The Queen of Canterlot

Cadence only said she was fine when she wasn’t.

When she was happy, she would tell Shining about her day, about the ponies she’d met, about the things she’d done. Even if the day was dull, tedious, banal in its character, she would find something to praise. After a day and a night of astronomy lessons from Luna, in which the night princess was particularly herself, Cadence found it in her to praise Luna’s erudite diction and exquisite penmanship.

“Oh, my day was fine,” meant the day wasn’t fine at all. And when that happened, Shining would kiss Cadence on both cheeks, and suggest they go somewhere remote and quiet. Perhaps a picnic, perhaps up on the aqueduct, perhaps simply to the downstairs couch if Shining’s parents weren’t home. And there he would brush her hair, and speak to her of sweet nothings, until she could untie the knot in her chest and speak of what it was.

Sometimes, when she untied that knot, she cried.

“Fuck Celestia!” she screamed, her hoof hitting the table. “Oh, my opinions make the government look bad? Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to! You know what else makes the government look bad? Failure! So maybe I can agree to censor my speech, and she can agree to stop fucking up!”

The previous day, Cadence had bought a homeless pony lunch, enrolled him in a program for drug recovery, and found a home to take him in until he got back on his hooves. And when a reporter saw her doing this, and asked to take some pictures, she had occasion to comment that, “The government really needs to do more to help ponies in this situation.”

That had resulted in a newspaper article, which had resulted in a word of gentle advice from Celestia -- and when Cadence refused that advice, the advice became a rebuke. Of course, Cadence apologized, and she smiled while she was apologizing.

And that was all. Nothing more had happened. Five minutes of stern conversation with Celestia over tea and cakes, before moving onto the affairs of court for the day. And Cadence buried her head in Shining’s shoulder, and wept.

The first time this happened, when they were younger, he’d tried to help. But he wasn’t an alicorn or any member of the royal court. He could not shoulder such burdens. Then he’d tried saying generic boyfriend things, reassuring words, gentle nothings, but she’d found them useless and patronizing. He’d tried poetry once, but she was hardly in the mood.

So he held her. He held her until her crying slowed, and only then did he say: “One day, we’ll make a life together, and we’ll live it the way we want. Not the way Celestia wants. And inside our house, you’ll always be Cadence and never Princess, and you can say whatever you like and fart whenever you want.”

Two years ago, she’d told him a princess cannot be heard to fart in public. He never let it go -- allegedly because he was an immature teenage colt, but in fact because he knew it made her smile.

And she did. She did smile. If she could smile for Celestia, she could smile for her boyfriend and his sweet, stupid jokes. And she told him: “I love you, Shining Armor.”

He could taste it.