Twilight, the one that made you a Princess. The best and brightest one in Equestria. I know that you already know the answer."

That brain starts telling me things, but they're wrong, they're all wrong.

Fluttershy steps out of the shadows and stares at me, her face pitying. "Do you remember Copernicus?" she says in a wispy voice. "He died last week. I don't know if it was ever worth trying to save him. So I never did."

Tempest steps in front of her, her face a mask of impossible calm. She murmurs, "Is it really such a vice that I refuse to be a burden on others?"

I reach out to both of them, crying their names. But nothing comes out.

A wisp of flame darts around my head a few times before expanding, obscuring Tempest in a wall of flame. She disappears without a struggle. When the wall lowers, there's nothing but a pile of ashes on the ground. I try to rush up to it, but a kirin form of fire appears in front of it, blocking my way.

"The evening of the next new moon, under the willow," Rain Shine says. "Will there be enough of you to come?"

Tempest continues, her face the very same. It scares me. "We have no guarantee that foal's breath exists anymore. You don't think it does. Even if it did, we don't know whether its effects work on ponies. And even if it does, we don't know if silence is at all related to my condition."

She sighs, looking down. Her voice grows a little softer. "How many more jumps of logic are you going to make, Twilight, before you must conclude what you already know? How many more times are we going to have to have this argument?"

I shake my head, and I can't stop. I can't help it. It's a nightmare, a horrible nightmare. She's wrong, she has to be wrong. Words come out, spoken from the roiling emotion in my heart. "But th-the magic of friendship . . . we've done the impossible before!"

Tempest shakes her head too. "Friendship can't save you now," she says. Then she looks up. "It already saved me once. I'm asking it, and I'm asking you, to be content with that."

I'm still shaking my head, but I can feel tears gathering behind my eyes.

The wind gusts, and a ginkgo tree creaks overhead, releasing a shower of leaves that float lazily towards the ground. They never make it there, instead settling on an incorporeal form, giving it shape and structure. It's another kirin form, a smaller and spindly one. It walks next to Rain Shine, and she leans down to nuzzle it, even as her flames do nothing to its leaves. They form a matched pair.

It speaks with no voice at all. It speaks with silence. "Life is never fair. Will you fight? Will you rage against the fate that couldn't care less about you?"

I try to cry out again, but I don't know what to say. No one responds. Behind them, the ashes rise in the wind and begin to disappear.

Tempest smiles, something so rare for her, something I'd normally be celebrating. But never has a smile felt so painful. "Thank you for taking me to the kirin lands, Twilight. I thought there'd be nothing left of me to write when I failed to capture Equestria. But you gave me one more chance to change this world. One that I hope will serve you well as you guide this world into the great thing you envision it could be."

Something trails down my face. "Please . . . please don't make me say it," I whisper.

She steps closer, still smiling softly. "And thank you for teaching me about friendship. I still do not entirely understand it, and in some ways, I think I never will. But I no longer think of it as a worthless vulnerability. Not since you offered me yours."

And she steps forward again, wrapping her hooves around me. I can't bring myself to return the embrace. I won't give up; I can't give up. I promised. I promised . . .

Her voice grows quieter still. "I wish I never had to do this. But I'm asking you, as my friend, for a favor. The most difficult favor you'll ever have to give."

She releases her hooves and steps back just far enough to hold my head up. She's still wearing that awful, awful smile. She's weeping too.

Fluttershy steps through the pile of ashes, brushing away the last of them. She joins the two kirin, fearless of the fire they exude, and they advance as one. They do not turn to notice her, but they don't need to. The kirin stop to my left, Fluttershy to my right. I can't turn to see them, but I know they're there. Fluttershy is wearing that awful smile. They all are.

In the center, holding my head with compassion I've never seen, she speaks. They all say the same words. I can't bear to hear them.

"I'm asking you to let me go."

I shatter.

With an anguished cry, I clutch onto her so tightly, afraid she'll fall away to ashes in my hooves, just like everyone else has. Except that I know she will, one day she will. I'm holding onto an illusion, a ghost that stands only as long as fate will let her stay with me. I rage against that fate. We all have. The fruits of that rage are spilled across the table.

But I can't win.

Words escape me, but that's all they are. They have no meaning, and the words she says in response mean nothing, too. I scream and howl and curse, at her and myself and Equestria. It's all meaningless, but I have to speak. I speak because I'm angry, and I'm angry not because of betrayal or my personal failures.

I'm angry because it's the truth.

Truth is not a virtue. It doesn't care whether it will save the world or destroy it. It doesn't care how many lives it takes, and it offers no condolences or apologies because those don't change the truth. It only is.

Have faith, I thought. Have faith in yourself and your own abilities, and have faith in your friends and their ability to set things right, and they will. Believe in yourself and believe in the future you want to see, even when the world is against you, and you'll make it so. Old and scarred ponies have told me again and again that faith is a fool's strength.

Let me be a fool, I told them. Let me have that naïve optimism that things will turn out right as long as my friends are by my side. Let me show you that friendship can do what you think is impossible.

Maybe Equestria really is fluffy and inane, then. And maybe she always knew the truth. Have faith, and the truth will out, whatever it happens to be. Do not, and the truth will still out, however much you hate it. She could have been anyone, but she first chose to fight the truth she saw, a battle that lasted over ten years. I can't possibly blame her for what that battle made her become. Because I fought with her under some misguided assumption that as a Princess, I would find a truth she couldn't.

We lost. We found the truth.

In the end, she was always right. This story was always doomed to end up this way.

Open up your eyes, she said. It's time to grow up and get wise. That's what faith really is, right? Willful blindness. Refusing to see the world for how it is. I thought being a Princess meant I could impose that blind faith onto the world. But truth doesn't know what faith is. It doesn't care.2

I sob into Tempest, being nothing of a Princess or Twilight or even a friend. But Tempest, Tempest is exactly who I need her to be. There's no dignity in grief so fresh it can't help but scream, and there's no grace in emotion so raw that it strips you of who you are. But she doesn't care. She doesn't offer false words of comfort because she never would, and she doesn't console because you cannot console the truth. There's honor in that.

She's the most honorable pony I've ever known.

The first real words I can form are still colored with emotion and broken with sobs. They're only barely comprehensible. "I don't want to lose you," I whimper, the words falling onto Tempest's shoulder. I clutch her tighter, my tears staining her coat.

Tempest does not spurn the contact or ignore it. She leans into it. She feels rough against me, the hairs on her coat standing stiff and proud against mine, except her shoulder. Her shoulder is matted with my tears. "I don't want to go," she says quietly, words borne of emotion, some of the very few that come from that place.

I sob again and wipe my eyes on her. I open my teary eyes for what feels like the first time, and I can see exactly what's become of me and her. In my vanity is a reflection of me, and I can barely recognize myself. I've long shed my regalia—horseshoes, crown, and all—but a Princess should always comport herself with some amount of poise. Not now. My mane is in shambles, feathers pointing in every direction, face a grotesque mask of misery, eyes red and bloodshot. For all the wonderful ponies I've worked with in Canterlot, I couldn't trust myself to be so exposed around anyone, Horolog included. I'm supposed to be a Princess.

But Tempest . . . she's holding herself together. Her eyes are closed with the occasional teardrop marking her face, but she remains herself, strong as she's ever been. And she's holding me together, her hooves wrapped tightly around me, holding me up even as I have no will to keep myself standing. She's so warm. After everything we've been through and everything we've told each other . . .

It's not that she doesn't judge me—she does, and harshly. And it's not that she's kind—she'll sooner offend you with brusque words than try to save your feelings with a white lie. It's not even that she's a good shoulder to cry on—if she had the choice, she probably wouldn't want to be here right now. Everything I need in an emotional moment, she isn't. And yet I'm here, trusting her with myself.

Because she's Tempest.

"You'll lose them all one day."

I sniffle and manage a weak, "What?"

Tempest opens her eyes and sees me looking at her reflection. She looks back at me through the mirror. "All of your friends. They'll all die one day. I've seen them. You must have noticed that Rarity has quite a few grey hairs, or that Applejack takes her time when she stands up. We age. We . . ." She stares at me for a long moment. Then she brings her eyes down and speaks again, slower and softer. "No, nevermind. Now isn't the time to talk about this. Not while you're—"

"No, n-no," I say, trying to clear my voice enough to be more than a whimper. "I know I'm all emotional and crying and I probably can't take this, and it's n-nice that you're thinking of me. But I think . . . I think I need to hear this."

From her. I always need to hear her.

She nods, slowly. We separate, not so much that I couldn't reach out and touch her, but enough for her to fix her eyes on me. They're familiar in a good way.

"Then . . . do you remember what I said? 'This is something you'll never understand.'" She doesn't wait for me to answer. "You are young, Twilight. For a Princess, you are especially young. But you will learn more than anypony else in this world because you have time to learn and time to understand. Except for this." She pauses. "Please allow me to speak not as your subject, but as the voice of every subject you'll ever have. We say that you are a Princess, and you do not know death—you never will."

She speaks about it so candidly and easily as if it weren't the horrible thing it was. It's a taboo that no one else would ever talk about, if not for my sake, then their own.

"But you must learn to know death in a different way, in a way no one else will. Military, Princess. I have resigned myself to death since the day I began service. And I . . . will go earlier than you might wish. But I will only be the first of many. What happens when friendship fails and you must defend Equestria with might? What happens when soldiers are lost before their time, lost because of your decisions? Soldiers you have conversed with, dined with, made friends with?

"Or what happens when Pinkie Pie dies? Or Rarity, or Rainbow Dash, or any of your friends, present and future? Perhaps they will go only when they are old and have accomplished everything they wanted. Or perhaps not. What if they, in tragic circumstances, learn they will die tomorrow? Or what if they're simply not ready when it comes time? What will they say to you? What will you say to them? I have had many years to come to terms with my mortality. I have always accepted it. But consider Rainbow Dash and her loyalty to her friends: for everypony she will leave behind when she dies, I don't know if she will ever accept it.

"Or consider . . . me. Consider the pony who might be saved if only you could spend more time on them. I am not the only one. There are countless others who might be saved if only you were there to help, and perhaps they'd only need a word of advice or a simple spell. They may not be your friends personally, but they are friends to others, and friends' friends. Could you possibly save every single one of them, even if doing so only took a minute of your time? You do not have a minute for everyone. Will you abandon a friend in need when greater matters demand your attention? What would you say to the family of the one who perished only because you could not be there?"

The questions come too quickly for me to answer. If I even had an answer for even a single one of them.

"Twilight. Princess. Every subject in your realm will have these questions, and they will come to you for answers. I . . . don't know what those answers will be. And . . ." She looks away and sighs. "I cannot help you answer them. But I know it is something you will have to know, somehow, someday." She looks back to me. "Perhaps with my own death . . . I can help you learn."

They're words only she could have spoken, and I can't deny their truth. Fearless, in every way. I only wish I could be that confident.

I don't have answers, and Celestia didn't have them for me. She never even talked about this, always wanting to keep our conversations generally pleasant. Besides the occasional vague warning that there'd be painful trials I'd have to face as a Princess, she never taught me how to cope with death. Whether because she didn't want to or because she couldn't, I don't know.

If not Celestia's instruction, then my own study; I've studied plenty to be a Princess. But I haven't given any of this much thought. For all the subjects I looked at, I didn't want to study death because it seemed so unpleasant. That all seems silly now: I spent moons studying Equestria's naval tactics on the remote chance I'd need to engage in conflict over the seas. And I spent no time looking at something as certain as death.

I'm not prepared. I'm not prepared for any of this.

I sniffle and try futilely to wipe my eyes again. "You're right. You're right about everything. And . . . I should have known about this. I did know about this; I just didn't pay it any mind. I know I'll see death. I know that . . . by taking on the mantle of Princesshood, I'll see generations die."

"Then . . . why did you take it?"

"Because . . ." I wipe my eyes again. "Because I want to see the world be stronger than it was. And friendship is the way to that strength. Friendship forms the web of relationships that keep us together and happy. I want to foster that web and make sure ponies, griffons, kirin, and everyone who calls this world their home can know friendship. Because a moment of friendship is better than an eternity without it.

I stand a little straighter. "I'll . . . I'll see my friends die. And I'll be sad. I'll miss them so much. I'll be so much more miserable than if they weren't my friends and I didn't know them. And I'll wonder whether any of it was worth it. But then I'll be happy because . . ." I sniffle and despite myself, put on a smile. "Because they'll have known friendship. And because of that, they'll have helped and changed so many. They'll have been capable of so much more than they would have been alone. A moment of sadness is more than worth the lifetimes of happiness they'll have spread. Because of that friendship, they'll have changed the world."

I look behind me, and there lies Rain Shine's book, open to a passage about foal's breath, along with the decanter of water. The fruits of our labor—the trophies of our accomplishment. Slowly, I close the book.

"And because I'll have known them," I say, looking back, "I'll also be lucky enough to have treasured their gift of friendship to me. Because of them, I'll be a better pony."

I take a breath, and my voice grows stronger still as I grow more confident in the words I speak. For every horrible truth that's been revealed, these are the truth, too. "Even if friendship isn't the miraculous tool that turns every impossible situation around, that's not all it can be. If you alone can't solve a problem with friendship, the friends you make along the way might, and in a way you could have never known. And even, even if they can't, the friends they make could. It makes a problem a single pony couldn't solve into something a whole group of friends can tackle together. That strength exceeds the power any one pony could hold on their own."

I shout my exultations to myself as much as Tempest. "Friendship is the web that keeps us together. Take out one, two, ten friends, and the web will hold together as long as we stay strong for those who can't be. The holes will mend, and new friends will find their ways into them. Wrap the world in friendship, and it'll outlive us all."

New tears start gathering in my eyes, but these ones are different. "Ask me to explain it, and I'll give a million different answers on a million different days. But on the million and first day, when I'm gone too, the world will live on. Today, that's my answer. That's the magic of friendship!"

I look at the magic in front of me. She's smiling too. Slowly, she dips into a deep bow.

"And that," Tempest says, voice suffused with pride, "is why you are a Princess."

With another sob set against my smile, I open my hooves. "Come here, you!"

She walks to me, and I capture her in my hooves once again. We embrace for minutes. I cherish her contact, her warmth, her strength, her friendship. It almost feels like the hugs I have with the rest of my friends, when we share our happiness like nothing is wrong.

I relax into her, letting her vast strength sustain us both. It's such a rare respite she offers, one even my best friends can't do for me: the opportunity to be weak. To stop being the leader and stop worrying about how everything I do has consequences, if only for a moment. I don't need to be a Princess in front of her. She already knows who I am, whether that be a Princess or not.

"Words from a wise pony," Tempest begins. "I've wondered why I never forget the things you say. It's because they always have a way of coming back to offer advice. I follow you not because you'll always make the right decisions . . . but because you have a good heart."

Maybe this world does have room for faith, after all.

There's nothing I can say except a weak, "thank you." It's one thing for my friends to say they believe in me, but it's something else entirely coming from Tempest, one so independent and proud that she offers herself only to those she deems worthy of the privilege.

But the moment can't last. I can almost feel her slipping away from me as the seconds go by. Like leaves from a ginkgo, resuming their fall to the ground to the ashes below; winter is coming, and soon, the tree will be barren.

I will never know what it feels like to be on borrowed time. But I must learn how to appreciate what time I'm blessed with. I know, eventually, she may end up only being a paragraph or two in my book—but hers is approaching its end, and it's not worth my searching for her to have a few extra pages. I have to help her write her ending—and her epilogue.

"But . . ." I begin, sniffling again. "Is it okay if I'm sad? Just for today?"

"Of course, Twilight. You already know. Why are you asking me?"

"I just need a friend right now. No . . ." I bury myself a little deeper into her shoulder. "I need you. I know that you'll . . . need to leave soon. But . . . don't rush. Please?"

She offers a black chuckle. "You know, I wished to pain you in a way you would never forget during the war. I wanted to show you how powerless you were when you ignored reality and depended so much on others for your own strength. I wanted to leave a scar on your heart."

She lowers her head and presses the remains of her horn against my breast. In any other circumstance, this would be a threatening gesture. To have her horn in all its destructive power this close to me, I couldn't stop her if she wanted to send a bolt of lightning through my heart. Even a moon ago, I would have stepped away.

I cradle her head with my hooves, pressing my head against hers desperately. My tears drop onto her mane.

"I suppose I got my wish."

It is no coincidence, I think, that the shield Twilight has looks like a yin and yang.
Mentioning "faith" in such close proximity with "truth" and "death" is obviously fraught. Keep in mind that I use this word for the same reason I use any word in this story: it's the best one that could have been used.

Memento Mori

The regular clacks and rumbles of the train are a meditative sound. They let me think in peace—and I don't get much of that as a Princess.

It feels nice to be heading to a familiar destination. Well, as familiar as Da Huangdi can be, at least. Every rock formation looks about the same, and it's as dry and featureless as ever.

We used to call them the Windswept Plains, but since we discovered the kirin named it first, it seemed only right that we call it by that name, too. For as close as they came to being forgotten in this world, I want to do my part to make sure that ponies know their legacy.

I shake my head. Wrong word.

This train car is no more popular than it was the last time we rode it—nopony goes this far on this line. But I suspect we could see more visitors to Da Huangdi Shan in the next few moons (we renamed that, too). Especially after the guest lecture coming up at the School of Friendship hosted by Autumn Blaze and Fire Song.

Plus, I've received word that more than one kirin is interested in becoming an exchange student. I'd love if they were able to help fill out the Royal Library, seeing as how the kirin section still only has one volume in it.

Silent hoofsteps settle beside me, joining me in watching the featureless landscape roll by. I need not look to know who it is.

"Have you talked with her?" she asks. Her voice is refreshingly severe.

I shake my head. "Too early. She needs time to grieve and make up with her village right now, not deal with international relations or us ponies. And I don't intend to talk about this once we arrive, either, unless she brings it up herself. We're going to show respect and offer emotional support, nothing more."

Then I turn towards her. "And you should know all this. This whole course of action was your idea!"

For as spirited as my words are, Tempest remains stoic, eyes fixed out the train window. She glances down to the medallion around her neck.

In a softer voice, I say, "Are you asking because you didn't believe I would listen?"

Then she turns towards me, her face once again betraying no emotion. "I'm asking because I still believe you made a mistake."

I merely chuckle and drop a wing on her withers. "Then you should be happy that I'm disagreeing with you." I light my horn and lift the medallion off Tempest's neck. It's a small gold and amethyst item engraved with Equestria's coat of arms on the back and my own crest on the front. The six stars along the top command instant authority, signifying the highest rank of my appointed offices, second only to the Princess herself. Along the bottom is a line of runes written in Ancient Equestrian.

Conciliarius regius: royal advisor.

The press definitely had a few things to say once I announced that particular development: Equestria's Going Straight to Tartarus, or some variant thereof, they all said. Why would Equestria's former foremost enemy be hired to be the left hoof1 of the Princess if, in fact, she didn't succeed in conquering Equestria from the beginning?

And for as much as I vouch for Tempest's reformation and the value of friendship and forgiveness, even for former enemies, I know there's not much I could say to refute any of those claims. Ultimately, it'll be what I do. Hopefully, Equestria will come to realize it's still the same nation with the same Princess. Well, almost the same.

My ministers were especially skeptical, though they were cured of that opinion quite quickly. Or rather, they were cured of expressing that opinion. I remember the first time Tempest riposted a thinly-veiled insult from Magistrate Golden Gavel—he's still licking his wounds.

Even still, for as fiercely loyal and confident as she is when she has something to prove in public, in private, there's no one more skeptical of my decision than Tempest herself.

"You knew that announcing me could do nothing but harm your reputation," Tempest continues. "You knew."

I sniff. "I did know, and I still did because I consider some things to be more important than my reputation." I put on a small smile. "I might have learned that from a friend who does amazing things despite it.

"Like I said before," I say, "I know I'm new to leadership, and I need someone with a fresh mind who can present new ideas, or at least be a sounding board for my own. I don't need someone who will always agree with me just because I'm the Princess. I don't need someone who won't give me an opinion because they don't want to get into arguments. I don't want any of my Ponyville friends because none of them want to elevate themselves above the others. Plus, they have their own lives to live.

"I don't even need someone with a perfect or even especially directed moral compass. Because if that compass is pointing in some direction, I'll be tempted to go there, even if it's objectively the wrong decision. Even if that decision is, well, friendship." I roll my tongue around my mouth like I chewed something especially unpleasant.

"I need someone who can think, first of all, and think clearly. I need someone who generally wants for Equestria what I do, but that someone can't be so obsequious that they aren't willing to disagree with me or tell me I'm being foolish." Another reason why my friends aren't suitable. I love them all, but we've known each other for so long—I can't be anything but the leader and final word of our little group. "And I need someone courageous enough to take on the kind of responsibility that comes with leadership and isn't afraid to use that to reshape the world, even if not everyone agrees with those changes. If anything, I need someone who's done it before."

I return the medallion to Tempest's neck. "It's why my advisorship has never been an open position. How many ponies in Equestria fulfill all those requirements? How many ponies are fit enough to be the advisor to a Princess and wouldn't do it for selfish reasons? I could go through the entire registry of Equestria and wouldn't find anyone who'd be capable enough." I put a hoof on her shoulder. "Save one."

Tempest scoffs, easily shrugging off the words from a Princess that would have anyone else kissing my hooves. "Then I suppose it's in my job description to tell you that it's short-sighted to allow a former villain to have such power over you and Equestria. I could bend your compass, you know."

"And who's saying I don't need a tweak now and again? It's more important to me that you speak your mind, not speak what's necessarily right. I'll make sure Equestria keeps heading in the right direction; you'll double-check that I'm not running us into a hole."

Then I step back. In a softer voice, I say, "And for that matter, if you didn't want the responsibility, you didn't have to take the job."

Tempest merely returns her gaze to the rolling landscape. "You know why I did."

I let out a breath and step in to give Tempest a hug. She raises a hoof to gingerly touch mine in a half-hearted attempt at reciprocation.

It's a start.

I join her in looking out the window and notice something that wasn't there before. I open the window and stick my head outside to get a clearer look. The clouds move quickly in this region—it's what got the plains their original name—and in the distance is a new gathering of clouds that doesn't look terribly friendly. They're certainly not the benign, wispy cat-tail clouds I normally see out here. I'm no pegasus, but I might be worried about that cloud formation turning into something more troublesome. And it's headed straight for Da Huangdi Shan . . .

"We need to warn them," I say. Rain Shine's entirely capable of protecting her village, but they'll be safer if they're aware.

That's when Tempest puts her head out the window too, narrowed eyes directed at the clouds. She yelps as I cinch her tail with a ring of magic and pull her back inside. "Don't even think about it."

Instead, I focus on the clouds myself. I close my eyes and charge a ball of energy at the tip of my horn for ten, twenty, thirty seconds. Just when it starts sparking and I'm at risk of losing control of it, I rear up and launch it at the cloud formation. For several moments, nothing happens. Then, when the bolt reaches its destination, it explodes with a flash of purple light so bright I have to shield my eyes from here.

Once the light dissipates, I let out a heavy sigh of exertion. First diplomacy topic: getting some pegasi stationed here to surveil the sky. I'm willing to post them here for free if only so the kirin don't have to deal with the sorts of flash storms that appear out here.

I look at Tempest. She flicks her tail a couple times and scowls at me. "I wasn't planning to do anything."

"I-I know," I say timidly. It was more a reflexive response than a measured one. "Just looking after you."

Tempest merely narrows her eyes at me. If I didn't know her any better, I'd say she was trying to intimidate me.

At that moment, a flash of green light and smoke appears over my head, and a scroll drops out of it. Reflexively, I catch the scroll in a wisp of magic.

"Spike?" Tempest asks, straightening up.

I nod, straightening up as well. "Someone really wants to get ahold of me on my vacation, I guess. No rest for the weary." I unroll it for both of us. Before I begin reading, though, I notice Tempest squinting and leaning back a hoof or two. Then she grabs a pair of glasses and places them on her snout before leaning in to read once again.

I have to admit, the glasses take much of the edge off Tempest's intimidating expression. She looks more professional, like the librarians in the Royal Archives, and even a little bit cute. I honestly think her glasses have helped her fall in with the rest of the ponies at the Castle and avoid the odd altercation with someone looking to pick a fight with the latest controversial figure.

I swallow. I only wish I didn't know why she needed them now.

Tempest turns her eyes to me and catches me looking at her. She takes off her glasses and narrows her eyes again. "Twilight, what do I hate more than patronization?" she asks in a warning tone.

I know it's a rhetorical question, but . . . well, you just don't not answer Commander Tempest Shadow. "Pity?" I answer in a small voice.

Tempest just sighs and puts her glasses back on, returning the attention to the scroll. "You don't get to pity me until after I'm dead, understand?"

They're heartless words, and they hurt, but just as I was looking after her, I know this is Tempest's way of looking after me. She won't let me be sad or anxious. Not only do those feelings only make me feel worse, she and I literally don't have time for them, not while there are still things she wants to accomplish with me. I know in my heart that she believes in the good of this world—that's why she's pushing me so hard.

But all that doesn't make it any easier. I wonder whether Tempest intended for me to stop feeling sad or just get better at not expressing that sadness in front of her. And sometimes, I wonder whether she cares about the difference.

As the train lurches and begins to slow down, I lock my anxiety in a small box and start reading the scroll myself.

Princess,

I am acting in your stead to finalize the magical research budget for this year. I have discussed the numbers with the Ministry, and we are in concordance with where funding shall be allotted. Find the figures below for your perusal.

This budget has been approved by sole mandate of the Ministry of Education.

Chancellor Larghinius Neighsay

Now I frown, irritated. There's more than a few things Neighsay left out of his letter. I remember this particular debate, and the final hearing for the budget was not supposed to be on my vacation, so they must have moved it. And moved it they did, to a day they knew I wouldn't be in Canterlot. And, conveniently enough, the mandate that allows the Ministry to waive royal approval is only active if the Princess is indisposed. Thankfully, it doesn't waive the need for me to know what's going on.

I scan through the figures Neighsay provided, and as I expected, the budget is terribly lopsided: there's no item at all pertaining to earth magic research—maybe he thought I wouldn't notice. I glance out the side of my eye, and I see Tempest scowling at the letter, surely having noticed the same thing I did. Then she looks to me to see what I'll do. Challenging me to do.

I snort and shake my head. "Take a letter: 'Neighsay, this is a Princess Decree: your budget is rejected, and your mandate for this session is revoked. Stay research funding until I can personally approve the budget. Rewrite it to allocate an equal amount of funding to earth, pegasus, and unicorn magic and submit it to me again for final approval. I will not approve a budget on vacation if it doesn't fulfill this criterion at a minimum. Otherwise, you can wait for my return, and I would be happy to help you pen one that does. HRH Twilight Sparkle.' And send."

I return not to a wisp of smoke and a disappearing letter, but Tempest staring at me in annoyance and bemusement. I grin sheepishly. "Sorry. I guess I'm too used to having Spike or Horolog around for me to dictate letters to. I'll just . . ." I sift through my bags, wondering whether I stashed a quill in one of them.

Tempest just rolls her eyes and takes her own quill in her mouth, writing my dictation on the back of the scroll in her once again remarkably neat writing. While writing, she speaks, her voice only slightly muffled by the quill. "You're sure you would use one of your Decrees on this?"

I nod. "It's important to me, and it's important to Equestria that every race is equal. The entire Ministry is full of unicorns, so they'd probably never create something balanced otherwise. Frankly, I don't know why I didn't put my hoof down sooner."

"Will they be angry?"

"No doubt in my mind, they will."

Tempest says nothing, but a ghost of a smile appears on her lips and disappears just as quickly. When she finishes writing, she rolls the scroll back up and tosses it to me. I pinch my eyes shut and concentrate, picturing Canterlot Castle in my mind's eye. With a purple flash, I teleport the letter to roughly where I think Neighsay's desk should be.

I open my eyes and shake off the mental image. "I really do need to get a dragonfire candle—it makes sending and returning letters so much easier when Spike isn't around."

"This is the last time I'm going to be your secretary, Twilight."

I just smile good-naturedly and give Tempest a light cuff on the shoulder.

Once the train stops, we step off and are greeted by a familiar endless rocky expanse. In the distance is the storm we saw, already over and past Da Huangdi Shan in the time we were sitting on the train. Hopefully everyone in the village is safe. Wind whips through my mane, raising it from my neck and loosing a few sparkles of magic.

This is where our journey started and ended—and will start again.

Ahead of us, on top of the mountain, lie the kirin of once upon a legend. Not too long ago, they were content to be lost to history. It was at Tempest's hooves that they're where they are now, standing at the precipice of their mountain, looking over the edge—she was the only one with the heart to drive the kirin out of their isolation. A tiny push could have them vanish into the forest again . . . or leap into this incredible world and show the rest of it how beautiful it can be.

I take a step forward to begin this adventure anew. And—

"You don't get to pity me until after I'm dead," it says. It only lasts as long as the passing breeze. I blink, and it disappears.

—the box opens. I lose my feet from under me.

I hated those words, and I hated that she was right. But what I hate most is why she said them—she's preparing me for when she'll no longer be around to remind me. One day, one horrible day, they'll be all I have left of her—the memories of the words she left behind, and the scars of the lessons she imparted to me in the only way she knows.

I'd be happy for her to challenge my every decision every day . . . if only so she'd be there for every one of those days.

I can't do it. This is one mission of a countless number I've had and will have. But I leaned on Tempest to see this one through—friendship is why it worked at all—so how does she expect me to finish her work alone? This will be an entire society I'll be ushering into this world, by myself.

I look at Tempest again. She doesn't know what I'm asking for, but I have to say something. I succumb to the weakness only she's allowed to see, and I can't help but start shivering. "I'm afraid," I whisper.

What do I mean? Nothing—it's emotion, and it has no substance. And everything—it's emotion, and it influences my every action. The fear is paralyzing, robbing me of measured thought.

Tempest twitches and looks at me. The disdain on her face holds for a terrifying moment but slowly gives way to a sigh. It could be a sigh of exasperation or disappointment.

But I choose to interpret it as her releasing the chains she keeps around her heart.

She sits down close to me but does not touch—she leaves that to me as I lunge for her. "I don't see why you need to be," she says, bringing her voice down. "You've led Equestria well enough before I started arguing with you."

I sniffle and wipe my eyes pathetically. "M-maybe I'm just thinking how much I'll miss those arguments. How lost I'll be when you're . . ."

She just shakes her head and chuckles. "Foolish little princess. Crying over a villain so weighted by evil that not even Tartarus would take her. You already have all the wisdom you need. Let me give you the same words a wise pony gave to me a long time ago." The words she says are poignant and so familiar:

"'Don't stay stuck in the past, and don't dwell too much on the present. Look to the future so we can build a brighter one for everypony.'"

"I-I said that?"

Tempest chuckles again. "You did."

The Council of Friendship is, of course, Twilight's right hoof, but are you wondering why Tempest is the left? It has significance. In heraldry, the two halves of an escutcheon (the shield upon which a coat of arms appears) are the dexter and sinister—right and left. It seems fitting.

Elegy

I start as my brain starts buzzing with a loud “vrrrrr.”

Of course, my brain isn’t actually buzzing—rather, it’s telling me that one of my friends is trying to get ahold of me via telemagical journal. As for which—

“Your Highness?1 Are you well?”

“Ah . . .” I return my mind to the ponies before me. I’m in a conference room with about a dozen other unicorns, one of whom is looking at me with only half-feigned concern, and the remainder are unimpressed or impatient. This is the Ministry of Education, Equestria’s authority on regulating its places of learning and what goes on inside them.

“I’m alright, thank you,” I respond. “One of my friends just called me, so if we could round up this meeting quickly, that would be spectacular.”

“If you would kindly keep your attention on the budget, Your Highness, perhaps we would already be done by now,” says a gruff and unamused voice from the head of the table. “Consider the great strides made in fabric polymerization and dyeing. Do you have any idea what that could do to enhance the fashion industry? Not to mention improve Equestria’s trade competitiveness? I do not see why you feel it’s so important to cut funding from this important branch of research.”

He’s Chancellor Neighsay, dean of the Equestrian Education Association, head of the Ministry of Education, steward of academic research funding, shrewd politician, and apparently newly-turned fashion and trade mogul. He genuinely is a brilliant pony of many talents, but it doesn’t take much to see that it’s gone to his head.

“I’m not taking funding away from fabric technologies,” I say, trying to maintain an even tone, “I’d like to reallocate it to other fields that have been underfunded for decades, just as I did with friendship magic. Just because we don’t know exactly how earth ponies create life from the land doesn’t mean it doesn’t deserve study. If anything, we should be researching those untapped areas more.”

“What worth is there to dig in the dirt for—”

“And I suppose when we do, we’ll no longer know how unicorns lift things—”

“Fine, we figure that out, then what? What else is there to know about—”

The room erupts into a cacophony of overlapping voices, commenting, criticizing, or protesting my idea. I strive to keep my expression neutral as a Princess ought, but I have to question whether anypony in this room ever befriended a single earth pony before. If they had, maybe they’d see the incredible things an Applejack does or the defiance of physics a Pinkie is. Maybe then they’d be a little more empathetic and accepting of the idea.

I don’t think it’s a misguided idea—I’m sure it isn’t. If I were among a different set of friends, this discussion could have ended weeks ago. Equestria was brought together when our three races agreed to work with each other and treat each other equally, after all; why are we having so much trouble doing the same now?

As Princess, I could just Decree it and write the budget myself. It’s what I did to establish the Council of Friendship. But even if I wouldn’t need to deal with the politicians of Canterlot, then I would the ponies of Equestria. It doesn’t matter what the Princess Decree is: every exercise of my sole power to overawe my little ponies is unpopular. I would think that being the Princess of Friendship and establishing a council of national heroes dedicated to friendship wouldn’t be terribly controversial, but I can still remember the first headline I read after I made that Decree: The Council of Friendship: Nepotism at Its Finest.

I’ve just started this job, and I already have my hooves full trying to convince Equestria that I can lead. I’m not about to rock the boat by using another Decree on a relatively minor issue.

“And what of our agriculture sector needs more research? Their margins are—”

“Nonsense. If you’ll go with my proposal, Sunshower, I’ll see what I can do about the weather around—”

They’re still arguing. And Neighsay wonders why my mind wanders at these meetings.

A tiny voice clears her throat beside me. I lean over to place an ear closer to her.

“Your Highness, your meeting with the Dragon Lord is approaching," Horolog whispers. "You asked to keep this meeting short.”

I sigh in relief, grateful to myself for my forethought, and grateful to my secretary for keeping me on schedule, organized, and saving me from the odd meeting like this one. I offer a nod and a smile in thanks and gesture for her to continue.

Horolog claps her hooves loudly, twice, and the sound echoes around the room. Suddenly, the small gray mare sitting next to the Princess isn’t so small anymore. “I’m afraid the Princess’ time is up,” she says, voice surprisingly authoritative, especially from one as small as her. “She has other matters to attend to.”

I nod and stand up, hiding my relief. “I’m sorry we couldn’t come to an agreement, but we’ll try again next week. I know some of you may be against the idea, but please at least think about offering some funding to research earth pony magic.” I hear various mumblings of assent and protest at that, but I can only offer a Princess-ly smile in parting as I leave the room. Neighsay is clearly unconvinced, and his eyes follow me the entire way out.

As soon as the door closes behind me, I sigh and slump a little. A pair of guards salute in greeting. I wave them off.

“Please tell me I have a couple minutes before meeting with Dragon Lord Ember,” I say, half-groaning.

“A few,” Horolog says. “I can go on ahead to introduce you if you’ll be late.”

“Not yet. I just need a moment to talk with my friends. I’d much rather talk with them than any of these politicians.” I pause. “Thank you for getting me out of there, Horolog,” I say, offering her another small smile. Since coming to Canterlot, there have been so few I feel I can drop the “Princess” demeanor around—it’s always a relief when I can.

“Just doing my job, Your Highness,” she says.

We arrive at my personal chambers in short order. Horolog stops at the threshold and offers a bow as I step inside.

Along one wall is my personal library of books, and one book among those is vibrating. With a quick check of the spine, I can see that it’s Tempest’s.

I gave each of my friends a telemagical journal so they would always have a direct communication line with me. Some of them write almost every day (Pinkie), some when they need something from me (Rainbow Dash), and some barely at all (Fluttershy). Tempest is in the last category. She was one of the last friends I gave a journal to, and it took her quite a few moons for her to write even a single word to me. That makes the instances when she does that much more significant.

I light my horn and bring the journal to me. It opens itself to the latest page, revealing Tempest’s remarkably neat writing:

Princess,

I suspect you are aware I have finished my contract.

She must be referring to revamping Equestria’s border control. It was Tempest’s latest project, the one I suggested to her.

I appreciate your assistance in this endeavor. I am surprised one can find friends even in business ventures. Captain Shining Armor proposed an additional assignment for me, but for personal reasons, I declined.

CDR Tempest Shadow

“Wh . . . huh?”

I stare at the signature. The brevity is not what has me worried—Tempest has always been efficient in her writing. It’s how it ends. For as much as it appears one, this isn’t just a status update—if there’s one thing I know about Tempest, she’s a mare of action and impatient with dawdlers. If there’s something she could do, she’d already be doing it. Writing to me just to tell me she’s doing nothing seems unlike her.

She’s normally so straightforward, so I have to believe that she still is. If I want to piece together her puzzle, I need to understand why she included the few words she did.

Business . . . additional assignment? Personal reasons . . . declined.

“Horolog!”

I hear a squeak of surprise, and the door to my chambers opens. “Your Highness?”

“Go on ahead to the Dragon Lord. Tell her I’ll be late.”

“A-at once, Your Highness!” She offers me another quick and courteous bow and trots away.

I return my attention to the journal, frowning. I pick up a quill and respond.

Tempest,

Meet me in the Castle at sunrise tomorrow. Tell the guards at the gate your name, and they should let you in. I’ll be in my personal chambers.

Twilight

I close the journal and return it to the bookshelf. I glance at the door again, frowning.

Canterlot Castle is where the head of Equestria leads its nation. Scores of ponies work in the castle at all hours of the day, making governing decisions, meeting dignitaries, or just keeping the place clean. It’s also a public place that anyone can enter and explore, so it’s nearly always busy. The castle belongs to Equestria, after all.

The Princess lives where she leads, and living in such a public and well-trafficked place can be difficult. My personal chambers are the one exception as the one part of the castle that’s mine and mine alone. Only a very few are allowed in without my express permission, not even Horolog or my guard detail. It’s where I can leave behind the mask of regality and just be Twilight again.

To that end, I’ve tried to make this place like home, bringing a small part of Ponyville to Canterlot. Gone is the staid marble flooring and stone pillars that make up the rest of the castle; in is plush carpet that’s great for sitting and reading, if the chairs and chaise lounge aren’t enough, that is. In the corner is a fireplace, and atop that is the mantle, proudly showing pictures of my friends in both their old and new lives. Owlowiscious perches next to the mantle, puffed up lusciously and enjoying the warmth coming from the embers of the fire.

Along the far wall are several floor-to-ceiling bookshelves housing my personal library of books—significantly smaller than I’d like, but that’s what the Royal Library is for. Tempest’s journal remains on one of the bookshelves, so I’ll know if it alerts me. Even still, something tells me I won’t be receiving any further missives from her.

In a decision that pains me even now, I opted not to move the chandelier my friends made for me from Ponyville Castle to Canterlot. For as personal as the memories that live in it are, its roots—literally—are in the former Golden Oaks Library. And while I may have made my home and my friends in the library, the library’s home is Ponyville. There it will stay, in whatever form it chooses to take.

I push open the glass doors to my balcony overlooking the city. A mail-carrier pegasus flies past and offers me a salute, and I offer a nod in return. Below are a few other early-riser ponies, some starting their day, others waiting to witness me start it.

Just as the moon completes its lazy march and disappears below the horizon, I close my eyes and light my horn in a soft golden glow. Commanding the solar magic that Celestia bequeathed to me, I bid the sun a pleasant morning and beg it to light our world for another day.

Slowly, very slowly, I feel a kind and gentle warmth fall on my face, and a strong but courteous light prods at my eyelids. The sun must be in a good mood today. When I open my eyes and dismiss the magic, it’s a new day.

Not bad, Twilight.

I hear a quiet smattering of applause from below at the same time I hear hard metallic hooffalls approach from behind. I turn around.

Ever punctual, Tempest Shadow approaches imperiously, her ever unreadably severe expression on her face. Her hooffalls blunt as marble gives way to carpet. They stop as she bows, four pony-lengths away from me. “Your Highness,” she intones.

I try to put on an easy smile and approach her, prodding her with my hoof to rise. I still remember the days I would have been terrified of approaching her so closely. She’s a corded masterpiece of muscle, and she never turns her back to you. Without getting to know her better, you’d always get the sense that she’s angry or annoyed with you since she’s never quite shaken her militant countenance.

I try to disarm the tension she brings. “Tempest, you know you don’t need to call me that!” I say in the most easygoing voice I can manage. “We’re friends, and my friends just call me ‘Twilight.’”

“Then, Princess,” she says, “forgive me for respecting you and continuing to address you by your earned title.”

I give a weak chuckle. “I’m never going to be able to get that ‘Princess’ out of you, am I?”

She raises an eyebrow and cocks her head. She doesn’t smile—she never does. “Not until you are no longer one.” She pauses. “Is there a reason you summoned me?”

Ugh. Maybe I could have phrased my request a little more softly—now Tempest thinks she’s in trouble or that I need something from her. “I just wanted to talk. I’m allowed to just talk to a friend, right?”

“If we came across one another on the street and went to get a coffee, perhaps.”

Double ugh. Tempest isn’t dawdling today. It really is no different from the talks we had in Ponyville—she was terribly good at cutting through small talk back then when she wanted to, and it sounds like she’s in no mood to entertain it now. She’s refreshingly different from the politicians I normally deal with, though her brand of directness doesn’t make her any easier to talk to.

“Right,” I begin, feeling nervous all of a sudden. “It’s just about what you wrote last. In your journal. I felt like you would have told me where you were going next if you had a plan, but it doesn’t sound like you do.”

Tempest remains silent for several moments. She looks away to the bookshelves along the wall. “I shouldn’t have written that,” she says.

“No, no, you should have,” I rebut quickly, summoning a cushion to her. “Sit, please.”

She glances behind her and acquiesces.

“It’s no bother at all if you need to ask for help,” I say, trying to break down Tempest’s walls of severity and stoicness. I know there’s a deep and insightful pony underneath with feelings and wishes, and I want to draw it out. So many only see the ferocious shell she’s cast around herself. Maybe I could use Fluttershy’s help—she’s good at these sorts of things. “Friends help each other when they need it.”

I reach a hoof out to touch Tempest on the shoulder. Slowly, so as not to appear aggressive or impose myself onto her if she didn’t want it. She doesn’t respond, neither shying away nor leaning in. I touch her, and it feels like trying to comfort a knotted log.

“So, what’s wrong? What did my brother say to you this time?” I say, sensing, hoping that she's at least amenable to breaching the topic.

“Nothing. He said he thought my draft of a new border control training protocol was excellent but that the Royal Guard didn’t have the officers to spare to put it into practice. So he asked me to first train some of the more experienced guardsponies with it. I might train them enough for them to go on and instruct the new recruits.”

Shoot. That was my suggestion. I wanted to keep Tempest in Equestria for a little while longer. I didn’t think it was that bad an idea. “And-and you declined?”

Tempest falls silent then. She remains silent for a long time. I see her move her eyes around to study the various things around my chambers: the bookshelves, the mantle, Spike’s somewhat oversized basket he still likes to sleep in. Then the window. It’s still dark enough outside that I can see her reflection in the glass. She’s looking at her horn.

“I accepted.”

I remain silent. She’s still looking there.

“I borrowed one of the Castle’s conference rooms to introduce the large-scale changes before the practical training. I wrote the outline of my protocol on the blackboard. The soldiers were refusing to stop talking amongst themselves and pay attention, so I flashed my horn. Not even a proper spell.” She pauses again for a long, long moment.

“It . . . hurt.”

The words drop a weight into my throat. One of the first things they teach you in Magic Kindergarten is that magic shouldn’t hurt when casting. Ever. Even if you’re doing something difficult, you should only feel strain, not pain. If it does, tell a grown-up. Magic is part of what a unicorn is, as much as an earth pony walks or a pegasus flies. Reaching for it should be effortless. So when it's not . . .

I sift through the academic literature I have in one of my bookshelves and pick out an article I’m all too familiar with, one I’ve studied only a bit less than Tempest herself: Effects of Catastrophic Fulminant Athaumaticism in a Unicorn Adolescent. The paper that describes Tempest’s condition. The only paper that does, and the only living case of it that we know of. I flip through it.

Fulminant athaumaticism has been characterized as a lethal condition when a patient’s natural thaum is suddenly removed with a median survival time of 34 hours [4]. Thaum is a fundamental source of energy for phenerase II and III. When all thaum is removed without replacement, these phenerases stop assisting in cell duplication and thaum transport and themselves become cytotoxic as their contained thaum becomes uncontained. Uncontained thaum attacks nearby cellular structures while causing cellular stress and various symptoms that differ by species. The typically violent nature in which thaum escapes from phenerase also means the cell cannot properly initiate apoptosis. Surrounding cells are also damaged by the resulting uncontained thaum. Death is caused by multiple organ failure [5, 6].

While synthetic thaum has been successfully created, its half-life has been observed to be not more than a few minutes [7], making it unsuitable for use in a medical context. In a study performed by R. Structures, synthetic thaum encapsulation extends its half life but makes it significantly less bioavailable [8]. Organic viral encapsulation techniques are still being studied. In vitro introduction of organically encapsulated thaum has been successful in restoring withdrawn cells [9], but in vivo attempts have resulted in viral reactivation followed by sepsis [10]. There does not currently exist a viable thaum replacement therapy.

The patient’s athaumatic event was a horn amputation. While such events were thought to be universally lethal due to the horn being a unicorn’s sole source of thaum [2], this patient survived for at least 30 days after the event. The patient retained a horn vestige, and it was found to retain its ability to create some thaum.

The patient’s produced thaum bore limited resemblance to biologically created thaum from other unicorn subjects. As observed by optical spectrometry, its emissivity indices at 950, 1000, and 1050 nm were significantly weaker (r < 0.001). In comparison, ambient thaum extracted from wild environments (see methods in G. Feels, 978 [2]) exhibited similarly weak emissivity (Figure 3). Both the subject’s thaum and wild thaum lacked the 1050 nm alpha-illum band thought to be essential for stability in ponies [18].

It is suspected that a thaum’s limited emissivity and expressivity in these bands is responsible for AT-class degenerations. While the subject exhibited no signs of AT-class degeneration within 30 days of the event, only AT3-class syndromes have a prodromal phase this short [19]. Further observation of greater AT subclasses was not possible when the subject was lost to follow-up.

This event stands to challenge the assumption that a horn amputation is universally lethal [2]. Because only one patient was identified who survived this event, we cannot yet characterize the circumstances under which this may occur.

Due to limited study length, we also could not characterize the condition the patient likely has. Based on thaum characteristics, we speculate it would be an AS0-like syndrome.

I pull out a copy of Perplexing Pony Plagues from another bookshelf, flip to the index, and identify a page to start reading from.

AS0
Presentation: (E) Electric shocks while walking; (U) pain at the base of horn while casting; (P) reduced air awareness while flying
Cure: None known

Known AS0 syndromes include Witherspoon’s degeneration, Hardline syndrome, and Appleoosan ataxia. AS0 syndromes are characterized by replacing a pony’s biological thaum with imperfect thaum from an external source. This may come about through an anti-social lifestyle (when wild environmental thaum displaces a pony’s biologically created thaum) or organ transplant rejection (when a donor organ is not compatible and taints the pony’s own biological thaum). Other conditions with unknown etiology can result in the same effect (external thaum replacement): these are characterized as “AS0-like.”

A pony’s body is especially sensitive to the quality of thaum in it. A pony may only live a full life with their own body’s thaum source: their prognosis grows progressively worse as the quality of replacement thaum decreases. There is a latent period between when a pony’s thaum was replaced and when the pony starts experiencing symptoms. The period varies widely between a couple of days to up to three years depending on the quality of replacement thaum.

Clinical presentation differs by species:
- Earth ponies experience mild pain while walking (may be described as “electric shocks”) and unexplained allergies to various scents. As degeneration proceeds, pain increases and the allergies grow more generalized and more severe. This progresses to chronic inflammation.
- Pegasi do not experience pain but air amnesia, first observed when recovering from a dive or turning sharply. Particularly athletic or acrobatic fliers may get “the twisties” and lose control when performing aerobatics. This progresses to general flight impediment and wing ataxia.
- Unicorns experience sharp, stabbing pain at the base of the horn while casting that does not vary with the intensity of the spell. (This is distinct from full-body soreness and fatigue from high-effort casting.) This progresses to vision and hearing loss.

In the late stage of degeneration, organs reject free thaum, and the patient experiences symptoms similar to transplanted organ rejection. The most sensitive organs (heart and spleen) exhibit signs of rejection first, but because all organs use thaum to some extent, all organs will be rejected. From the time first symptoms appear, it takes between three and six moons to advance to this stage.

There is no cure for this condition.

Palliative care is recommended starting from when symptoms first appear. Most ponies experience a high quality of life until late stage. Some treatments can slow disease progression (see addendum) but are not recommended except in exceptional circumstances due to their modest effect on length of life and significant side effects.2

I drop the book. It’s Tempest’s own paper. It’s Tempest’s own condition. I know she’s studied it so many times she knows far more about it than I do. She could recite everything I read word-for-word.

The pony in front of me is entirely different from the one who strode in minutes ago. This one’s looking down at the floor. Her hooves are crossed and rubbing each other. Tempest commands the room she walks into—this one disappears into the unmoving air. She looks up, and her eyes are sparkling.

The voice that speaks is not Tempest’s, either; it lacks the easy authority and immense presence she always has. “Princess,” she says, shakily.

“I am afraid.”

Her words paralyze me. A Princess should be confident in the face of overwhelming odds. A Princess should give strength to her subjects. A Princess should be able to provide direction even when she herself is not sure of where to go. You might call me one, but I don’t think I am. Not right now.

It’s all I can do to trod up slowly to her and wrap my hooves around her, not waiting to see whether she’ll tolerate it—it’s as much for me as it is for her. She doesn’t respond, but I feel her shaking against my breast.

“I am too.”

I’ve always had a quarrel with the right style to use with Twilight: “Majesty” or “Highness”? “Majesty” is traditionally used for a reigning monarch, which Twilight kind of is now, but “Highness” is used in address to a princess specifically. MLP does make a distinction between Queen and Princess (King Thorax, Queen Chrysalis), but it’s also very inconsistent with proper style use (see transcript of S1E22, which uses “Majesty” for Celestia). I’m going with “Highness.”
It’s . . . really hard to come up with fake science. I apologize to any practicing medical professionals reading this. To be clear, all of the above is entirely fabricated and is not based on any existing disease. Citation numbers are arbitrary.

Way of War

"Tempest?"

"Yes, Princess?"

I open my mouth to speak but pause mid-thought. It's not for a lack of things to say; it's more for an overabundance of them. I don't know where to start.

"I know that you're upset with me, Princess. And I never asked you to mince words on me."

I sigh. "I'm not angry. I got annoyed at her too, so I kind of understand why you did it. But . . ." I trail off again.

This isn't the usual place for our "evening chats," and it's been a long time since we've had one. It's a tradition we started back when we were still both in Ponyville. One of the very first lessons I taught Tempest in her rehabilitation was that the first step in being a good friend is to be true to yourself and not bottle things up. Tempest was loath to talk about anything remotely personal, especially out in public where her vestment of confidence and command gave her authority and power. She's always wanted to present herself as invulnerable both for her sake and others. So it became a ritual: once a week with nopony else inside the castle, not even Spike or Starlight or our friends, we would talk. Nothing she or I said would leave the room, no matter how terrible.

I feel a tremendous responsibility when she talks to me like this because I know, for right now at least, I'm the only one she can do it with. It keeps her centered, and it keeps me humble.

We're certainly a long way from Ponyville Castle. Rain Shine has a number of rooms more protected and private than the courtyard vestibule we entered from. The one we're in now is carved into stone (as is every room), but the wooden flooring, plush carpets, and beautiful tapestries hide that fact almost entirely. There's a bed along one wall flanked by red curtains.

It's only large enough to bed one. This particular bed is Tempest's. We both knew what was happening when I knocked to enter her room.

I step inside and sit on the carpeted floor. Tempest sits on the bed, fixing me with her ever-severe expression. She's never been easy to talk to, and our current situation and complications don't make it any easier.

I sigh again. I still don't know where to start, so I say the first thing that comes to mind. "Why do you keep calling me 'Princess?'"

"Because you are a Princess."

I frown and shake my head. "You know that doesn't answer my question. I've said it a few times now: you're my friend, and my friends are free to call me 'Twilight.' Even 'Twi,' if that's easier. But I've barely heard you ever say either of those. Even when talking to others, I'm always 'Princess' or 'Her Highness.' I've never said it's necessary for anypony to refer to me by title only—I don't want princesshood to be a barrier to talking with me. I just let it happen because I know someponies feel more comfortable speaking about me if they, well, elevate me."

I rub one hoof with the other. Just because I know someponies want me to be higher than them doesn't make me comfortable with the idea. You can be friends with Twilight. You really can't be friends with Princess Twilight; she's above you. "So, I guess the question is, after all this time that we've known each other, after everything you've told me and I've told you, why do you still elevate me above yourself?"

"I take it that you wouldn't be satisfied if I said it was a force of habit?" she begins.

"I guess if it is, it is. Maybe I'm wrong, but I just got the feeling that there's a reason you started calling me 'Princess,' and there's a reason you keep calling me that even after I made it clear you never needed to. Am I right?"

Tempest glances at the door to the room. I seal it with a tacit muting charm. There's a reason why the castle was empty when we had these talks back in Ponyville. She looks back to me and nods.

"The fact you made that inference is part of the reason. You know that I visited the Crystal Empire some years ago and saw Princess Cadance there?" I nod. "I didn't see her as a Princess at first because I never understood why she deserved to be one. I thought it was another fluffy virtue Equestria had honored with a ludicrous princesshood because that's what Equestria is: fluffy and inane."

I just nod and gesture for her to continue. She trusted me enough with these truths that I need to be tolerant enough not to judge her for them. Working on her perception of Equestria is something that happens later.

"You were the same way. Friendship was yet another useless virtue. I would capture you like the rest of the Princesses, and I would seize your alicorn power. And I did, for a moment. After . . . everything else, and after you offered me your friendship and tutelage, I truly understood what real power was. I understood why I could have never defeated you. Your ability to perceive the true nature of a pony and forgive them when they can be redeemed, even if they don't believe so themselves, is extraordinary. You have a power I can never understand or wield for myself. I can only respect that you have it."

I can't hide the blush that comes onto my cheeks. Tempest sees the world differently from most of us. She has a way of seeing all the worst—and best—parts of any circumstance and bring them to the harsh light of reality, stripped of all conditions, qualifiers, and emotion. She is brusque to the point of rudeness and extreme honesty. She distilled her perception of me to a single truth—and I am so very proud of what she found. I can only hope I can continue to live up to that perception.

"That is why you are a Princess. You have the power to lead and change this world, but you don't have the naïveté for it to take advantage of you. I address you as 'Princess' because you have the power and moral compass to lead that I lack. Military, Princess, you understand? The leader holds terrific power by having powerful ponies at her heel, ponies more than willing to fight, kill, and die for her at her word. But the leader must prove to them that she deserves that privilege. You do."

My blush deepens. That's what Celestia said, too: leaders are ostensibly above commoners, but it's in fact the burden and curse of leaders to forever be in servitude to them. I am immensely humbled by how Tempest perceives me, but then again . . . only Twilight is friends with everypony. Princess Twilight is friends with none. I offered her my friendship. She never actually said she offered hers in return.

Plus, this brings to mind the other style she used today. "And Rain Shine?" I ask. Tempest's first address of her was 'Majesty,' but her address seemed to get more and more irreverent the longer she spoke with her.

Tempest scowls. She once again glances at the door. "I assumed that Rain Shine deserved her position out of respect. I challenged Princess Cadance her right to rule, and she proved me wrong. I challenged you, and you proved me wrong. I challenged Rain Shine, and she did not. Rain Shine commands the authority of her village, but she holds that power and obeisance through control and the hiding of the truth. Autumn Blaze and her neighbors do not offer the power Rain Shine requires to lead. Rain Shine holds it away from her village so that none can challenge her for it."

Now I frown slightly. "I suppose there are certain aspects of Rain Shine's leadership that I disagree with, but I think you're being a little unfair to her."

Tempest narrows her eyes. She's not angry at me, at least I don't think she is. It's always hard to tell with her. "If you'll allow me to speak freely, Princess?"

"Always, Tempest. Don't hold back just because I'm a Princess."

"You've been too shaped by the ponies of Canterlot. You're being too easy on Rain Shine by refusing to criticize her directly without covering it with squirrelly words."

Tempest is a great source of feedback because of her extreme honesty, but that doesn't always mean she's right. Even if she is, there's a time and place for her brand of honesty, and diplomacy isn't one of them. I shake my head. "I appreciate you saying that, Tempest, but I think you're letting your personal experiences color your opinion of her. I don't agree with every way Rain Shine leads her village, but that doesn't mean she deserves attacks on her character, either. It's unfair to say that she doesn't deserve her position just because her thoughts on leadership are at odds with ours. She comes from a different place."

Tempest's jaw tightens. "Rain Shine holds onto her power by forbidding her village from questioning it. She is free to forbid speech for all I care, but she cannot forbid argument and conflict. The kirin would not, could not question Rain Shine's right to rule because they cannot argue with her. She stakes her leadership on that fact. It is no challenge to be a leader if none will test you for the privilege. Her leadership is a mask put on to keep others at a distance, and I can only guess at what she hides underneath. Holding power through masks and deception and incomplete stories is what the Storm King did to me. I have no tolerance for 'leaders' like that. I hate traitors," she spits.

Part of me is proud that Tempest has such strong feelings about the kirin having a just leader—she has such a strong sense of empathy now, something she didn't have just a few years ago. And I can't say I entirely agree with Rain Shine's leadership views, either. I understand that the consequences for kirin anger can be more violent than pony anger, but it's not as though fire can't be isolated, or that ponies are harmless when angry. It's a false equivalence. And I'm not entirely convinced that Rain Shine was happy that her village's voice returned, either. She may have tolerated it because others showed her that her views on emotion control were too extreme, but again, someone made the decision to enforce that control in the first place. Plus, there's the political movement Autumn Blaze mentioned: some kirin still don't speak and want to return to silence. It seems to me too convenient that Rain Shine wasn't aware of that or that she was entirely neutral on what side she'd be on.

But I shake my head again. "Like I said, you're letting personal experience make this meeting more hostile than it needs to be. Remember that you're talking to the leader of another nation—she probably wouldn't appreciate us meddling in how they do things. And she's nothing like the Storm King. You don't know if Rain Shine actually is holding anything away from her village. We're lucky that she agreed to help us at all and that she didn't escort us from the village. There's a certain way to get into arguments with those in power because of their ability to dictate how and even if the argument happens. A less friendly nation might refuse the argument by also refusing to trade with us. Or they might engage in the argument by declaring war on Equestria, and I know you don't want that to happen again."

I look Tempest in the eyes, challenging her stance. Arguing with somepony as intimidating as her is . . . not easy. But I think I'm in the right in thinking that a former military Commander's predilection for conflict is more than Equestria needs now.

It's a look Tempest more than matches. "Anypony, anyone, can recognize injustice. If the kirin are averse to conflict, and they clearly are, all the more reason to express our opinion now before any more are hurt by her stupidity. Or Rain Shine reneges on her agreement."

Tempest's pleading echoes in my mind: But we had an agreement! she said, finding out for the first time the goal she staked her life on was only a means of manipulating her.

I've gathered that the Storm King's betrayal transformed Tempest to despise anyone even remotely like him—to say nothing of the doctor who abused her while she was waylaid. She hates liars and false truths more than anyone I know. But it also seems a false equivalence now to compare Rain Shine to the likes of him, or compare anything to the scale of his betrayal. He never had good intentions; Rain Shine does. That much I am confident of. Then again . . .

Tempest purses her lips tighter, staring me down as she did when she caged me on her skiff. She has a way of making anypony feel small, even a Princess she elevated so high just moments before. Suddenly, I'm her subordinate, challenging someone who can never be wrong.

I hold her gaze for several long seconds, but I'm the first to break eye contact. I don't think I've ever won a staring contest with Tempest, insofar as we've had any. She is like Rain Shine in that way: she doesn't try, either, and that makes her all the more fearsome. I can see how she got her way with the communities she subjugated in her past.

And going back to her argument, at this point, I'm honestly not much more experienced in diplomacy than she is. And it is true that the kirin nation would probably be the last I'd expect to threaten Equestria in any meaningful way. Am I being too soft?

I shake my head. Part of being a Princess and a leader is being confident even when unsure. And I'll always err on the side of peace and forgiveness and friendship when I'm unsure—I'm still new at all this, and I'd really rather not start a war by mistake and have to answer to my little ponies (and the ones we lose) for it. If I make a mistake, I'd rather it be one that I can take back.

"I . . . would you stop if I asked you to?"

"I'll always defer to your judgment, Princess. You see straighter than I ever will. But I will still express that I believe you are making the wrong decision by choosing not to act now."

I'm not used to this kind of authority. It's even more intimidating that Tempest is saying it, somepony who clearly doesn't answer to anyone unless she chooses to. This isn't the most momentous decision I've ever made, not by a long shot, yet it feels so heavy. I'm instructing a Commander who's made a lot of bad decisions but for good reasons. I'm instructing a Commander who could save worlds or destroy them with a single word.

I choose my words carefully. "The kirin have been fine for at least a few moons like this, and they'd probably be fine for a few more. Can this . . ."

Can this wait? My stomach drops, and I feel a pang of nausea at the word. I can't ask her for that, never that.

I shake my head. "N-nevermind. Just don't do anything rash, okay?"

"Understood, Princess." Her expression is unchanging.

. . .

"Are you . . . feeling alright, at least?" I ask.

"What do you mean?"

"The encounter we had this morning with Autumn Blaze. You panicked and tried to cast something. Are you feeling alright now?"

One of her eyes twitches. "Fine, Princess."

"Are you sure? I could—"

"If you need to know, my headache resolved itself as we were walking to Rain Shine's palace. I haven't felt out of sorts since," she says curtly.

"I . . ." I really need to stop hawking over Tempest like this. I can't help it, I know—I care for her and I want to make sure she's doing as well as she can be right now. But she clearly doesn't appreciate my concern.

I shake my head. "Okay. Sorry I asked," I say, a bit of annoyance coming through in my tone. "What I don't understand, though, is why. I thought you'd be a little more . . . agreeable about Rain Shine's plan. You do realize that she's kind of exchanging our goodwill for your cure, right? She might pull back or refuse to help us any more if you keep attacking her like this."

"Of course," she responds. "But you don't know if it is a cure."

"No, I don't," I concede, "but it's probably a lead to one. Have you noticed all the interesting things happening around the kirin village? The terraforming, Rain Shine's home, and the Stream, of course. There has to be some new magic here to explore, and some of it has to help you. You yourself thought it could at one point. Are you . . . not interested in any of that?"

Tempest remains silent for a long time, so long that I question whether she'll answer at all. "I think it's more interesting to you than it is to me, Princess," she says in a curiously quiet voice.

"But . . . but this is your life we're talking about!" How is she so nonchalant about this? She did agree to accompany me, but it's almost like she forgot the entire reason we came here in the first place.

Again, Tempest doesn't respond for a long time. All the while, she stares through me into nothingness. "Maybe this is something you'll never understand."

"You . . . what?" I go from puzzled to utterly baffled. "What won't I understand? Tempest?"

Tempest doesn't answer. Instead, she lays back on the bed and stares at the ceiling, not bothering to fluff the pillows or pull the covers around her. "Thank you for coming by to speak with me, Princess."

I take a breath to protest, but let it out in a sigh. This was how Tempest used to be all the time in Ponyville: courteous enough in casual conversation, but short on patience and not willing to speak more than a few words at a time. It took moons of prodding and encouragement and experimentation to get her to open up at all, and longer still for her to speak about the kind of pony she once was. We've come a long way since then, but one invariant I've discovered is that when Tempest doesn't want to speak, she will not speak.

I sigh again and get up, slowly. "You're welcome. But . . . but my door is always open if you want to chat, even here."

. . .

"Have a good night, Tempest."

. . .